Starlight

Collision

Warnings: NSFW. Arguably dubious consent as Osha does not know Qimir's Sith identity. 

💫💫💫

He was hers.

And she was his.

And as long as they were careful, as long as they kept their silence, they could have this. It was the assurance Osha told herself, the balm to ease her guilt and fears, as she let herself surrender to these forbidden desires.

Osha let Qimir kiss her, again and again and again. Each kiss is more desperate than the last. His hands fall to her hips, encouraging her to rut against him, creating the most thrilling of friction against his hardening member.

It ignites something inside her, an aching need she was all too familiar with, ever since Qimir had begun his pursuit of her - perhaps even before that, when she first saw him sparring shirtless in the training hall, laying waste to three Jedi Masters.

"We should... probably get back," Osha murmurs, in-between kisses. Somewhere in the trees, she can hear the distinctive chirp of the Oidhche Bird, whose melancholy song beckons the dusk. "It's getting late. Wouldn't... want anyone to... miss us."

"Yes," Qimir agrees, equally breathless. "We should."

They are frivolous words that do nothing to halt their lips or the needy jutting of their hips. Instead, Qimir grasps the locs behind Osha's head to secure their kiss as he sits up. His other hand moves to her belt, his fingers making swift work of unbuckling it and tossing it aside, allowing her tunic to unravel, revealing a glimpse of flesh and her cream-colored breast wrap beneath.

Qimir shifts his attention to her throat, leaving a trail of open-mouth kisses down the length of it. His tongue attends to each spot diligently, lavishing her skin with its wet warmth.

"Jedi attire has too many damn layers," Qimir curses, his hands moving to slip her tunic from her shoulders, letting it fall to the forest floor.

Osha laughs.

Her hands move to relieve Qimir of his heavy robes, helping him shrug it from his shoulders. Next, her fingers trail to his utility belt, looking for the clasps. When her fingers touch the cold metal of his lightsaber, she pauses, her attention drawn towards it.

Qimir stills, pulling back from her neck to watch intently as she unclips the weapon and brings it closer to inspect. Osha thinks it is wonderfully crafted; a single-blade lightsaber with a silver hilt, lighter than it looked, scratched and a little blemished from years of use. She has never seen it activated but knows from word of mouth that the beam is a brilliant blue.

"It's pretty," Osha compliments.

She brings the lightsaber to her lips to place the lightest of kisses upon the hilt. The moment she does something shifts in The Force. Like the shining of a light on a dark lagoon, revealing something lurking within its murky depths. Something that didn't intend to be seen.

Bitterness.

Qimir's bitterness.

Not aimed at her, but at-

The light goes out as Qimir's hand wraps around hers, gently prying the lightsaber from her grasp. The strange sensation of something using The Force to grasp at her, beseeching her to listen, vanishes as quickly as it came.

"Not as pretty as you," Qimir remarks.

With shockingly little care, Qimir tosses the lightsaber over his shoulder, the weapon clattering as it hits the ground.