Private Actually, It's Not A Big Deal

[Niysha]

The Tomb of the Forgotten King, Korriban​

Very few things could eat a few days of Niysha's time quite like a new, interesting dig. The danger of whatever was going on with the entire battalion of quasi-alive mummies and the thrumming obelisk of doom had only heightened the experience. As she guided the hoversled that now carried the large, stone casket from its resting place, down the hallway lined with two dozen collapsed, inanimate mummies, and into the main sepulcher, Niysha had time to reflect on her week. Yes, the first day had been something of a disaster - being caught out by a borderline psychotic Sith Lord in the midst of her best attempts to remain utterly invisible - but after that point things had progressed largely exactly how they normally did.

Niysha emerged into the warmth of the Korriban sun and the mild shelter of her small dig site camp. She tried not to leave too much of an impact in any dig, but on Korriban it was good manners to at least mark a tomb as raided once you were done with it. This one had been untouched, so Niysha's affects - two covered awnings, a small tent, a couple of barrels of digging and dusting supplies, and a weather-resistant computer - were an adequate sign that someone had, at the very least, breached the seal. There was a little covered area set out for any artifacts she recovered, and a much larger, empty one that the hoversled-carrying-an-ancient-prison-cell now occupied. All in all, it wasn't a bad hall.

First things first, now that her dig was over, Niysha had some basic necessities to take care of. The most pressing was lunch; she'd been on nutrient packs for days, and finally took a moment to enjoy a travel meal instead. She was much hungrier than she expected, but even so, it was impossible to take her mind off of documenting her new collection long enough to sit down and enjoy even that mild luxury. Next stop, communication. When she was done sending another update to In, Niysha brought up her datapad and tapped a quick, text-only message to Serina.

[ Package is ready for pickup. ~ N ]​

The Miraluka would have plenty of time to triple-check her winnings while she waited for whatever grand display Serina had planned. She didn't particularly enjoy the prospect of meeting her latest partner while smelling like tomb, sand, and sweat after the majority of a week on this particular dig, but there really wasn't much she could do about that. There were only so many amenities you could ship out into the sand-blasted wastes of Korriban for a single person who you'd just met last week.

While she waited for her ride to arrive, Niysha made a point to review her notes and update them with any new information she'd found during her downtime. A barrier that she'd faced early on was that the king's name seemed to have been intentionally erased, which wasn't uncommon. After a few days of work, though, the young archaeologist had managed to find a plethora of evidence connecting him to several other Vitiate-era entities that did have names. That'd be an easy angle to follow up on, if she returned to this particular project in the future.

Bogan, it was hot today.

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Deep, into the waiting dark."

Tag - Niysha



The sun on Korriban was not warm.

It radiated—not like a star but like judgment. Harsh, unwavering, and deeply impersonal. It didn't caress the skin so much as press into it, branding itself into the bones of those who lingered too long. It didn't kiss life into the ground. It dared anything to live at all.

Serina Calis did not sweat.

She had adjusted her environmental cloak before landing. Deep crimson, sleeveless, cut high and loose down her sides to allow for airflow but long enough to trail behind her like an omen. The twin crescents of her shoulder pauldrons glinted once as the shuttle passed overhead, casting its long, distorted shadow over Niysha's modest dig site like some swooping predator from a very high caste.

The shuttle didn't land.

It bowed.

Low hover, no dust plume. The kind of arrival that didn't disturb anything unless Serina wanted it disturbed. Subtle power. Quiet performance. The door opened with a soft hiss.

And out she stepped.

Boots first, gleaming black. Then long legs beneath a split-front battle tabard. Her arms were bare—leather-wrapped to the elbow—but her hands were gloved. She wore a belt with no weapons, but anyone watching would realize, too late, that she was the weapon.

The only thing that betrayed the theater of the scene was her eyes.

Not glowing. Not seething. Not wrapped in tempest.

Soft.

Focused.

And very specifically pointed only at one person.

Niysha.

Serina's expression shifted the moment she caught sight of the Miraluka lounging at the makeshift field table, half-distracted by notes and very clearly attempting not to melt into a puddle of desert sweat and smugness.

The smile came on slow. One corner first, then the other. Not wide. Just precise. Like she had been rehearsing it on the shuttle. Which, in truth, she probably had.

She approached like a storm remembered its name—controlled, slow, full of weight.

"Package," she echoed, voice carrying in that cool alto tone that still managed to taste like cinnamon if it slapped you across the cheek first. "Now, see, when you said that, I thought you meant something boring. A crate. Maybe a crystal. I didn't realize you were offering yourself."

She stopped beside the tent, boots scraping faintly against the sand-packed tarp flooring. She let her eyes roam once—over the neat dig site, the sealed relics, the silence of a well-handled recovery—and nodded with a faint note of approval.

Then she really looked at Niysha.

"You've been busy."

Her gaze lingered for a moment on the barest hints of grime—sand smudges on the back of Niysha's arm, a streak of dust along the curve of her neck, the stubborn crease in her shorts from long hours crouched over inscriptions. And instead of recoiling, Serina's lips twitched in something that was both affectionate and entirely inappropriate for a Sith.

Maybe.

She stepped closer. Into the circle of the tarp's shade, one boot sliding with practiced ease between Niysha's chair and datapad. The air changed slightly—cooler, yes, but also heavier. Like something was about to happen.

It didn't.

Not quite.

Serina crouched instead—deliberately lowering herself into the space, spine straight, not caring that the hem of her cloak dragged through the dust. She didn't reach for Niysha's hand. She reached for the datapad first, flipping through the open notes with gentle flicks of a gloved finger.

"You found name correlations," she murmured, not even surprised. "Tied to Vitiate-era cabals. I thought I recognized the structure of the language on the lower wall glyphs. Probably not the original tongue."

A tap.

She didn't stop smiling.

"You made more progress in five days than half the Order's historians do in five years. With no staff. No supply train. And no air conditioning."

Then finally, she turned her eyes up again.

Something about her expression had changed.

Still poised. Still dominant. Still wicked.

But now laced with something tentative. A question she wasn't quite asking aloud.

"I wasn't sure if you'd contact me again."

The words were quiet. Admitting nothing and everything at once.

Serina sat back on her heels, datapad still in hand. "I thought perhaps I'd been a… well. Distraction. A charming one, obviously." A smirk. "But sometimes, when people are caught up in proximity to fire, they forget they can just leave the room."

She held the datapad loosely in one hand now, resting it against her thigh.

"I'm glad you didn't."

Then, her voice dipped—slightly more intimate, still teasing:

"Even if you didn't bother to clean up before inviting me over. I see how it is. Sweat and sand and ancient evil artifacts. All for me."

Serina leaned forward then, not fast, not abrupt—just enough to brush the very edge of her lips against Niysha's temple. A touch of heat. Nothing more. And it was gone just as quickly.

"You're not the only one who gets to flirt at work."

She rose with a smooth motion and finally turned to look toward the obelisk, now resting in its field bay like some slumbering god.

"I have teams ready to take this thing once we decide on containment. But I'm not rushing it. I trust your read. And I'd rather not trigger a sandstorm of undead just because I was impatient to pry the lid off a cursed coffin."

She looked back.

"Let me know when it's ready. Then we crack it together."

And then, with a ghost of that shy, sideways smirk again:

"I've… missed your voice."

Pause.

"But don't let that go to your head."

 

[Niysha]

Niysha didn't even have to wait two hours. Apparently Serina had been eager, though still melodramatic. Her shuttle... hovered in place, rather than landing, apparently, but the Almighty And Very Darkest Drama Queen stepped out in all of her finery regardless. She made a big show, wandered around like she owned the place, and teased Niysha with a not-quite-kiss on the side of her head.

In response, Niysha held out a hand to brush her thigh as she walked past to see the sights.

Her tone was much more relaxed than it had been when they'd first met. Days of doing what she'd wanted to be doing seemed to have done her nerves wonders. "You're full of compliments today," she replied with an audible smirk. After a couple of moments of tapping and updating notes, she backed up the whole mess to her datapad, her personal drive, and then stood properly.

Unlike Serina, who was radiant, relaxed, and dressed to kill, Niysha was wearing almost the same thing she had been a few days ago. There was a small hygiene kit in her tent, but it wasn't the sort of thing she could make much use of without an enclosed area. So... still shorts, still a tight top - this time tighter, tied up above her belly for ventillation - and still boots. All covered in the accoutrements of her work: sand, dirt, dust, the works. She was quite lucky not to be prone to sunburns.

"The artifacts are all packed up and ready to be transported off-world. Three different crates fitted with repulsors. I can move them on myself, if you don't want to get your hands dirty and haven't brought servants," the Miraluka assured. "The campsite is entirely disposable. I like to leave anything that didn't cost more than a few credits in front of tombs and ruins when I crack them. It's just good manners, to let people know when a place has been raided."

When she was properly backed up, recorded, and her electronics put away, Niysha stood and stretched her arms high over her head in a positively feline pose. Moments later she approached Serina with intent and leaned in to plant a quick, casual kiss on whatever part of her body she could reach. Probably a hand, but if the much taller Sith cooperated, she'd eagerly take a cheek.

"I missed your vibe," she replied, sticking her tongue out in a little raspberry. "You should absolutely let that go to your head."

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Deep, into the waiting dark."

Tag - Niysha



The sun was beginning its slow descent behind Korriban's jagged horizon, painting the dunes in the color of old blood and newer sins. The heat had finally begun to loosen its chokehold on the valley, and the wind had softened to a lazy breeze, dragging rivulets of sand across the tarp in front of the camp like a receding tide revealing the day's ruin and reward.

Serina didn't move when Niysha kissed her hand.

Didn't flinch. Didn't smirk.

She watched.

Because in that small, casual kiss was something far more dangerous than lust. It was ease. It was domestic, almost. And Serina wasn't used to being touched without ceremony, without intent. She had trained herself to expect motive behind every hand that brushed her, every breath close to her ear.

But this?

This was just Niysha being—well, Niysha.

And it short-circuited Serina's brain just enough for her to feel the barest twinge of unfamiliar glee curl at the base of her spine.

She looked down—only to find the Miraluka beaming up at her with all the smug satisfaction of someone who knew exactly the kind of havoc she was wreaking on a very controlled woman's composure.

"You missed my vibe?" Serina echoed, tone flat, brow arching upward as though the very concept were beneath her. "Darling, this isn't a 'vibe.' It's an aura of cultivated dread and seduction honed over years of study, cruelty, and very expensive perfume."

She leaned down—just enough to bring her lips close to where Niysha's blindfold met her skin, voice dipping into that low, dangerous hush again.

"And if you think I'll let you reduce it to vibe, I may have to show you just how thorough my branding can be."

The smirk she gave then was slow, sharp, and entirely unearned for someone who had just nearly tripped over a repulsor crate five minutes earlier. Which she had. Silently. She would take that secret to her grave.

Still, Serina turned toward the equipment, eyes scanning the three neatly sealed crates.

"You packed efficiently. I'm surprised you didn't leave a thank-you note for the tomb spirits and a donation box for future visitors."

She stepped to the nearest container, placing her palm against the lid. The surface hummed faintly—secure, sealed. Each crate bore a discreet glyph, hand-carved with the same elegant severity she'd seen etched into the inner tomb's walls.

It wasn't quite awe. But it was the closest Serina Calis came to it.

She glanced back toward the tent—Niysha's patchwork, dusty, windswept world. The scent of sand and sunburn and smarts clung to her like a second skin, and for a brief, unguarded second, Serina imagined what it might look like to stay. To roll her sleeves up. To help break down a camp for no reason other than wanting to feel useful to someone who didn't need her power.

Then Niysha stretched.

And Serina forgot how to think for an entire three seconds.

She stood frozen—eyes locked on the soft curve of muscle beneath the tight shirt, the casual lift of arms, the teasing glimpse of waistline and skin. It wasn't overt. It wasn't performance.

It was a trap.

A trap designed to fry the circuits of already-distracted Sith Lords.

"…Bogan," Serina muttered under her breath, turning sharply back toward the crates like they were suddenly very interesting.

"You know," she added after a moment, still facing the containers, "for someone who said she didn't want to die in a tomb, you're awfully good at tempting fate."

She turned back.

This time, her expression had softened again—just a touch. A crooked smile that wasn't part of the performance. Her stance was still dominant, still proud, but now touched with something more dangerous.

Affection.

A breath. She took one step closer, then another, until they stood toe-to-toe again, with only the breeze between them.

"I don't usually… do this," she admitted. "Not the kissing."

She tilted her head.

"But you? You make me want to do stupid things. Like… text. Or leave notes."

A pause. Then, quieter.

"Or stay the night."

Serina's hand found Niysha's again, threading their fingers—not tightly. Just there.

"Which is why I'm leaving."

She squeezed.

"I've got a shuttle with security clearance waiting to take these crates to a blacksite with twenty-seven layers of encryption and a kill switch coded to my pulse."

A small, proud pause.

"It's also got seats, if you want to come along. Not an order. Not a test. Just a ride."

Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, Serina leaned down again and—without hesitation this time—pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the Miraluka's forehead.

"I'll drop you off wherever you like," she added after a breath, pulling back with a smirk that somehow said I mean it and but I hope you don't all at once.

"You're too valuable to keep. And far too dangerous to lose."

 

[Niysha]

Serina Calis was possibly the most tightly-wound person Niysha had ever met. This was an impressive standard to meet - she'd worked with multiple Sith Lords in the past, and they tended to be much more uptight and full of themselves than their Jedi counterparts - but it made perfect sense when Niysha took into account her age. Niysha guessed Serina was several years younger than her, which meant that she was a tiny fraction of the ancient evil that tended to populate high-tier Sith politics. However strong she was in the Force, there was a vulnerability there that she seemed to be trying - very deliberately and energetically trying - to cover up.

Her one weakness was that Niysha could literally see through her. At rest, Serina's aura was a looming stormcloud, dark and foreboding and infinitely deep. Very typical of a Sith, really, which made it all the more obvious every time she cracked. Lightning sparks of sudden emotional response broke that perfect dark matte when the Miraluka just treated her like a person. Distraction, affection, lust... shame, once or twice, though Niysha would take that to her grave one way or another. Every time she saw that swirling storm abruptly pause and crackle with surprise or nervous glee, it just reinforced to Niysha that she was on the right path.

Theatrics and big shows couldn't hide her literal soul from someone who could barely even make out the eight layers of cloth and leather and how it hugged tight to her hips.

It was nice to know that she was getting through, too. Niysha fell into Serina's gentle, hand-holdy, forehead-kissy embrace with the gradual inevitability of the first snowball that would eventually become an avalanche. She had to make an earnest, conscious effort not to cuddle, and content herself with soft little kisses and hand-holding for now. Her demeanor remained as rock-solid as ever. As it turned out, when her life wasn't in danger, Niysha entire primordial essence was "city pop Coruscant traffic on a rainy day."

"I'd love a ride," she confirmed with an easy grin in a low, conspiratorial tone. "I've let my partner know I'll be busy for a few more days, so no one's going to be sending out search parties for at least a week. Whenever you're done with me, you can drop me off on any starport that an civilian-tier smuggler could get into."

Mugh. It was getting a bit sweaty here. Niysha backed off a bit, making sure to let her fingers trail briefly across Serina's thighs as she did. "But I think the first place I'm going is a shower. Whether or not I smell awful is no longer relevant with the sudden and acute understanding that I think my hair's getting crusty from all of the desert sweat."

Contrary to Serina's gut-wrenching primal fears, Niysha wasn't hand-constructing every single action and word to predate upon her carefully-constructed house of cards. Even so, she did arch her back a bit more as she pushed the sleds up towards the shuttle's ramp. That was absolutely intentional and she was entirely culpable for whatever came of it.

When everything was properly assembled - her more expensive electronics on top of one of the crates, pointedly not on top of the sarcophagus emitting an ominous hum - Niysha stood and ruffled out her hair, then turned back to face Serina and cocked her head to one side with an easy grin. "Ready to go?"

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Deep, into the waiting dark."

Tag - Niysha



Serina Calis stood at the edge of the loading ramp like a monarch inspecting a battlefield—or a very reluctant voyeur pretending she wasn't watching her new favorite problem actively make loading repulsor crates look like an performance art piece that excited her in all the wrong places.

Not that Serina would ever say such a thing aloud. No, she was dignified.

Composed.

Statuesque, even.

And completely internally melting down.

She watched Niysha stretch with all the nonchalance of a cat that knew exactly how flexible it looked while doing so. Her eyes lingered—briefly, of course—on the way dust clung to the tight hem of her shorts, how the sun turned sweat along her spine into a sheen of gold. But it was the laugh that got her. The grin. That cocked head, that conspiratorial tone. That was what undid her.

A Sith could handle a dozen daggers in the dark. They were trained for betrayal, fire, fear.
But affection?
That was a saboteur with no face and the softest hands imaginable.

Serina's voice—when it came—carried with it the practiced neutrality of someone very, very aware that her brain had just short-circuited trying to calculate whether it was acceptable to swoon.

"Well," she began, letting her fingers trail up the inside panel of the shuttle frame, "if I'd known all it would take to recruit you was offering a ride, I could have saved us both a great deal of theatrics in the tomb."

A pause.

Then she added, entirely deadpan:

"…Though, to be fair, the tomb was an excellent metaphor."

Her eyes flicked to the repulsor crates—neatly arranged, electronics stacked like they were stage props and not very cursed hardware—and back to Niysha.

"I don't usually bring civilians aboard the Aspidochelone," Serina said, stepping closer as the Miraluka finished her impromptu loading ritual. "She's technically unlisted. Officially a long-range courier, but no one in their right mind uses a long-range courier with dual-class stealth drives and three onboard holocrons chained to a command AI."

She reached out then—casually, as if brushing imaginary sand off Niysha's shoulder—but the touch lingered.

"Of course, you've already proven you're not in your right mind. You flirted with a Sith in a tomb."

A slow step around her, deliberate but smooth, like a panther circling a campfire it secretly liked.

"You came out alive."

Another step, now behind her. A soft whisper near her ear.

"Twice."

Serina circled to face her again, hands behind her back, clearly not looking at the curve of Niysha's lower back with the sort of polite disinterest that could only be described as the opposite of polite.

"The shower's in the upper cabin," she said, voice returning to its cool, elegant cadence. "Two stalls. Private, sound-sealed, and fully automated. You'll need to reconfigure the pressure manually—the ship thinks I'm taller than you. Also a war criminal."

Her smirk curled slowly again.

"And don't worry. There's only one surveillance node in the bathroom, and I promise I don't watch it unless I suspect treason."

A beat. One hand lifted to her chin, as if in mock-consideration.

"…Though I do suspect you of treasonous intent against the state of my self-control."

With the kind of aristocratic drama only Serina could pull off, she turned toward the inner cabin, voice tossed over her shoulder like a silk ribbon.

"Once we're aboard, you're free to do as you like. My schedule's light today—just two encrypted comms to the Assembly, a report to falsify, and a ghost to interrogate, assuming the coffin doesn't explode."

She tapped a finger once on the crate containing the obelisk as she passed.

"If it does explode, you'll be safely behind two decks of blast shielding while I make out with danger directly."

She winked.

"Don't be jealous."

She stopped at the top of the ramp, framed against the interior glow of the shuttle. Then glanced down at Niysha with that dangerous little half-lidded look that meant she was—despite all composure—feeling something.

"After your shower, feel free to join me on the bridge. There's wine. Or—whatever we can synthesize that passes for wine when you're twelve systems outside the civilized parts of the galaxy."

Another beat.

"And, of course, you can join me anywhere else, if you're feeling brave."

Now she did reach out. Just a touch of knuckles under the Miraluka's chin, tilting her face up gently.

"You're going to have a terrible effect on my reputation," Serina whispered, not unkindly.

She leaned close—far too close.

A final brush of her lips against Niysha's cheek—still not a kiss. But a claim.

"I'm very glad you said yes, obediently." she added, quieter now.

Then, with a flare of her coat and a flick of her fingers toward the ramp's interior:

"Come aboard, little tomb robber."

And beneath the humor, beneath the heat, there was that same note again.

Not command.

Not request.

But the invitation to something very, very rare in Serina's world.

Trust.

 

[Niysha]

This was hardly a "shuttle." Niysha had seen smaller, less comfortable freighters. It was always very clear when the galactic elite misnamed something because they were used to dealing with a version of it so opulently luxurious as to be totally unrecognizable. It didn't take Niysha long to acquaint herself with her surroundings the only way she could: all at once and from every angle. Interior walls did a pretty good job of shutting down her perfect scan this time, though, as there were no other living beings on the ship.

Plenty of horrible, amalgamated masses of dark energy, though. Those shone like beacons.

Serina, as per usual, had her song and dance routine to go through. Theatrics, though never frivolity. Being melodramatic was extremely serious and personal to Serina, of the highest priority at all times. Every once in a while a normal, very young, dangerously overextended person managed to sneak a peek through that industrial-grade facade, but those glimpses were fleeting. It was legitimately shocking how the act didn't seem to drain her. Niysha knew for a fact that she'd be absolutely exhausted if she put in even half the effort-

Hm. As she stood amidst the loading bay of the swankiest personal craft she'd ever been in, Niysha realized that she did actually, perfectly understand. She didn't put half as much effort into her appearance and general presentation as Serina did. Less for sure, but far more than "half." She was constantly muting her presence, doing her best to emit an aura of insignificance if she had one at all. Her language was carefully chosen for maximum deferrence and minimum offense, and every obstacle she encountered was a new puzzle to solve without going loud. As much effort as Serina Calis put into conveying her importance and dominion, Niysha spent a similar amount finding ways to not achieve her goals by lightsaber or lightning.

And she certainly wasn't exhausted all of the time, so maybe she could understand better than she'd initially thought.

When Serina invaded her personal space, Niysha returned her attention with a grin and rested her chin on the taller woman's fingers. She practically perched, obviously proud of what she'd accomplished. And when Serina once again tried her absolute hardest to avoid kissing her (on the cheek, this time), Niysha once again felt the inadequate jealousy of being unable to roll her eyes. "I'm rarely brave, Serina... though you've certainly made that a far more common occurrence."

Niysha took only a moment to arrange her things when the human left her to her devices. Her bag or two of digsite gear was professional, though a bit dusty. Her personal bag would normally hold her lightsaber, but now all it had were her personal affects, a change of clothes, and the cryptex. With dedicated attention, Niysha wandered her way to the refresher and tossed both sets of clothes into the wash before stepping in for one of her own. As Serina had promised, the pressure was assertive, so it took her a minute or two to recalibrate that particular... attack.

When she was done, Niysha joined her hostess in the cockpit on the bridge; the ship was more and more of a yacht every time she tried to take its measure. Her hair was still a bit of a mess, but she certainly smelled less like sweat, dirt, and corpses. As it had been a dig, not a party, Niysha hadn't exactly packed for aesthetics, but she did find the more appealing of her outfits to wear, sporting a generous leotard hiding under a very short-cropped jacket and shorts. If Serina took notice of the smaller details, her blindfold was quite different from the simple cloth one she'd been wearing to this point: a much more sheer black nylon, with the back hidden somewhere in her mop of hair.

She took a moment to knock on the entryway of of the bridge before letting herself in. "Sorry for the wait. Your shower tried to kill me, so I had to fight back."

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Deep, into the waiting dark."

Tag - Niysha



Serina Calis sat alone in the command throne of the Aspidochelone, legs crossed, coat draped like a war banner over the side of her seat. One arm rested on the polished armrest, fingers idly turning a crystalline data spike with an absent grace that belied the million thoughts swirling behind her eyes. The stars were streaking past in realspace—just fast enough to impress, just slow enough to savor.

The bridge was sleek, silent, and lit by a moody wash of crimson and violet, casting Serina in hues that clung to her like silk. Her eyes, however, remained fixed on the readouts in front of her—though it was clear from the faint tilt of her head and the twitch at the corner of her mouth that she'd heard Niysha the moment she stepped within ten paces.

Then came the knock. The voice. That voice.

Serina let the silence stretch for just a moment too long—artificial, calculated, and absolutely indulgent—before she turned, slowly, in her chair.

And then she saw her.

Saw her.

Serina's gaze moved from head to toe with utter theatricality. The new blindfold. The cling of the leotard. The criminally short jacket. The shorts. The bare legs that had no right being that smug about their own geometry. Serina blinked once and mentally filed a note: Niysha doesn't pack for survival. She packs to assassinate restraint.

A slow, magnetic smile spread across her lips, slashing the cool veneer she'd tried to maintain like sunlight cutting through temple dust.

"Oh no," Serina finally said, voice low and playful. "Did the shower disobey you? How dreadful. I've executed field officers for less."

She rose from the command throne like a serpent uncoiling—fluid, slow, and just a little too aware of the effect it might have. Her boots clicked softly as she crossed the polished black deck, her eyes never leaving Niysha.

As she drew close, her voice dipped.

"I did program that shower for maximum pressure. I like a bit of force in my mornings. Wakes up the spine, keeps one from becoming complacent."

Now within arm's reach, Serina paused. Her hand lifted, poised as if to tuck a stray hair behind Niysha's ear—but stopped just short, instead letting her fingertips ghost along the edge of her jaw.

"…but then," she added softly, "you've never struck me as someone who's prone to complacency."

She lingered there for a beat, drinking her in again. Niysha's presence was—by comparison to the overwhelming storm of her own—subtle. Like warm wind threading through cracks in ancient stone. But it was that subtlety, that intentional quiet, that fascinated Serina most. She'd never met someone so self-contained. So carefully unobvious.

Serina stepped back—not retreating, exactly, but reasserting her own center of gravity. The atmosphere on the bridge remained soft, intimate, like the tension in a string drawn tight between two points.

She turned her back to Niysha for the moment and walked to the side cabinet, opening a sealed black compartment and producing two crystalline flutes and a bottle that had no label—only a red wax seal pressed with a circular sigil that shimmered with faint power. She poured slowly, deliberately.

"The coordinates are locked," she said, casual now. "We're heading to a planetoid called Polis Massa. Dead system. No native life. Just oxygen domes, research stations, and a whole lot of asteroids."

She offered the second glass with a tilt of her wrist, her eyes glittering in the dim light.

"I am the Governor."

She smiled again, this time smaller. Quieter.

"But it's quiet. Private. Ideal for dissecting ancient horrors."

And then, leaning in, she added—just barely audible:

"Or… for letting someone else see the real shape of your thoughts."

With both glasses in hand, she stepped to the broad transparisteel viewport at the helm and sat on the edge, looking out into the stars. She patted the space beside her with all the subtlety of a half-daring teenager in a school auditorium seat.

"If you'd prefer something more theatrical, I can monologue about legacy and purpose for twenty minutes while staring into a slow zoom on my face. But you did just survive a tomb, and that earns you options."

She raised her glass in a quiet toast.

"To inconvenient timing. And the unexpected gravity of bad decisions."

Her voice, when it dropped again, turned warm and heady.

"…Also to that leotard. That was a very good decision."

 

[Niysha]

Serina seemed to absolutely adore almost touching Niysha. She probably thought she was teasing. It didn't really offend Niysha, of course; it was very hard to offend Niysha. Basically "trying to hurt In Rhan " and that was the end of the list. A poor, kissless virgin of a barely-not-a-teenager Sith Lord fumbling at seduction with someone who saw through her nonsense wasn't even the slightest bit objectionable.

In fact, it was pretty cute.

Niysha did allow herself a moment to humor Serina by leaning her head into the taller woman's hand, but she didn't whimper when the human pulled away. Instead, she just followed her to the wine cabinet and took a glass when offered. "I'm vaguely familiar with Polis Massa. It was a pretty decent Port Nowhere a few decades ago." Niysha didn't feel like trying to explain the vagaries of hyperspace travel and how it had affected her personal time stream right this very moment.

When Serina visibly tried to offer Niysha some time alone for the two of them to get to know each other, the Miraluka replied with a silent grin and a nod, taking several seconds of quietude to enjoy focusing her sight intensely on Serina instead of just staring out at the hundred meters or so of Absolute Nothing that awaited her sight beyond the hauntingly thin hull of the ship. When she finally broke the silence, her voice remained stable, like someone who had spent the better part of her life on starships with X-ray vision.

"I'm fine with this. Quiet time in an empty ship with you is probably in my top five things I'd like to be doing right now." She turned her face towards her partner, giving a sly smirk and wryly raising one eyebrow. With this thinner, sleeker blindfold, it was a bit easier to make out a couple of her expressions. "In case you're worried about competition, two of the other four things are less than ten meters away from us right now, and one of the others is back on Korriban. Your competition is harmless."

Hmm. A toast. Niysha raised her glass and touched it gently to Serina's. "To a frankly unwise and more than slightly uncharacteristic amount of bravery," she replied with a much less impish, more gentle smile. "And those boots. I could listen to you saunter imperiously around all night long and never get tired of it."

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Deep, into the waiting dark."

Tag - Niysha



Serina had long since mastered the art of showing restraint while being anything but restrained. Every line she uttered, every theatrical gesture and delicious pause was tuned to signal control. Precision. Absolute awareness of how she presented herself.

Which made the faint blip of her heart skipping at Niysha's words feel like a personal betrayal.

She didn't blush. Sith Lords did not blush. That was a Jedi affliction, something suffered by padawans and twilightskinned waifs raised on pacifist doctrine. And yet—

A faint warmth crept into her cheeks anyway, just barely visible under the violet gleam of the bridge lighting.

Her mouth opened to answer—to deflect, to charm, to retake the initiative—and for the first time in recent memory, Serina Calis found herself genuinely at a loss.

Niysha was teasing, but not cruelly. That was the trick of her—she could speak like a scalpel but never cut too deep. There was an art to the way she pressed on Serina's control without ever mocking it. A way she gave her space while also making damn sure Serina knew she was being read like a sacred scroll.

Her boot heel tapped the floor once—once—before she recovered.

"Uncharacteristic bravery," Serina echoed, swirling her glass slowly before taking a small, measured sip. She closed her eyes to savor it—less for the vintage and more to buy herself exactly two seconds to recalibrate.

"And you say I'm the one full of compliments."

She turned her head then, profile bathed in starlight, the faintest smirk pulling at the corner of her lips. Her voice lowered, less performative now—still elegant, still deliberate, but colored by something softer. Something closer to human.

"I've spent so long being surrounded by the worst kinds of silence. The kind that gnaws at you. That fills the room not with peace, but… expectation. Hungry and endless. Waiting for you to misstep, just once, so someone else can pounce."

She turned toward Niysha again, not leaning in this time—just watching. Her stare wasn't sharp; it was… still.

"And then there's you," she said simply. "Who saunters in, blindfolded, grinning, and somehow makes the same silence feel like a blanket instead of a bear trap."

There. That much was safe to admit.

She let that linger before finally pushing herself off the edge of the transparisteel viewpane. Her coat flared behind her like a stormcloud as she moved—not quite pacing, just… orbiting. Close, always within reach, but never quite touching. Yet.

"When I was younger," she began, tone shifting again—quieter, but no less poised, "I thought power was about removing all vulnerabilities. Smoothing them out like seams in a garment. Anyone who saw them could use them, after all. Leverage was everything. Attachment was suicide."

Her fingers trailed along the back of a sleek chair as she passed it, knuckles tapping once in thought.

"And now here I am," she murmured, voice dry, "failing to suppress a smile because someone in a crop jacket made a joke about my boots."

She turned back, finally, to face Niysha directly. The glass in her hand caught the starlight; her eyes, too.

"You're dangerous," Serina said, stepping closer, the way one might approach an altar. "Not because of the Force. Or your blade. Or even your mind. But because you make people forget the reasons they ever built walls to begin with."

She was close enough now that her next words could've been whispered, but she didn't drop her voice. She didn't need to.

"You're dangerous because you made me forget."

The glass was forgotten. Her free hand, poised and slow, reached out once more—not to tease this time, not to almost-touch—but to settle lightly on the bend of Niysha's waist. No pretense, no coyness. Just contact.

"You're right," she admitted, a touch of rueful mischief in her tone. "I adore almost touching you. It's a miracle I've restrained myself this long. You're… well. You're awful for me. You make me soft. You make me think of things that involve a different kind of control or conquest."

A beat. Then:

"…And I want more of it."

The words surprised even her as they left her lips. Too sincere. But she didn't flinch from them.

Instead, she leaned in just slightly, her breath ghosting over the edge of Niysha's jaw—not as a tease, but as a confession.

"Stay a while," she whispered.

Then, softly—almost apologetically, almost hopeful:

"Please."

And with that, she finally pressed her lips to Niysha's cheek—gently, reverently, as if placing a seal upon something sacred.

She pulled back, just enough to meet her face again.

"I'm afraid," Serina murmured, "that if I let you go now, the rest of the galaxy will steal you away before I've had the time to make you regret this decision properly."

She smirked—finally—though it was softer now, curved by gratitude and something that might have been affection if it had a little more time to ripen.

 

[Niysha]

The galaxy looked different to everyone. From what Niysha had figured, the galaxy that In saw was a snapshot of the present in all of its glory, with highlights drawn over anything that was immediately actionable to bring the most good to the most people. Serina saw a looming parallax of obstacles and threats, with highlights drawn over how to contend with them. Perspective wasn't something unique to Miraluka, but everyone's perspective was unique. As Niysha found humility to be a vitally important trait, it helped to keep that in mind.

Niysha, naturally, considered her own perspective uninterestingly common, but it did give her insight that others seemed to not notice. Serina was always wound tightly. She spoke and (over-)acted like she had someone to impress, and her words implied that that someone was other horrible, dangerous Sith Lords. Over the course of one long and dangerous day, one short but wonderful night, and now one long time alone in the dark, Niysha had come to realize that Serina was exclusively trying to impress herself.

This was an important understanding, because she had to fight it when Serina started being vulnerable with her. When she felt Serina's hands on her skin, she pushed in closer without a second thought. When the taller woman whispered by her ear, she listened without shuddering at the little touches or warm breath. She had things to say.

...And so did Niysha. After the little toast, Niysha took a moment to pull her head back and held up one finger in the universal sign for "wait." While she did, she took a long sip of wine far too deep to "savor the flavor," then set her glass down on the nearest surface: a very fancy table beside an equally fancy chair. With both hands free, the Miraluka rested them both on Serina's shoulders, one coming up to touch her hair softly from behind her head.

"I've clearly got a lot to say, but the first thing I think I need to make sure you understand, Serina, is that you don't have to protect me or defend me," she began, the growl in her throat a clear effect of the sudden deluge of wine. It cleared up in short order. "If you think I'm your weakness because I'm vulnerable, please respect my most noble traits a bit more than that. I am a coward and a weakling. I've been avoiding the Sith professionally for a very long time."

She smirked a bit. "In that way, you're my weakness. The first Sith I didn't run away from since I was a child."

Taking a deep breath, Niysha let her head lean back for a long moment, staring eyelessly at the ceiling of the bridge. This didn't change her cone of vision, but it gave her a bit of time to get her thoughts in order. "I think a lot of Sith don't understand power. They forget their roots, forget the Code. There are three more lines of Code after 'I gain power,' but so many Sith treat it like it's the endgame."

Her face came back to Serina's, slightly tilted up to keep facing her partner. Her head tilted very slightly to one side, to match her soft smile. "Power is useful because it gives you control over your surroundings, which lets you create a world that you can live in however you want to. I've gained enough power to create the world I wanted. An unmitigated victory." She paused for a moment. "And through that victory, my chains are long since broken. Except the fun ones, naturally."

Serina had kissed her cheek. Niysha didn't settle for that sort of thing. She stood up on her tiptoes to reach for Serina's lips, and only relented after she achieved her goal... or several seconds of failure. "Basically... power isn't the goal. A fulfilling life is the goal. Power just gets you there. You had the power to acquire me. An unmitigated victory."

She gave an intimate little smile and hopped back down to her feet, reaching down to grab her wine. "So let's break those chains for a bit. Let you enjoy freedom."

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Deep, into the waiting dark."

Tag - Niysha



Serina didn't move for a long moment after Niysha kissed her.

She stood perfectly still, wine in hand, her expression caught in that strange emotional nexus only Serina Calis ever managed to conjure: equal parts poised, humbled, and utterly thunderstruck. She hadn't flinched from the kiss, nor even closed her eyes—she'd absorbed it like a planet drinking in sunlight, too greedy and too stunned to respond in kind. It wasn't that she hadn't wanted to.

It was that she didn't yet trust herself to handle it correctly.

And yet, as Niysha settled back to her feet, smug and small and glowing in that quiet, dangerous way only she could, Serina let out a long, steady breath. Her voice, when it came, was low. Not restrained, but recollected.

"See, that's what makes you dangerous."

She turned, slow and graceful, wineglass held lightly in one hand, and began to circle once more. Her gait was easy, her posture composed, but that subtle spark of vulnerability Niysha had cracked open remained behind her eyes. She wasn't afraid of being seen anymore. She was afraid of liking it.

"You talk like a philosopher, kiss like a diplomat, and smile like someone who already knows how the story ends." She stopped near one of the viewports, violet light catching her jawline like a curved blade. "You call yourself cowardly, weak, but that's not how I see you. I've known cowards. I've commanded cowards. They crumble. They plead. They rationalize. You…"

Serina turned to face her again, the stormcloud of her aura momentarily gentled, as if she'd drawn back the fury of her inner world to allow Niysha's warmth to seep further in.

"You endure. You survive. You choose. And that—" she pointed gently with the rim of her glass "—is the one kind of power I've never been able to steal or force from anyone. You give it, or you don't. You gave it to me. That was your decision. And Force help me, I might never understand why."

She sipped again, slow, deliberate, never looking away.

"But I do know this…"

She stepped forward again—closer this time. When she stopped, her boots brushed the toes of Niysha's.

"I don't want freedom."

She didn't whisper it, though the words were soft. Clear. Intimate.

"I understand why you do. I even admire it. But me?" She set the glass down and leaned in, placing one hand gently—no, firmly—on Niysha's hip. "I don't want to break chains. I want to weld them. I want to own things. People. Outcomes. I want every equation, every variable, every motive within arm's reach—preferably wrapped around my fingers."

There was no cruelty in her tone. No venom. Just an eerie serenity. A self-aware kind of hunger.

"When the rest of the Sith talk about breaking their chains, what they really mean is they want to stop being powerless. I want to stop being outnumbered."

Her thumb brushed just above Niysha's waistband, as if tracing where a shackle might rest.

"I don't want to be left wondering if I'll be cast aside. Betrayed. Forgotten. So I take control. I seize it. I become the one others orbit—because otherwise, the only other option is spinning off into the void."

There it was again—that thing Niysha had seen before. The storm shivering, subtly, from within. That core of insecurity that didn't rot but crystalized under pressure. Serina wasn't afraid of being killed. She was afraid of being irrelevant.

"I don't pretend it's noble," Serina said, her voice softening again. "Or righteous. But it is true."

Her other hand came up, finally, to brush a stray lock of hair behind Niysha's ear. And this time, when her face drew close, it wasn't a feint or a tease.

It was a kiss.

Deep. Still. Measured not by intensity, but by the rare honesty of it. The kind of kiss that told a story—one about a girl who had tried for years to be a goddess, and only just now realized how much she'd been starving.

When she broke away, it was with breath close enough to fog glass.

"You're not my weakness, Niysha."

A pause.

"You're the first thing I've wanted that I didn't think I had to conquer."

Then, with a crooked smile:

"Though I suppose I could make you beg for it, if that's the sort of chain you prefer."

Her fingers slid back from Niysha's hip, but not entirely. They lingered, dragging down her side as she finally took a step back—restoring distance like one might re-sheath a blade.

She picked her glass up again.

"You want to talk about control, philosophy, freedom? Fine. We'll debate it all night. I'll even let you win once or twice."

She raised her glass again.

"But while we're breaking chains…"

She winked—finally, actually winked.

"…maybe you'll let me try putting one on you."

 

[Niysha]

Watching Serina fight her way through her own tangle of interpersonal flaws and insecurities was always a sight. Even if she hadn't had a direct viewport into the poor idiot's soul, Niysha would've had to be blind, deaf, and dumb to miss the blazing aurora across the sky that was Serina tumbling through her own thoughts. It was truly unique how one person could spend so much time trying to explain her reasoning to someone else in an effort to figure out herself not once, not twice, but every single time the two of them spoke.

In was a breathtaking, humble, heroic, compassionate warrior queen. Serina was an awkward college girl with superpowers, trying to figure herself out. They were both beautiful to a point that language failed. Niysha rarely allowed herself the confidence of a job well done, but she had to compliment her taste in women. Exceptional, as always.

When Serina moved in to finally intentionally kiss her, Niysha took it upon herself to do everything in her power to make the experience memorable. She leaned up on her toes to catch the taller woman's lips, taking a gently active role without taking command away from Serina. When her partner subtly struggled with where to put her hands, Niysha gently guided them to her hip and her lower back.

No matter how many little things she did to make the kiss last longer, eventually they had to come up for air. Or wine. Niysha actually came up for wine, specifically. After - again - a sip far too long and deep to really enjoy any of the complex notes, the Miraluka took a moment to pull off the little jacket she'd put on just a few minutes earlier. Unlike Serina, there wasn't very much power in her physique, though she did sport some modest tone.

"I'd prefer the kissing over the debate right now," she quietly agreed while looking for a place to toss her top. She settled for the pilot's seatback, then found a surface clear and solid enough to let her cross one gymnast's leg over the other like a holovid secretary. "Since you asked so nicely, my Lord, what kind of 'chains' are you looking for?"

Niysha caught herself biting her lip, but didn't stop.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Deep, into the waiting dark."

Tag - Niysha



Serina nearly dropped her wineglass.

She didn't—of course she didn't—she had better control than that. But the way her fingers spasmed for half a second, the way her throat tensed as she watched Niysha peel off that jacket and toss it aside with the careless grace of a woman who knew she was being watched, wanted to be watched—it was a miracle the damn glass hadn't shattered under the pressure of how much Serina felt all at once.

She didn't look away.

She couldn't.

And that was the problem, wasn't it? Because Niysha wasn't loud or boastful, wasn't trying to dominate space like the bombastic Sith that Serina had spent her life clawing her way through. No. She just existed, elegantly, unbothered, like someone so at home in her own skin she didn't need to weaponize it.

That made her more dangerous than any Sith Lord Serina had ever fought.

And far more beautiful.

When Niysha crossed her legs like that—like she was daring Serina to forget what self-control tasted like—Serina let out a breath that wasn't quite a groan but wasn't innocent either. Her response was a delayed beat, her tongue tracing across her bottom lip before she answered, voice low and syrup-smooth.

"What kind of chains?" Serina echoed, as though testing the question on her tongue. She tilted her head, considering the image before her like a scholar reviewing a forbidden text. "Oh, Niysha…"

She took a step closer. Then another.

"I'm not sure you understand the risk of asking questions like that. Because I've thought about it. Extensively."

Her fingers slid along the edge of a console as she passed it, wine forgotten, eyes only for the girl wrapped in shadow and temptation before her.

"I want the kind of chains that linger. That curl around the soul. Not to hold you back—never that—but to mark you. To say, in no uncertain terms, 'this one belongs to me.'"

She didn't raise her voice. If anything, she lowered it to a rich, sultry murmur as she closed the distance.

"I want chains that bind trust. Chains you wear willingly. Chains you tighten on yourself when I say your name just right. Chains made of choice."

Now she was standing over her—just near enough for the heat between them to mean something, not close enough to touch. Not yet.

Her hands twitched at her sides.

"I want to know that when you breathe a little deeper, it's because you feel me in the room. That when you cross your legs like that again, it's because you want me to notice. That when you choose not to leave, it's not because you're afraid or controlled, but because you know—know exactly—what I am, and you want it anyway."

She knelt.

Not all the way. Just one knee to the floor, still upright, still proud—but enough to bring herself to Niysha's level, eye-to-blindfold. Close enough that her breath could tickle skin. Close enough to make her meaning very clear.

"And I want chains that can be kissed. Slowly. Meticulously. Adored like a holy relic. Because you—"

Her voice dipped again. A whisper barely above sound.

"—are mine now. Aren't you?"

There was no threat in her voice. No pressure.

Only that terrifying, unshakeable confidence that Serina Calis had in exactly three things:

Her knowledge.
Her ambition.
And Niysha.

But her eyes—Gods, her eyes. No lightning. No fire. Just a tempest that had finally found something precious enough to calm for. She lifted a hand slowly, reverently, and ran her fingers—just the backs—up Niysha's thigh in a ghost of a caress, ending at the soft slope of her hip.

"Say it," Serina breathed, her cheeks warm, her lips parted. "Just once. Just for me."

Her other hand finally moved—up, feather-light, to rest against Niysha's cheek. Thumb brushing lower lip. Barely there. Barely breathing.

"Let me hear it, and I will bind you so sweetly the stars will weep for how gently I take you."

Then, softly, shyly, the mask cracked for half a heartbeat—and Serina added, barely above a whisper:

"…Please."

 

[Niysha]

Niysha was peripherally aware that most of the people she knew had some very abstract disabilities. In had Involuntary Hero Syndrome, Tilon's self-doubt was so crippling he needed to be on medication, Aadihr's "right decision first time" gland had atrophied completely. Serina, tragically, was incapable of any form of speech other than Grandiose Villain Rant. Niysha could see her trying very hard, once or twice, to talk like a normal human person, but those attempts were brief distractions from the overpowering need to do an Intimidating Diatribe.

But she was being sincere, which was progress, especially for someone with so crippling a handicap on basic conversation. Determining the real tone and honest meaning of everything Serina said was a talent that Niysha had spent some time developing, so she was entirely prepared to fire up the Serina Calis Babble-O-Tron to translate her stageplay Heavy gibberish.

Fortunately, most of it just boiled down to "will you be my girlfriend, like for realzies?"

From what Aadihr had told her, Serina was a Jedi padawan at one point. Even then, it sounded like she'd been poorly socially adjusted. This was probably the best she could honestly do to let someone know that she cared for them. That was obviously what she was trying to convey, even if the result read closer to a sociopath who aspired to being a dominatrix trying to sweet-talk her next "liaison." Niysha, then, responded to what Serina wanted to say, rather than what she'd actually said.

"Serina," she began with as gentle a smile as she could manage. Her hands landed softly on her lower back in a show of quiet support. "I want you to feel like you can relax around me. I get that when you say I'm 'dangerous,' what you mean is that I'm dangerous to your status, your persona as a powerful queen of darkness. But I need you to accept that I'm not dangerous to you. When it's just us, you don't need to be a Sith Lord." She leaned forward and gave the other woman a warm, encouraging kiss. "You can just be you. Whoever that is, it's enough for me."

At some level, Niysha was worried that maybe this wouldn't be landing properly. Fortunately, Serina's aura was exceedingly easy to read from so close and with nothing else going on. Vulnerability was something she'd showed Niysha a couple of times, whether or not she'd realized it. In general, Serina seemed to have a tight hold on what she conveyed to Miraluka vision, but not infrequently - now, and before - she managed to show off a tiny, warm spark of affection, just a flash of anxiety.

It didn't surprise Niysha that even Super Mega Evil Dark Unstoppable Super Amazing Sith Lords were a little scared of rejection.

When she pulled back from her kiss, she left a hand on Serina's chin. "I'm yours, Serina. Whatever shape you need me to take to be yours, I'm here for you, because of you."

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Deep, into the waiting dark."

Tag - Niysha



Serina Calis did not breathe for seven full seconds.

She didn't forget to. She refused to.

The silence that followed Niysha's words wasn't tactical. It wasn't performative. It wasn't even dramatic—which was, frankly, a historic first. No, this silence was something altogether different.

It was her whole mind crashing.

"I'm yours, Serina."

She had read hundreds—thousands—of ancient Sith texts. But nothing—nothing—in all the dark history she had ever consumed had prepared her for those four words.

Or for how earnestly Niysha had said them. How gently. As though it were the simplest, most obvious truth in the galaxy.

It hit Serina like a vibroblade to the diaphragm.

Her lips parted, but no sound emerged. Instead, her eyes flickered from Niysha's mouth to her fingers on her lower back, then to her own hand—trembling slightly, not with fear, but with the unbearable delicacy of the moment.

She swallowed. Tried again.

"Niysha," she said, voice low and reverent, as though afraid to shatter the atmosphere. "I don't…"

A pause.

"I don't know if I can ever be just me."

And then, sheepishly—quietly—almost bashfully:

"…I don't think I know who that is."

The admission hurt more than any confession of weakness she'd ever made, even to herself. But it was the truth. The raw, naked truth that slithered through every layer of polish she wore, every syllable of Sith doctrine she performed like breathing. For as long as she'd been someone, Serina had been something. A blade. A mask. A persona in a blood-drenched monologue.

But someone? Someone vulnerable, someone real, someone held?

That had never been allowed.

And yet Niysha was here. Gently, unyieldingly, telling her she didn't need to be anything other than exactly what she was—whatever that was. Not a Sith. Not a monster. Not a girl cosplaying as a goddess.

Just… Serina.

A shuddering breath escaped her, and she dipped her head—not in shame, but in the strange, foreign act of letting someone see. Not the way they all saw her. Not through Force presences or masks of intimidation. But in the terrifying, wonderful clarity of honest intimacy.

And Serina… melted.

She leaned in—not lunged, not seized, but leaned, slow and pliant like dusk—and kissed Niysha again. This time it was soft, reverent, an answer rather than a claim. Her hands found her partner's waist and held her like a secret—something precious and dangerous and utterly irreplaceable.

"I still want to ruin you," she whispered against Niysha's lips, breaking the softness with a grin she couldn't quite suppress. "I want you chained to my desk in silk and ink, dictating dark treaties while I plot wars from your lap."

She chuckled, warm and dangerous.

Serina then rested her forehead against Niysha's, her breath barely a whisper.

"I want everything."

A moment. A pause. And then, more softly than anything that had come before:

"Even the quiet. Especially the quiet."

Her hands stroked lightly down Niysha's back, and her voice shifted again—still sultry, still rich, but now tinted with something else. Possession. Not of conquest. Of belonging.

Then, a tiny, conspiratorial smirk. One that crept in like starlight through blinds.

"Now," she purred, running her fingers beneath the hem of Niysha's leotard with exquisite laziness, "tell me what shape you think I need you in tonight, my little chain. And I promise I'll be very—very—grateful."

 

[Niysha]

Niysha marked a moment of genuine vulnerability from her partner. It was basically all she'd been looking for. Serina was difficult to work with, but it was occasionally a fun challenge, and always rewarding. Slowly prying a capital-S "Sith" from her shell had already become the task of days, and would likely stretch out to months by the time she was through. The trick was to never, ever rush Serina, to move at her pace rather than Niysha's own. She could never assume that something that normal, sane, well-adjusted people would take as a shockingly mundane thing would be anything short of terrifying to someone who was huffing her own ion trails so intensely she thought that "my chain" was a cute pet name.

For just a moment, Serina collapsed against her. Niysha was as tender as always, offering her the gentlest support she could manage: a hug and a quiet tone. "Then we'll figure it out," she replied gently. "It might be one impressive battle. There might be terrible casualties. But if it takes us weeks of junk food and programmer socks, we'll figure out who you are behind the mask."

She was, of course, quickly distracted. Of the many things that Niysha had seemingly changed about Serina Calis, one of them was absolutely her capacity for physical contact longer than half a second. She'd gotten all grabby since Niysha came out of the shower, and it was absolutely a unilateral upgrade. A whisper by someone's ear and a half-second touch on their chin wasn't flirting, you tremendous murder-bimbo; it was holodrama seductress cliche.

For now, she was peeling under the tight, stretchy material Niysha had barely covered herself with for the skin underneath. And for the moment, Niysha was sorely tempted to take it. She had, after all, dressed for the occasion; as little as possible, arranged in a way that would decimate Serina's composure and viciously assassinate her self-control.

Hm. Maybe Niysha was dangerous.

With a smirk, the Miraluka fell forward, her arms on either side of Serina's shoulders. From this close, her aura wasn't all Niysha could see, but it definitely dominated. All of those impenetrable, dark clouds were much warmer now, a soft glow of genuine emotion and attachment, instead of the thick affectation of horror. "You're gorgeous. I want to make sure you know that."

When Serina left their schedule in Niysha's hands, the smaller woman took a moment to consider. As always, it was exceedingly difficult to read her expression. She largely had three: smile, frown, and neutral. The only context by which it was possible to judge where her thoughts were was by the intensity of any of the three. No eyes, eyebrows hidden, cheeks slightly covered... when she opened her mouth again, there was just the slightest hint of a smirk to one side.

"Well, let's start with something that you're definitely going to need to get some practice with. I know you know how to inflict pain, Serina, but fun pain is very different from functional pain," Niysha explained. "I hereby officially volunteer to be your training material. If you're planning on taking control of all of your partners, you need to know where that line is and how to respect it."

Her grin became far less subtle, and more than a little nakedly hungry. "So tonight... please hurt me, my Lord."

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Deep, into the waiting dark."

Tag - Niysha



Serina Calis stood in the silence that followed like a sculpture, poised and immaculate and perilously still.

Not frozen—no, nothing about her was ever passive—but charged. Like a thunderhead on the cusp of releasing. Her breath had slowed, deepened, heavy with thought. Or rather, the aftershock of thought. Because she wasn't processing anymore. She wasn't calculating her next move in a political exchange, or crafting the precise vector of seduction for maximum leverage.

She was simply… existing.

And she existed right now as a creature of contradiction: breathless and triumphant. Shy and utterly obscene. Soft, trembling fingers and absolute dominion.

She hadn't let go of Niysha once—not during, not after. Even now, in the quiet aftermath, her arm was curled possessively around the Miraluka's midsection, her hand splayed warm against bare skin, her fingers tracing slow, unconscious patterns just below the ribs. There had been no grand performance this time. No memorized lines. No ancient texts read aloud like liturgy. Just breath. Voice. Hands. Teeth. Want.

And yes—pain.

Deliberate pain. Curious, experimental. A new dialect of her native language.

But what stunned Serina—what truly undid her—was how much she had enjoyed it.

Not just the control. Not just the exquisite microsecond when she found the exact balance between cruelty and bliss. No, what she enjoyed most was the way Niysha gave herself over completely and still never once made Serina feel… instructed.

There had been no pretense. No patronizing coaxing. No coddling tone, or slow guiding pressure, or those awful, syrupy sweet "let me show you" lines that made Serina's skin crawl.

Niysha placed faith in Serina to learn.

Willingly. Excitedly. As though submission wasn't surrender—it was trust. It was worship.

It was hers.

Serina's lips brushed against the crown of Niysha's head, barely a breath of contact, as her thoughts coalesced into words.

"That…" she said slowly, quietly, "…was possibly the most unreasonably indulgent thing I have ever done."

She felt Niysha's breath catch in a laugh, and Serina smiled—small and genuine and perhaps a little stunned by herself.

"I thought it would feel like performance. Like learning choreography for a play I hadn't auditioned for. But it didn't. It felt…" She exhaled. "Natural."

Another kiss, this one behind Niysha's ear.

"I thought you'd have to show me the line. But I already knew where it was. I knew exactly when your breath hitched, and when your muscles tensed in protest, and when your voice turned from teasing to needy. I didn't feel like a student. I felt like…"

Her voice softened, something almost like awe threading into it.

"I felt like me."

That was the terrifying part, wasn't it?

She didn't feel like a Sith Lord finally mastering a new form of domination.

She just felt right.

As though this had always been an unspoken part of her. Something coiled deep, waiting for exactly the right pressure to unfold.

Her fingers drifted lower, then back up, resuming their idle tracing.

"You're exquisite when you're ruined," she murmured with a laugh under her breath. "But you're even more exquisite knowing that I did it. That you wanted me to do it. That I didn't have to break you—I just had to claim you."

She nuzzled into the curve of Niysha's neck, her voice dipping into conspiratorial intimacy.

"Also… for the record? That noise you made?"

She felt the slight shove to her hip, a token protest, and snickered as she pulled her partner closer.

"I'm not sorry."

She fell silent for a moment again—just long enough for Niysha to think the commentary was done.

Then, quietly, dreamily:

"…And yes. We're absolutely doing that again."

Serina looked toward the ceiling of the Aspidochelone, the stars humming by outside, and let herself—truly let herself—relax.

No mask. No plan. No stormcloud looming in her aura, no pulse of self-doubt coiled like a tripwire in her chest.

Just her, wrapped in the gravity well of a woman who saw her as she was—and still chose her.

And that was a kind of power even Serina hadn't anticipated. Not to dominate. Not to break.

But to be wanted.

To be known.

"I don't care if this is dangerous," she whispered at last. "I don't care if I'm not ready. I just know one thing."

Her hand returned to Niysha's cheek, thumb brushing slowly, reverently across the edge of her blindfold.

"I am never letting go of you."

 

[Niysha]

Ow.

Like, a good ow. But still, ow.

When people said that their partner was "glowing," Niysha understood that to mean that they looked wonderful, satisfied, in their lane, or whatever else they needed to convey that they were fulfilled. It absolutely wasn't the same for Niysha; when she said Serina was glowing, it was very literal. She was always beautiful, but she tried so hard to be something she wasn't. Now, she was blooming desire, playful confidence, tired satisfaction... authentic and real. Maybe Serina didn't know who she was supposed to be, but it was so clear to Niysha that it was legitimately frustrating to be unable to voice it to her.

Niysha curled over and into Serina's side. Speech was a very long way away. She could hear, but words were still out of her reach. Her fingers grabbed very gently at Serina's skin, but not hard enough to pinch. She felt like she might've smelled vaguely of ozone, so she mentally established a list of priorities: first, remember how to speak. Second, get cleaned up and see to whatever... minor oversteps Serina had made. Third, and much more long-term, heal.

That one might take a while.

She needed to at least get started on the first part, though. Words. Voice time. Find the sound parts that did the language thing. "S'good." Niysha nuzzled her face into Serina's skin, a motion which also functioned as a little nod of satisfaction. She'd managed something approaching at least one word, so chances were she only had another couple of minutes before she could manage sentences again.

That did hurt her throat, though. Obviously she was exhausted, but probably dehydrated, too. Niysha decided to try to get Serina's attention with a soft squeeze, right below her ribs. Her throat rumbled mightily when she forced out the best language she could manage. "Water?" Two syllables. Very good, Niysha. Good progress.

Her vision was... distorted. Fuzzy. It got like that when she was extremely drunk, in the aftermath, seriously wounded, or once when she had been badly poisoned. At some level, the line between biological function and mystical concentration blurred in regards to what constituted a vector for Force Sight. Right now, both her biological functions and her concentration were an absolute wreck. She was a curled-up ball of ache and frankly it was astounding she'd been able to manage two full words.

That said, she needed more than that. Niysha took a deep breath, cleared her throat, and showed her profound might. "Water, please." Two full words, with enunciation. Good brain. You can take a break now.

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Deep, into the waiting dark."

Tag - Niysha



Serina Calis had rarely, if ever, looked smug.

She smirked, yes. She prowled. She radiated poised menace, self-control sharpened to a scalpel, and the cold magnetism of a woman who always wanted something just out of reach. But smug? That took a level of contentment she didn't usually allow herself.

Yet here she was now: gently reclined in the soft underglow of her own starship, one arm curled protectively around a half-lucid, beautifully ruined Miraluka, the other lazily tracing circles along a patch of skin she'd made at least three colors over the last hour. And her expression—half tired delight, half stunned reverence—was unmistakably smug.

She had earned this.

Niysha curled against her like a satisfied feline, and Serina didn't dare move except to press a kiss to her tangled hair. She was warm—no, hot—in every direction, and her aura still shimmered with aftershocks. Like she'd been struck by lightning and found religion at the same time. Serina felt her cling, barely a twitch, then the soft squeeze just beneath her ribs, followed by—

"S'good."

Serina bit back a wicked laugh and tucked her face against Niysha's crown instead, the corner of her lips pulling in a devastatingly fond smile. Her voice dropped into that lazy, honey-dipped timbre she'd almost never used—something caught halfway between a lullaby and a dirty secret.

"Yes," she purred. "You were."

Then came the sacred plea.

"Water?"

Serina tensed with the gravity of the moment. She turned her head slowly—theatrically—as if a planetary alignment had occurred right then and there in the sheets.

"Ah," she said solemnly. "And thus, the mighty have fallen."

Her fingers danced down to Niysha's hipbone, circling the edge of the faintest bruise like she was framing a signature on her masterpiece. "One spirited archaeologist. Slayer of tomb guardians. Whisperer of ancient secrets. Reduced… to hydration. Tragic."

But even as she teased, Serina slid away just enough to make good on the request, sighing softly at the loss of contact. She rose from the bed like a slow tide, luminous in only what the darkness allowed her to wear—her hair a curled storm around her shoulders, her long limbs covered in little scratches and half-moons from Niysha's nails, and her walk—

By the stars, her walk.

Even barefoot, she stalked like a queen across the bridge floor, hips still loose from exertion, her posture halfway between dancer and predator. She stopped by the sleek alcove hidden within one of the bulkhead panels, pressed her hand to the blacksteel surface, and retrieved a glass decanter of perfectly chilled mineral water—because of course she had that. Then, with another indulgently slow turn, she returned.

When Serina rejoined her, she did not simply hand Niysha the glass.

No.

She knelt beside her, balanced on her knees, and cradled her like one might hold a fainting noblewoman in a holodrama. She brought the glass to her lips and tipped it just so, watching as the cool water traced down between parted lips.

"Atta girl," Serina murmured with a smirk. "You say the sexiest things when your vocabulary drops to single syllables."

And then, her voice softer, just barely audible over the hum of distant engines:

"...'Please' suits you. You wear it better than that blindfold."

She paused long enough to let Niysha drink again before setting the glass aside and resuming her post behind her—this time drawing the Miraluka into her lap, spooning close with her chin tucked atop Niysha's shoulder. She wrapped her arms around her waist and let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

There was always a moment after. That moment where the world settled again, where one's grand declarations and claims to power fell away and what was left was just skin and nerves and breath and trust.

Serina didn't flinch from it. Not this time.