It goes without saying that I do not profit from this work, nor do I own the characters used within (something which I'm sure we're all grateful for.)
Seduced By The Light
1. Body Heat
"If I didn't know better," she mused, her voice filtered through her helmet. "I'd say this was a poor attempt at Jedi fiction."
The Seventh Sister allowed herself to rest against the cavern wall, sliding down the slippery surface until she leaned on her haunches. She didn't bother with her usual feline graces – they were reserved for… special occasions. Where she held the upper hand. When she enjoyed the tension in the air and the fear on her prey's face. For those times when she would emerge from the shadows like a spider, moving like quicksilver along the terrain. She was the infamous Inquisitor who had survived the brutal attack by the traitorous Maul, and she let everyone know it hadn't slowed her down.
But this was not a special occasion. No. Far from it, she thought as her lip curled in distaste. Some form of ruggedised equipment was tossed to the ground in front of her, splashing her boots with the water that trickled along the cave floor. She didn't care – her back was already steadily growing wet from it all, anyway.
"Jedi don't do fiction," Bridger grunted, inspecting a torch inside the salvaged escape pod. She heard the ignition switch click a few times. Saw him shake it about as if to jar something loose inside. Knew that it was broken before he tossed it back into the depths of the crumpled craft with annoyance. The Seventh Sister rolled her eyes and nudged the pack with the toe of her boot. Muscles in her legs groaned with annoyance. Nothing felt broken, but severely hurt. It chafed her – muscles were notoriously worse at healing than mere bones for her race.
"Well then – when Jedi are stranded on a backwards planet, with their escape pod damaged, and a member of the Elite Empirical Inquisitors, pray tell me just what they do then." She cast a look around them as she caught a whiff of ozone and wrinkled her nose. As if the situation needed more encouragement, she heard her environmental controls pop with an electronic hiss. The shield of her helmet opened rebelliously, and almost immediately the Mirialan felt the icy atmosphere prick her face.
Ezra Bridger ignored her, glancing around the damaged controls of the escape pod. The Seventh Sister had done an excellent job of destroying the console. The Inquisitor had managed to slip through the door just as the maglocks had sealed, jettisoning them from the doomed freighter in orbit. It was impressive that she had moved so quickly if the sudden ignition of her lightsaber hadn't pushed him into action. The few parry's they exchanged had been all it took to steer them off course, leaving them free to tumble about as the wayward pod was pulled towards the surface.
"They remind them how lucky they are that the Jedi aren't big on killing people," he called back, bending down to find the remains of his lightsaber on the floor. Ezra frowned and rubbed his stubbled cheek, brushing various pieces aside before salvaging the crystal and power source. At least he wouldn't need to start over from scratch. Again.
"You speak of luck," she laughed. Her voice was coy, almost musical, and still so very dangerous. "I wonder who of us is luckier, little Padawan? Myself for surviving Malacor? Or you for destroying my own blade?" A clawed glove brought her kyber crystal upwards, admiring the ruby red light that passed through it and warmed her pale skin.
Twin boots stamped down into the damp cave floor as Bridger hopped down from the wrecked pod, kicking up more droplets of water and leaving her glaring up at him. He gave her an annoyed, bored look and pushed a parcel into her hand, telling her only to "eat" while he bit down into a ration bar of his own.
"Afraid I'll swallow you up like a black widow if I don't?" she asked. The Seventh Sister grinned at him, golden eyes sparkling with menacing mirth as he sat down opposite her on the cave floor. There was once a time, years before when she would remark at just how pretty he was as he gazed at her in fear. She missed those days – he was too much like his teacher now. Tall and scruffy, but most of all tempered. There was no more anxiety in those features for her to relish. No more awe in his eyes as she pirouetted and deflected.
"Hoping you'll talk less if you're too busy eating," Ezra swallowed, tearing off another bite before nodding towards her and repeating himself. "Eat."
The Seventh didn't. Not just yet. There was no fluid grace in tearing off the wrapper of a ration bar and eating in front of her constant-adversary. She pushed the gifted packet aside, bringing her kyber crystal back up to gaze at the gem. She smirked as she watched him through the prism, his angled features painted a blood red with the hues of her lightsaber.
"Aren't you at all curious?" she sang, a little too sweetly. "You know the Dark side – you've drunk from its waters before, haven't you?" She had never gotten the whole story of the Sith Holocron. At least, not from him, and she had even asked over the years they had clashed together. But there was no mistaking the familiar charm of the Dark side of the Force. It was there, on him, carried on the winds he walked like some scarf or banner. It was faint, but there was no mistake – the Padawan had dipped his hands in inky waters. He was not so pure as Jarrus was.
"You know that it is power. It is passion. It is fire incarnate." The Seventh Sister pressed her crystal against her cheek, feeling warmth seeping into her flesh and driving away the chill of the cavern they occupied. Small but familiar. Comforting. "How much easier would it be to taste it again? To let yourself carry that glowing heat in a damp little cave like this…?"
Ezra Bridger gave her a flat stare, his jaw working at the last of his ration as he rubbed the twin scars that marred his cheek.
"When you find out that your jewellery isn't enough to keep you warm, you'll find a thermos blanket in your lunch box," he said. And then he drew his legs up, his hands coming together as he bowed his head and began to meditate. The Inquisitor sniffed and looked back towards the cave entrance, where steady rain poured just outside. She hadn't expected him to jump at the chance to join her suddenly, but it was essential to keep up appearances. They had danced this little dance together for too many years now.
But she wondered, finally opening her offered ration, just when she had become 'so harmless' that he would allow himself to meditate while sharing the same space with her.
It would have been insulting if she wasn't so blasted hungry.
The rain outside seemed to grow heavier.
The weather was torrential and the blanket next to useless. The Sister pulled it tighter around her lithe frame, cursing everyone from Vader down for her predicament. She cursed the quartermaster for not making her ensemble more resilient to the elements. She denounced the Rebel captain she ran through on her blade, for being in orbit around such a disgusting organic pile of muck like this planet was. She damned Bridger for not being a good little Jedi and dying already…
No, she cursed him for not seeing sense in joining her. He was good. Too good, too talented for a sticky death. Not when he might yet be talked into wearing Inquisitor black and taking the place of the long-dead Fifth Brother. But for now, she cursed him for not letting anything get to him.
"Try the radio again," she snapped at him, frustrated at how stone-still he managed to stay through his meditation.
"You broke it," he murmured instead, his voice even while his eyes remained shut. "The beacon is on, and we can put it outside after the weather passes."
She glared at him anew, her golden eyes narrowing as he told her exactly what she already knew. The blanket was pulled up higher around her shoulders while the frigid air attacked her legs. The Seventh Sister was wet, cold and angry, and debating whether she would reach out with the Force and grab the same blanket from around Bridger's own shoulders.
Or if she should try and strangle him with it first.
Neither was an option. She refused to ask for help, and relieving him of the protection was all but confessing her weakness. And weak she was – even rested, fed and healthy, her strength with the Force didn't compete with his anymore. The boy had become a man over time – his own talents surging. When they met, she could tease and test him, moving around him in swift circles. Now her connection to the Dark side was spent solely matching his lightsaber parries, blow for blow.
She couldn't strangle him. She refused to ask him for help. All that was left was to ignore the encroaching cold and glare at him again.
"You'll get lines if you keep staring like that," Bridger murmured. His eyes were still closed, a serene look on his features.
"I'll still be the most beautiful creature you see before you die," she remarked, privately seething as the Jedi smirked.
"You tell yourself that."
Her teeth almost chattered. The Inquisitor sat huddled in the remains of the escape pod, both thermal blankets around her frame as the wind still managed to howl through the cave and the open hatch. The Jedi sat opposite, bathed in the sickly red glow of the emergency lights. He could have been meditating again if she hadn't been staring. Scrutinizing him. Bridger seemed too conscious, too aware to be in a trance. Perhaps he was feeling the cold also, and part of her hoped he did. Hoped that his skin burned from the chill while she held both blankets against her form.
Come over here, she thought. Come and bow, beg for the aid you need to survive. Swear yourself to the Dark Side. Join me and put an end to this ridiculous dual we have fought for years.
If the Jedi could read her mind, he didn't react. If he could read her mind, chances were he simply didn't. They were foolishly noble like that, she remembered. Nobel and stubborn in the face of adversity. Irritatingly stoic.
"How are you not freezing to death?" the Inquisitor hissed, her teeth chattering minutely at the end.
"Maybe I am," he shrugged, and she hated him for sounding so blasted blasé about it all.
"Teach me. Teach me whatever Force ability you're using." She didn't pretend to be coy anymore. The façade of the seductively dangerous Seventh Sister had slipped, replaced by an angry Mirialan who had run out of patience and comfort.
"Can't do it – it doesn't work for the Dark Side, you know." He could be telling the truth. He could be lying through his teeth. It was infuriatingly impossible to tell.
"Then I'll just take your secret," she hissed. Her legs sprung, launching her across the narrow space and pinning him. Her muscles ached – cold and stiff and still sore from the crash, but she didn't care. She needed to beat him, capture him, corrupt him. All that mattered was dominating Bridger until he gave her his power or he hurt.
She didn't care which one it was anymore.
Clawed hands wound their way through messy hair, and she pulled, satisfied when he began to fight back. Palms grabbed her shoulders to push her away, and she tightened her grip, scratching his scalp and growling at him. The Seventh felt blood moving through her body again. Felt her nemesis writhe and shove against her. Felt the Force energise her for the first time since she crawled out of the escape pod hatch and coughed up smoke.
"Hey – hey!" She stopped as he shouted in her face, her lips pulling back into a smirk. 'That's it,' she thought. Get mad. Get angry. Fight me. Give me an excuse to hurt you. Taste the power of the Dark Side once more…
"You're turning blue."
She leaned back, confusion firing across her mind as he stared at her. Blue? Blue? She wasn't blue. She was the proud skin tones of her people. Not some gaudy complexion like that overrated Twi'lek race. But her thoughts were derailed a second time as she caught his hand touching her. Touching her face. She felt a flush of anger at the sheer nerve of the move. And then, a moment later, awareness as she couldn't feel the fingertip prodding her skin. Just the same chilly numbness.
"You'll be lucky if your lips don't fall off."
She wanted to slap him.
And then Bridger kissed her. She needed to slap him. To strike the impetuous Jedi for daring to be so familiar. So intimate. He had his chances – oh, more than once she had saucily winked at him. Cooed about his pretty features. Teasingly whispered what she could show him – pleasure and pain that he couldn't begin to imagine. Not even the Mandalorian girl he worked with, for all their 'wild reputations,' would be able to compete with what she knew. And he chose now…?
Her fingers betrayed her. Her clawed gloves tightened their grip on his hair the moment she tasted the faintest trickle of warmth from him. This was it, she thought, clinging to whatever reasoning she could find in kissing her enemy. This was his secret. This kept him alive while she froze to death. And she'd take it from him like she promised – draw it all up and make it hers. The Seventh Sister tilted her head and pulled him closer, hungrily tasting his lips as a mantra began in her head.
Bite him. Drink him. Corrupt him. Break him. Make him beg. Make him moan.
She didn't need reasoning – she was cold, and he was warm, and the moist tingles that spread across her lips told her she wasn't in danger of losing her mouth to frostbite anytime soon. Then there came the shocks. The little electric jolts across her sensitive flesh that were raw and new, spreading slowly throughout her nerves. Like she was submerging herself in the Force, warming her up. Feeding her. Resting her. The Inquisitor pulled at Bridger's hair and was rewarded as his tongue slid across her lip, sending new pulses through her.
Bite him, she thought. Corrupt him. Make him a servant of the Empire. Her hands dropped to his shoulders, and she clung to him, the legs that pinned him moved instead to wrap tightly around him. It was so easy, she thought, to roll her hips slowly against him. To remind him that she was a woman and he was a man. To let him know that the Dark Side didn't give a kriff about the insipid rule the Jedi had about keeping no relations. The heels of her boots dug into the muscles of his back, and she purred as she felt him against her – a hard arousal that reacted from her touch and her taste.
'I knew you found me beautiful,' she thought with a smirk, her hips rolling steadily against him. She waited for the cracks to appear – the flushed skin. The gaping breath. The glassy eyes that would be filled with torment until he could take no more and begged for release. The Inquisitor yanked her broken helmet off and pushed her hand through her short, cropped hair. 'Let him see just once,' she thought, relishing in the power she had over him…
And still, Bridger kissed her, tracing her lips and brushing her tongue with his own. She felt wide hands cross over her back and she arched. Worn fingertips pushed through the thick, short bob of her hair, sending currents through her body. The Seventh Sister dug her heels in tighter, idly wondering just how much more desperate the Jedi would become if she were more undressed. If her soft breasts were bare in the freezing cold. If her naked toes could curl into the muscles of his back…
'Bite him,' her mantra repeated. 'Devour him. Conquer him.' Her hands moved to his belt and pulled at it, fumbling blindly with it while she tasted his face. Bristly hair. Scars. Salt. Stardust. Honour. Bravery. The Mirialan's tongue flicked out to trace one of the twin scars the Grand Inquisitor had gifted him with while she felt his hands on her own. His belt unfastened, and she sighed when she felt him move, his palms roaming across her backside.
'Not enough,' she thought, interrupting the chorus in her mind. She had been sitting on wet rocks for too long. She was sore and numb. She needed his fire already. To take the gift he was seemingly giving her. She made short work of her own belt and hooked her thumbs behind it, her legs tensing as she peeled the tight material down her thighs and exposed her pale flesh to the harsh temperature. Almost immediately she felt him soothing her, those full hands caressing her rear in a way that was so raw and new and exciting and intimate. He squeezed her muscles. Stroked her skin. She felt her body tense and relax and sing and purr under his touch.
'Corrupt him!' her mind whispered, more urgently than before. 'Take him! Make him mine!'
The Seventh Sister reached inside his clothes and curled her fingers around his hard flesh, watching him tense and hiss with a deep satisfaction. She didn't play with him – she just needed him, immediately, guiding him towards the slick folds of her entrance and sinking down on top of him.
The cries in her mind were shattered as she engulfed his arousal, feeling him resting deep inside her core. For a long moment, she didn't know anything. No training has prepared her for this – not for sex, no, but for how quickly her plans had evaporated. All at once she felt alive and in shock. 'It's not meant to be like this,' she thought drunkenly, her body growing accustomed to the hot flesh inside her. It was meant to be satisfying, but that's all. Some pleasurable heat coupled with watching her Jedi adversary crumple against her chest.
Instead, everything was alight. The pod they hid in was awash with colour. Emergency lights cast shadows across his face, highlighting a prominent nose and honest eyes. His hands roamed along her bare backside. Fingers swept across her neck, and she shivered. Electric shocks slipped down her spine as he touched her. Her hair had only ever been hugged by her helmet, and now every tender touch he gave her was enough to make her mewl. Ezra Bridger moved inside her; his thick length was rocking in and out of her sensitive core. The Seventh Sister moaned with every push, and she knew she shouldn't. But it didn't stop her from grabbing his shoulders and neck and hips. He withdrew and she buried her head into his neck. He thrust, and she arched back. Every breath she took was for him to do more - to touch her and hold her close to him. Every taste of his skin was a crime. She bucked her hips and drew him deeper into her slick core, betraying her Empire for all it's worth. Every short strand of her hair that he touched was treason because she just wanted everything he was offering her.
It's not at all going to plan, but she couldn't care less – all that mattered was the crescendo building inside and the bolts of blissful electricity coursing through her.
She'd intended to break him. To hurt him. To make him hers and if that didn't work, to finally kill him.
Bridger – Ezra – rocked against her hips in such a way that she tensed and grabbed him. Everything was awash with light. Stars burst behind her eyes. Air tasted sweeter. The winds outside were musical. Everything around and between them hummed with the Force as he pushed deeper into her body and shook. The Seventh Sister grabbed the back of his neck and kissed him as every nerve in her body exploded.
She climaxed atop him, her limbs growing tense and hot. But she couldn't drown out the little voice within her that suddenly wished things were different, now. That maybe she could be his, and they could just enjoy their afterglow and just... be.
She remembered, long ago, that it was said that the Light side of the Force could seduce, also. That it could tempt users away with soft promises. Impossible, she deflected at the time. The Light had nothing on the Dark.
The Mirialan's body trembled as the Jedi froze. Flushed, handsome features gazed at her as she felt it. That tell-tale throb and shake and splash as he came apart inside her, filling her body with his orgasm.
A clawed thumb stroked his damp face, admiring the bristled jaw and the scars below his cheekbones. He was her constant adversary and her companion. Time and again, across dozens of stars and worlds, they had met and clashed, all while goading one another.
She had known him for years, now. Had watched as he became a man before her. Had looked forward to winking flirtingly and reminding him that her offer still stood. And now, through it all, she could think about nothing but the soft sensation of Ezra Bridger's lips on her own.
The Inquisitor cursed her younger self for being so naïve to think that the Light side of the Force had nothing - and no one - who could seduce her...
She was in her quarters on the first Star Destroyer that had entered the system, inspecting the site for further rebel incursions. She was quick to brush them aside. The rebels were dead. The next target was set.
She had left Bridger asleep in the pod, certain that the sooner they had left the system, the sooner he would be rescued by his fleet of sympathisers. She still wasn't sure why she'd spun her tale, efficiently ensuring his survival. She was still an Inquisitor of the Empire. He was a Jedi of the Rebellion.
He was the enemy.
"Seventh Sister to quartermaster," she snapped into her intercom. "When will my new lightsaber be ready?" There was static that sounded like someone sighing, and her impatience rose.
"It would be accelerated if we were able to use your kyber crystal, ma'am," the voice on the other end replied. She narrowed her eyes at the discreet speaker.
"Only a Jedi is so sentimental as to rebuild a weapon that failed them," she sneered. "Alert me as soon as my replacement is ready." She closed the link without another word.
The red kyber crystal was back in her bare palm, held so tightly it felt like it may just pierce the skin. There was no warmth in the jewel. No comfort. Just confusion. It was a reminder that she walked the path of the Dark side. That she was power. She was just and right.
The Seventh Sister hesitated before she touches her stomach, which hours before seemed to explode with shocks of warmth and acceptance and all-consuming light. She used to admire the sharp scar she bore there. The proof that she was tough enough to survive the treacherous Darth Maul filled her with pride. Now there was... nothing. She wanted to touch her lips which still seem to tingle, long after she's had healing bacta applied to them. Her gut churned with stress and emptiness, and she knew it has nothing to do with hunger.
The ruby red crystal gazed up from her palm, a reminder of so much more after her evening with Bridger. Of what she had done, sleeping with her enemy. A reminder of what might have, or could have, been. If things were different. If he had just accepted her offer.
If she had strayed from her path to follow him...
She'd been a cruel, conniving, murderous woman. Her career had been built over harsh words and the deaths of her teammates. She wondered if she deserved this – the constant reminder of the other side. Of what might be waiting for her if she wasn't so loyal and stubborn and, perhaps, stupid.
She closed her palm again and tried to block out the memory of Ezra Bridger's hands caressing her neck and the taste of his lips on hers. She was the Seventh Sister. She wasn't allowed to remember how good it felt to bring her personal Jedi over the edge of his bliss.
Her stomach roiled and flipped and churned again as she remembered everything in vivid details.
"I don't deserve this torture," she growled. The kyber crystal lay dead in her palm, casting a ruby glow across her pale skin. It was enough to conjure the image of his damned features under those emergency lights.
'I don't deserve this,' she thought again, much more harshly than before. But deep down she didn't believe it.
And it hurt.