Ask Cloud Nine

[Darth Stolas]

The explanation was... thorough. Rules, examples, players. Players from all the way back when Huttball was first conceived, famous and infamous. At the very least the young Sith could appreciate a good strategy and clever tactics. Morgan kept his eyes on the screen at first, listening and considering what Emryc said.

The way Emryc moved and spoke eventually called Morgan to turn his head and look up at him, watching how it glowed and as his team scored or he spoke about a particularly interesting player or bit of strategy. The gentle purring continued throughout all the talking, the content smile from earlier slowly widening without his noticing. Huttball wasn't that different from the stuff he did actually watch, or even the stuff back on Firrerre, although in the latter case the ball was both a scoring object and a blunt projectile and no other weapons were used.

Morgan almost missed the Rancors winning, only catching it because of the actual announcement. Emryc looked down at him and he blinked, realizing just then how long he'd been paying attention to the half-Sephi instead of the game itself. Abruptly he turned back away and stared pointedly at the bowl of snacks instead, expression blank.

"I will go if you go," he said softly, then mumbled something about pants into Emryc's thigh.

@Sreeya

 

[Emryc Thorne]

Emryc looked slightly confused when Morgan answered. What did Emryc going to the game have to do with anything? Wasn’t it to go watch Huttball itself? The half Sephi completely missed the vague suggestion of a date, opting instead to stare back at Morgan until he mumbled some words against his leg. Emryc eyed him for a moment, a grin playing on his lips.

“I can give you a refresher on Teras Kasi grappling too,” He said simply. He didn’t give Morgan a chance to consider the words before he abruptly slipped away from Morgan, bodily ending up above him and grabbing a hold of Morgan’s arm to pin it against his own back. This would move Morgan in one fluid move so his chest was against the bed of the couch. He knew the firrerreo knew combat to know Emryc was purposely being lax. His legs were layered along Morgan’s.

Emryc leaned in from above, his lips brushing against Morgan’s ear, “I call this a modified hammerlock,” He whispered softly as he began to kiss against his ear. He traced those kisses along the side of his neck, pausing to bite into the crook of it. It was enough to leave a bruise, and he savored every moment of it.

His other hand came up to grasp the back of Morgan’s tank, “I call this the Morgan special,” He said as he began to tug down till the fabric began to rip and he was clearly unapologetic. He didn’t stop till it tore all the way through, slipping off to the sides in two halves. That was when Emryc finally released Morgan’s arm from his back, continuing his kisses down the man’s shoulder blade, his hands sliding down his sides and towards his hips.

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Darth Stolas]

Morgan gracefully accepted being moved, offering only token resistance. He knew that Emryc was trained, and also knew he was intentionally keeping things loose. He was pinned, but it was just another part of the vaguely violent way they'd been doing things.

The response to his arm being bound, however, surprised him a little. Morgan panicked.

He didn't make a sound. His skin quickly flushed a deeper silver, his muscles tensed, his breaths came faster and shorter. His free hand dug into what remained of the armrest, further cracks forming in the abused furniture. The token resistance began to be more forceful for a moment, just as Emryc dipped down behind his ear and whispered playful words into it.

Every soft kiss Emryc left along his skin sent waves through his body that eased away the tension and left his skin a little closer to the shade of the previous night. The bite sent shivers down his spine and he let go of a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The scent he picked up was unmistakably Emryc's.

The comment about the "Morgan special" actually brought out a short laugh and he dutifully kept still while the other man ripped his tank open. The released arm uncoiled and moved back, questing fingers finding Emryc and his hoodie, feeling the muscle beneath. He relaxed and the rumbling purr returned in force.

Lips pressed between his shoulder blades brought out a small whine, and again when lips and hands trailed down along his back and sides. Morgan wriggled beneath Emryc's touch with a different kind of agitation entirely, pressing his hips back against him, purr intensifying in volume and slipping halfway to a throaty growl.

Morgan released his control then, the hand against Emryc's side pressing in but not actually grabbing his clothing this time. Yet another piece of the arm rest splintered, fire running free through his veins. Morgan liked Emryc where he was.

Which meant he had about ten seconds before they risked further damage to the couch.

@Sreeya

 

[Emryc Thorne]

Emryc had become intimately familiar with Morgan’s body, the nuances, the colors, the noises he made and when. He was perceptive by nature, always drawing in data, always calculating, always analyzing. He felt Morgan shift a different way, heard the way he breathed and saw the way his skin flushed. His muscles tensed up.

That did not belong there.

And he had been the cause of it. Emryc paused for a moment before he slipped away and rose to stand. He didn’t look at Morgan but at the table where the snack bowl was. It was a sick feeling within him that resurfaced after a long time. Of all the welts on his back, guilt was the one that had caused multiple strikes. He had lashes for the times he felt guilt for his missions. He had lashes when he tore children from their parents to recruit them for the Sith. He had lashes when he murdered innocents because the job called for it. He struck himself over and over to kill that part of him that made him weak, that caused him to stray from his path.

Morgan hadn’t intentionally caused it in him. But could he? Could Emryc allow another to have that kind of indirect power over him? The half Sephi never blamed any external entities, he only blamed himself. He only saw his own shortcomings, his own weakness. His mind flashed to that grin from Dorian. The Cathar had the last word in the end. Emryc’s fingers curled slightly as he stared into the table.

A slow shift began to happen. The eyes that had been burning with passion slowly began to calm, drifting to their dull tranquility. The fingers that curled slowly relaxed. The emotions that had been swirling there drew back. Emryc drifted back to that comfortable place he knew, taking slow steps back beneath the sheets of ice to sit next to the beast that had been banished there. It was where he belonged. It was where it was safe. It was what he knew. It was the only company he could keep.

It could have been resolved with Emryc saying words. It could have been addressed with a talk. But he had his failings, and he didn’t know how. It didn’t matter then, his demeanor changing back to that soldier on the station as his eyes returned their frost.

“I have to train,” He said curtly after a long moment, not looking over at Morgan. He said nothing else as he strode past the firrerreo and towards the cargo bay, grabbing his saber along the way.

Just a soldier boy.

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Darth Stolas]

Emryc had stopped moving, backed away. Morgan blinked into the couch and turned around, lifting his head off of the cushions to look at him. The fire in him ran cold, drawn back beneath the surface while storm clouds roiled. The other man's eyes focused on the table, freezing over along with the rest of him. Morgan didn't know what to say just then.

“I have to train,” Emryc said, and walked away. Morgan tried to speak but the words were stuck in his throat with a hundred others. His eyes followed the other Sith's back down the hall toward the cargo holding, glanced at his hand when he grabbed the lightsaber. Morgan's hand rose up off the couch toward him, then slowly dropped again to rest against his legs. Emryc vanished from sight.

Not a nightingale, just a blackbird.

With great care, Morgan removed the torn remnants of his shirt from around his shoulders and started to fold the cloth in on itself. Layer by layer, fold over fold. Somewhere near the end it ended up a ball instead, which he gently placed atop the table by the bowl, then scooted the bowl over into the middle of the table and away from the edge. Then he stood from his seat, and turned to regard the couch with eyes like gilded daggers. A second passed. Then two.

Morgan lost his temper. The fire came back, hate and fury rising to the surface to burn away fear and reason, and he tried very hard to rip the couch from the deck plates. With a short, barking roar that echoed against the metal walls, iron fingers sank into the fine leather, wood cracking and splintering beneath them, but the couch refused to move. He kicked it, he struck it, he tore a chunk off of what remained of the armrest, threw it against the wall with a thunk and a clatter against the floor. Frustration mounted and he reached into a torn-out hole of the offending furniture, grabbed a hold of something, and pulled. It splintered and gave and he lost his grip, stepping back with a hiss of pain. He looked down at his arm.

It dripped with blood, cuts from wood and metal inside the couch across his skin. Morgan blinked, slowly turned the limb to examine the rest of it, smelled the strong scent of hot iron, then turned to look toward the cargo hold where Emryc had gone off to. He thought of scars. A series of emotions crossed his face, coming and going in rapid succession, before settling on something determined and stubborn. He'd made a decision, one he'd already made just the previous day.

We do not kneel. Especially not to the ghost of some dead man. Morgan picked up the torn tank, wrapped it haphazardly around his slowly healing arm, and stalked off to the cargo hold. If he was going to fail, he would at least do it properly.

It would've been a few minutes before the door opened and Morgan stepped through, the door closing behind him. Bright gold eyes searched out Emryc, found him, walked over toward him and stopped a short distance away from the area he was training in. His right arm was kept behind him and out of sight while it healed. Some of those cuts were going to take a little while. Morgan took a deep breath before he said anything.

"Emryc," he began, forcing himself to speak with strength and trying to suppress the shake that wanted to creep its way into his voice. Maybe it wasn't that easy after all. Maybe that didn't mean it wasn't worth it. No more games.

"It's not your fault. You are not Dorian."

@Sreeya

 

[Emryc Thorne]

Emryc had tossed the hoodie and his shirt off, dressed only in his pants as he began his training. He started with his combat katas, the repetitive movements and actions soothing. All his motions were practiced and precise, and he no longer actively thought about it. The saber floated in the air with him, whirling around with pointed strikes as always. He dropped and whirled in with a kick as the saber flew over his head to horizontally slash the neck of an enemy that would be focused instead on an attack on the lower body.

The training was taxing as it took focus both physically and mentally with the Force, but it served as a distraction. He was back in his realm and the king of his domain once more. He kept moving around the cargo bay, always light on his feet and always with precision strikes at unseen faces.

His mind wasn’t cloudy at all. Not even when he found himself slamming a fist into an adjacent wall when he arrived there. The hilt had clattered to the floor by then, rolling away from him. Calm eyes stared at the wall until the fist collided again. And again. How many times did he need to learn this lesson? How many times did he need to remind himself?

Emryc appeared no different than a faulty droid, focused singularly on the wall as his fist kept punching into it repeatedly. It was like he had done on Dathomir but with no external emotions betrayed. The knuckles bled, the wall was smeared with his blood. It began to dent and cave in. And Emryc simply kept going, vacantly staring ahead.

He didn’t stop as Morgan walked into the cargo bay. There was no smile, no warmth in his eyes, no effort to even look at him. The punches kept going, bone beginning to slowly peek through as the skin on his knuckles completely shredded. It was almost rhythmic in nature and he was hypnotized by the thud of each blow landing against the denting wall. Drops of blood fell to the floor below.

Morgan’s words didn’t register. Emryc was many, many miles away.

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Darth Stolas]

Morgan's eyes flicked to the blood on the wall, heard the thud of flesh and bone on metal. He looked at Emryc's hand, the fingers of his wrapped up arm clenching painfully behind his back. At first it seemed Emryc was angry, but that wasn't right, wasn't the whole picture. The way he'd closed off, the robotic way he struck the wall, the flat and emotionless expression. The way he'd retreated away behind the sheets of ice and snow, punishing himself just like he did across his back. Beautiful and tragic.

There were no tears, but to Morgan it seemed almost as if he was crying, in his own way. Hidden from the world and safe from it all, concealed in layers of frozen armour. It felt intimately familiar to him, the sense of distance and cold. He was far and away then, and Morgan's words didn't seem to reach him. So he'd have to try and call him back.

Whatever Emryc thought, he wasn't just a soldier boy in Morgan's eyes. That mask he wore did not belong there.

Morgan started to softly hum, the sound starting deep in his chest and rising up to his throat. The storm clouds flashed, thundered, louder, brighter, stronger as the sound built and echoed off the walls. Morgan began to sing, and the Force sang with him.

It was melancholy and hopeful in the same breath. It was encouraging, it was heavy, it was loneliness. It was the struggle to rise up and become greater than oneself and those who came before. It was the promise of freedom if you shook off the chains that bound you. It was a lullaby Emryc had heard already, but this time it was sung just for him.

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these broken wings and learn to fly," came the words, the rush of feelings that'd run quietly through his had the past few days coming out along with them, dancing alongside them through the air. A hand came up as he stepped toward Emryc from the side, reaching gently out to him and grasping his arm, careful to avoid the now very injured knuckles of his hand.

His touch was gentle and warm, but firm in trying to pull Emryc's bloodied hand away from the wall. Morgan stepped forward again, his injured hand coming up to replace the other as he moved himself between Emryc and the wall. Burning gold stared steadfast into frosty silver, and he kept on singing.

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these sunken eyes and learn to see," he sang, reaching a hand up to delicately brush back an errant lock of Emryc's hair that had been thrown off by his kata. Morgan's face went through all the emotions the music brought up, the muscles of his neck and jaw slightly tightening. Golden eyes glimmered with the hint of tears, but he didn't look away. He didn't care if Emryc saw him cry.

Your turn, soldier boy. Come marching home.

@Sreeya

 

[Emryc Thorne]

Emryc was right back on the station. He heard the voices of his superiors. He heard them shouting at him because he refused to kill a rabbit that had been given to him as a pet. He could feel the pain they inflicted on him until he obeyed. He could see his own small, childlike hands snapping the rabbit’s neck. He could feel that sick feeling at the pit of his stomach.

The punches kept going as he heard those voices again. They shouted because he had spared a survivor. A small girl in a village. He remembered the pain inflicted on him again. And he remembered being led into a chamber with that same girl. He remembered the hum of a saber, followed with a thud.

The sound blended into the thud of his punches which kept coming. He didn’t remember the atonement for his sins, he only remembered the sins. He was thrown into hell, forced to reflect on his weakness. He could remember the whispers and the consideration for termination because he failed. Several others had been discarded already.

Guilt was the worst sin of all. It was the singular sin that the others had failed to overcome. Emryc had to be taught over and over and over again.

He could remember being taken down the hallway from which the others never returned. He could remember someone stepping in his path and offering several figurines and fanged whips.

“You must own and atone for your transgressions. No one else can do it for you.”

He never understood why he was given that chance when no one else was. The thoughts began to twist into something darker, but that was when something beautiful drew him back. No words could have done it, no actions could have, but the melody of the nightingale pierced through it all. Emryc began to slow down before he became aware of Morgan’s touch on his arm. His eyes remained fixed on the wall until Morgan stepped in front of him.

Emryc’s eyes were vacant and dull, but life slowly seeped back into them. He stared into the goldens for a long time, his arm relaxing into Morgan’s grip. He hadn’t noticed the injuries Morgan had just yet, his chest rising and falling. Sweat and blood lined his body, his mind slowly reeled back in through an ocean in a storm. His gaze remained unflinching as Morgan brushed his hair aside.

The frosty silvers softened just a bit, but his expression remained unchanged. He saw the tears brimming Morgan’s eyes, an errant one escaping and sliding down his cheek. His uninjured hand twitched and almost rose, wanting to brush it aside. But he held back. He swallowed a lump in his throat, keeping his gaze locked with Morgan’s.

He couldn’t apologize for who he was. He had his hollow nature. He had tried venturing out from his prison and remembered why he locked himself up in the first place. He had to own his transgressions. He could see the empty beds of his failed brethren, the sheets neatly folded and pillow placed on top. He imagined that for his own bed.

“What do you want from me, Morgan?” He asked softly, gaze never leaving his. He hadn’t planned on asking the question, but it came out anyway.

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Darth Stolas]

Morgan felt the arm held gently in injured fingers slow, then relax as the song drifted through the air. He saw the spark of life return to his eyes, back behind the sheets of ice but there all the same. He kept singing, eyes never leaving Emryc's gaze. The silver eyes softened, barely a muscle twitch, but Morgan noticed. It felt like it belonged there.

Emryc had answered the call, come back to the surface, peering out with caution from frosty windows at the fires outside. The other man asked a question and it nearly threw Morgan off guard. Maybe Emryc expected anger, or disappointment, or some demand made of him or some grand comparison to some other person or concept. What did Morgan want?

Emryc was a monster, buried in the ice and snow. He was a soldier, whipped and beaten, broken and reforged, a blade to be wielded and discarded. He was a scholar, reading and cataloguing his books of the past, seeking out knowledge wherever he could find it. He was a painter, whether he'd intended it or not, and he'd already begun to leave his colours over the old and slowly fading red of some dead man. Colours that Morgan had chosen himself. But most of all, like the best and most terrifying of monsters, Emryc was beautiful and tragic. He was human, so to speak.

He killed a man because Morgan hated him and had been hurt, and guilt crept in when he thought he'd hurt Morgan too. His face lit up when he talked about Huttball or looked at ships and speeders. Sometimes he smiled at Morgan, relaxing when he heard his songs. He defied the rules to collect his shelves of books, fond of his ship that to his masters was nothing more than another tool. Emryc called Morgan a nightingale, enough he was starting to believe it.

Morgan had made his decision, he'd chosen the colours, and he knew what he wanted.

He smiled like those few words from Emryc were the most precious thing in the galaxy. It was bright, and warm, as certain as the twin suns of Tatooine rising in the east, their burning flame reflected in golden eyes in defiance of the tears that fell, refusing to look away. His uninjured hand slipped down toward Emryc's, coming up beneath it so it rested on Morgan's open palm, fingers brushing gently against fingers. Morgan spoke then, just as softly, but confidently, strongly, straightforward. He needed to be clear this time. It was worth it.

"I want you, Emryc. Everything you're willing to give, and everything you're willing to take."

@Sreeya

 

[Emryc Thorne]

The song had been his achilles heel. It pulled him in, drew him to the surface just beneath that sheet of ice. Silver eyes gazed at the goldens that displayed their emotions. Both men were monsters, and both had different facets to them that added to their complexities. Emryc watched Morgan for a moment, taking in sight of the beautiful man in front of him.

He thought about the way Morgan smiled, the way he had that trilling giggle, the way he pouted when he didn’t quite get his way. He thought of that instant flip into a cold blooded killer that had Emryc’s respect. He thought of the way he sang, the beautiful voice that always brought him back from far away places. He thought about how warm he felt when Emryc held him after they had been intimate, even for that brief moment before he quietly slipped away. He had wanted to stay there through the night, simply curling up to feel the rumbling purr and that warm embrace.

And then he thought about Morgan the first day of their brief. He thought about how Morgan knew more details about the mission. He thought about the snippets of references to his master, just a hint, just purposeful and measured enough. He thought about the markings on his body, markings that he could see before him now. He thought about this very ship that had been procured and arranged before Emryc ever set foot off the station.

Emryc considered Morgan’s words about how he wanted him. The way he said them, the way he stared, the way he brushed his fingers against his own caused him to shift just a bit. His eyes softened a little more, lowering down to Morgan’s lips. They lingered there for a moment before slowly returning to his eyes.

He leaned in closer to the firrerreo, speaking quietly, “And yet you haven’t seen fit to tell me who you are,” By then his hand was clutching Morgan’s wrist, flipping it so the markings were facing up. Emryc’s gaze didn’t shift from Morgan's, “Haven’t considered telling me what you are,” He leaned in even closer, hints of gold surfacing in his silvers, “You have both taken and won,” Emryc slowly released Morgan’s wrist.

His injured fist came up to slam directly into the wall next to Morgan’s face, dragging down purposely so the bones of the knuckles ground against the wall with a sickening noise. Emryc’s eyes never left Morgan’s, “Because you never stopped playing the game.”

With that Emryc stepped back and turned on his heel. He called the saber to his hand, making his way back to the cockpit to prepare for landing.

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Darth Stolas]

Morgan didn't immediately say anything. He didn't resist his touch as his arm was moved, bringing the brands burned into his to bear. His gaze never wavered from Emryc's as he spoke, asserting Morgan had still been hiding from him. He didn't flinch when Emryc swung, struck the wall, left a fresh smear of blood along the dented steel. Morgan didn't disagree, didn't tell him he was wrong. But he was, even so. All he had to do was ask.

The look that Morgan gave Emryc in response to what he said was not exactly like one he'd given him before. With every word the young Sith straightened, refusing to back down. The fire within propped him up despite the exhaustion beginning to seep through him from his exertions in the Force, storm clouds shifting and roiling and filling every centimeters of him. They caught flame and blazed beneath his skin, flushing it as silver as his brands, controlled and bound to his will. His eyes were like a pair of of ignited coals, the gold molten with the heat of an ancient fury passed down through training and bloodlines for five hundred years. It was intense, and passionate, and affection, and anger all at once. His eyes always gave everything away.

Emryc stepped back to turn away, turned on his heel. Morgan took a step forward to follow, didn't hesitate for a second. His chin rose up, accentuating his regal features. His eyes gazed straight ahead at the other man's back. Morgan had asked if he could show him what he was, and Emryc had agreed. So Morgan would show him, and hold him to his word.

"We do not serve," he began, the words ringing with an intensity that echoed the burning in his eyes. "We hold no master we do not choose ourselves, obey no orders we do not choose. We do not serve, we rule." He spoke surely and with confidence, intoning with passion the words that had been passed down to him, heard throughout his youth, used to help guide his path. Words written in history books a rare few still read or paid any attention to at all. It was a pronouncement of truth, and he spoke like an officer, like a warrior, like a baron.

Like an Emperor.

"We do not kneel. We stand tall in the face of the storm. Ours is the fury, unbowed, unbent, unbroken." Impressions and flashes of colour came off him in waves, and as he spoke the Force sang with him. It sang of fury, it spoke love, it spoke of ancient glories and the echoes of an old Empire. It resounded off the walls, sank into the ship, vibrated through the air around the two men in the cargo hold. The effort exhausted him, sent shivers through his muscles but, true to his word, he did not kneel.

His injured hand whipped around, struck the wall, further dented the bloodied wall with the sound of gonging metal, reopening the half-healed cuts. Blood sprayed the wall, dripped from beneath his makeshift bandage and trailed in crimson streams down his fingers and onto the floor. He kept going, took another step forward, tore off and threw away the ruined and blood-soaked shirt.

"I am Morgan Ali Drast, first of my name. I trace my lineage through Vesna, through Vesemir the Reformer, through Evalyn who declared the strength of her blood before the sovereign court. I trace it through Kravos and Andraste, their fury everlasting. I am the student of Diabolus, the hand of the Empire and sworn guardian of the royal line. I bear my brands with pride and with purpose, and I have chosen to wear them to honor my family. I am an agent of the Eclipse, a path I follow to further the cause of an Empire."

Morgan paused, look at where he Emryc was, the impressions fading along with the echo of his voice in the chamber. The storm clouds retreated, pulling back the flame. Even then it still burned behind his eyes, challenging and defiant, just the way they usually were. The way they belonged.

"That is what I am, Emryc. Look at me and see." It was then the strength holding up him up failed him. He hadn't actually eaten yet, and singing in the way he did took a lot of energy. He managed one more step, sinking with a great weariness onto a scratched and dented crate of ship repair and beginning to catch his breath. He looked back up at Emryc, brows slightly furrowed and expression a mix of emotions, unsure which one to settle on. He spoke softly again, but it felt as loud as the heartbeat pounding in his ears after the brief moments of silence.

"Please. You promised."

@Sreeya

 

[Emryc Thorne]

Emryc kept walking even when Morgan began to speak, even when the words echoed differently, even when his voice had changed. He had heard the history verses before. But then Morgan kept going. Emryc’s steps began to slow as he arrived at the door before he finally stopped. He gazed ahead down the corridor, hearing the words that sent a chill down his spine. He did not hear the empty words off a page, he heard them come to life. He heard the words spoken through blood.

He slowly began to turn around to look at Morgan. He wasn’t Morgan anymore. The name tore through Emryc as if the fanged whip had clawed right through him. Emryc saw the symbols clearly, saw the markings, saw everything that had been there all along. He saw all the things he perhaps hadn’t wanted to see. He hadn’t wanted it to be real. He thought of his devotion to his gods, the gods that delivered him through fire. The gods that pulled him from the depths of chaos. The gods that brought order and shaped who he was.

And Morgan had the same blood coursing through his veins. He wanted Emryc to look at him, but he struggled to meet his eyes.

Drast.

It was a name Emryc aspired to adopt one day as a lofty goal. It was a name that meant survival. It was a name that meant devotion, faith, strength and perseverance. It was a name that meant iron. It was a name that meant being exalted above the planes of mortals and bringing the galaxy to heel. It was the name for the visions of glory and conquest, everything that could ever set him free.

Emryc didn’t realize he had been stepping towards Morgan, almost on autopilot. He couldn’t look at the man still, even when he sat down on the crate and spoke softly. He could only think of his faith, his fanatical devotion to gods that were Morgan’s very ancestors.

Drasts did not serve. Drasts did not kneel.

The crushing weight of everything Morgan projected reverberated through his mind. It shattered into his psyche and reached him at his core. His faith would never waver. He was as ironclad about his devotion as Drasts were to being rulers of the galaxy.

He stood before Morgan for a few moments before he slowly began to move. It was almost painfully slow. It was not something he did before anything but his figurines. Emryc kept his gaze low.

And then Emryc knelt.

His head was bowed, one knee up with his arm crossed over, the other knee on the ground. He was as still as a statue, gazing into the ground as he spoke, “I am yours to command.”

With that, he slowly willed himself to look up and gaze at Morgan.

As Morgan had commanded.

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Darth Stolas]

Just as he always seemed to, Emryc surprised him. Morgan had expected anger, fire and angry questions, accusations, judgement. He'd expected shock, surprise, questions, something. Gold eyes watched the other man slowly turn as he spoke, slowly approach, refuse to meet his eyes. He moved stiffly, robotically, as if unable to quite process what he'd heard fast enough. Morgan expected something to follow afterwards, hoping he kept his promise. Anything.

What Emryc did instead ran through Morgan like a blade, and his breath caught in his chest.

Emryc stopped in front of him, eyes on low and head bowed, still not looking at him. As if beneath a great weight he slowly lowered himself to the ground, bent the knee before Morgan as if his sad, dented little crate were a grand throne. As if he'd suddenly put the young man seated on it up on a pedestal, the name Drast emblazoned in gilded letters. He kneeled, unmoving, and spoke the words his Prince had least hoped to hear.

Morgan's uninjured hand rose up off his legs and out of sight toward his face, the softest sound of a gasp escaping from his lips. Emryc had turned to look at him, to see, but he didn't see Morgan, only Drast. Just a prince, a figure of reverence and worship. That wasn't what he wanted. It wasn't what he'd wanted at all. Not from Emryc.

Morgan knew what he wanted, clear as day. To hear Emryc speak the way he did when he did about his favourite things. He wanted to feel his warmth on his skin and his fingers in his own, no matter how stupid and silly the gesture was. He wanted to listen to old songs in bed and share snacks together. He wanted to sing to him, for him, and maybe even about him one day when everyone knew his name. He knew he'd miss Emryc when they parted, looked forward to him visiting like he'd said would. Morgan knew what this was, but he wouldn't say it.

No chance, no way, he won't say it. A rush of emotions ran through him, a wild mix of anything and everything, injured hand clenching painfully tight in his lap. He was angry, he was upset, he was confused, he felt alone on his makeshift throne and he didn't know how to handle it. The fire rose to burn it all away, but he was too tired, he'd already exhausted himself. It all came together and rose to the surface at once, and there was only way it could go.

When Emryc slowly rose his head to look at Morgan, several things came into sight. His injured arm, covered in bleeding cuts, some fairly deep and slowly healing right in front of his eyes, fingers grasping onto his pants leg instead of the hand he wanted. Emryc's gaze passed by a bare and heaving chest, Morgan's breathing short and sharp and out of rhythm. His shoulders shook slightly, almost like he was shivering, trying and failing to stop what was happening and bring it under control.

By the time Emryc turned up to look at him, Morgan was crying. Tears dripped around the forearm he'd brought up to cover his eyes, shut tight, not wanting to look into those silver eyes he'd become so fond of when they looked at him like they did now. Clear, crystalline droplets fell to mix with the drying blood on his arm, washing some of it away in little streams. He tried to breath but it only came in a short gasp and made it worse. Again, and again. He tried to say something back but he couldn't get it out past the lump that formed in his throat, couldn't quite get enough air to do anything else.

A few more seconds passed before he could get something out, strained past the tightness in his chest.

"I'm a nightingale too, you said so," he choked out, sure he wasn't making any sense. It was such a stupid thing to say. He didn't even know if Emryc was looking at him anymore. He feared being seen for what he was, and he wanted to be seen for what he was and who he was at once. He wanted Emryc to see him. Maybe he was a prince, but he was still Morgan. He was a monster, descended from a line of monsters, but he was still only human. So to speak.

Morgan arm dragged across his eyes, wiping away a trail of tears that was quickly, but quietly, replaced by another. He half buried his face in his hand, but his voice came stronger this time.

"I don't want you to kneel, Emryc, I want you to stand with me. If you want to."

At least, out loud, he wouldn't say he was in love.

@Sreeya

 

[Emryc Thorne]

Emryc remained unmoving as he gazed up at the man with the blood of his gods pumping through his veins. He saw before him a prince, an heir to the seat of the galaxy as was the correct order of things. His own ambitions would be cast aside. His own pursuits no longer mattered. He did not matter. He was simply a soldier, and he had been summoned to perform the duty he had trained for.

And yet when he saw the deep wounds on the man’s arm, Emryc’s jaw tightened. And yet, when he saw those tears freely streaming, Morgan’s emotions pouring out like that, he struggled to keep the resolve. What Morgan did before him would have gotten him killed on the station, it was a luxury Emryc had never been afforded. Emryc did not look away even as he wanted to for Morgan had commanded him to gaze at him.

His own mind grappled between the obedient soldier and the faint glimpses of what else he could be. He didn’t understand this latter side of him, and he couldn’t simply take in Morgan’s actions and parse them. It was data coming in, but he couldn’t decrypt it. He couldn’t read it. It was simply a flood of things assailing his psyche and sending jolts through him. Old wounds on his back stung, and he was becoming more aware of the excruciating pain on his mangled knuckles.

Morgan mentioned the name Emryc had given him. Silver eyes flickered just a bit at that. The prince, the Drast, fell back to a title Emryc had given him. The half Sephi’s face had the slightest shift, just enough to speak volumes about what that meaningless little sentence meant.

Emryc hadn’t been allowed any opportunities to understand things of this nature. It had been torn and shredded from him since he was a child and that failing was pronounced now more than ever. He didn’t know what any of this was, but he did know that he did not enjoy seeing Morgan in pain. The firrerreo’s next words confused him more. It presented to Emryc a choice - choice which Drast only made illusions of. Andraste was famous for it when she presented choice to planets that ultimately bowed to her. And yet Morgan said as much while displaying his vulnerabilities. He displayed things that could get him murdered, that could have him shame the family name.

Emryc slowly rose to stand before his mind even processed what Morgan had asked. His body moved of its own accord as he walked closer to him. He came to stand directly in front of the firrerreo, gazing into the tear brimmed eyes. Both men were bloody, both were laid bare as much as could be.

He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t move to touch Morgan. He didn’t say anything. He simply gazed into his eyes, the gold streaks in his silvers having melted away. Emryc internally struggled as he tried to see Morgan and not Drast. He struggled to separate himself between the soldier that simply followed the command of his gods and the man that Morgan had tried to reel back with his song.

In the end, Emryc was frozen like a statue directly in front of Morgan. He had been here before with Morgan on a crate. That moment felt as if it had been with someone else.

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Darth Stolas]

Morgan looked up at Emryc as the other man stood, moved closer, hand wiping tears again from his face. He caught every muscle twitch, the ones he knew by now. His brows were furrowed and lips downturned slightly as the soldier boy was reflected in his golden eyes, silvers looking directly at him. Morgan's eyes dropped to Emryc's injured hand and concern coloured his expression, leftover tears suddenly forgotten as quickly as they'd come. He wouldn't say it, no chance, no way.

But it was there. Slender fingers dropped from his face, and it was there in the delicate, gentle way he slipped them underneath Emryc's injured hand to examine his knuckles. He was weary, and it was there in the way he commanded the Force to bring him the medkit from off the wall regardless, in the way when he turned to look at it his head was just a little tilted in Emryc's direction as if to make sure he was still there.

It was there in the way he began to wrap bacta bandages around the blood and bone, careful and meticulous, ignoring the pain in his own hand. It was there in how the soft humming that came when he was focused on something turned into an Amelie Leorna song all on its own.

Morgan moved Emryc's bandaged hand back where it'd been and looked back up at him, and it was there in the way he didn't see just a soldier boy. The young Sith stood from his crate, careful on slightly unsteady legs that didn't quite have long enough to recover. Reddened eyes looked into Emryc's, face to face, mere breaths apart now, and it was there in the way they burned. His uninjured hand found its way beneath the other man's, palm up, a movement away from entwining their fingers together.

His expression softened, and it was there in how he smiled the way only Emryc was allowed to see, bright and warm and a little bittersweet. There was something fiery and passionately intense behind his golden eyes, and it was there in how they never wavered from the frosty, conflicted silvers that seemed lost in what they took in.

"You know what I am, who I am. I showed you, just like I said," he started, speaking quietly but surely. He wouldn't say it, but-

"You know what I want. What do you want from me, Emryc?" This scene won't play, he won't say it, but-

"I have another thing to say. Would you like to hear the words?"

@Sreeya

 

[Emryc Thorne]

Emryc didn’t move the entire time, his gaze never lowering. He felt Morgan gently grab his injured hand, and he felt the bandages beginning to wrap. And still he didn’t look away from where Morgan’s eyes would be when he looked up. He didn’t have to look down to see what he was doing. He didn’t have to look down to know his skin flushed in different ways to betray how vulnerable he felt.

The half Sephi was frozen in place as he felt the familiar touches. His devotion fought against it and so did everything he knew. And yet Morgan’s pierced through it - even just from the humming of the songs they had listened to together. Emryc was built to serve. He was trained to serve. And that conflicted so much with the command that Morgan had given him.

Unlike Morgan, Emryc was entirely lost in all this. He had no words to offer, no conclusion he had reached. He only knew that he wanted to keep seeing Morgan’s eyes light up like that. He only knew he wanted to see that smile that came when he stood up, his face so close to Emryc’s. He almost wanted to look away, not wanting to reveal the conflict that happened within his mind. He felt as if he were lost in a place he didn’t know and yet he didn’t want to fall back into the same habits that guided him through his training.

He felt Morgan’s hand brush against his own and almost reflexively his fingers curled slightly, though didn’t interlock. This had all been easy before and suddenly it was the most difficult thing ever. Morgan looked into his eyes as he spoke, spinning his own question on him.

He had a habit of not answering questions. And he despised how Morgan always asked questions he wanted to answer - even when he couldn’t, “I…” He had no idea how to describe it or put it into words, “I want to see a you that’s only for me,” He frowned slightly at the words. They sounded extremely stupid. He wasn’t very good at this, and he was still caught up in grappling with him being Drast. He couldn’t even begin to process his own head, so he could only describe it in terms of what he saw from Morgan. And he knew he wanted to see from Morgan whatever could describe being about as clear opposite of whatever Dorian invoked in him. He wanted to be the cause of it.

Thankfully he was spared from navigating the mush that was his mind by Morgan’s second question. Emryc’s expression softened as he offered a tired smile, recalling what he had said the last time he had asked that question.

“Every word.”

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Darth Stolas]

Emryc looked a little lost. But he still looked Morgan in the eyes right, that little spark of something behind silver eyes that Morgan kept on chasing. He felt the other man's fingers curl against his palm, struggling to make the choice. But, it was there, even if he wouldn't say it.

In the way he was conflicted. The way he stubbornly held to Morgan's gaze, the way his skin flushed when he was touched with affection and care. In the way he was upset when Morgan was, and the way his eyes softened when he smiled. In the way he longed for the song of the nightingale. The way, completely by accident it seemed, he'd stumbled across exactly the words Morgan had wanted to hear most.

Morgan's face lit up as he smiled to match the fire in his eyes, brilliant and joyful as the morning sun. Emryc frowned after what he said and Morgan answered by slipping his fingers through the other man's to bring them together. Maybe the words were silly and stupid, but he didn't care. Morgan just liked them. It felt like they belonged there.

“Every word," Emryc said and Morgan's smile turned into a laugh just the same, trilling and musical and only for him. It faded away and he leaned in closer, his injured hand coming up to rest against his arm and the blaze behind pressing in at the edges, begging to be let loose. Morgan had asked, and Emryc had answered with the magic words. Emryc wanted to hear it, and Morgan could let go. He had permission.

"I think I love you, soldier boy."

The words carried with them every drop of affection he'd gathered for the other man, dancing through the air and across his skin to paint it in mixed shades of gold and silver. Morgan gazed at Emryc then, listening to the way he breathed, taking in the way he looked at him, felt how warm he was against him. Then and only then did he take the last step forward, leaning in to the press his lips softly against Emryc's.

At last, out loud, he said he's in love.

@Sreeya

 

[Emryc Thorne]

Emryc felt Morgan entwine their fingers. He never understood why such a simple gesture invoked just the right amount of heat to melt some of the frost. Hairline cracks began to appear along the surface of the ice, and it was entirely out of his control. He simply knew that he wanted to allow it.

He shifted his gaze from Morgan’s for the first time, looking down where his injured hand touched against his own arm. These wounds were taking their time in healing, and it was the first time he had truly seen Morgan hurt. Emryc had sported injuries to the point where he became desensitized, and yet seeing them on Morgan caused a pain inside him that cut deeper than the fanged whips against his back. His eyes remained locked on the injuries, even as Morgan pressed closer to him.

Emryc's gaze shot up again when Morgan began to speak. He never could have expected those words in a million years. Not for him. Emryc did not quite understand such things for himself, but even then the words pierced through him. That top sheet of ice gave away, those words a final fatal blow that collapsed it in its entirety.

The beast inside grew nervous, curling back as one of the layers before it fell. As fierce as it was, it had grown comfortable in this safe space. And this threatened it. It threatened everything it had ever known.

Externally Emryc’s eyes widened, jaw growing slack in transfixed shock. He wasn’t sure how to respond, especially as he himself did not understand any of this. Emryc’s language was different entirely, and it came across in the wide eyed and almost nervous look on his face.

He hadn’t even known he had been waiting for it until Morgan leaned in to kiss him. Emryc closed his eyes and met his lips, sinking into the kiss. It was as if he were kissing Morgan for the first time, tender and timid at first. He was a Drast. That battle continued, but one side began to win over as Emryc tasted those familiar lips that he had savored so much.

His hand slipped from Morgan’s, instead snaking around the man’s waist to pull him closer. Emryc did not shift from his lips, deeply giving into passion driven by the words Morgan had said. Words in a language he could vaguely understand, but not speak.

Emryc was good with words only when his heart wasn’t involved.

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Darth Stolas]

Morgan smiled even through that kiss, so different and so similar to the first time just a day ago. It was more than simple passion and desire. Emryc hadn't said anything back, but that was alright. It was still there all the same. The other man's hand untangled from his fingers and pulled instead at his waist, Morgan's arm slipping up to Emryc's face and laying gently against his neck, a thumb drawing itself affectionately along his jawline.

Morgan longed for more of him, to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss and warm his skin with glittering gold that only he seemed to draw out. He hadn't said the words, and Morgan had barely given him the chance. It was there in the way Emryc wanted him closer, giving into the sensations and the burning flame they both seemed to share. It'd been there in the way he saw Morgan as who and what was in his entirety.

He was Morgan, he was Drast, and he was a nightingale. Only Emryc got to see it all at once. He was all of these things, just for him. Emryc didn't need words to say it. What he was, was enough. Blazing heat cracked away the ice and let the tiger in, and it meant more to Morgan than he knew exactly how to say.

Morgan's heart soared in his chest, a deep and throaty purr running through him. His hand pulled against Emryc's neck, matching passion with passion. His arms tightened around the other man, though still quite gentle by the previous night's standards, wrapping him up and drawing him in close. His other hand, still injured but healing well with silvered skin replacing the lines of red, dragged silk and iron fingers across the scars and hard muscle of Emryc's back. His arm pained him, but it was far from the worst he'd experienced.

The fire spread and the hand dropped to Emryc's waist. He wanted him, and he was sure Emryc could tell by now by just by the way his movement changed and his muscles coiled, by the way his breathing changed. Probably by the way his hand tugged insistently at the belt of his pants, too. He wasn't being subtle about it.

@Sreeya

 

[Emryc Thorne]

If there was one way that Morgan was always direct enough for Emryc, it was when he wanted to be intimate. This time was no different, and they found themselves back in the captain’s room. The difference, however, was that there were less dents or structural damage to the ship on the way there. The energy was different, a passion that existed in its own plane. It was more than just carnal desire, it was laced with emotion. Emotions that Morgan understood, emotions that Emryc could only express through action.

He took his time exploring Morgan, reacquainting himself with all the brands and markings on his body. He listened in a whole different way to the sound of his breathing, every purr or growl. He felt the way he twisted and contorted, lingered on the way the vibrant goldens gazed at him. One of Emryc’s ice layers was down and Morgan saw emotions betrayed on his face that hadn’t been there before. Silvers were more alive than ever, the windows into his mind less opaque than they had been before.

Their dance continued with ardor, fire and yet with grace. It went until the familiar alarms began to ring throughout the ship as the two men yet again lost track of time before the jump to realspace.

Emryc gazed down at Morgan, hearing the shrill noises that made his ears twitch a bit. He was holding himself up with his one good arm, and he stopped what he was doing. He couldn’t help but smile at the absurd situation and his own exasperation at it. That smile grew into a chuckle, and he buried his face against Morgan’s neck, “Gods damn it…” He growled against his salty skin.

He had been almost near the summit of the mountain he was climbing, and he was suddenly sent tumbling down. With the ghost of the laugh still on his lips, he slowly disentangled himself from Morgan, carefully removing some strategically placed legs as he rose to stand. A countdown till the jump began as he quickly scrambled to put some pants on, putting on Morgan’s by mistake as he hopped around for a moment before bolting from the room.

“Brace yourself!” He called out to Morgan as he all but flew into the cockpit, planting a hand on a shelf to hoist himself directly into the seat. He barely managed to buckle himself in as the ship lurched into realspace. Emryc quickly took control as the ship switched to manual.

He was covered in sweat. He was rudely pulled from his high. And he was not happy with the interruption. Terminus hovered ahead.

@Mr. Teatime