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entwined together in this culture of death

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It was supposed to be a simple mission.

Scarif had been mapped, scanned and all those other tedious things the Imperial engineers do before the Army decides to take a planet. Jyn hadn’t paid much attention to the details, her priorities being mastering a new weaponised baton and mocking the Director out of his frustrated rages at the incompetence of myopic bureaucrats. Scarif had been deemed nil risk, isolated in the far reaches of space, uninhabited but for a few lesser species without language or civilisation and certainly no threat. There had been some weird heat signatures and some fanciful tales of big subterranean creatures but the research had disproved that rubbish and the heat signatures ascribed to possible volcanic fissures.

Jyn’s weapons training had however resulted in severely bruised ribs a few weeks ago. So when the Director took the rest of the Death Troopers and the normals down to the surface for the first of the final surveys, she was in medbay, having the medical droids taking off the bandages. She was already annoyed by the chafing, further pissed off when Krennic had overruled her protests and said she wasn’t needed, that the other Death Troopers were perfectly capable of keeping him safe, and anyway there wasn’t anything to be kept safe from.

He was wrong.

The explosion comes through the comms so loud a medical droid nearly falls over and Jyn practically elbows another droid in the optics. She’s off the table and hurtling down the corridors, swearing a blue streak as she buttons her shirt back up. There’s no time to find her armour, screams and yells and the sound of fire coming through the channel. She grabs her blaster and the charged baton from their living quarters, catching sight of his grey pajamas folded neatly on their bed, terror roaring in her head and chest. She cannot lose him, she will not lose him, not today, not ever.

When the transport lands, she’s out and running before the Stormies towards the eruption of rubble and bodies. The Director’s command shuttle is on its side, a heartstopping mess of crazy angles, but she’s focused on the chaos up ahead. Something huge has broken out of the ground, something now flinging troopers and broken stone in all directions, obscured by so much smoke and flying debris. There’s the dark gleam of Death Trooper armour, the flash of fire, human yells of panic and a roar of definite xeno rage. She dodges troopers and fleeing technicians, willing praying needing to see just one glimpse of white cape. Then she’s in the mess with them, and the creature is a towering thing of stink and slimy flesh and wild rolling eye stalks, so impossibly huge it’s killing troopers just by flinging itself around. The Death Troopers are all on it, hacking, firing, spurting great gouts of purple blood from the massive living body. Jyn leaps from rubble to rubble, ducking fire and fragments as she searches the battle for him.

She finds the Director the moment the native species of Scarif reveal themselves to be not quite so harmless. He is standing a distance from the Death Troopers attempting to subdue the creature, his custom blaster in hand, watching with an expression of supreme distaste. And just as Jyn comes over the last pile of rocks, just as he notices her and turns his head, a mass of thin tall humanoid shapes emerge from the ground behind him.

Fuck all subterranean species, Jyn screams inside as she opens fire. Krennic has whipped around, blasting two of the shapes back already. The Scarif natives bleed red, scream high, and they don’t stop coming at him, at her, slashing at them with long thin steel weapons. The troopers, normal and Death, come to help but Jyn and Krennic are already back to back, the Director’s personal Death Trooper armed with baton and blaster, and the Director armed with his highly idiosyncratic blaster and equally unusual Old Republic sword. Jyn catches its glitter out of the corner of her eye, knows that for all she teases him about it, he keeps that sword viciously sharp and wields it with equal viciousness. They slash and shoot, beat back the screaming bleeding natives, fighting around each other, around the flare of white fabric and black baton. It takes forever and is over in a matter of minutes, leaving the deafening fever of adrenaline and the stench of blood and smoke and insides.

Jyn looks around at the battlefield, aware that her heart is pounding in her chest, aware that she’s sweated through her black shirt and is probably spattered with blood that isn’t hers. Shifting her grip on blaster and baton, she sees the strewn bodies of trooper and native alike, and her stomach lurches a bit. Was this necessary, this fucking bloodbath? But then Krennic turns beside her, his elbow jostling hers as he sheathes the blaster, and she remembers. Yes. To keep him safe, to keep him hers, yes, it is necessary. There’s another outraged roar behind them, the massive creature in its dying throes, and she moves instinctively before glancing back, torn between loyalties. “Go,” Krennic says, his face spattered with gore, blue eyes burning on the creature hauling troopers to their death in its final struggles. Jyn takes off towards the rubble, now so thoroughly pissed off that she’s determined to put an end to the creature just so she can get back to his side.

The creature stinks like five kinds of unholy hells as it dies. The Death Troopers are covered with slime and purple blood mixed with dust and mud by the time they’re satisfied it’s been totally neutralised. Jyn wipes the back of her arm across her forehead, vibrating with adrenaline as she scans the battlefield for the white duster. Godfuckingdamnit, he’s gone again. She runs towards where he had last been, groping for the comms as it crackles with his voice. “Where is he?” she snarls at a hapless swollen-faced technician looking even more terrified at the sight of her. The technician points mutely downwards to where the ground has been cracked open and ropes let down into the darkness.

“The fuck is he doing down there!”

Later they would discover an intricate series of tunnels combing the planet of Scarif, foodstores and homes, carvings and delicate woven things, a whole civilisation existing under the surface, a species that managed to tame and harness the great slobbering slime creatures to a kind of symbiosis. Later, the Director of the Imperial Army would be faced with the decision to relocate or exterminate the remainder of the species.

For now though, Jyn sprints along the cave corridor towards the lights up ahead and the sound of his voice on the comms. For now, she’s thinking of those huge creatures bursting out of the walls, all rolling eyes and impossible strength. So much for the kriffing Imperial engineers and all their surveys. She rounds a corner and finds Krennic examining a wall of carvings as he wipes at his face with a rag. Around him, a few technicians set up lights, and troopers stand guard.

What the hell are you doing?

He glances at her and then around at the rapidly dispersing people. Jyn doesn’t pay them any attention, so far gone with adrenaline and panic. Krennic is striding towards her even before the last trooper vanishes down a side corridor, the soiled rag crumpled in his fist. “What the fuck are you doing out of armour?” he hisses at her, eyes snapping blue. He has blood smeared across one side of his face, splattered all the way down one half of the white uniform. It’s probably not all his but the sight makes her heart pound faster, makes her slam her hand against his chest.

Me? Fuck that, you -- ”

“I told you not to come down here,” he snarls right into her face, so livid with rage and stinking of death. “I fucking told you to stay on the fucking ship, you’re supposed to listen --”

She kisses him, her fists clenched in his jacket, her mouth fierce and hungry, tasting so much blood and the warmth of his living energy. He drives his hand into her hair, grabs her hip and propels her back, his mouth responding hard and equally as hungry. Jyn’s back hits the wall, she pushes back against it so she can lift her legs and wrap them around his hips, arching into the push of his chest against hers, his cock against her cunt through all their clothes. Blood sticks them together, slides into the kiss, and he pulls back and licks her face, making her gasp at the wrongbadhot of it, making her push her hands between them to tug at the fastening of his trousers and then hers. He tastes vile and beautiful, she feels vile and beautiful as he palms her breast through the bloodied shirt, and kisses her with teeth and tongue, pushing into her mouth with all his rage and violence. “Oh fuck, fuck,” she gasps. There’s the clatter of scabbard and holster, of steel belt hitting the ground. His hot breath between their faces, her mouth bruised and biting at him, her turn to lick the blood from his cheek, scrape the wet slide of her tongue across the lines and creases of his face where the gore collects. He ruts up against her, hard cock through fabric, a hard punishing rhythm that has her moaning and so wet inside her clothes, wanting, wanting so much. Her hands are clutching the back of his shoulders under the Imperial duster, urging him rougher against her. “Oh god, oh fuck me,” she whimpers.

And he laughs, not playful or kind, but wild and unhinged, the deranged celebration of a lunatic cheating destruction one more time. He laughs against her mouth, enraging her so much she doesn’t think. She arches up, lashes out her leg, and smashes them hard to the ground in a flurry of dust and grime. On top of him, she pushes herself up and pulls his jacket apart so she can get at the shape and heat of his cock in the dark Imperial trousers. He just laughs again and lays back in the dirt, silver hair in disarray, his face all filthy with her spit and the death of a species. So much for the Imperial white cape, so much for the immaculate military commander. As she pulls open his trousers, he reaches up with dusty smeared black gloves and swiftly unbuttons her shirt. He could rip it, they both know that, and in the privacy of their quarters he would have, has done in the past, buttons flying. But here, his hands shaking a little, he thinks two quick steps ahead and leaves the buttons intact, pushes her taut black singlet up and up to catch under her arms. Bare breasted, Jyn leans over him and takes out his bare cock.

No one’s going to walk in, no one would dare interrupt them.

Now she stands up, smiles down at him, and undoes her trousers. It’s a feral smile, all red mouth and tawny eyes, the tips of her breasts dark pink, the same pink as the cunt she reveals to him lying on the ground. He growls happily, catching her bare calves with his hands as her trousers crumple at her boots. “Come here.” Here is kneeling across his torso, leaning down to taste his wicked delicious mouth. He grabs the back of her thighs and she gasps at the ungentle scrape of his hands. It rewakens her violence, her heart pounding as she kisses him, reaching back down for his hard hot cock. He groans when she takes hold of him, pushing up into her grip. It makes her want to use him, her own special fucktoy, and that is exactly how it feels when she kneels astride him and shoves his cock up inside her.

He gasps deep and harsh in his throat, eyes wide and shocky blue grey, and puts his hand on her breast, squeezing hard. “Yeah,” he says roughly, “like this. Fuck me like this.” She scoffs a little, doesn’t need any instructions on how to fuck him, and starts to roll her hips in a low strong pace. Krennic groans again, pleased, hard inside her, and she moves faster, working him, wanting to be bouncing on his cock because it’s wrongbeautifulhot and she wants him watching her like this. “Yeah,” he’s saying over and over again, one hand on her hip, the other cupping and holding her breast like she’s the goddamned sex toy and he’s her master. It is and isn’t like that. And when she leans down to bite at his mouth, he rolls them so fast and hard she’s under him without realising.

Suddenly she’s looking up into his beautiful insane face, at his mouth like a ragged red wound, and crying out when he holds her hips down and fucks into her. He puts his arm across her throat, presses down with wild glittering eyes, and fucks her with that brutal punishing rhythm, not stopping when she clutches at him and comes, not stopping when she cries out and arches against his arm and comes, not stopping when she’s shaking and crying and still coming. She wraps her legs around him, cunt exposed and red with their fucking, her face streaked with tears and blood and grime, and looks up at him, mouth tender, eyes fierce. That makes him come, wracked with heat and violence and so much rightness. She catches him when he falls onto her, savagely glad that she can, that she will always catch him.

In the shudders of the aftermath, Jyn presses her lips to his rumpled silvered hair, her arms tight around his back. He’s always so clingy in these moments, it’s something she absolutely loves even though she’ll never admit it to him. His cape has fallen across them, covering them almost comfortably. Who knew it could be this useful? Affectionate, Jyn smooths back the Director’s hair and kisses his forehead. He mumbles into the skin of her throat. Somehow his hand has found its way back to her naked breast, playing with her nipple in the secret space between them.

“They’re probably waiting for you,” she says eventually.

“Mmm.” He moves his hand lower to where her ribs had been strapped, and dislodges the cape to look. “I told you,” he murmured, touching her skin gently.

“I’m fine.”

He grunts and raises his head to kiss her. Quietly happy, Jyn tightens her arms around his shoulders. “Aren’t you glad I disobeyed you now?”

Krennic glares at her a little. “No.”

She scoffs, choosing to ignore this. As they return to snuggling, she rubs her cheek against his hair and decides to say what’s on her mind.

“Are you going to kill them all?”

She doesn’t mean the Army, they both know who she means.

“Probably,” he says without a beat. And then raises his head to look at the walls of the cave. Now she notices the faint carvings extend all around them. For a long moment, he looks at the art of a sentient species and she looks at him.

“Pity,” Krennic says and gets to his feet. He fixes his clothes with quick efficient movements, the clear blue grey eyes flicking from wall to wall. Jyn sits up, wincing a little as she reaches for her trousers, suddenly aware of her tender ribs, and aware that his mind is working on something she can’t quite see yet.

“On the other hand,” he adds, his tone a certain kind of callous, “we could probably use one of those creatures.”

“What?” she exclaims, aghast. “On the ship? Where would we even keep it?”

Krennic retrieves his sword belt and holster from the ground, buckling them on with his soiled gloves. He flashes her a quick bright grin. “I don’t know. The trash compactor?”

The creatures are called dianoga. Two of them take up residence in the waste system aboard the Director’s flagship and never appear in official records. The native species of Scarif however are very officially obliterated. If certain galleries and private museums in various farflung systems come into possession of woven crafts and carved stones, the Imperial Army knows nothing. As far as history is concerned, Scarif ceases to exist.

The Director of the Imperial Army no longer goes on survey missions without his personal Death Trooper.

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