“AAARRRGGHHHH” yelled Miriah, kicking a crate, then hobbling around the hold on one booted foot. “These damned things are never put in here properly! Bow, get your hairy butt in here!”

Risha looked out of the corner of her eye at Corso, both of them trying to stay out of sight as the wookie shuffled to the hold, an exasperated sigh escaping. “We’ve got to do something,” she said, “it’s been at least a week since she slept all night, and three days since she slept at all.”

“Has this happened before and I just didn’t know?” he asked the engineer, peering around the bulkhead to see where the captain was.

“Yeah, but it’s usually not this bad. Only once before did I have to get her drunk to break the insomnia.” Miriah had never been a good sleeper, but once one of these insomnia cycles hit, there were only two things that worked to break it. Get her blind, passed out drunk, or drug her. With her size and weight, the drugs were unpredictable, and Risha knew if they resorted to that, they’d be vulnerable in contested space. Miriah could fly the paint off this rig drunk, but not drugged, was Risha’s speculation. That left alcohol as the best option. “I got her drunk last time. It’s your turn, farm boy.” She grinned at him. “That is, if you think you can keep up with her.”

Corso groaned, he’d seen his captain drink, many times. He knew she could put him under the table. They heard something heavy hit the wall, and the resulting swearing in at least three languages. Bow came back around the corner at speed, her yells following him. “And next time, try to at least line them up on the wall, eh? Fracking crap, ought to just space it all,” she muttered, stomping as hard as she could with her now-throbbing foot. She made her way to the bridge, her headache fighting with her foot to see who could hurt worse, and the nausea from not sleeping rising again. She sat heavily in her chair, not noticing the quiet.

“Go, now while she’s sitting down,” Risha whispered urgently. “Before she spaces one of us!” Corso looked at Risha and sighed, then went to the bridge, dropping into the left chair, and glancing quickly at Miriah.

“Cap’n, how ‘bout joining me for a drink? We’ve got another day in hyperspace, right?” She nodded at him, and while they’d been cautiously exploring a relationship, she still was wary. But a drink sounded like a good idea, maybe it would numb this headache. She got up and followed him to the lounge, where Risha had set up a bottle of Hutt tequila and a beer. She grabbed the tequila and drained the shot, then just picked up the bottle. She said nothing until the first bottle was done, and Corso had fished out a second. Experience told him she’d need at least the two before she’d be drunk. He watched her, neither of them speaking. Finally he thought he saw her relax her shoulders a little, and she turned to him.

“This is about the insomnia, right?” At Corso’s nod, she sighed. “I’m sorry, wish I could control it. I’ve been hard to be around, haven’t I?” He nodded, not meeting her eyes, knowing he was content to merely be in her presence, hopping mad or not. She took her hair down from its ponytail and shook it around her shoulders. That at least helped the headache some, she thought. She tipped the bottle back again, feeling the warmth of the alcohol infuse her limbs, and loosen her lips. “Corso, what the void are we doing?”

“Sitting here, drinking,” he said, a small grin on his face, which was promptly wiped away with her next words.

“I mean, us. We can’t ever be together, I’m too ….me,” she told him, taking another swig. “You deserve more.” She was half sitting, half lying on the sofa, bottle in her right hand, her left making flying motions in the air. She sighed, and took a large gulp. In the week since they’d kissed on Carrick Station, they’d danced around each other, Corso willing to let her take her time, Miriah alternating between wanting to touch him again and wanting to run, very far away.

“Maybe I don’t, Cap’n. Maybe I get to decide what I want and deserve.” He shifted uncomfortably, remembering that Magdalane had told him she’d test him. She stood, barely swaying, and made her way to her refresher, but instead of returning to the sofa, she walked to him, not appearing even tipsy yet.

“I know what we can do, that would help me sleep,” she told him, running her fingertips down the front of his shirt. He forgot to breathe for a few moments, and caught her hand.

“Not when you’re drinking, Cap’n. I want you to remember every second, every detail. I want you to be able to recall it when you’re old and grey, as we sit together enjoying our grandchildren.” He watched her eyes go wide, the pupils in the silver dilating, and knew she was fighting the impulse to flee. She jerked her hand free of his and grabbed another bottle from the cabinet, making her way to the sofa. She lay down with her back to him, and he could hear her drinking more. How much more can she stand, he thought. He moved a little closer to her, and then realized that she was crying, the one thing he’d never seen her do. He knelt on the floor beside her, and hesitantly, reached out to stroke her back.

At his touch, she went still, then relaxed. “Shh, don’t cry, Cap. You just need to rest.”

“N’ver be good ‘nuff, for an’body,” she slurred. “You jus don know that yet.” He didn’t even know what to say, but just knelt there, until he realized she was asleep, finally.

"I don't care about your convention, some of us still speak Imperial," said Agent Temple. She was consulting with the Twi'lek Joiner Hazard while they sat in the main operations center for the Imperial Affairs division of the Organization. This was Temple's domain, and at the moment Temple was critically copy editing a report Hazard had submitted.

"We still think it looks wrong," said Hazard. "'The honourable soldier.' It's odd. The hive is in agreement."

"No, it's not." Temple wrinkled her nose in a prim sort of way. "I'm sure there are formerly Imperial Killiks who still remember how to spell."

"You are indebted to us for writing this transcript at all," Hazard said calmly. "It is our eidetic memory that kept young Pierce's reading from being the only time that file will ever be heard."

"It's just a shame they cut off when they did," Agent Temple sighed. "–No. No, I'm going to have to insist. 'If denying this passion was a soldier's duty, he could no longer stand to play the hono-u-rable soldier.' Republic soldiers and freelancers don't even deny passions, or so I'm told, so it doesn't make any sense to use their spelling."

"Temple. Hazard." Wynston strode up. He rarely ventured into Imperial Affairs these days; the extreme lack of interest he had toward Temple, combined with her extreme interest in him, had rendered things very badly awkward long ago. "Please tell me I was overhearing your discussion of a completely generic romance novel that had nothing to do with the abomination about Quinn and myself that Junior was reading over the public address system yesterday."

"Oh, yes, sir," breathed Temple, "we would never–"

"Agent Temple requested a transcript," said Hazard, "and since we recalled the full text as read aloud, we obliged."

"Hazard," Wynston said in a quiet deadly voice.

"We thought it was rather good," Hazard said with an amiable smile.

"You know I'm crazy about you, but you only think it's good because you're wrong, defective, malicious, and – I don't say this much, but – an alien freak."

"You're an alien freak, too, sir," Temple pointed out.

"No. No, I am an alien civilized individual who doesn't go about distributing–" his eyes strayed to the datapad in Hazard's hands – "'only sweat served to soften the hard grind of stubble on skin, leaving just enough pain to drive another moan from his lips' …he actually wrote that? I must've missed hearing it while I was smashing the barricades he'd set around the comms room."

"Well, we are pleased to present the full transcript, then," said Hazard.

Wynston yanked the datapad from her hands and crushed it underfoot.

"That was far from the only copy," Hazard said mildly.

"I thought you were on my side!" said Wynston.

Hazard just gave him a wink, a kiss on the cheek, and then trotted off.

"I'm just saying," said a blushing Temple, "we thought it was really good. Is it true that your birthmarks are the color of twilight droplets against your smooth azure skin?"

"They aren't – I don't necessarily have – you're out of line, agent!"

She went wide-eyed. "I hope I haven't displeased you," she said, with a little moue.

"You have. You bloody well have. Honestly, I…wait a minute, why aren't you fixating on Quinn?"

"What?"

"Everybody who has been pretending not to talk about this has been all over Quinn's side of it. Why in the dead Emperor's name would you be paying attention to my birthmarks or anything else about me?"

"I don't know, sir. Quinn never really did it for me."

Wynston blinked. "Really?"

"Well, no, sir."

"But he's nobly tragic."

"He does brood a lot. It's possible to perform your duty without being so dreary about it, though."

"You like me."

"Well, yes, sir."

"And not him."

"Correct, sir."

"And you had to be one of the three women in the galaxy I'm not even slightly attracted to."

Temple slumped. "Understood, sir. I'll just get back to my reading, then."

Wynston shook his head violently. "Oh, no, you won't–"

Temple, bringing up a console folder, perked up. "Ah, Hazard did send me a copy! – With all the 'honour' and 'lustre' and 'flavour' and 'defencelessness' spelt wrong, but I'll fix that before I–"

"Defencelessness? Who's defenceless?"

"I'm not telling."

"You're referring to Quinn, right? Because I'm not defenceless. I'd better not be. That's just libel on top of blasphemy, degeneracy, and some kind of assault."

"Maybe Quinn's the defenceless one. Maybe you are. You'll just have to read it for yourself when this gets distributed."

"I'm not reading that, agent, and you definitely aren't distributing it!"

"Sir," she said cheerfully, "you gave me nigh-absolute discretion in running our Imperial operations. If the staff needs some Imperial-flavoured morale improvement…well, you're heroes, sir, and with a few minor edits and some supplementary information from Pierce Junior on what happens by the end of the scene, this is what I would have to call optimal."

Wynston crossed his arms and glared, wishing that his flame-brilliant eyes really could thrust through her defences like so much illusory mist to penetrate to her vulnerable centre, preferably in a fatal way. He also wished he had a less detailed memory sometimes. "I never asked to have you assigned to me, you know."

"But I get the job done, sir," she said proudly. "I've always done my duty."

"I thought I heard you saying your duty involved denying passions. Such as this one, agent."

"That's an honourable soldier's duty, sir. We're in the Intelligence business now." She smiled wickedly and gave him a once-over that very nearly drove him running. "We don't have honourable soldiers."

I searched out the Devaronian when we got back to the ship. It only took a second or two for him to notice me in the doorway of the medbay.

"Yeah?" he said, standing up straight, crossing his arms, his legs braced. The snake was becoming less snake-like. Perhaps those horns on his head were for more than show.

"You knew," I said, leaning against the doorframe, flipping my knife in my hand, "what she was going to do."

Gault's eyes narrowed, "So did you, apparently."

I shrugged slightly, "I knew she'd want to crush the insect. I didn't anticipate she'd be so...thorough."

"Your point being?"

"I'd like to know why."

He snorted. "Not going to happen."

"Tell me this, at least," I said, my knife spiraling through the air a bit faster, "are the people who scarred her insides dead?"

"Why do you want to know?" the Devaronian asked, suspicion in his tone.

I caught my knife, looked down at it. "So I can kill them if they're not," I said to the knife.

Silence filled the space. I looked up at Gault. I hated him in that moment. He knew why there were shadows in my cat's eyes, why she had walls thicker than any I'd seen on Dromund Kaas around herself. The intimacy of her past was his. I wanted it for my own. My envy ate at me.

"You'd have to kill a lot of Nar Shaddaa's bottom feeders," he said finally.

I thought for a moment and then nodded. "That can be done."

***

I didn't sleep that night. Instead, I lay on my pallet, using my blanket as pillow, feeling the cold on my bare chest. The ship is never completely dark. It's never completely quiet. The smells are metallic and chemical more than biological. The air is always chilled, the heat leached out by the thin metal walls. I looked up at the camera I knew was pointed at me. My cat didn't sleep in her room at the top of the ship. I didn't think she slept much in her captain's chair either, eyes always watching, alert in her cold cave. Alone with her thoughts. I wanted those thoughts.

I got up, bypassed my normal night routine, and headed for the bridge. But she didn't ask what I wanted when I stepped into the space. I moved around her captain's chair and stopped, stock still. She was asleep; the day had caught up with her.

I smiled. She was beautiful. Her forehead smooth of worry, her hair sliding out of its topknot. She looked...peaceful. I'd been waiting for such a moment. It would be a simple thing to kill her like this - the best way to do it. She would never wake up. I looked down at the knife that had come to my hand as if called and then back down at her. All that fire, snuffed out of the world. I'd never know her secrets. Never hear her swear or laugh again. My chest ached a little. Indecision is a strange thing - a sentient thing. Beasts don't wonder; they act. The snake strikes, the wasp stings, the wolf tears. I envied them, their simplicity.

***

Skari woke suddenly, her eyes going directly to Crae's monitor, cursing her inability to stay awake. It was harder when she was warm. Wait. She blinked a couple times, looking down at the unfamiliar blanket that covered her. She frowned as she caught a faint scent. Metal and...tea? She looked back at Crae's monitor. The man seemed to be asleep, wearing nothing but his loose pants in the chilled ship. She settled back into the chair, frowning.

Blast it, I've completely lost my ability to tell if this sucks. Ah well, here goes nothing.

Soundtrack for this piece provided by Deftones - Changes on replay.

Randall and Minalde had found a quiet corner to sit in where they could chat. Though outwardly she projected the image of a confident and serene Jedi,inwardly she could feel all kinds of emotion that she couldn't sort out bubbling up. Rather than talk about what they had been doing recently they found themselves reminiscing about how they first met.

There had been a very large push by Flesh Raiders at the time they arrived on Tython. The call was out for the padawans to help the Battle masters while younglings were moved to safety. The current forces held a line but barely before the lowest terrace.

Randall hurried down,in his youthful arrogance he knew he would certainly turn the tide. He went into the fray, sword swinging, the hum and buzz of the vibroswords that padawans were given filling the air. He was focused on killing the next one in front of him steadily moving forward into the area, not realizing how far in front of the others he had gone. His pride in his ability pushed him forward,a joy he did not realize he could feel filling him as he piled up bodies in his wake. He suddenly realized he no longer heard any other swords outside his own humming and as the rush of adrenaline dissipated he was surrounded by several Flesh Raiders. He raised his now tired arms to try to fend them off,knowing his pride had brought him to an ignoble end, when the largest one picked up a rock and hit him.

Minalde checked her bag before moving into the fray. She made sure she had medpacs, some food and drink, and even some simple bandages before leaving the building. Readying her sword for defense if needed,she headed out to help. She worked her way out steadily with some of the Jedi watchmen and a few other padawans. She was careful and cautious until she saw the first cage with the unfortunate padawan who lay beyond her help. In the distance she could see what appeared to be another cage. Without further thought to her own safety she headed in that direction.

Randall woke, the sounds of a battle in his ears. His head hurt and he felt stupid letting himself get caught. Some Jedi he would be. If they would let him back. If he even survived this situation. Cracking open his eyes he could see the roof of what appeared to be a metal cage. He closed his eyes again, muffling a groan.

The quiet was what got his attention next. He tensed wondering what would happen as he heard the creak of the door opening.

“Are you okay?” came a soft voice “He felt the hiss of a medpac being applied. Opening his eyes he met the gaze of the greenest eyes he had ever seen on an incredibly gentle face. As the medpac took effect he sat up and rubbed the back of his neck.

“I am now”

She smiled and handed him a training blade. “Lets go free any others. By the way my name is Minalde”

He was stunned at the effect her smile had on him. “Randall. Let me clear the way” He felt that he would and could kill anyone for her, if she said the word. Side by side then ventured forth to see how they could help.

Corso watched as her breathing evened out and slowed, and slowly took the tequila bottle from her now relaxed hand, setting it on the floor out of the way. He slipped his arms under his captain, lifting her to cradle her against his chest, her head falling back against his elbow, her hair swinging free. She weighs nothing, he thought, and turned to take her to her quarters. Risha had been right, once she reached what the engineer had deemed “saturation level”, she would sleep. He stepped into her quarters, and was again struck by how utilitarian it was, nothing like the area around Risha’s bunk in the crew quarters. He placed her on her bed, but it seemed to him that she would likely be uncomfortable in her gear.

He sighed, and thought about the last statement she’d slurred out before she let go and passed out. Why would she ever think that about herself? He would have to keep thinking about that, but first, he’d make sure she was okay. He slipped off the boots she always wore, noting the bloody sock on one foot from where she’d kicked the crate in the hold. He worked that off, and with trembling fingers, smeared kolto gel on the split toes, and she never moved. Hate seeing her blood, even if I know it was not serious, he thought. He found some soft, clean socks in the ruthlessly organized drawer he’d seen her pull them from before, and covered her tiny feet. Blaster, he thought, but hesitated before touching the release on her belt, the cost of touching her this way was warring with his brain, and biology was taking the lead. He hurriedly just pulled the weapon from her holster and placed it on the nightstand.

Cripes, this isn’t good, he thought. She needs me to be there for her, to take care of her for a change while she’s not herself, and all I can think is how good she smells. He took a few minutes, pacing in the hallway, to regain his composure. When he’d gone through several models of blaster rifles in his head, comparing their specs, he turned and went to her. He sat her up, gently tugging the jacket she always wore off her arms, and when he eased her back to lie down, her silver eyes fluttered and she grabbed his arms, but only for a second, then she was gone again. He breathed a sigh of relief and pulled the soft blanket at the foot of the bed over her, lowering the lights to almost nothing. Wish I could just hold her, just be with her, but that would make her run for sure, he thought. He stood and was about to go to his bunk when she whispered his name.

He turned and saw that she was reaching out toward him, and he took the small hand in his own. “Thank you,” she whispered, and held on. She fell asleep or passed out again, he wasn’t sure. At that moment, there were only two things in the whole galaxy that mattered. She was holding his hand, and she trusted him enough to do that while she slept. He sat on the cold floor, leaning on the side of the bed, her hand warming in his.

Risha found them that way when she woke. Finally, she thought.

http://i1242.photobucket.com/albums/gg522/bright_ephemera/Misc%20SWTOR/SFC_Settings.png

Couples who see the most kissing action in terms of number of actual-kissing stories? Miriah and Corso with 13 stories, followed by Rochester/Broan and Sana Kaarde/Jorgan with 10 each, then Ruth/Quinn at 7 and a tie between Athra/Quinn and Ipha/Jorgan at 5.

We've written about 69 pairings (huh), or 68 pairings and a threesome, depends how you look at it. 11 of those pairings are same-sex. 41 of the pairings were one-offs, at least in terms of actual kissing occuring in the story; 27 have verifiably involved marriage. (There's some overlap between those two groups; some married or once-married couples don't get much play on this thread.) Our most promiscuous OC is Wynston with 5 partners, followed by Nalenne with 4 and Rixik with 3. As for cross-universe action, Quinn gets eleven partners, Corso 5, Jorgan and Vector 4 each, Pierce and Scourge 3 each.

Now you know! And knowledge is power, power is victory, and victory breaks any chains that may have been involved in the aforementioned stories!

contains illustration/implication of Stockholm Syndrome, which might be troublesome to some readers.

Jaesa deactivated her saberstaff, the exercise complete, “Master, the other Sith. On Taris?”

Varrel did the same, “Thana Vesh? What about her?”

Jaesa licked her lips, “Did you like her, Master?”

Varrel put up both his weapons, “No,” he replied. Jaesa was improving. Her technique was unrefined by his standards, but that meant he had more to teach. He enjoyed teaching. It had been long since he had a student.

She looked crestfallen, “Oh. I thought she was the perfect Sith. Rage and wrath, a force of pure emotion. Like the first line of the true code: Peace is a lie, there is only passion.” Jaesa’s disappointment was a sudden chill in the air.

Varrel felt the change, “She was a scattergun set on wide choke. She had no control.”

Jaesa stepped close, “I thought being Sith was all about emotion, unrestrained and free.”

Varrel touched her hair. Warmth radiated from her again. “Being Sith is about power, Jaesa. Emotions are a source of power. Not an end of themselves.”

“But emotions are strength, and strength is power,” Jaesa countered.

“You’ve indulged those emotions and passions for a while now,” Varrel said. To the point where the spacedock cantina owner had politely requested a warning when he planned to stay, “Have you gained what you want?”

A complex wave of feelings rolled outward from her, “No, Master.”

He noticed her perfume. Sweet and earthy, woodland flowers after rain. Not all of it was real; it was a sensory overlay on his Force perception. A pleasant distraction, under the circumstances, “And what is it that you want, Jaesa?”

Another wave, perfume and heat, sharp desire punctuated with longing, and he knew her answer before she spoke, “You, Master,” she said.

“Me?’ he asked. Surely she thought him too old for her. The sensations rippling through the Force said otherwise. Her fingertips traced his eyebrow, the edge of his ear. It had been a long time since a woman looked at him that way. A long time since he returned such a look. Smoke and heat, an autumn bonfire surrounded by bright violas.

“I felt you through the Force,” Jaesa continued. “You pursued me. Like a noble knight seeking his princess. Overcoming all obstacles. Nothing would stand in your way. Even before I knew you, I knew you were the one,” she continued, her words a spring flood flowing into the desert, “When we met, you showed me the Truth behind the Jedi, their lies and deception. The dark soul of the universe. You are my destiny, Master, and I am yours,” Jaesa wrapped her arms around Varrel’s shoulders and closed with his lips.

Varrel’s recollection of those events was different. And her wanton behavior after becoming his apprentice put a lie to her words. He turned his head slightly, rebuffing her kiss, “And all the others? You’ve grown tired of them?”

Jaesa tightened her embrace, “There were no others, Master. They were nothing and I gave them nothing. I wanted to make you jealous. So you would pursue me again. Fight for me. Win me away.”

Sparks snapped, rose into the air above the bonfire. The air was full of the scent of wood and flowers. Varrel’s arm encircled her waist, “Jealousy is a dangerous emotion, pet. Suppose I chose instead to destroy you and not my rivals?”

“Then I would know your feelings for me were true,” she said.

She reached again for his lips, and this time he let her have them. But her kiss was amateurish and inexperienced. Her hands caressed, teased, held him close. There was nothing to breathe but air filled with their shared desire. A feedback loop, building on itself. Even for Varrel this was a new sensation. He’d loved his first wife, been satisfied with her, but she was not Force-sensitive and the difference was shocking. He ended their kiss, “You would have died, your desire unfulfilled.”

“Only the physical, my love,” she said, meeting his eyes, “I would be forever yours, only yours, no other.”

Crystalline flowers, shattering in heat, “Only mine, pet? Surely not.”

Jaesa licked her lips, “I have never been with a man before, my love,” she said. There was no fear in her voice, but anticipation, “The Jedi forbade it. And after, there was no one else worthy. No one but you.”

Varrel stroked her bare lower back. He’d disapproved of her clothing preferences at first, then accepted them. Now his fingers drew electric patterns on her skin, ripples in a field of violas. “They are mistaken in that as in so many things,” he said, “shall I show you their error?” he asked.

Jaesa’s only answer was another kiss, needy and hungry. Varrel held her tight, one hand still on the small of her back, the other bunched in her dark hair. He enjoyed teaching, and it had been long since he’d had a student.

Spring flowers burned purple in a bonfire of fallen leaves.