when you sit on the couch, pope often finds himself at your feet, cheek pressed to your knee while you read or watch a show. too many bad people hang around the cody house. people he doesn't trust. you need someone big and strong at your feet guarding you, he reasons.
when anyone tries to touch you he physically puts himself between you two. how could anyone think they were good enough to touch you? no. you were his and his alone. he didn't need anyone else grabbing at you.
you haven't even started dating yet and he is territorial over you.
when you crash at the cody house after hanging out too late, he sits by your sleeping body on the couch, staring at you for hours. you're just so defenseless when you sleep. he couldn't leave you so vulnerable. he doesn't even hide it from you. when you wake, you find him staring straight-backed and silent. you reach out and pet his hair, still sleepy murmuring a "good morning, popey."
when you shower he waits outside the door. just the knowledge that you're in there, naked and warm and in need of his protection, it has his cock stiff and leaking in his pants. he whines and resits the urge to touch himself, even when it hurts not to touch it, because he just wants to focus on keeping you safe :(
and best believe he will attack anyone who he feels threatens you.
the guy who makes a comment about your ass in deran's bar? pope has him on the ground, blood gushing from his nose before you can even react. he can't seem to stop himself either. it takes four people just to drag him off of the man.
he marks you with his own scent too. he asks you if you want to use his shower, knowing you'll use his soaps and smell like him. he comes to give you a hug after he puts on his cologne, guiding you to nuzzle in his neck so your hair has his scent. <3
this is sooo boyfriend!robby coded. when it’s a date night and you’ve already had dinner and went to the movies or theatre, but still are out for a couple of late night drinks because it’s his day off tomorrow and he wants to spend as much time as possible with you. both are a bit buzzy, he’s got that little alcohol glow that makes him blush like crazy and you think your man looks so hot that you need to have that memory for forever, so you take a pic while he’s distracted with jack being a pain in his ass.
dr. jack abbot swears he's not a panty sniffer. unless they're yours ofc.
mdni, 18+, panty sniffing, mutual masturbation, patheticsubby!hudband!dr.jackabbot x slightlydom!wife!reader, that one scene from animal kingdom iykyk
listen to this ♬.ᐟ
the key turned in the lock at 4:47 am.
dr. jack abbot stood in the doorway of his own house like an intruder. a man who'd forgotten how to live in it.
his grey scrubs were wrinkled beyond salvage. he reeked of antiseptic; that sharp, clinical smell that clung to everything, embedded in the fibers, ground into his skin like a second layer. there was something on his sleeve that he didn't want to think about. his eyes burned with the particular brand of exhaustion that two weeks of back-to-back shifts, three code blues, a pediatric trauma that still made his hands shake when he thought about it, a patient who flatlined twice before they got her back, a few patients who they couldn't—
robby had been watching him with those too-knowing eyes during rounds. until he pulled him into a corner and sat him down through a whole lecture:
"you're a danger to yourself and your patients."
and then, with a sigh–
"go home, brother. i got this."
jack had argued, of course. his pride was a stubborn thing. but the truth was undeniable: his hands were trembling, and an hour ago, in a haze of fatigue, he'd nearly hung a bag of vancomycin on the wrong pole. a fatal error, prevented only by dumb luck. and besides, robby had already forged his signature on the cover sheet.
so here he was. home.
for a moment it was dark, heavy and quiet. but as soon as the door clicked shut, the air changed. it smelled like that vanilla bourbon candle you'd been burning lately, too sweet, too warm, and something else. something that was entirely soft and comforting. a scent that reminded him what a home actually was.
the particular, curated warmth of a space that had been lived in by someone who loved gently.
you.
he felt like he hadn't seen you in a lifetime. the last few times he'd managed to drag himself through the front door, you were already asleep, or he was too comatose that he barely registered you kissing him on his forehead and slipping him out of his scrubs before passing out.
you were an angel. a saint. anyone else would have left him by now, fed up by a husband who was a ghost in his own marriage, absent and hollowed out, smelling like disinfectant and existential dread half the time. but there you were. still with him. always.
he passed the kitchen on his way through. stopped. on the counter he found a plate covered with saran wrap, food still faintly warm. and on top of it, a note in your pretty, looping cursive writing: be a good boy and eat. hearts all around it. little doodled hearts in the corners and beside his name and one big one at the bottom.
he stared at it for too long. his throat got tight. he set the note down carefully, like it was something precious, and kept moving.
his chest ached.
not in a clinical sense. this was worse. this was the dull, spreading ache of realizing he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a conversation with his wife that lasted longer than forty-five seconds. the last time he'd looked at you, really looked, instead of glancing at you over a coffee mug while his brain was already back at the pitt, replaying lab readings and imaging results. even now, even here, in the quiet of his own hallway, his hand drifted to his hip where his pager sat clipped to his waistband—habit, muscle memory, the phantom itch of obligation. he caught himself doing it. stopped. his fingers hovered there for a second, trembling, before he forced them away. forced himself to leave it there. just in case.
he dropped his bag by the door. toed off his shoes. didn't bother with the lights.
the bedroom door was open a crack. warm, faint streaks of moonlight from outside spilled through the curtains, painting a pale stripe across the bed.
and there you were.
jack stopped breathing in the moment.
you were asleep on your side, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other draped over the mattress. your hair was spread out, messy and soft against the dark sheets. and you were wearing one of his old tees; from his first years as a war medic. the faded olive green one with the frayed collar that he'd had since his second deployment.
it was too big on you. the neckline hung loose, sagging forward, and in the low light he could see straight through the thin, worn cotton. the bare swell of your breast. the shadow of your nipple, perky and soft against the fabric. the shirt had ridden up exposing the flat plane of your stomach, the dip of your navel, the gentle curve of your hips where the fabric bunched. and below that, lace. white lace panties, barely anything, just a scrap of fabric over the place he'd been thinking about for fourteen straight days.
fuck.
jack braced one hand against the doorframe. his one good leg failing him. his other hand hung useless at his side. he could feel it, the insistent heat and the weight and the need, starting to build low in his gut, spreading through his pelvis like a fever.
you looked divine.
and, god, he wanted to touch you. he wanted to crawl into that bed, slide behind you, press his bare chest to your back and pull you into him until your plump ass was right against his aching cock. he wanted to push the shirt up and put his mouth on the curve of your spine, taste the salt of your soft skin. he wanted to hook his fingers in that lace and pull it down slow, the way you liked, inch by inch, and bury himself so deep inside you that he could feel every pulse and twitch of your pussy around him.
he wanted to fuck you the way he'd been dreaming about in the on-call room between codes—slow and hard, your legs wrapped around his waist real tight, his forehead pressed to yours, while he whispered filthy, sweet things that made you whine all low and needy for him.
but you were sleeping. you were asleep, and you looked beautiful and peaceful, too pure, untouched by the horrors he'd seen today.
you'd been alone in this bed for two weeks while your husband worked himself into the ground, and you were probably wearing his shirt because you missed him, because you wanted to be close to him even in sleep. and he was not going to wake you up just because he got hard watching you sleep.
so he backed away from the door. quietly. one step, then another.
the bathroom. he'd go to the bathroom. he'd splash water on his face. he'd get himself under control. he'd take a cold shower. he'd—
he saw it the moment he stepped through the bathroom door. the hamper, wicker lid was slightly open. and poking out from beneath a towel was a flash of fabric—soft, pale pink, the kind of thin cotton panties you wore when you were just lazing around the house.
jack stood there for a long moment. his reflection in the mirror looked feral. flush creeping up his neck. jaw clenched so hard he could hear his own teeth grinding.
don't.
he reached into the hamper.
don't do it.
his fingers closed around the panties; lighter, softer than he expected. they were still warm. still faintly damp. he brought them to his face before he could talk himself out of it and—
oh, fuck.
you. it was you. that smell, musky and sweet and unmistakably, devastatingly you.
the scent flooded his senses and something in his brain just short-circuited. his eyes fluttered shut. his shoulders dropped. a sound came out of him that he didn't recognize; low and wrecked and desperate.
his hands were already moving. he pulled the pager from his waistband and threw it onto the bathroom counter where it clattered against the porcelain, the screen flickering once before going dark. scrubs shoved down. briefs next. he was already half-hard and getting harder by the second, and when he wrapped his hand around himself, he groaned through his teeth like a depraved man.
he dragged his fist up the length of his cock, thumb pressing against the underside just below the head, and his hips stuttered forward into his own grip. the panties were pressed to his nose, pressed to his open mouth, and he breathed you in like oxygen.
then he started stroking his cock. slow. real slow.
that was the whole point. that was what he'd been craving. not the rushed, fumbling quickies in the dark before his alarm went off, not the half-awake hand jobs that left him feeling more empty than satisfied. he wanted slow. he wanted to feel every stroke. imagining himself fucking into you.
he pumped himself, deep thrusts, his hips rolling forward like he was buried inside you, like his fist was your pussy, tight and wet and warm pulsing around him. he closed his eyes and imagined it. the way you'd clamp down on him. the way you'd whine when he went too deep. deep enough that he was grinding deliciously against your cervix. the wet, filthy sound of skin slapping against skin. the way you'd say his name all pretty when you begged for more more more.
"fuck—" his voice was wrecked. his neck was flushed, blotchy red spreading down from his jaw to his collarbones, and he could feel his pulse hammering in his throat. "oh, fuck fuck fuck."
his hand twisted on the upstroke. his thumb swept over the tip, smearing precum, and he used it to slick the shaft, making everything wet and hot and obscene.
his head dropped back. his mouth fell open. the sounds coming out of him were pathetic—whimpers, really, thin and shaky, the kind of sounds that would humiliate him if anyone at the pitt could hear them. dr. jack abbott, former combat medic, and attending physician reduced to a trembling mess in his own bathroom with his wife's underwear pressed to his face like a perv.
he pressed his tongue to the cotton, licking into the fabric, chasing the ghost of a taste of you—salt and musk and something sweet that made his eyes roll back. just a little taste. just enough to make him tip over the edge.
in that moment morals were the last thing on his mind, what was right or wrong. how he looked utterly desperate and pathetic.
he didn't care. couldn't care.
all he could think of was his hand over his cock and the scent of your panties at his nose while he moaned pathetically to no one: "baby—" the word came out broken. "oh, baby—"
"honey?"
his entire body locked up.
the voice was soft. thick with sleep. coming from the doorway.
his eyes flew open and there you were; leaning against the frame, the olive green shirt still hanging off one shoulder, your hair a mess, your eyes heavy-lidded and confused. the bathroom light caught the curve of your body; breast through the fabric, the bare skin of your hips, the lace panties failing terribly to cover your pussy.
"what are you—oh." your voice caught in your throat as you finally sobered up and saw what was in front of you; in his right hand, your pink panties to his nose. in his left, his cock, slick and flushed and leaking a copious amount of precum.
the silence lasted approximately one thousand years.
"i—" jack's voice came out strangled. he tried to drop the panties. tried to cover himself. ended up doing neither effectively and instead just stood there like a deer caught in headlights, neck burning, chest heaving, looking at his wife with an expression that fell somewhere between mortification and pure arousal. "i can explain, i just—the last two weeks, and you were sleeping, and i didn't want to wake you, and i—"
you sighed, "jack."
"—the thing is your panties looked so pretty and they were just there and i—"
"jack."
he stopped. his mouth hung open. his heart was going to explode.
you looked at him. eyes trailing over his body; his flushed neck, his bitten-raw lips, his swollen cock, his shaking hand. your gaze was unhurried. assessing.
then you said something that made his brain go completely, totally blank.
"keep touching yourself."
he blinked. "what?"
"keep touching yourself." your voice was calm. steady. but there was something underneath it—a current, a heat. "don't stop. i want to watch."
"what do you—" he gestured vaguely at himself, at the absurdity of the situation. "you want me to just—"
"mhm" you hummed, a small grin playing on your lips. "you heard me just right, jackie."
his hand twitched. his cock jerked in his grip. that nickname—it always got him. always. it didn't make sense, not logically, not for a man his age, not for a man who ran trauma bays and made life-or-death decisions before breakfast. but something about the way you said it—soft and sweet, a little mocking, like you knew exactly what it did to him—stripped away every layer of authority and left him raw.
you stepped closer, into the bathroom. bare feet on tile. the shirt swayed against your plush thighs. "keep touching yourself for me."
so he did.
because what else was he going to do? when you, his beautiful wife were standing three feet away telling him to touch himself all sweet and pretty and he had no other choice but to submit.
his hand was already moving again before his brain could form a coherent objection. slow stroke, base to tip, the way he liked you touching him. his thumb dragged over the head again and he hissed through his teeth, his hips rolling into it. the wet sound of it filled the space, obscene and raw.
he gave you a desperate look, awaiting praise, anything that told him this is what you wanted to see.
and you simply watched him.
your eyes tracked every movement—the flex of his forearm, the twist of his wrist, the way his abs contracted with every slow thrust into his own fist. you watched his face, the way his brow furrowed, the way his mouth fell open, the way his jaw went slack when he dragged his thumb just right over the ridge beneath the head.
and lower, his cock was huge, flushed dark and heavy in his grip, curving up toward the silver-streaked happy trail running down his belly. a prominent vein along the underside of the shaft, thick and pulsing with each stroke. the tip was blushing rose, shiny and wet, precum leaking in slow, steady beads every time his thumb swiped over it. each pass made a soft, sticky sound that echoed off the tile.
"yeah, just like that," you said quietly, encouraging. "you're doing so good, honey. keep going."
he made a pathetic sound from the praise. a desperate whimper that cracked in the middle, his chin dropping to his chest, his whole body shuddering.
then he heard a familiar beep. his eyes flicked, just for a second, to the counter. to the pager. dark screen. silent. it must have been in his head but his hand still faltered. the rhythm broke.
"eyes on me." your voice came out low, a little commanding. "stop thinking about anything else right now. just us. just this."
"but i heard–" his gaze drifted again. the pager sat there on the counter like a accusation. his jaw tightened. his hand slowed—
"jackie." softer now. but firm. "focus. don't think about anything except my voice. can you do that for me? can you stay with me, jackie?"
oh, now he was a gone man.
"i—" his voice cracked. "'m so sorry-yeah, i can—"
"good boy." the words hit him like a physical blow. his cock jerked in his grip, a fresh bead of precum spilling over his thumb, making everything slicker, wetter. the sound of his hand on himself grew filthier. "just listen to my voice. just feel how good this is. nothing else exists right now."
then you reached for the hem of the shirt and pulled it over your head.
you did it slowly. teasing. fingers curling under the frayed cotton, lifting it inch by inch, letting the fabric drag up the plane of your stomach, revealing your skin bit by bit like you were unwrapping a gift. just for him.
he watched as the fabric skimmed over your ribs first — the ones he'd trace with his lips on when you were half-asleep, counting each one with a kind of care that made your breath hitch. then the soft underside of your tits, where he'd bury his face after a long day, nose pressed into the warmth of you, breathing you in. then the shirt cleared your head, and your hair came with it, mussed and wild, falling over your pretty face. you dropped it somewhere behind you without looking.
didn't care.
jack's hand faltered. the panties fell to the tiled floor.
you stood there in nothing but those white lace panties, and you were stunning. soft stomach, the way your bare tits spilled over your chest, nipples already peaked in the cool bathroom air. the bathroom light painted you in gold and shadow and jack thought, distantly, that he might actually pass out.
"keep going, jackie," you whispered. "need you."
"yeah—okay, baby." his hand started moving again. slower now. his eyes roamed over you—your collarbones, the dip between your breasts, the way your ribs expanded and contracted with each breath. you were breathing harder now. he could hear it.
then your hand drifted up. over your stomach. over your ribs. and you cupped your own breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, and your lips parted and your head tipped back just slightly and—
"fuck," jack groaned. his hand tightened. his pace stuttered. the wet sound of his fist on his cock grew faster shlick shlick shlick frantic and shameless.
then you hooked your thumbs into the lace and pulled it down. stepped out of it. kicked it aside.
and he could see everything.
your pussy was glistening. swollen and slick, your folds shining with wetness. you brought two fingers to your lips, parting them slow, pushing them past your teeth. your tongue dragged heavy against the pads, cheeks hollowing as you sucked, coating them with saliva. he watched, chest heaving, panting low and ragged.
his mouth was practically drooling at the sight, a low, wrecked moan slipping from his throat, his cock twitching violently in his hand.
you pulled your fingers free, a string of spit connecting your lips. then you trailed the wet fingers down slow, leaving a wet streak trailing down your sternum, sliding over the curve of your navel, and disappearing right down between your thighs.
you dragged them through your already sopping pussy—slow, deliberate, showing him exactly how soaked you were just from the sight of him—and the sound it made was obscene. a soft, wet schlorp that seemed way too loud for the quiet bathroom. then you slipped them inside deeper. just to the second knuckle.
his mouty parted, jaw slack, a low moan rumbling out of him. "oh baby, you're so–." the words came out broken, barely held together. "so fucking hot."
"come closer," you breathed. barely a whisper. barely a command. but it hit him like a freight train. "jackie, come here."
he shuffled forward, no hesitation. one step. then another. until he was close enough to feel the heat radiating off your skin, close enough that the wet sounds of your fingers filled his ears. nothing else.
"can you feel me?" your voice was thin, ragged, barely holding together. your fingers kept moving, slow and deliberate, dragging through your own wetness with a sound that made his vision blur. "can you feel my heat, jackie?"
you pressed the heel of your palm against yourself and rolled your hips into it, a tiny, helpless movement, and when your back arched, your mouth fell open, letting out a filthy moan, the sound of his name, jack thought he saw god.
"uh huh," he moaned low at the sight. the sound came out feral. barely human. "yeah, fuck baby, i can feel you—"
he watched you intently, his adam apple visibly bobbing in his throat. and he took note of how your hands moved. commited the act to memory, taking mental notes he would use on you next time.
"i'm so fucking wet for you." you dragged your fingers out, and he watched a thick, glistening strand of slick stretch and break as you pressed them against your clit, circling slow, and your whole body shuddered. "imagine how tight i would feel wrapped around your cock." your eyes found his, dark and half-lidded and burning. "imagine sinking into me raw."
you were dripping, actually dripping, down your wrist. he could hear it. each tiny wet squelch of your fingers working inside yourself. your thighs were trembling, your stomach clenching, little ah ah ah sounds punching out of you with every curl of your fingers.
"oh, fuck—" his hand tightened on his cock, his pace turning sloppy, his hips snapping forward into his fist, precum smearing over his knuckles. "i'd fuck you so deep, baby—stretching you up real nice around my big cock. filling you up all the way to the hilt—i'd make you take every fucking inch and then i'd keep going—"
"ah ah— more jack" you whimpered. your fingers thrust back inside yourself, and the sound it made was pornographic, your pussy sucking at your own fingers. "tell me more. tell me exactly what you'd do to me."
"i'd—god—i'd pin you down," he groaned, his voice cracking. "fold you in half, thighs pressed to your chest, put you in that angle that makes your pretty pussy clench down on me so tight—"
"yeah?" you moaned low and needy, eyes rolling back. "go–ah–on."
"i'd burry my cock so fucking deep in your pussy baby and fuck you until i got you squirting all over my cock just like the last time, make a mess everywhere—"
"oh–fuck–jack!" you pressed your fingers impossibly deeper inside you and rolled your hips into your fingers, a tiny, helpless movement, and when your back arched, your mouth fell open, your tits bouncing with the shift of your hand.
jack almost came at the sight of it, his restraint wearing thin with every stroke, every moan, every second his hands are not all over you.
"can i—" he reached for you with his free hand. desperate. needy. pathetic. "please baby let me just touch you—" he breathed it out like he didn't even know he was saying it. "please, please—"
"uh uh, jackie" you shook your head. "keep touching yourself."
"but, baby, i—"
"just keep your eyes on me." your eyes found his and they were dark now, pupils blown wide, and your voice was still firm but had a tremor in it that hadn't been there before. "just–just a little more, mmkay?"
"okay, baby." he obeyed you easily.
and he watched.
he watched your chest flush, spreading down between your breasts, and he matched his strokes to the rhythm of your breathing without even thinking about it. in and out. slow and steady. the wet slap of his fist working his cock mirroring the wet slide of your fingers inside yourself.
he wanted to put his mouth there. he wanted to taste it. he wanted to bury his face between your thighs and stay there until you had to physically pull him away.
but you said don't touch. so he held back.
when he thought of it, there was something almost intimate about it all. the physical ache of wanting, and the sheer, agonizing will to stay perfectly still. it made a religion out of restraint. just two people laid bare in the quiet, watching each other with a mutual, burning, want. almost as if your souls were already committing the act before your bodies. like this was the truest form of your desire. it was all too much.
and far from enough.
he could feel your breath now. your exhales were skating over his sternum, over his collarbone, up the column of his flushed throat. and as his nose skimmed just above the curve of your shoulder he could smell you—that same scent as the panties, musky and warm and wet, your pheremones rising off your skin in waves, mixing with the vanilla still clinging to your hair.
his mouth was right next to your cheek. close enough to kiss. just mere inches away, you could almost taste him then, his breath brushing over your lips with each sigh.
but he pulled back.
you whimpered then. your head fell forward, your hair curtaining your face, and your shoulders curled inward like the pleasure was too much to hold upright. like some part of you actually hoped he'd give in.
take over and fuck you like you both yearned for.
"oh, fuck—" jack's voice was wrecked. absolutely destroyed. his neck was crimson, his chest blotchy with flush, sweat beading at his temples. his hips were fucking into his fist now—chasing something, building toward something, the slow rhythm he'd tried to maintain falling apart. the sounds his hand made on his cock grew louder, wetter, more desperate. a staccato beat that matched the frantic pulse of his heart. "oh, fuck, baby, you're so—i can't—you're so pretty—"
his hand slowed. his breath hitched.
a sound tore out of him—something caught between a groan and a sob. his whole body shuddered, hips snapping forward into his fist.
you lifted your head. looked at him through half-lidded eyes. his lips were swollen from biting them. his cheeks were wet.
had he been crying?
god, he looked so pretty.
your name fell out of his mouth like a prayer. then again. and again. each repetition more broken than the last, each one punched out of him with a thrust of his hips. his hand working frantically now, thumb pressing hard against the underside of his cock his other hand playing with his balls.
"baby, please—" the word came out whined and fractured, tears streaking his flushed face, barely holding together. the wet sounds of his hand on his cock had reached a fever pitch. "wanna cum, please let me cum—"
he was asking so sweetly. so needy. it almost tipped you over the edge right then and there. it was a rare sight—jack like this. he had his moments of softness with you, achingly tender ones. but this—begging, pathetic, wrecked, stripped of every ounce of control—it fed something in you that you didn't even know was hungry. something primal and dark that liked seeing the man who held other people's lives in his hands come completely undone in yours.
"yeah, oh jack, me too. i'm about to—" you whimpered it. low and desperate. more air than voice. "about to–"
"yeah, yeah, give it to me, sweet girl—" he could feel himself getting close. he could feel you getting close. could hear it in the way your breathing went ragged, in the tiny, desperate sounds escaping your throat, in the way your hand was moving faster, your wrist angling just—
"jack—"
he kissed you.
he didn't touch you with his hands. not once. but he could feel the heat radiating off your skin. the warmth of your bare chest millimeters from his, the flush of your body bleeding through the air between you, your nipples almost brushing his stomach with every shuddering breath you took. it was like standing next to a fire.
and oh, he wanted to burn in it.
his mouth against yours was all desperation. sloppy and hungry. his tongue pushed past your lips, found yours, licked over it, then dragged against the roof of your mouth. his nose pressed into your cheek. his teeth clicked against yours. he couldn't think straight. couldn't do anything but kiss you and stroke himself and—
you came first.
he felt it. your whole body seized against him—a full-body shudder that started in your shoulders and rippled down through your chest, your stomach, your thighs. you moaned into his mouth. loud. helpless. wrecked. and he swallowed it. every gasp, every broken sound—he drank them down like communion wine as you trembled apart. he could hear it. the way your fingers kept moving through the wettest part of your orgasm, the sound changing, growing thicker, sloppier as your release coated your hand and dripped onto the tile.
that did it.
the taste of you. the sound of you. the feeling of you shaking apart against him while your orgasm rolled through your body—jack's hips jerked forward once, twice, and then he was coming with a groan that came from somewhere deeper than his throat. it ripped out of him, muffled against your mouth, his whole body going rigid, his hand working through it.
he came all over you. hot, thick ropes of it striping across your bare belly, pulsing against your stomach with every wave, the head dragging through the mess he was making of you. and he kissed you through all of it. through the peak and the aftershocks and the slow, trembling come-down. he kissed you until his lungs burned and his legs shook and his hand finally stilled.
the sound of his fist on his cock slowed. each stroke more labored, more sensitive, until he finally stopped, his shaft twitching against your cum-slicked stomach.
when he pulled back, a string of spit connected your mouths. it stretched. broke. his lips were swollen. his eyes were glassy. he looked absolutely, thoroughly destroyed.
and then you both leaned in. slowly. like your bodies just gave up on holding you upright and decided to hold each other instead. noses brushing, breath mingling in the small hot space between your faces.
his fingers came up, tentative, careful, and skimmed over your bare skin. just barely there. light enough to raise goosebumps in their wake, trailing over your ribs, your waist, the curve of your hip. then his toned arms settled around you, large hands pressing flat against the small of your back, pulling you against him. not tight. just there. you could feel his chest rising and falling against yours, both of you breathing ragged and uneven, still coming down from the high.
your arms wrapped around him, fingers splaying across his firm back, feeling the warmth of him, the dampness, the way his muscles still twitched faintly in the aftershocks.
a beat. his thumbs drew slow circles against your lower back.
then you leaned back. just enough to look at him.
"hi, honey." you said and you smiled at him. soft. sweet. ruined and impossibly pretty. like you hadn't just watched your husband fall apart in front of you. completely ruined to only the sight of you.
"…hey, baby." his voice came out shy. small. a ghost of the man who barked orders in a trauma bay.
then a little sheepishly he added, "sorry for sniffing your panties like that i was just really...pent up. didn't wanna wake you up, baby."
"it's okay, honey. i don't mind." you laughed all soft, too sweet. your manicured fingers drifted up to trail through the salt and pepper hair on his bare chest. featherlight. just barely there. but you could feel him pulse under your fingertips.
"actually, if i was being completely honest..." suddenly you were flushed, smiling a little shy now yourself. "i've also been…pent up this week. been sniffing your shirts too."
"have you now?" that admission woke something raw in him. his jaw tightened. his throat bobbed. then, suddenly, it dawned on him at that moment, tonight when he found you wearing one of his shirts. "wait does that mean–tonight you were–"
you flushed a shade deeper.
"fuck." he groaned. he twitched against your belly, thick and hot and unmistakable. impossible to ignore.
his eyes trailed over you. the way your lips were swollen, slick and kissed raw. the way you were still panting, your chest heaving. your pupils blown wide, dark and hungry, your lashes fluttering as you blinked up at him through the haze. you looked thoroughly fucked and you hadn't even been touched.
his thumb came up, without a second thought, pressed against your lower lip. just resting there.
you opened your mouth, muscle memory. sucked it in slowly, your tongue pressing flat against the pad of it, your eyes never leaving his.
something shifted behind his eyes and he let out a low pleased groan deep in his chest. that hunger—the one you thought was sated—reared its head again. licking its lips. because this wasn't enough. it was never going to be enough. not when you looked at him like that. not when he had spent two whole weeks without you and burried in work at the ER.
you looked at him like you wanted him just as much too.
you released his thumb with a soft, wet sound. looked up at him through your lashes and asked, all pretty and needy and barely above a whisper—
"so you gonna fuck me now, dr. abbot?"
he was already getting hard again.
"fuck yeah."
author noteఌ︎: i think about that scene from animal kingdom alot. had to write it down somehow lol.
i'm working on part two of misconduct btw :3
TW: mentions of abuse (lmk if I should include any more!)
The next day, as anticipated, you land on Nevarro, where upon disembarking a flurry of droids scurry up to the ship.
“Hey!” Mando yells, paralyzing all the droids, “No droids!”
You learn that the baby is not in fact Mando’s, but a foundling he’d taken up first as a quarry but then adopted. You’re not sure what’s so special about this child, but for it to have a bounty over it’s head before it can intelligibly speak seemed cruel enough, and you don’t ask any further questions.
You also learned that Mando is a man of few words. He tends to keep his responses curt and to-the-point; and never straying away from the subject of conversation. From your observation, he has not gone onto tangents or disclosed any new information, willingly, that did not immediately pertain to the topic. It made it even more difficult for you to learn anything new about him, his character, humors, and appearance. He is a complete mystery, and yet you find him fascinating all the while he continues to intimidate with both his outward appearance, and lack of openness.
The day on Nevarro is grey despite the sky being totally clear. The landscape isn’t strikingly beautiful like some of the other planets you’ve been on with Malsifer. It’s gritty, dusty, and terribly suffocating. The air feels dense and warm, that kind that made you feel sticky and uncomfortable. The sky is a dull blue, but blue nontheless.
Since joining Mando on his ship, he’d allowed you the time to wash off the caked on makeup from the other night, some of which you’d cried off, like your ruby red lips. It was a nice color, you were fond of how well it complimented your skin and the shape of your lips- but it had overstayed its time on your face and it was time for it to go.
However, upon stepping onto the rough planet, you realize how out of place you appear to be. Not only is the green alien child perched on your hip and babbling to himself, but you’re still dressed in what Mando had rescued you in a few days ago. The wispy fabrics fluttered in the subtle warm breezes, carrying with them the muted but bright colors of an oceanside sunset of lavender, magenta, and gold. You felt exposed among the muted and dark colors that Mando and his child limited themselves to, sticking out like a sore thumb.
Mando’s child begins to fuss, deciding that he wanted to meander around in the dirt as Mando took a few steps towards an unfamiliar man. The man is of a darker complexion, though his beard and hair suggests he is of a wiser age, and extended a friendly hand to shake. They must already know each other.
The child giggles and laughs, grasping and tossing any rocks he finds on the ground. You crouch to his level, structuring his play by tossing him back the rocks he’d thrown. From this, he giggles excitedly.
~~
“Greef.” Mando greets the aging man, Greef Karga, approaching him at the opening to the city, densely lined with clay houses and open markets. It teems with a unique variety of inhabitants and passersby- like Mando, who does not stand out in the crowd as obviously as the brightly colored dresses his new acquaintance was dressed in. That, was something he’d address soon enough.
“Mando.” Greef smiles, eyes lighting up upon seeing the familiar helmet, “How are you old friend?”
Mando looks over his shoulder at his companions before returning his attention to Greef, “Surprised to be back. What are you doing out here?” He asks with a tired sigh.
Greef raises an inquisitive eyebrow, “I’m just as surprised to see you out here… Tying up a few loose ends. Who’s your new friend?”
Mando hooks his gloved fingers at the top of his chest plate, resting his arms casually over himself and relieving some of the weight of the Beskar on his shoulders, “That’s who I’m here to find some information about. She’s one of Malsifer’s.”
“Malsifer?” Greef’s eyes widen, “What is she? A quarry?”
Mando’s helmet shakes, “No, Malsifer was. Malsifer had an indentured servant situation and I need to know more about her… Anything would be useful, but especially any bank records.” Mando says quietly, sliding a small note with the name of his newest crewmate scribbled onto it.
Greef looks down at the note inquisitively, “Malsifer, huh? Doesn’t surprise me… He always rubbed me the wrong way… Though I’m not surprised that his luck, or lack of it, finally caught up to him.”
“She’s got no where to go. Is there any way you can find out anything about her that’s useful…?”
Greef looks between Mando and the cooing child and woman behind him, and then down at the name on the note, “Get back to me in an hour or two.”
~~
Mando turns to wave yourself and the baby to his side, the man with whom he was conversing with turning away and headed into the city.
“What was that about?” You ask, the baby occupying itself with a metal ball he’s produced from his bundle of clothing.
“Business.” He says briefly.
Business. You think to yourself, the most colorful response I’ve gotten since I boarded.
With the baby balanced on your hip, Mando navigates you both through the streets of a busy marketplace. Vendors line the streets and advertise their products and produce, crafts, and other items for sale, all ranging in complexity and beauty that you admire from a distance. The baby on your hip is thoroughly entertained with all the sights, sounds, and colors, teething on a pastry he managed to swipe off a vendor when they weren’t looking.
Of course you attract some attention. Not only did it not help that the baby you tote clearly is not yours, but your impractical and fluttering dresses had other passerby step and trip on them as you went- sending you a few gross side-eyes and raised eyebrows. You clutch what you can in your hands as you follow Mando’s glistening helmet through the crowd.
He approaches a stand fluttering with colorful fabrics, handcrafted designs embroidered to the hems of cloaks, dresses, and shirts. They’re all so pretty and wonderful to look at.
Mando begins a conversation with a middle aged woman at the stand in her native language, her weathered face and dark eyes glancing at you from time to time as Mando continues to explain something to her. She raises her hand and counts on her fingers as she explains something to him in response, Mando filling her palm with a few coins. Pleased, she nods and produces a neatly folded up wad of fabric. She extends it towards you with a forced but friendly smile.
“Something to cover yourself with for now…” Mando explains, “Later, on the ship, I can find you some clothes.”
Accepting the folded fabric, you briefly study its particular shade of purple. It’s dark and neutral, almost barely detectably purple should someone care enough and stare long enough at you. You unfold it to find an opening, and you slip it over your head, a hood catching on you as the rest of the fabric settles on your shoulders and over your torso. The baby gets caught in it too, but frees himself with a shake of his enormous head. It is a cloak, the fabric feeling pleasurably heavy on your figure and comfortable on your bare shoulders. It feels protective and warm, but breathable and completely functional as an everyday garment. Not only does it feel well, but it conceals you much better amongst everyone else.
“I buy my cloaks off her.” Mando responds simply, the first time he’s shared a new fact about himself, “She’s also going to find you a pair of shoes.”
He’s right. Perhaps the pair of sandals tied at your ankles aren’t the best fit for a shoe to be blundering around planets with. It was certainly enough for the occasions you accompanied Malsifer to meeting his clients, and the extent of your time out in the elements was limited to barely nothing. Malsifer concerned himself more with whether you appeared to his liking and aesthetics.
The older woman returns, producing a short pair of dark brown leather boots of a matte finish. They are simple and easy to slip on, with no intricate buckles, zippers, or ties. They hug your feet comfortably and accomplishes all the criteria necessary for being a practical piece of footwear.
Mando glances around and hands the woman a few extra coins, nodding in thanks as she accepts them and waves kindly at the child on your hip.
“Thank you.” You tell Mando as the three of you walk away from the stand of fluttering fabrics. He doesn’t react, at least as far as you can observe from the faceless helmet that you looked at when speaking to him.
“We have some time before we meet up with Greef again.” Mando says, ignoring what you’d said, “We can-“
“-Take a look around.” You interrupt, your curiosity about the rest of the market piqued. Surely there were other useful and interesting things the three of you can look at other than the four metal walls of Mando’s ship.
Mando agrees, but you’re not necessarily sure if it was from acquiescence or genuine concurrence.
It is difficult to read him, you’ve noticed it bothering you, without any facial expressions and other visual cues to clue you into his mood. His body language was often also very grey and difficult to deduce. This is unlike what you’ve relied on in the past to understand and predict other people’s behaviors. Malsifer was an individual very prone to giving himself way via his expressions and tone of voice, which made it easier to clue you into how you should respond, if at all. It’s natural to rely on social cues in order to know how to respond to a given situation, but with Mando, it feels quite the contrary.
He strolls with you at a relaxed pace, his hand firmly placed on the hilt of his blaster he keeps attached to his waist.
Your eyes flicker between his helmet and his hand. You’d seen him use his blaster with deadly precision, it drove you to tears to see the barrel trained at the space between your eyes. You hadn’t heard of stormtroopers being as accurate, and you question what he is, and what he represents. You can already deduce that he’s a bounty hunter, why else would he be looking for quarry? But why the child? Why the armor? And why the ship you’d finally observed to be very Old Republic.
“Mando-“ You begin to ask curiously…“Can I ask you a question?”… cautiously.
“Sure.” He says simply, his helmet turning to observe a long blaster rifle on display at a vendor.
“Where are you from?”
Mando’s helmet continues to follow the long rifle as he walks away, “No where. I was a foundling.”
“A foundling from where?” You ask again. “Who found you?”
“I don’t remember.” He says dryly, his gaze returning forward as he scans the vendors again till something catches his eye… visor.
“So then what’s with the armor?”
He stops midstride, and you sense that you’ve either said something wrong or insulted him in some way.
Your cheeks immediately feel like their burning despite the chill that raced down your spine. You blink back a million-and-one thoughts and possibilities on how he might respond. Was he mad? Dumbfounded? Absolutely furious? It’s too hard to tell. By the way he’d stopped and now turned his head towards you, your hands clench into a fist- not prepared to strike, but to brace.
He chuckles. He chuckles. Warmly, softly, and bemusedly, his modulated blitheness is musical and so incredibly comforting. You’re not sure how you should react. It’s not the reaction you’d braced yourself for. After all, you’d insulted him, didn’t you?
“You mean to tell me that you’ve never seen Mandalorian armor before?” He asks, resuming the slow pace he took beside you.
You shake your head, looking down at the ground as you resume walking a few paces behind him. The child, unbothered, continues to chew on the pastry and inquisitively looks between yourself and Mando.
“I’m surprised Malsifer never let you see one.” He says, “No wonder you seemed pretty scared when I was there.”
You’d kept your gaze down at your feet as you walked, feeling ashamed to ask a dumb question in the first place. Of course you knew what a Mandalorian was, but you’d only ever read about them in flimsi books you’d managed to smuggle in and out of Malsifer’s library. They seem downright fictional, down to their very demeanors of being militant and mute. It didn’t help that the only information accessible to you came in bound flimsi books that in itself was probably older than yourself or Malsifer’s combined existence. You’d never seen their armor, at least not the kind that Mando was sporting in pure Beskar and with a helmet that looked too much like a storm trooper’s. You’d sooner expect he was an ex-trooper, or someone who simply stole or bought their armor.
“It was terrifying.” You admit softly, “You, pointing a blaster in my face. Doesn’t help that you’ve got all that armor.”
You see his boots stop moving and turn towards you. You still keep your gaze down, distracting your hands with the child’s robes as the crumbs of his treat fell from his face.
“Look at me.” He says sternly, and you obey, looking up into his visor, “You need to… unlearn whatever this is.”
You chew your lip, intimidated by his presence so close and so powerful over you. You fight yourself and your nervous glances away from the glare of his visor.
“I don’t know what Malsifer put you through, but here, with us… none of it.” He continues, “Can’t have you walking behind me like some shadow, not with my kid.” He takes a step back from you and turns away, but stops.
His shoulders drop and his demeanor softens, “You were walking next to me.” He says, awaiting for you meet him at his side, “You were saying…”
Meeting up with him, the child in your arms coos and reaches out to Mando, who scoops him up from your grasp and you hide your arms under the cloak. He is right, it’s different with Mando and his kid. This is an equal playing field where you’re a part of a cohort of other individuals just like you. Of course, Mando is the leader, he provides, flies, and protects. The new dynamic is refreshing, but old habits are hard to beat. Which isn’t a natural nor healthy response. But neither was being caned across your knees and shins if you didn’t do so.
Mando stops at a vendor selling a wide assortment of things. They all seem extremely random, from switchboards to datatapes to bacta kits. Perhaps these are things the vendor was able to scavenge off broken ships and droids, this isn’t the first time you’d seen scrap collectors try to sell off what they can’t trade at a refinery. You’ve heard of such beings called Jawas who are infamous for such scavenging, but you also know that they’re not entirely open to the idea of selling what they find.
Mando strikes up a conversation with the vendor, a tall and slender specimen with small black eyes and three digits on each of their four arms. They’re haggling, is what you can assume, as Mando shakes his head and points to a well-stocked bacta kit on the table. The vendor insists on a certain price, counting it off on his palms before accepting a deal with Mando’s budget. He swipes the bacta off the table, and tosses it.
You catch it and immediately hide it under your cloak. Mando notices, walking away from the vendor saying, “Keep that there, don’t want him noticing he let me take the wrong one.”
His dry friendliness is welcoming, it made you feel like you were walking with a friend rather than a tank. The child giddily had finished his snack and entertained himself with his metal ball, which now you’d deduced was from a switch or lever, likely coming from the cockpit of the ship.
“So… your armor. Mandalorian?” You ask, keeping pace with him.
He nods, “Mandalorian.”
You think back to what you’d read about in the flimsis, “If I recall correctly, some Mandalorians choose to keep their helmets on? Or do all of you have to wear it all the time?”
Mando nods, “When I swore to the creed, I swore to keep my identity secret. It’s part of our code.”
“So ‘Mando’ isn’t your real name?” You ask.
“No.”
“So what is your name?”
“Mando.”
You furrow your brows, not wanting to press further. You admire the devotion, despite it frustrating you further. You wanted to learn more of him, but now you know that such learning can no longer pertain to his appearance, and you must now learn his character. Though it wasn’t the only thing weighing on your curiosity, you’ve already begun building his profile.
Like you’d learned during your time in hyperspace that he is a man of not-so-many words. He isn’t aptly good at beginning a conversation, and usually such conversations are limited to small talk on the basis of his work and ship… But that had been debunked when he disclosed that he gets his cloaks from the woman at the colorful stand, and joked to you about the bacta-kit hidden away under your cloak. You hope he will reveal more of himself to you with time. You’re patient enough for that.
You respect that his physical appearance as an extension of his anonymity. It’s not the only instance where you’ve experienced the sort of veiling that came with particular religions, cultural identities, and personal choices. It will be up to him to disclose what he wants and when- it would be rude of you to pester. It’s not your place.
The three of you walk leisurely, stopping occasionally to look at something interesting at a stall before returning into the direction of the ship. In the distance, you observe the man from earlier standing and waiting for you, Greef, you remember Mando mentioning the name.
Mando hands you the child back into your arms, “Get back on the ship.” He instructs, and you nod, the baby beginning to doze off to sleep in your arms.
~~
“What did you find?” Mando asks taking a few steps towards Greef and out of earshot from his new crewmate.
Greef’s usually friendly smile is thin, “I found one result for her name, one that appears on an obituary. According to the systems, she’s technically dead.”
Mando exhales sharply, disappointed, and curiously tipping his head to the side, “So, what? How long has she been ‘dead’?”
“Five years.” Greef says bleakly, “And she has no digital footprints anywhere. No record of her ever even having an account to hold credits, or receipts from anywhere that she’s spent credits.”
Mando looks back in the direction of his ship, watching you board the Razor Crest with the child in your arms, how tenderly you hold his head and attend to his sleepy babbling. This is unfortunate news, that Mando would need to tell you sooner rather than later.
“I don’t know what to do with her.” Mando admits quietly, your silhouette disappearing in the ship.
Greef clears his throat, “I know this is none of my business, but the baby seems to like her, it’s pretty obvious… Until she can figure things out on her own, she can stick around, learn a thing or two, and you’ll have someone who can take care of the kid when you have jobs.”
Mando nods, “This isn’t the first time Malsifer faked someone’s death just to drain their accounts?”
“It’s also not the first time he’s trapped pretty young girls into being his personal assistants.” Greef says, raising an eyebrow in Mando’s direction.
“He abused them.” Mando says, “If it wasn’t for their money, what else did he need them for?”
Greef shrugs, folding his arms across his chest, “Malsifer seemed like the controlling type… He liked being in control of anything and everything important to him which is money and power. I don’t think she was a part of anything more sinister, but I certainly wouldn’t rule it out.”
“I’ll find that out more when she feels like talking. Right now… I don’t know what to do with her.” Mando crosses his arms.
Greef looks back at the ship behind Mando and back to his visor, “Let her stay until she can figure something out for herself. She can be useful while you work, keep the ship and the kid safe while you’re out…”
Mando nods again in agreement, “It’s my only option right now. Thank you… for your help.”
Greef smiles, “Anytime, old friend.”
--
Mando appears on the ship shortly after you’d put the child to sleep in his shiny egg-like crib. He’d tired himself out from the morning shopping and was happily full of whatever pastry took him the entire walk to eat.
You’d put the bacta pack in the bacta kit soldered on the metal of ship and managed to clear out some of the dust that had blown into the hull while the door was open. You’d observed Mando’s ship to not only be Old Republic but also just old in general. Though it is in excellent flying condition for its age, it lacked in amenities that more modern ships had like touch-pads instead of buttons and actually finished floors and walls. Either Mando is a man of old fashion, or simply too preoccupied to take care of his ship like others do.
He is quiet, walking up and down the hull checking lights, buttons, datapads, and other things. While he did that, you patiently sit on the familiar wedge prepared to strap into the metal wall and prepare for take-off. Your hands occupy themselves with the hang nails that plague your fingers.
You see, from the corner of your eye, something tan and grey. Looking up, it was Mando, handing off to you a pile of clothing he’d gathered in his quiet pacing around the hull.
“Thank you.” You say softly, standing to get to the fresher.
Mando nods, “Meet me in the cockpit, we need to talk.” And he turns before you can ask any questions. He disappears up the ladder.
The cockpit? You think to yourself curiously, what in the worlds does he want to talk about?
The mirror in the fresher is just reflective enough to call itself a mirror. It clearly once existed as a piece of scrap that Mando had repurposed to decorate the blank wall above the sink. But it fulfilled its purpose in reflecting back the visage of yourself you present every day.
Today, you look tired.
Dark circles around your eyes hint at some much needed deep sleep and the tired squint you gave to yourself only emphasizes this.
You look at the clothing Mando handed to you, consisting of a large white shirt and some pants that definitely needed to be tailored to accommodate your height and lack of… lower… masculine features. These are clearly articles of clothing Mando has no use for, and you’re thankful for them despite Mando’s somewhat apparent reluctance.
You undo yourself from your dress, somewhat sad to see the magical colors fall to the floor in a wispy heap. This was healthy though, a transition into a different person. After all, you’re fulfilling the prophecy you’d begun to brainstorm the first night aboard the ship: a change of clothes.
The shirt is square, harsh but hemmed edges of fabric for sleeves, a collar, and buttons to secure said collar closed. It sat rather high on your neck, so you keep the first two buttons undone, one side of the collar falling open to reveal the raw edge of the hem. The sleeves were of a comfortable length, also squared off with a button for cuff-links that you undo and gently fold up your forearm.
Looking back up at yourself in the mirror, you look like a little girl trying on her father’s clothes. It’s clear that they’re too big, but you make do with tucking and folding where you can. But the broad and structured shoulders the shirt gave you made you feel… bigger? Something about it made you feel more robust.
The pants are… another story. Of course they sat a little low on your hips and were too loose around the area where you lacked the facilities of a man. But the utilities of having so many pockets and places to stow away small items brought you some small joy as you cuff the pants around your ankles and tuck the shirt into them.
You style your hair simply up, anything to keep it away from your face and off your shoulders till it’s time to wash and you think what to do about them then.
Looking back into the crusty mirror, though your eyes see themselves, a whole new person has taken shape behind them. It felt foreign to you to appear so fresh-faced, neutral, and unassuming in a world where Malsifer demanded you always looked your best as an extension of himself and his appearance. That usually translated in wearing makeup on a near-daily basis, and extravagant colorful gowns to even the most casual of events.
The dress is a pastel mess on the floor of the fresher, and looking down at it, you feel a twinge of guilt for having to abandon it. It’s pretty…
You bundle it up and head out from the fresher.
You walk quietly across the hull, your bare feet making light patting noises as you went. Sitting at the wedge in the wall, you ditch the dress behind you and slip on your boots again before standing up, and head towards the cockpit like Mando told you to.
ahsoka confirming that the baby understands his dad makes every single one of their interactions a million times funnier. when din told him to stop touching things on his dashboard the kid fully knew he was being told off and still chose to commit button crimes
tips for writing Star Wars fanfic/Star Wars roleplay things
it’s not concrete; it’s duracrete
viewports are the windows on ships
not a plane; ship or speeder
it’s not steel; it’s durasteel
books are rare; holorecords or datapads
it’s not a glass pane it’s transparisteel
caf is the equivalent of coffee
it’s not paper it’s a flimsi
medcenter is a hospital
Star Wars can be very similar to things we’re already used to, but getting familiar with some of these terms can make your writing really fit in with the universe
It’s not a phone or cell; it’s a holocom or communicator or just comm (unit). You normally comm someone instead of call them.
Searching our standard terms in Wookieepedia will normally provide you with one or several in-universe alternatives. The other items exist, they’re just either archaic terms or really low-tech versions of what’s commonly used (like concrete is a real thing, but just extremely less durable and strong than the more advanced and common duracrete).
Back in the day weren’t the “glass” windows on x-wings and ships called like invisa-steel or something? That stuck in my head from the Thrawn trilogy I think. I remember sitting there in deep contemplation over how the hell you make the molecule chains in metal transparent and worrying about carbon chains and shit because what’s what you do in 10th grade.
I remember seeing med center used as medbay and sickbay as well, and dishwasher as sonic dishwasher? (correct me if wrong tho, I can’t remember v well). But here’s some more:
bandaids = bacta patches
bathroom = refresher
watch/clock = chrono
first aid kit = medpack, medkit
motorcycle = speeder bike, swoop bike
camera = holocamera
internet = holonet
shower = sonic shower(?)
Correct any of these if they’re wrong ;P also they’re all legends I think and I’m not sure if any of them are in new canon.
I love this, because it’s not condescending or pretentious…just fans letting newer fans know ways to improve their fic. I love the films, but I haven’t been able to get access to so many of the books and comics yet (even though they’re waiting in my Amazon cart for pay day), so this is awesome. And I’ve basically been living on Wookieepedia lately, too!
nearly everyone has commlinks but holocomm units are a bit more pricy – think space skype. they’re connected to the holonet. i don’t think there’s a star wars term for emails (maybe just mail) but those also exist.
personal computing devices are datapads, stationary ones are terminals. also, you don’t get a stack of physical paper for paperwork; you get a stack of datapads. (although paper is called flimsi, paperwork is still called paperwork. go figure)
kilometers are klicks
a lot of fighter pilot helmets have tongue switches for their commlinks so pilots don’t have to take their hands off the controls during dogfights. random factoid that might come in handy
some in-universe swearwords: sithspit, sithspawn, fragged, fragging
a hacker is a slicer or codeslicer
I was thinking of making this post just today – glad to see a version is already going around!!
Klick is actually a real-world slang term for kilometer! Everything that I can remember is that the galaxy uses the metric system, or at least the GAR does. And I’ve seen showers just called showers in some Legends novels.
Some things I don’t see above:
Plastic is often called plastoid, and I’ve seen the clone troopers’ armor called either just plastoid or plastoid alloy. Plastoid goes for either your thick stuff or your thin sheets. There is a thing called plastifoil, I’ve seen it used in reference to the material of a thermal blanket.
Bucket is a slang in (at least) the GAR for helmet. I don’t know how common it is among stormtroopers.
Your memory card type things, which go into your datapads, are (natch) datachips.
Similarly, your ID is an identichip.
And as far as video recorders, above says camera as holocamera, but I’ve also seen holorecorder.
Also, as far as I’ve seen, though the city on Coruscant covers the entire planet, the city itself is called Galactic City during the Republic and Imperial City (iirc) during the Empire. Triple Zero (or Trip Zip) is a military slang term for Coruscant because of its coordinates 0-0-0.
More generally, when looking up slang terms and swears, consider where it comes from. I wouldn’t expect a Corellian to say the Mando’a swear shab. Though, the Huttese fierfek seems to be universal. The swear kriffing is also a common one.
Further swear words include karabast, kriff(ing) and kark(ing).
Lightsabers short out in water unless turned to a special mode beforehand!
I’ve also seen “plastoid” referred to as “plastisteel”.
Pens/pencils are generally referred to as a stylus.
There is a difference between a ship and a speeder; ships are like planes or boats in terms of they are for long-distance space travel. Speeders are like cars or motorbikes; for planetary travel.
