Work Text:
N walked along the space walkway generator thing-o.
“Take off that mask,” he called to Bylo Hilb. “You don’t need it.”
“What do you think you’ll see if I do?” the distorted voice replied, chillingly.
N clutched at his heart. “The face of my boyf.”
Slowly, Bylo Hilb took off the mask, once and for all revealing himself as a poser, a wannabe emo, and an appropriator of the disabilities of a literal fucking space Nazi. He kept on the platforms shoes though. Bylo Hilb likes to be tall.
“We were never boyfs,” Black said coolly. “You were too weak to handle my love, and so was I. But now I am strong. The Dark Side has made me strong. The emo way of life is the only pure way of life. Lord Cheren has shown me the way.”
“Cheren is a bitch-ass poser,” N snapped. “He doesn’t understand real pain. Real suffering. Not like I do.” He touched Black’s cheek. “Like we do.”
“uhm don’t be a creeper thanks,” black replied.
“I know there’s still prep in you,” N softly said. “The prep who’d go to libraries and read books about love, destiny, happiness, and most of all, porn.”
“He is dead,” Black said. “I am all there is. Bylo Hilb.”
“that name is actually agonising i hope you know,” n said
“that’s literally the point buttmunch.”
N was still touching Black’s face. It’s a long time to touch someone’s face. He kept touching Black’s face.
“Come home with me,” N said. “I miss you.”
Black hesitated. “I feel as though I’m being torn apart. Like I’m going under. I don’t want to be the one to walk away, but I can’t bear the thought of one more day…”
N wept.
“Will you help me?” Black asked.
N nodded. “I’ll do anything to help you. Anything.”
Black smiled. “THank you.”
And then he finally penetrated N for the first time. With a lightsaber that doesn’t even work properly. HAHA! dangly parts.
“Thanks,” Black said again as he pulled the lightsaber from N’s heart. “I feel so much better.”
“we all do,” space jesus Luke Skywalker said.
N was dead and falling off whatever the fuck that tower-y thing they were on was, so he couldn’t reply.
Rest in fucking pieces, Gropius.