Private Duty Abandoned

[Lysander von Ascania]

Isobel Serraris

The Galactic City Fashion District lay bathed in ethereal starlight. A thousand conversations buzzed against the glass with static of pure commerce and vanity. Every few seconds, apologetic chirps bubbled from bumped into delivery droids, adding a rather playful percussion some might say. Near the central plazas, musicians coaxed jazz melodies with their brass, holding their own against some Rodian child that appeared to be engaged in protest over the price of a frozen treat. Something about paying double for sprinkles, from what Lysander could tell.

Charcoal trousers whispered against a lithe frame, paired with a black knit sweater that defied the neon palette of the district; sleeves rolled half-way up exposed a meticulously crafted timepiece. Black sneakers, the one's once used for hunting ops like ducks alongside Acier Moonbound , and a minimalist leather belt completed the ensemble. If anything, it was proof that for the Sith, wardrobe variety was a total myth. And perhaps, a dash of black in Izzy's wardrobe would be a divine project for the day; truly, seeing her in a darker shade may even be like solving a cosmic mystery. A datapad acted as a lonely accessory under one arm.

Without word, he extended the brewed caf toward the Nabooan, followed by a gentle sip of his own, and then reached to tuck a wayward strand of moonlit hair behind an ear. "I totes cannot tell whether this is fashion or a cry for help?" the query was undoubtedly foreign as it was.. pleasant, courtesy of his younger sister's influence of Core slang.

Action was sudden and wonderfully impulsive. As the datapad shifted to act as a mirror for both of them, the needle-like spire provided a backdrop. The camera activated with a soft chirp, and before the shutter click even faded, thumbs moved with speed across the screen; the image vanished into the reaches of the HoloNet, deposited straight onto Fatine von Ascania 's Zinstagram feed. A lopsided smirk appeared while typing away at a few hashtags. #CoruscantProblems #BlackOnBlackOnBlack #ShoppingwiththeJedi.

 

[Fatine von Ascania]

CC: Lysander von Ascania Isobel Serraris

Because she was the quintessential teenager glued to her datapad, Lysander's photo would receive a heart react and a swift reply:

omg who is that?? She's pretty. Is she doing charity work?

lmaooo maybe she can help you find some clothes that aren't all doom and gloom luis.

*lysie

Ilu thoooo <3

Then, as she was currently reclined, Fatine dropped the datapad on her face:

Jfrdjjjjjjdjdjdkkkss;;

 

[Isobel Serraris]

DUTY ABANDONED​

LOCATION — Coruscant, Galactic City Fashion District
TAGS — Lysander von Ascania

Summer shades battled the cold of winter as Isobel trailed after him; she had pleaded with him to don even a sparkle of colour, for he looked so dull and grim like this, as though he belonged in a black-and-white holodrama! The click-clacking of low heels whispered in ears like a constant hum, a quieted murmur accompanying the growing crowd gathering in the streets of the District. The sudden flock of tourists from the left briefly interrupted her path, before she anxiously tried to slip past, 'sorry' and 'excuse me' heralded her presence before her brightly coloured clothes did.

Layered chiffon in a peachy pink and orange were draped over her delicate figure; a wide flowing sleeves that shifted with each brush of the breeze, a long skirt that reached until her ankles and a bodice shaped by a leather belt around her waist. Her curls cascaded down her shoulders, while pinned back around her ears, presenting the dragon-esque earrings cuffed around her ear. Life was so wondrous, when she was not meant to dress in armour nor those horrid and shapeless acolyte robes.

The offered caf was accepted, but the light tension in her brow voiced her dislike, before it. . . shifted into puzzlement. Totes, a word she had never heard him use before--or anyone for that matter. "I did tell you that people at funerals dress livelier than you," Bel's voice was light and playful, as she took a sip of the caf, the red stain of her lips marking the cup.

A devious little plan stirred within her mind, no doubt a byproduct of the holobooks she had been devouring in her spare time. Placing the beaker on a nearby ledge, she shifted onto her toes and pressed three warm kisses against his skin--scattered over cheek and jaw. Blessing him with 'a touch of colour', as berry red prints marked the sharp lines of his skin.

"There," oblivious to the shutter of the camera, she looked upon her 'masterpiece': "Much better. . ."

Only when the soft woosh of a message being sent lingered in the space between them, did she note the picture on his holo-tablet--instantly flushing a bright red. Hand seized the caf and took a loooong sip, wishing for the depths of Coruscant to swallow her whole right that moment. In the corner of her eye, she did, however, notice only one name: 'Fatine'. "Who did you send this to?"

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Isobel Serraris​

Stained in shades of crimson, the slope of a cheek suddenly blossomed with evidence of sweetness from Bel’s colorful solution to him appearing as some.. void-dweller? A wry twitch surfaced at the corner of a mouth. Technically, the mission has been accomplished; color was forcibly introduced to his person. Well, adorned in vibrant hues of her choosing wasn’t so bad. But the best part was watching Bel preen over the handwork; any triumphant glow from her could make a star envious.

"Fatine," came the reply, devoid of shame. "My little sister. She's.. more dangerous with a datapad than a lightsaber."

And then a tilt of the device offered up the Zinstagram feed, revealing a waterfall of notifications; all of those incoming messages served well to prompt a dry, breathy chuckle of resignation, followed by a quiet nod. "I believe she’s already decided you're the sensible one," a dry murmur lost to the district’s hum.He forced a sigh as his thumb tapped the skull reaction beneath her message.

Almost strange to think that observation might've suggested he were being tamed. “She thinks anyone who tolerates me must be a humanitarian.” Lying would forever be one of Lysander's weaker disciplines “Siblings do possess a remarkable consistency in ability to deflate one’s ego to.. zero.” Thinking of her also had a way of carrying Acier’s shadow with it lately. Poor bastard probably hadn’t realized he’d joined a dynasty that treated trauma like tradition. Cora always warned him their jawline was meant to carry all the shame; years later, he was beginning to understand her wisdom.

Without moving a single step, the blonde caught a silhouette in transparisteel next to them. "They’re so symmetrical, Bel, you truly are quite the.. painter," was the only verdict offered. Wiping them away? Unthinkable. The stamps would stay exactly where they were placed.

The Sith's own caf was bitter, earthy, with notes of toasted chicory coating his palate. A slow sip was taken, heat blooming. He didn’t really have a preference for where their shopping journey began this afternoon; the warmth of her presence was always more than enough.

A few paces away, a kiosk blared. Wandering over, slender digits snatched up a pair of oversized Core fashion sunglasses. Perching the absurd insectoid plastic frames upon his noise, the entire world warped inward, with everything splitting into fragments of color. With a pivot to face Bel, he gestured toward a nearby boutique. "Literally, I am obsessed with the vibe of this place, like, it’s giving major main character energy??" colored the words after adopting the local high society lilt once more. "We should totally go in there and browse? I feel like you’d look so iconic in those tunics. Seriously, it would be a total shift, no cap."

Another small victory might be coaxing Bel into the dialect. There was absolutely nothing wrong with enjoying yourself, no matter what the Sith preached. “I know that shop looks super mid at first glance, but it’s actually pretty stellarrr? If we don’t, like, at least browse the racks, I’m going to be, like, so deeply depressed. It’s for the plot, Bel.”

 

[Isobel Serraris]

DUTY ABANDONED​

LOCATION — Coruscant, Galactic City Fashion District
TAGS — Lysander von Ascania

The dark pools of her eyes blazed vividly under the swirl of neon colours, from the pink of a nearby shop, to the distant green and yellow from an advert for household droids; the sight might have been enough to coax the seer into a migraine or two, still it would make the rest after this 'little escapade' all the sweeter. . . And must one be riddled by thoughts of fleeing when joy presented itself so theatrically! Seeing him liven up like summer flowers after rain was a gift. A thoughtful smile shaping on her lips as her mind wandered to the sole realisation that this was one of the most important Sith within the Covenant. . . So unserious. . .

Waves of shock washed over her as she listened to him, Fatine, another von Ascania to be found within the reaches of this galaxy. "I am the sensible one!" Bel giggled: "Just ask Corazona von Ascania ." Her finger found his side, and jabbed him lightly as he fixated on the holo-tablet.

Siblings; having them was a blessing and a curse, a constant dance with the enemy if one can be frank. Being the youngest of three, Isobel had to endure plenty of their shenanigans. Scandals about who stole pieces of cake from the estate's kitchen, or the bickering between Sebastian and Florian over which one a lady liked better. "Such squabbles were my brothers'. . ." The fluttering lashes and forced smile suggested she had a part to play in their origin. "As if they would ever blame the youngest~"

Manoeuvreing around the horde of tourists was akin to dancing, one step left, the other forward, back, right. . . Twirl. Wait- No twirling. Though blinded by the splendour of fluorescent lighting, it did not make him more difficult to find. With those enviable silver-gold strands that were so... perfect, in spite of that horrible 17-in-1 shampoo he used. Never use that one again, Bel. That nightmare had haunted her since she mistook it for her own. . . wandering around the next day with clouds of frizzy, untamed mane; wild enough for Ser Sprout to chase her around with pruning shears.

The image faded as an uncontrolled laugh left her at the sight of those stupid round glasses, the Force brought the datapad within her grasp as she took a swift pic; "Channeling my inner Gand #ServingGand #HotGandSummer" The Nabooan mused as she typed it swiftly and shared it on Zinstagram. Tears of laughter pricked at her sight, only for her to sweep them aside with a bemused huff.

Their path led them into the boutique, passing the curtained entrance, they were met with the harsh judgement of a finely dressed Bothan man, who murmured something to his Mirialan accomplice. Isobel's thumb immediately moved to Lysander's cheeks to be rid of the red marks there. . . Still, what little would it do against the outfit, for it screamed a fashion tragedy; a disaster that could not be salvaged with the addition of jewellery.

She offered a smile in greeting and walked to some of the clothes, they were eccentric--finely woven but so oddly shaped. With blocky sleeves and cuts that made her wonder how one might even don this. . . thing. "Did a toddler like design these clothes?" Bel quietly japed, gesturing to one of the gowns with bubble-like sleeves and enough sparkles on its skirt and bodice to blind everyone under the sun. "Bet Lucy could do a better job--come, darling, I am not going to risk becoming a galactic fashion disaster 'for the plot'. Be so for real. . ." Hand found his wrist and dragged him toward the exit on the other side of the boutique, leading into a different side of the district.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Isobel Serraris​

Bathed in a kaleidoscopic refraction of those bug eyed shades it was full of violets and reds. Being present with her felt like inhaling pure, unfiltered sunshine, something of a blissful departure from Zardossa. Not that he minded being in the Tapani sector. But it was a nice respite nonetheless from the mundane.

Thoughts of Corazona von Ascania flitted through his mind like a flickering holoprojector once the name was spoken. If the eldest sister was already in Bel’s orbit, then the reconciliation he’d been putting off was officially haunting him starting.. now. Fatine, though? She was forever the baby, the center of the familial hierarchy. Maybe unfair, maybe biased, but favoritism had always been one of his flaws.. even if she’d stab him for saying that out loud. Hearing Isobel talk about her own household squabbles, he couldn't help but crack a genuine smile. “Oh, I see you. The "innocent youngest" act? So groundbreaking. Truly.”

He knew he looked utterly ridiculous in those specs, but the way her laughter bubbled up was like winning the galaxy’s biggest prize. When the shutter clicked, he didn't even flinch; he knew that look.. the rapid fire thumb movement, the social media notification. Oh, she’s so guilty, the Sith mused. *And honestly? Kinda iconic. If the Triumvirate ever caught a glimpse of their top emissary looking like an oversized insect on the HoloNet, they’d probably just murder him outright. Which.. was what led him to believe him he needed this new accessory, a modest attempt to mask his identity. Something like that.

Tapping a few credits onto the kiosk with flourish, he remained unconcerned about the judgmental stares from the locals or the snooty Bothan in the boutique; their aura was simply too dull to register, right? A dramatic, long suffering side eye slid toward the Nabooan as she plucked the security stamps off. Seriously? the blonde thought as his heart executed a few backflips. “Why would I mind looking like your hopeless idiot? It’s a whole mood.”

Lysander leaned in slightly during the inspection of fashion crimes. "Lucy could absolutely do better,” unfurled in agreement. "I’m not letting you get canceled on the HoloNet because some designer thought ‘bubble sleeves but make them so violent’ was a brilliant idea. We’re so not risking our reputations today." Nevermind the fact he was already committed to the bit. "Not even for the drama, okay?”

A tug on the wrist pulled him into a new trajectory. “Careful, Bel” arrived the warning, “This is basically how it always starts. One minute we’re just, like.. existing, and the next thing you know, we’re totally distracted from our.. uh..” A vague hand circled the air. “like.. totally off-mission." The grin which bloomed was very much unserious. "I’m deadass serious though. Between checking my Zinstagram mentions and dealing with Coruscant’s antics, what are we even looking for? Mm, what is the actual vibe check today??"

A slow draw of the caf followed, content with her taking the lead in this little journey.

 

[Isobel Serraris]

DUTY ABANDONED​

LOCATION — Coruscant, Galactic City Fashion District
TAGS — Lysander von Ascania

The hopeless idiot. My hopeless idiot. . . The notion swirled fondly within the warm, floral scenery of her mind, a gentle coax of softness upon her eyes as they settled upon him. Heels stopped their rattle as they halted in the middle of the gathering crowd; the eye of the storm as the violent currents of strangers rampaged around them. It was just him, her, and those stupidly oversized glasses of his. The loud beat of her heart barely managed to hold up a shield against the provoked grin and mockery, but managing to suppress it nonetheless. In spite of his folly, it admittedly drew the young Nabooan back into his bubble of. . . life? For no hidden blade of duty would come to strike her here. She knew it.

The glimmer in his eye showed he would not fall for her tricks--or. . . would, knowing Lys. The art of persuading people to one's advance was often borne of malice, but never within Isobel's playbook. Still, should she face troubles, it would not be. . . strange to be met with those sweet tooka eyes and a smile that could brighten the rainy days. "Oh? Are you truly being hopeless now, this is nothing compared to--" Teeth grazed her lower lip as a red flush dominated her soft cheeks, before the whim made way for the swift theft of his alien-esque specs. Holding them in her thorn-scarred fingers, and briefly in front of her face--how did he even see a single thing through these agonising glasses?! "Nothing," trailed her words moments after.

The accessory was confined to her colourful handbag, sparing him another Zinstagram catastrophe. . .

As if outlining a game, her fingers shot up to lay out the rules for this little 'escapade'. "But what if I do so adore our distractions~" A bashful confession escaped her first, before a sharp shadow overcame the warmth: "No seriousness, no visions, no calling me 'Divine', no. . . Hm. . . Well, we shall see where the wind carries us, or--" Immaculately timed, a sharp shoulder struck her back, forcing her to slide from one heel to the other, before finding control. "Or the masses. . . this planet is a dump." As if putting the theory to the test, she nudged him along the promenade of the Fashion District, manoeuvreing around every obstacle as though it were a podrace. Her fingers remained wrapped around his wrist, a shackle tying him to this disastrous journey.

"Photobooth!" A frantic squeal cut through the clamour of Coruscant's tourists, followed by a firm squeeze of his hand, centring any and all attention on the vividly dressed girl. Their stares, their judgement, were of zero consequence; not when her heart leapt with joy at the idea of creating memories with him. Perfect, she couldn't even. . . It was just so devilishly perfect! To create pictures she could treasure as though it were jewellery, proof of whatever lingered between them. . . and also. . . to pester those around her with.

Thoughts danced toward Acier Moonbound , utterly devious, knowing he was stuck in some filthy republic prison--but how could she not get back at him? He had tried to mansplain that the Sith equal depression, as if that wasn't totes delusional! But hey? Sending the rogue (very important) keepsakes was a way of showing she had, obviously, found joy with the Sith. That she was not withering away within her dreams like some loser, thank you very much. Perhaps it would earn a chuckle or two. Or he might die of cringe. Oh, what did it matter? 'twas karma period.

Once beside the kiosk, she wasted not a second nor a breath, fishing a handful of credits from her bag and tugging him a little too excitedly into the booth. "It'll be fun~ and you can spam it all over Zinstagram if you want. Haunt all of their timelines," Bel giggled, slotting the credits into the machine before rummaging for her lipstick and reapplying the faded red as if life and death depended on it. "Besides, I know one or two people who would kill for this tea."

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Isobel Serraris​

The district was like walking through a fever dream of luxury with so many hurried socialites. Everywhere he looked there were shop windows spilling out holographic dreams. Lysander quickly found himself humming a tune he'd invented three minutes ago, the oversized spectacles threatening to slide off his nose with every jaunty stride.

As they came to a halt, he pivoted a little too fluid for a man who claimed to be perpetually lost. "You know," the voice cut through the roar of the district like a warm breeze through a hangar door, "if you keep staring at me like that, people are going to start thinking we’re actually a team." He let out a playful huff, stepping toward her with the ease of someone who was perfectly fine staying exactly within her bubble.. regardless of who might be watching.

When a hand darted out with audacious speed, he didn’t even gasp; he simply blinked, the world around him returning to a watercolor blur. But he did give a classic and exaggerated roll of his eyes; that was, until he saw a flush so vivid it outshone the district's advertisements.

no calling me 'Divine'

"Okayyy, Divine," murmured with a burst of mirth that was anything but obedient. How could he not see her so? Bel’s Light was terrifying as it was beautiful. Leaning in, Lysander’s tone took on a more melodic hum. "You adore our little diversions, do you?" The words tasted as sweet as their promise. "Good. Because as we hop from planet to star system, I was rather hoping you’d make a habit of distracting me. I find it.. more tolerable than the rest of the galaxy."

He mulled over her comment about Coruscant; aside from the allure of chasing credits, he couldn’t think of a single reason why one would cling to this wretched planet. In truth, he barely wanted to be in the Core at all lately. But as long as she was the one leading the way, shackling him to this.. delightful, disastrous journey, Lysander suspected he’d follow her straight into the Nether without a single complaint.

His hand squeezed back in reassurance. That irrepressible, bubbling excitement of hers was contagious, seeping through his skin like golden hour sunlight from Zardossa; which was why a grin became the only natural response. A playful hum escaped his throat as they tumbled into the booth, something of a glittery.. cramped cocoon. Then came the flicker of the interface.. a digital beep from the internal clock.. and the countdown timer began a glowing march toward zero. Options flicker across his mind as he imagined a plethora of ridiculous frames; suddenly, every choice became the most monumental decision in the entire galaxy.

Confusion hit first, captured by the initial, blinding strobe of the flash. Spontaneously, he threw up his hands as if the machine posed a riddle. But no, duty called.. and wasting the remaining frames was out of the question.

"Wait, hold on! I'm about to serve, like, intergalactic slay!"

Angling closer he practically draped himself over her like an overexcited, chaos fueled gremlin. A grin, lopsided, unhinged, and absolutely radiant.. stretched across his youthful features. Emerald orbs pinched in overly joyful crescents.. a tongue caught mid laugh. One hand rocketed up beside his head in a dramatic and crooked peace sign. "This next frame? I'm going full feral. Totes."

And so the timer restarted, marching toward zero..

 

[Isobel Serraris]

DUTY ABANDONED​

LOCATION — Coruscant, Galactic City Fashion District
TAGS — Lysander von Ascania

The Galaxy, space as a whole, was akin to a wrathful sea; tides shifting back and forth, spurring from quiet ripples to looming waves threatening to consume all and everything. . . until all that withstood its assault were but the wrecks within its abyss. The endless war fought through nature, through the forces of mankind, and though it often brought such a hollow. . . a void to her heart, there were those who could mend the rift with their mere presence.

Lysander, her Light, her love. A certain ease surrounded him, a calm that stilled the tempests of oceans and rivers alike, reducing them all to irrelevant whispers. . . "Me? Adore our diversions. . . tssk, as if," the shameful smile upon her face begged to differ.

Isobel slid the dark curtains of the booth over the entrance, sealing the small kiosk off to the rest of the world and its eternal swirl of chaos. Leaning back, she found herself settling back against the firm line of his physique. Hands moved up to pose for the first picture, when the timer rolled to zero and the first blinding flare of light startled her.

Colourful swatches obscured her sight for a second as desperate blinks sought to run them off--damnable cameras. . . After a glimpse, her vision gradually sharpened as she gazed upon Lys with a stunned laugh. "We are so not posting that one," Her lower lip was subjected to the feel of her teeth, as her brown eyes wandered toward the reset countdown.

A comforting embrace welcomed her as the Ukatian pressed himself against her, one arm hanging over her shoulder whilst the other rose to make some sort of sign with his fingers. Bel copied it without question, splitting index and middle as she grinned joyously at the photobooth camera. The flash cast off the walls of their cramped square, immortalising the pose before she nudged his arms back to his side.

"Feral? You?! The Prince of the Core would sooner die than get caught lacking like that." The Nabooan tilted her head, pressing a finger to the tip of his nose before letting it trail down to grasp his chin. The distance narrowed between them, soft lips brushing against his cheek as the countdown continued evermore in the background, each second counted within mind.

At the last possible second, her tongue slipped past and dragged against the velvety softness of his cheek, her eyes darting to the camera with a mischievous sparkle. The crime was caught perfectly by the flare of light, before she worsened the allegations as her mouth found the sharpness of his jaw. "Mmm tasty," A quieted murmur as lips pressed firm against his skin: "You are such a snack, babe. . ."

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Isobel Serraris​

Light erupted in the claustrophobic confines of the booth, a sudden bloom that mirrored the first kiss of dawn upon a lake; truly, it left Lysander to navigate the encroaching gray as his sight slowly fought its way back from the edge of oblivion. Amid the silence of the afterglow, came that gentle nudge, soft as moonlight against skin. The timer’s countdown began its familiar tick-tock anthem.

Butterflies fluttered their wings in the Sith’s stomach, a trapped gale of nerves as her fingertip traced the bridge of his nose like an artist finding the contour of a masterpiece. Electric currents danced upon skin when something playful and wet painted a telltale, rosy hue across his cheekbone.. a thread of mischief woven so fine it threatened to melt the fool. Lips parted in a worthy, involuntary “ooh?” while adorably dazed when flash number two went off, capturing the moment of surprise.

Sensation cascaded along his jaw like a thousand tiny lanterns set adrift a starless sea from her lips. Turning back, Lysander found himself adrift in the vast, doe eyed galaxy of the Nabooan’s gaze.. the very nebula that claimed his soul in a studio upon Zardossa.

"Look at that, Bel.. another precious moment sacrificed to your.. wicked distractions," came the soft murmur. "Though, make no mistake: you’re in trouble when we leave this district. I hope you know that." More of a promise than a threat, that of a dragon’s breath, searing and sweet.. a debt that would surely be collected in full.

Red digits dwindled in the corner, the countdown entering its final gasp. "We should be careful to not lose the light's rhythm," he teased, feigning a huff as the machine hungered for another capture. A stray thought wandered from the lens to the slope of his partner's throat. Cupping her face, he leaned in until the place where words were born were hanging in the vacuum of almost. Even as the flash fired once more, she would find herself denied of the alchemy of a vow that refused to fall.

The timer reset, a clock of infinite possibilities. Unknowing of the machine’s appetite, he was at least aware that he was not prepared for this sequence to end. A reckless thrill zinged along the spine, a dare settling like embers in the chest.

Abandoning all attempts at poise, dissolved into ruin, both hands found the grace of her waist before descending as one knee hit the floor with a thud. Looking upward from the shadow of ribs, a devastatingly stupid half-smile appeared across his features. While one palm remained against her hip, the other shifted in authority, snaking downward to cradle the back of her thigh, where the thumb pressed a gentle confession above the joint. And so, a shuddering intake filled the lungs, serving as the only preamble, before guiding a leg over the shoulder.

With kinetic force a lift bolted them both skyward; hips were perched on his collarbone, the same leg draped in a triumphant arc. His grasp sought treacherous purchase against plumpness of a swell, only to find himself in a pose too absurd to exist outside a photobooth; perchance, 'twas only fitting, for beneath the mask of Sith and Mystic, remained two hopeless idiots in love.

With a voice breathless from the sheer thrill, he finally glanced back to the camera before calling out. “Smile, Bel!”

 

[Isobel Serraris]

DUTY ABANDONED​

LOCATION — Coruscant, Galactic City Fashion District
TAGS — Lysander von Ascania

The lightning-esque flashes of the shutter lit up their intimate square akin to the flutters of light amid a thunderstorm, illuminating dark, ruinous clouds with their radiance. There was a gentle poetry to be found in it, even amid the heart of Coruscant, where Bogan's presence pulsed beneath the foundations of the Sith Temple. . . The sparks of light flew like fireflies in its abyssal dark, wielded by a dagger of delight as the disastrous duo navigated the art of posing. What force could truly take up arms against a revolt so. . . trivial?

The girlish exploration of his jaw lay guided by the softness of her lips; each insistent press against its firm line an unyielding gentleness, an innocent plea for him to surrender to it. And yet in tune with the ticking of the clock, the Sith conjured a shield of 'reluctant' resistance, as he steered her to look upon every side of his visage. Those hypnotic emerald orbs, the fading scar upon cheek, that smugness that tainted his expression even without the will to enforce it. His charms had besieged the heart that found no quiet, and had nudged it into a blissful mania. . . That was the true evil. . .

The mischief dulled within starry eyes, as an amused smile--if not veiling her shyness--painted itself upon the plump shape of her mouth: "Wicked? May a Lady not cherish what is presented before her. . ?" For a speck of time, a tremble poisoned her voice, questioning silently whether trouble would truly await her. . . before a sun--as bright as Zardossa's--expelled the doubt. "Oh-... I see!" A nervous, yet excited huff of laughter slipped from the lips, fantasising readily of how his 'correction' may take shape. She had a hunch, , , or two.

The distance between him and her grew shallow, a sun and moon nigh on aligned in a perfect eclipse. . . before no darkness claimed the planet in its shadow, , , no kiss found her acheing lips. And though the grin may have faltered, the beat of her heart remained a cacophony evermore, roaring loudly within the den of her chest. "Lysander..." A sigh, swiftly exchanged for a shriek as the Ukatian's arms slithered around her frame and launched her up to rest over his shoulder, holding onto his other side. "LYS!" Echoed throughout the booth; he was truly! TRULY! A menace!!

The timer counted down, heralding their death! Not literally, but Zinstagram would surely not shut up about this.. The Point Emissary and the young Lady Serraris. What sort of avalanche was he trying to cause?

As though he were an anchor--and yet also the discord--she tried not to move a muscle, naught beyond her head that is. Waves of curls sloshed from one side to the other, covering her entire face in a thick curtain. Incomprehensible noises departed from lips as she waved one hand up to push them away from her eyes. "Don't you dare let go now! I'd let my ghost haunt youuu~!" A frantic warning and beg as they were plunged into imbalance, akin to a young tree amid the ceaseless gales as the worst of the storm would soon be upon them. . .

Kriff. . .

A faked 'gasp' found her lips as Isobel desperately triedto make this idiocy work; free hand shot up to the side of her chin and jaw, a straight line with fingers splayed. The look she was going on screamed 'damsel in distress', which she was, to some degree. And in turn, he was the brigand who kidnapped her for his own delight! Hah!

The camera flash set the dark room ablaze for a second, as in its aftermath the façade ceased to exist and a wild giggle returned. The flustered red of her face was buried in both palms: "I am never showing my face at another event--" Though it truly didn't seem to upset her either. . .

Her chest rose and fell against the taut line of his shoulder, as in the makeshift 'grief', a drum of fingers slid down over that dull, garbage-bag sweater he loved. Pfft, as though it were a piece of haute couture! The tapping descended no further than the shadow beneath the arm, letting it rest... before she pounced, tickling him with all the menace of a girl who had been utterly craving that payback.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Laughter tumbled like moonlit petals down a crystal grotto, transforming the photobooth into a court far grander than any palace Lysander had ever glimpsed. Within the narrow press, the world outside.. be it the wind whipped dunes Zardossa, the towering spires Coruscant, or the belly of a transport shuttle.. reality always softened into some distant echo. Every melodic syllable Isobel uttered vibrated against his chest; truly, a hum that always guided one's soul to the current moment.

Softness possessed his features then, a betrayal of his usual composure that he didn't care to hide. Crinkles fanned out from the corners of his eyes, mapping out delight. Deep within the emerald glass of his irises, the glare of the camera flash seemed to have been trapped, swirling into a reverence. Wrapped in those drab, black fabrics, he felt less like a brigand and more like a man suddenly granted the keys to a forgotten kingdom.. that of the Light, a borderless realm where he found himself, at long last, returning . . .

Dropping her? A comical notion, truly; for would not their very cosmos unravel, and the stars weep into the void, long before permitting the Nabooan rose to slip from his hold?

"Oh my Bogan, Isobel, literally chill," came the playful, honeyed nonchalance, laced with more of that Core world slang. Lysander’s grip even tightened, to remind her that she wasn’t going anywhere, and certainly not to some afterlife to haunt him, because he was already far too busy being haunted by her existence right here, right now?

"Like, if you drop, I drop, okayy? It’s giving codependency and I am fully obsessed with it."

Then the lightning tore through their booth, and straight into his retinas. Laughter of his own vibrated through the throat.

In the blink of an eye.. a jolt, electric and playful, erupted through his ribs, forcing an undignified wheeze from his frame. Panic, the kind born of.. ticklish peril? Well, it sent the Sith’s limbs into a flurry of defense. Hands weaved a tapestry of resistance, a mock-jousting match where fingers danced..

The screen’s countdown clock flickered in the corner, a glowing, crimson eye mocking their lack of decorum? Four. Three. Through the haze of her movement, he caught the flashing numbers, wondering if this film would capture the frantic blur of his defeat or something else?

Two.

One

Click. Another instant of their affection frozen.

Yet afterwards, Lysander arms surged upward with the instinct to cage her, to pin those marauding digits against the padded wall.. but the impulse died, blooming instead into a sudden, soft surrender. Fingers brushed the small of her back, letting go of the fight entirely. And a heavier weight draped across her shoulders, drawing her inward until there was no air left between them. Perhaps, this would be their truest portrait, he mused. Nestling Isobel’s petite form beneath his chin, breaths slowed as he drank in her scent. A light press of his lips landed upon the crown of her head.

"I don't know what celestial law I broke to earn this," whispered softly, a grin pressing into her hair, "but I pray the Fates never see fit to correct their mistake."

They had a few seconds until the next capture, and there was no intention of moving.

 

[Isobel Serraris]

DUTY ABANDONED​

LOCATION — Coruscant, Galactic City Fashion District
TAGS — Lysander von Ascania

Chill; He asked her to chill! While her life hung in the balance, whilst the sanctity of her being was draped over his shoulder like she were some sack of flower bulbs ready to be hauled of! Resistance coursed through her veins once the imagery of the damsel and brigand was registered into the elaborate array of pictures. It was disastrous to be here with him, disastrous and magnificent. . . her heart thrummed violently it might be mistaken for the fiercest of thunderstorms--the type one might have once found on Exegol. A playful tip of her curves forced her hip to gently nudge against the side of his head, as a bright giggle danced throughout the confines of the booth.

"You're the worst," She playfully said as Lys brought her back onto the ball of her foot, nigh on tumbling her back as she had foolishly forgotten about wearing heels. Two claws shot out to ambush him once more, and centre herself; soldiers disguised as the digits of her hand assaulted the cathedral of weaknesses, prodding each gate, each decaying wall. . . "And yet I cannot get enough of you. . ." A blunt confession as the 'feigned' offense had truly abandoned its ambush upon the gentle shape of her face, from the red pigment upon the cheeks to the inviting void of her irises--nigh on begging him to sink into the abyss with her once more.

Ahum, not now--it. . . would be terribly unfashionable. Yet, the orchestrated fantasies unfolded upon the white canvas of the mind, no better than a poorly written holodrama depicted on the channels past the golden hour. The onslaught dimmed into promises of peace as the forces grew tired of clashing with the defense, quietly signing the scrolls of surrender as they ended up in delicate strokes upon the sides of his torso. Pants drawing from exerted lungs briefly made way as a delighted huff squeezed through. . .

Amid the darkness, the gloom of the galaxy, there was the purest of light being nurtured in their youthful love; or that may just be the blinding flashes accompanying each click of the camera. Nevertheless, it. . . sparked hope, for a future, for shards of peace to be mended with precision to form a whole again. Whatever shape, whatever form, it mattered not when all importance swirled around him now.

A startled squeal landed against his chest as two vines sought to ensnare her in his embrace, before all movement slipped. . . becoming naught more than a statue, a relic of what had blossomed between them. The safety, the acts of a knight shielding his charge, of. . . mayhap the comforts of home once more--a home discovered within the studio upon Zardossa. "Oh Lys. . ." No louder than a breath, her cheek began to rest against the textile of his wear, as the tension slipped from all edges of her slight frame.

Solace was oft a concept that only the poets could bring to fruition, a legend, nay a myth. . . a tale to be passed down upon generation after generation in the single hope of it being true. Shallow promises to bridge the rifts inflicted within one's core, to soothe the ache of a battle's aftermath, to disappear into a merrier universe. And oh, had Isobel committed the last; to blight one's being with delusions. But none appeared here now, not when the warmth of him brightened the garden of her heart., to make it bloom with so many shades--with the blue roses poking through to remind her of the feelings she had felt upon Naboo. When they met...

The camera ceased to draw her back to the present, as eyes pressed close, resting evermore against the one who had made her feel safe within this vast galaxy. . . at home.

But girlish assertions were not so easily suppressed.

The sudden blaze within the dark booth relit a brazier, its ashes shaping into murmurs of adoring mischief. To lure the smug smile back into existence. To be the sole reason for his happiness. . . to be the one constant within a life ever flourishing.

Adrenaline pulsed through her veins, an agonising nudge into the swirl of chaos. . . Relinquishing, Isobel leapt up against Lysander, her hands travelling upward to the taut, muscular line of his shoulders--foreheads collided and a bright laugh was summoned upon her visage. Though the initial push had 'failed', the overall siege was not so easily detered, her skirt hitched up as short legs wrapped around the waist of him, clinging as tight as a smuggler might do to a treasure. . . Within the blur of the last countdown, the shower of kisses trailed over each plane of his handsome face, starting at the responsive skin of the throat, before trailing upward to jaw- and cheekbone. . . Order slipped through her fingers as one palm drew to tangle itself in his silvery hair, whilst the press of lip began to anoint every detail of his face. Reddened stains began to grow fainter the further she went, but it mattered not. . . "This," Another second toward the countdown, another kiss to the cheek. "Is," One on the tip of his nose. "Totes," Another to his brow. "In. . ."