Disclaimer: This skirts uncomfortably close to insomnia. If this comes off as a romanticization of it, I want to apologize. That was not the intention. I personally hate books that treat it as some romantic tool (looking at you Anna Todd). I'm very close to a person that suffers from real insomnia and it's not romantic or cute 'dreamchild' stuff. It's a horrible soul sucking affliction.
I'm hoping if anything, this lands closer to temporary secondary insomnia. I don't want to project insomnia as anything romantic. I just wanna mess with my sith lord.
It was quiet. Pharaoh hated the quiet.
It was one of the few things that could nip at his heels and mock him from all angles, haunting him from all corners of his life. An achievement he could not conquer with determination alone. But more than that, he hated that others could surpass him in its pursuit so effortlessly. He hated the way that goodie-two-shoes jedi Myris could sink into silence, into stillness. Even Lana, a Sith lord in her own right—though lacking the title—seemed to surpass him in such feats of mastery.
More than a few of his early Masters had tried to make him learn the hard way. Beaten him half unconscious or drugged him with all manner of demons. Their sneers and snarls carving crude canyons into the base of his skull. Claiming that if he would only focus and meditate on his anger he could cage the simmering control that brought quiet.
Mentally, Pharaoh scoffed. He already had a way of 'meditating on his anger'. It involved training arenas, creatures with claws, and broken bones.
But this wasn't that. This wasn't fighting. It was worse. Rest.
The bed in his quarters had all manner of luxuries. His wealth was one of the finer delights of being sith, yet despite his fortune his finely crafted mattress had turned lumpy against his back. The hand woven belsavin sheets bunched and tugged like they held a personal vendetta. Even the adaptable heating unit built into the frame had soured his mood exponentially. Artificial and lacking subtlety, no manner of complex AI could achieve a hint of what he wanted.
Restlessly, Pharaoh tossed to his side, trying to find the comfort that eluded him. His skin itched for the tentative touch of a shoulder pressed to his chest. A coveted warmth traded in skin and the rhythmic caress of breath over his shoulders and neck.
He ached for soft lips, mumbling sleepy nothings into the dim light as heavy grey-blue eyes found his, drunk on drowsiness. His hand twitched for the empty coverlet beside him, missing the arch of a small back cradled into the crook of his arm. Her chest rising and falling in sync with his, as he ran his fingers along the curve of her spine.
"Fuck!" the sith snarled to the empty room. Rolling over, he drove his face into the folds of a pillow and groaned bitterly. "You're such a bitch," he told one of the most feared warriors in the empire. Pharaoh had killed Darths with more ease than this.
It was just sleep! Trivial. Simple!
He tossed and turned again in defiance, and unattainable, apparently.
Never had Pharaoh even entertained the idea that the opponent he couldn't subjugate would be 'sleep'. He'd already tried to force it into submission, break it under heel as he had done so with stamina and fatigue in the past. Working himself to exhaustion in the training room, running grooves into the steel plated floor. Till his muscles were straining and battered. Sleep would come. It had too.
But not with the whisper of her perfume lingering on the pillow beside him, the heavy scent of earth that she favored. Weighing on his senses, it was the kind of scent that clung to her lekku and collarbone, woodsmoke chain-links of musk and berries tart. It taunted him now, a constant reminder of the vacancy beside him. Eyes closed and browline furrowed, he counted the hours, spinning equations and tactics. Sleep tugged on his muscles only to dance away when he reached for it.
With a growl Pharaoh pushed himself up. Tossing the sheets aside and pushing his fingers up between the clutter of horns that ringed his head. No matter how late, he always found himself staying up. His senses prickled, snapping to attention at every sound or scent. He sighed.
Somehow, the room was too cool and the bed stifling hot. The ship's engine was too loud and the room deathly quiet.
"And I can't sleep without you," he admitted into the dark for only himself to hear.
It had been a relaxing few days. No irritating sand, no hellish monsters trying to rip her face off. Her sister was settling in well and her old crew had only been kicked out of two bars during the celebratory reunion crawl with her. In her experience, she was practically living the high life.
Humming to herself, Vette flipped a control on her shuttle's console, hailing Pharaoh's interceptor the Prowling Teeth. Unsurprisingly, but ever so unwelcomely, the hail was answered with a splutter as a holo of a familiar figure appeared before her.
"Quinn," she greeted coolly.
"I see you have concluded with your business then," he replied in kind, dodging her fragrant opinion of him like it had teeth and a tail. Instead he straightened his back, awaiting her response.
"I would explain the meaning of 'leave' and 'personal time', but you'd probably just accuse me of treason," Vette sighed, tossing a handful of impertinence into her tone. "Am I clear to dock?"
"You are," Quinn's eyes drove daggers, but to her surprise he remained remarkably restrained. She tossed the thought aside, taking the shuttle's controls and made her approach on the Imperial ship.
It was only once she had angled the ship in, easing gently alongside the airlock that the imperial ass-kisser coughed lightly into his fist, holo image shuffling. Vette pinned him a skeptical look, "Out with it, Quinn," she demanded, throwing the shuttle into standby.
He bristled at the tone, brushing the nonexistent creases from his uniform in an almost robotic fashion. Vette got the distinct impression that whatever he was about to say tasted of vinegar and ash. Granted, it was a suspicion that was quickly confirmed when he jabbed an arched brow at her.
"I'm sure you are well aware that I do not approve of your relationship with our lord."
"Oh, Really?" Vette returned fire bluntly. "I couldn't tell".
His lips tightened into a disapproving frown that Vette longed to put her fist through. "Regardless, more important is the well-being of our lord. His health outstrips any petty opinions either of us may harbor."
That made her sit upright, leaning forward to eye Quinns flickering image. "Why? What's wrong with Pharaoh?"
"He has devised multiple battle plans for space and ground conflict, a detailed invasion of Alderaan and reorganized the entire armory by ammunition." Quinn waved a hand dismissively. "Normally, I would consider it a point of praise. However..."
Vette pinched her brow. "He's not sleeping again?"
"Barely more than two or three hours a night. In the last four days."
It was already late by galactic standards. Vette had dumped most of her gear just inside the airlock, and Quinn was free to complain about it in the morning, which she was almost certain he would.
Waving her hand over the keypad to hers and Pharaoh's room, she glanced down the empty hall. She wasn't sure exactly where her husband was or could be if he was sleep deprived. In the training room was her best guess. She would head there after changing into some fresh clothes. That thought in mind she stepped into the darkened quarters without looking.
Then, proceeded to stroll face first into the bare, burnt orange chest of the zabrak himself. Striped to the waist, Pharaoh's hooded eyes widened slightly when he caught her, rocking back precariously on the balls of his feet.
"Vette?" he breathed, the amber of his eyes dark and unfocused. She planted her feet in case their combined weight pitched to the side. His skin singed her fingers and the moisture clinging to his chest told her he was fresh from the shower. Regardless, it didn't distract her from seeing the dark trenches under his eyes.
Around them, the room was devoid of light save a shard of color cast from the open door. The light painted his cheekbones and horns in a stern sharpness that did not reach the numbed dimness of his eyes.
"You look terrible, Pharaoh," Vette sighed. She reached to cup his face. He inhaled deeply, pressing into her touch.
"Really, that's how you greet me?" The spoken barb teased a smile onto his lips as the door slunk closed behind them, and all sight slipped into semi darkness. Slow and steady, he ducked his head, pulling her close so that her breath pooled against collarbone.
Face pressed against her skin, he mused, "How was your trip?"
She nearly barked with laughter in response. "You're a walking corpse, but my trip details are the pressing concern?"
"Good partners take interest in each other's interests," he muttered dully, his deflection as solid as a sad wad of tissue paper. He tugged her towards the bed, and she let him, now wasn't the time to scold him in honesty.
Vette's lips pulled stubbornly. Ok, Maybe a little.
"You should have told me it was happening again," she said, concern and conviction fighting for equal share in her voice. He mumbled a jumble of words, face buried in her neck. His teeth nibbled at her skin while his horns nudged her lekku tauntingly.
"I can handle it" was his muffled reply, hands clumsy as they slipped around her sides, hinting and pulling. That's when she knew he was truly exhausted.
"No, you can't," she whispered. In the past, Pharaoh had never been shy to scoop her off her feet, to spin her in his hands and even toss her in a brocade of squeals into their bed. The questioning touch that shifted in pressure against her spine was of a different need entirely. It was the closest she'd ever seen him come to begging.
Vette didn't need sith gifts to feel the sleeplessness in his bones. In this moment, he was a tower of muscle that could topple with a breath. In the dark, her fingers traced the turning tattoos mapping his chest; she knew them by memory, each twist and curl by heart. Pharaoh mumbled a noise of appreciation, his chest rumbling against her fingertips.
Kicking off her shoes, Vette let her knees fold as he guided her onto the mattress. Soft and sturdy, it bowed beneath their weight, coaxing them closer as they settled.
"Can I at least sit up?" her canines catching her lip as they pulled in a smirk.
"No," he replied curtly while she wiggled out of his grasp. Her perfume turned draft, leeching the strength from his fingers. After she settled with her back to the wall, he slipped into her lap. It seemed to take so much effort for him to roll onto his back, and her giggle spun his thoughts to shambles. Weakly, Pharaoh fought to keep his eyes open. His eyelids dragged themselves upwards just long enough for him to take in the twi'lek woman above him. The amber that hued his eyes warming her skin, like charcoal embers in the last fleeting hours before dawn.
"You're smiling, Mr. Dark Lord of the Sith." Her voice tasted like liquor though he wasn't sure how. Brandy and whisky robbing what sense's he had left and meddled with those that remained in a blur.
"Sith don't smile," he said assertively, or as assertively as one could when they were mumbling. Breath lulling to a low and even pace, his chest rose and fell with a lazy rhythm. Vette's fingertips brushed his temples with the hair-trigger touch of a marksman. Spinning spider silk and ivy, they roamed in senseless patterns between his horns, and he closed his eyes, neck tilted upwards to press into her touch.
"So it's a happy frown then?" Vette questioned. She pulled the covers up over the marble work of his bare chest and packed them around her hips. But Pharaoh didn't reply, didn't mutter or slip a note of laughter out the corners of his lips.
He was already asleep.
The artificial lights of his and Vette's quarters were designed to mimic the slowly rising hue of a planetside morning. Pharaoh was fairly certain he had deactivated them a few days ago, the guilty party was more than likely Quinn as it usually was when it came to invasions of privacy and boundaries alike.
By the burning bright tones that greeted him, it was late morning. He didn't yawn or even entertain the temping urge to roll over and ignore the brightening light for several more hours.
Instead he swung his feet out of the bed, dragged himself into a sitting position, and rolled his shoulders. The tightness that had built up over the last few days slunk from his skin. He almost sighed in bliss, lifting his arms overhead to interlock his fingers and flexed. Eyes closed as he enjoyed the refreshed muscles when they stretched.
Also enjoying the soft set of fingers that reached out to touch his back. They threaded their way down his spine, working the grooves of his muscles. He tossed a look over his shoulder as Vette tapped at each ridge in his spine. The tug of sleep still lingered in the corners of her lips as she smiled.
The sheets draped themselves artfully to her narrow figure, rolling the wicked arch of her waist and hips in decisive detail. Her back curved temptingly, as she bundled a pillow to her chest and laid her head on its side, offering him an open invitation to her neck as her leku were tossed carelessly over the sheets.
"Morning," she hushed, sliding her finger along his hip. Pharaoh pinned her with a posed brow, the dark tattooed skin arching poignantly.
"Morning to you, too," he hummed. His gaze dropped to the adventurous hand exploring the scar that ran along the small of his back. Her fingers tracing it all the way down to the hem of his trousers. Pharaoh made a rough noise of appreciation, a lethal smirk tugging it's way up one side of his mouth. "Something you need?"
She pursed her lips in coy suggestion, batting her lashes over a drowsy grey gaze for the full effect. "I'm not sure yet..." The bait sauntered over her lips.
His chest rumbled at the rise, and he turned to face her. Bracing his arms on either side of her waist, the mattress bowed as he leant down, caging her in his shadow. "Oh, I'm sure you will think of something," he taunted.
She almost shivered under his molten gaze, and she caught the hem of his trousers, sliding her long fingers along the hem, tugging and toying. "Depends, if you think you're up to it?"
"I can be persuasive," he hushed, shoulders flexing as he bent lower, breath rolling and breaking over her shoulder.
Her brow flexed suddenly, a spider upon it's naïve prey. She pulled sharply on his trousers hem and let go with an audible snap, gaining his full attention in a sudden turn of events.
"I'll have a coffee then," she decided. Burrowing into her pillow to muffle a cackle as her toes wiggled devilishly.
Pharaoh abruptly sat back, blinking as the metaphorical rug pull threw him on his rump.
The gall, the audacity. His admiration for her thundered with pride, and he grinned, spilling laughter over his lips.
"Do I look like this ship's kitchen bitch?" Pharaoh demanded hottly, catching her hips in his hands as she squirmed and shaking her playfully until she squealed. Her eyes peeked open, flashing with challenge as she scrunched her nose.
"Don't answer that," he added. Grabbing the sheets, he yanked them up over her head in revenge. Vette squawked in surprise and victory.
Rocking to his feet, he snatched the nearest item of clothing and yanked it over his head. Vette emerged from the tangle of sheets in time to needle his escape with a "And don't forget. Only one sugar!"
Before the door snapped shut behind him.
The bonus brain snippet has been moved to my drabble dump cause im a potato!
Jk, I love Quinn I swear!
Sweet Apollo, did that tiny paragraph between Vette going from her ship to Pharaoh cost me like… several tufts of hair. Judge it with me for its sins against common decency!
The Alt Titles of this fic where def -
Pharaoh got it bad. Whipped Lord of the Sith. Kept Sith
I do believe this is that last of the study procrastinating scribbles. Im about 5500 words into chap four of teachings of the jackal. So that's would be out hopefully before Christmas!
This was also edited by the fantastic N_Layne, cause I don't know how grammar works!
Don't forget to check her out!