Warnings: References to police assault, cops being assholes in any galaxy, grief, mourning, depression, mentions of mobility aids, discussions of funerals
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Nu Kyr'adyc, Shi Taab'echaaj'la (Not Gone, Merely Marching Far Away)
You were cold.
It was the only thing bringing you back to wakefulness. There was something waiting for you in the waking world, something you didn't want to face just yet. It would be so easy to stay asleep, but the chill was biting your arms and legs, marching up and down your limbs in an icy tide. Probably the aftereffects of the electric prod you had been hit with.
You were fully conscious and on your feet before another thought could drift through your mind.
Alpha. What had happened to Alpha?
Your legs went out from under you and you staggered, catching yourself on the bars nearby. Your ribs ached like you'd been kicked by a bantha and your head was swimming. Small scrapes and bruises radiated from one side of your body, the remnants of where you had fallen on the duracrete ground outside of the spaceport. But none of that mattered. You had to find Alpha.
The room was dark and you blinked, trying to orient yourself. A face appeared on the other side of the bars, inches from your fingers. You shrieked.
"It's me, neverd'ika," Alpha said quietly, and you finally recognized him.
Even in the gloom of the cells you were in, you could see that one side of his face was injured. Blood oozed sluggishly from several scrapes and cuts, partially clotting in the layer of grime on his skin. Below that, you could see the bruises that were blooming.
"Oh, Alpha," you said, reaching through the bars to touch his face as gently as you could manage. "Your poor face... But your cybernetics! Are you hurt? Can you move?"
"I'm fine. As far as I can tell, anyway. They got me with a modified prod - no permanent damage even for delicate life-forms. And they stunned you, not me." Alpha shook his head irritatedly. "But no one will talk to me. I don't know why they thought I was going AWOL or when they're going to let us out of here."
"I don't think that's the main concern-"
"What else would we be concerned about?" Alpha's brows were furrowed, mouth drawn into a grim line. "Every minute we spend here is another minute Fives is out there alone. And another minute the Coruscant karkin' Guard could be doing something stupid."
"Alpha, you need to think," you urged. "The shock troopers just happened to look for you outside the spaceport with a low-current prod? No one really thought you were going AWOL. No one outside of Ransom, Nora Czajak, and Nala Se even knows you're on Coruscant. Stars, only Ransom knew that you were on-planet and not in the GAR medcenter tonight."
Alpha blinked at you, his irritation taking on a shade of confusion. "You… think someone set us up. Who?"
"I don't have any idea," you admitted. "Like I said, not many people know you're here and even fewer know that you've recovered enough to look for Fives. Rex didn't even tell the Jedi that you were helping with the search."
Alpha's frown deepened. "Then there are only two options. Either we were being watched tonight or someone high up in the GAR wants this thing kept quiet."
"Or both," you suggested quietly. Alpha nodded once, acknowledging your point. "Something strange is happening."
"And it's an osik sign that we're being detained here," Alpha agreed. "We need to get back out there if we have any chance of figuring out what's going on."
He began systematically testing all of the bars in his cell. Even at his weakest, Alpha was far stronger than you, so you left him to it. Instead, you turned to survey your own cell.
It was an exact mirror of Alpha's and had clearly been built to house a handful of people. There was a cot on one side of the room, slightly askew from when you had leapt up off of it. A small refresher sat in the corner, surrounded by transparisteel that turned opaque when the door was locked (at least, you hoped it did). There were cutouts slightly lower than waist height in the walls, and the indentations formed rough benches that couldn't be ripped off for use as a tool or weapon.
Other than the cot and refresher, the cell was nearly bare. It was difficult to see clearly in the dim light that filled the detainment area of the Coruscant Guard headquarters, but Alpha didn't seem to have any additional tools in his cell.
Though there were other cells set to the other sides of Alpha's cell and your own, everything was empty. In fact, this whole section of the building seemed disconcertingly quiet. There hadn't been another person walking around since you had woken up.
You weren't sure how you and Alpha had ended up as the only occupants of the area, but it seemed too perfect to blame on coincidence. Something was definitely going on.
"Anything?" Alpha called, pulling your attention back toward his cell.
"Nothing," you reported. "Did you find anything?"
"No." Alpha scrubbed a hand over his face, grimacing as his fingertips pulled at the injuries they found there. He went to the front of the cell, the only place where it faced the hallway. The bars were made redundant by a ray shield that stretched the entire length of the hall, preventing prisoners from reaching out or throwing anything between the bars.
Alpha approached the front of the cell anyway, glancing either way down the hall outside and grunting in displeasure when he didn't see anyone.
"Hey!" he shouted, loud enough to make you wince. "This is Captain Alpha-17. I demand to know why I'm being held here."
"Detainees can't make demands," a trooper jeered, appearing from around a corner where he had apparently been sitting, unseen. Any doubts you had about the security of the cells were allayed by the sight of the trooper's bare face. If he had removed his helmet, the trooper was absolutely certain that there was no escape.
"They can when they outrank you in the kriffing GAR, you ori'buyce, kih'kovid di'kut," Alpha replied, voice dripping with derision. The trooper walked down the hall to stand in front of Alpha, tauntingly close. Alpha's top lip curled in a sneer as he ordered, "Get me Fox or Maze."
"They're both busy at the moment." A nasty smile spread across the trooper's face. "And as for outranking me… Guess we'll have to see. From what I've heard, you may not have a rank at all anymore. Think they'll let you pretend to train a few ARCs before they send you for reconditioning? Or maybe they don't want a broken trooper put back into the pool of GAR soldiers."
You were at the bars closest to him before you could stop yourself. Over the roaring in your ears, you heard yourself say, "Ne shab'rud'ni, hut'uun."
The trooper blinked. You were sure which threw him off more - the implied violence in your threat, the grievous insult of being called a coward, or the fact that it all had been delivered in the best Mando'a you had ever managed.
He recovered a moment later, looking you up and down with an unimpressed expression. "We don't let a guurori ganar aruetii speak here. Do it again and I'll keep you stunned until we decide what to do with you."
The words were unfamiliar, though you knew 'auretii' meant traitor. You could guess that the rest wasn't flattering, either. Especially since Alpha's face went pale, then darkened in rapid succession.
Alpha wrapped his hands around the bars and squeezed until his knuckles went pale. His hands were close enough to the ray shield that it started to react, turning white and throwing off the occasional spark.
The trooper's gaze fell to Alpha's hands and he smirked. "Get your hands off the bars or I'll show you why we set them up for electrification. Didn't go well for you the first time, did it?"
Alpha snarled something that sounded uncomplimentary. The trooper - having already started back toward his post hidden around the corner - turned back to say something else, but his face went abruptly serious and he straightened into a salute. "Sir."
You turned to see what he was looking at and found a procession of fully-armored Coruscant Guardsmen filing toward you. At the head of the group was Commander Fox. You almost didn't recognize him - both because he wasn't wearing his distinctive helmet and because he looked so bad.
Fox's brown eyes were wide and held the hollowness most often associated with those who were suffering severe shock. His lips were parted, breaths coming too quickly for comfort. He walked as though he wasn't truly seeing the hallway in front of him. Fox didn't even acknowledge the still-saluting trooper as he passed by.
"Fox," Alpha called sharply. "Fox, what happened?"
Fox didn't react in the slightest. The troopers walking behind him offered sympathetic looks and shrugs in you and Alpha's direction, but followed the precedent set by their commander and stayed silent.
They had passed and the trooper assigned to guard the cells had returned to his post out of sight when another trooper came in the same direction.
Alpha thrust a hand against the ray shield, throwing sparks and startling both you and the new arrival with the suddenness of it. "Stone, I need to know what's going on and I need to know now."
Stone - a commander, if you remembered correctly - blinked at Alpha in surprise. "Alpha, what are you doing down here?"
"I don't know," Alpha growled. "I was at the spaceport when a bunch of Corries showed up, accused me of going AWOL, and dragged me back here."
"AWOL?" Stone furrowed his brows. "Well, I know you weren't, but… why were you at the spaceport? You have to admit that it looks suspicious."
"I was looking for one of my ARCs." Alpha gripped the bars tighter once more. "He's been drugged and is wandering around Triple Zero with no one to watch his back. I need to find him before he gets off-planet without an antidote."
"CT-5555."
"Ye-" Alpha cut himself off abruptly. His gaze zeroed in on Stone with a precision that would have sent a lesser man running. "You know something."
Stone shook his head slowly - not in dissent, but resignation. "We found him on the lower levels. He had trapped his general and captain in a ray shield. There was concern that he was planning to hurt them."
"Fives would never do that," you interrupted, your mind's eye summoning images of Fives laughing with Echo or grinning mischievously as he made a joke about something embarrassing.
"CT-555-"
"Fives," Alpha corrected, voice tight.
"Fives," Stone amended. "He was unwell. Erratic. Kept repeating the same things over and over, things that made no sense. The Kaminoan senator said there was some virus that had affected another 501st trooper badly enough that he shot a Jedi in the field. CT-5- uh, Fives might have been exposed. There was no telling what kind of damage friendly fire could have done."
"It wasn't a virus," you countered, too softly to be heard over Alpha.
"What did you do?" he demanded, squeezing the bars so tightly that they creaked under the pressure of his fists. "What did you do?"
Stone shook his head again and your heart stuttered at the guilt on his face. "The commanding officers said that Fives was a threat. We had to stop him before he hurt anyone. The… the threat has been neutralized."
You stared blankly at Stone, waiting for more of the explanation. 'Neutralized' wasn't 'dead'. He couldn't be saying that Fives was dead, not in such an even, unaffected tone. Surely Fives had been captured, taken somewhere for treatment and eventual investigation. Stone had to be saying that. You refused to believe anything else.
But Alpha's reaction told you that wasn't the case. He bowed his head until his forehead was pressed against the bars between his fists. His face - what little you could see of it in profile - had crumpled in profound grief and he wept for the vod he had trained so carefully.
Stone didn't seem to know how to react. He watched Alpha for a moment, an expression of mingled sadness, guilt, and hesitation on his face. His hand lifted as though he had planned to rest it on Alpha's shoulder, but thought better of it when he remembered the ray shield. Instead, he murmured something to Alpha, gave you a hunted sort of look, and continued down the hallway in the direction Fox and the others had gone.
You were also crying when you attempted to convince Alpha to leave the front bars of the cell. Eventually, you coaxed him over to the 'wall' that your cells shared. He was mourning Fives as much as you were, maybe more. It hurt all the more because you had been so close. You could have saved him. You very nearly had.
All you could do was cradle Alpha through the bars of your cell.
You and Alpha were released later that day. The Coruscant Guard apologized for detaining you, but the bigger surprise was the apology from the Galactic Senate.
The Senate had received the initial report of the incident. They claimed someone had reported Alpha potentially going AWOL and had acted on that limited information. You thought the explanation was insulting to your intelligence, but when you glanced over at Alpha, his hollow expression showed that he wasn't paying attention to anything at the moment.
You and Alpha were informed that you would receive two extra days on Coruscant. The remainder of that day was your own, to "rest and recover from the ordeal of the morning". The next day, Alpha would go get his cybernetics checked.
Ransom had agreed to the schedule change immediately when you commed her. You had explained the basics of the situation to her so she knew what to expect. She promised that she would give Alpha's cybernetics an extra-thorough exam, but told you that he was likely fine as long as he was still able to walk with or without his crutches.
Alpha could still walk, leaning heavily on his forearm crutches. He would also speak and nod vacantly when someone addressed him, but he didn't do anything without prompting. Without the need to act, he simply… was. Alpha hadn't spoken since his breakdown about Fives's death. He had taken it just as poorly as you had expected he would, and no amount of comfort made it better.
In fact, the last time you had seen him so upset was when he had learned of Echo's death.
As long as you had known him, Alpha had only lost two ARCs. He had mourned both like the brothers he referred to them as. It was somehow worse that Fives and Echo had been part of the same battalion and had gone through training at the same time. Stars, if you remembered correctly, they had literally grown up together.
For the rest of the day, it was all you could do to convince Alpha to eat something and get a little sleep. Even then, he had been sleeping fitfully when you dozed off and was awake again by the time you woke up. You had been asleep for less than an hour.
After a painfully quiet dinner and some halfhearted attempts at starting a conversation - none of which were answered by him - you coaxed Alpha into bed. You woke up several times during the night, either because of his restless repositioning or, once, because he had started to weep. Each time, you held him as tightly as you could, often crying yourself.
When dawn broke, it was gray and cold and almost unnoticeable behind the neon signs that flooded the surface of Coruscant. You were awake for the slow leaching of light into the sky. Judging from his breathing, Alpha wasn't sleeping, either.
Still, the two of you laid side by side in the sterile quiet of the hotel room. You took comfort from Alpha's warmth beside you; you could only hope that he was equally as comforted by your presence.
Minutes slipped past like that, until you knew it was time to get up. Reluctantly, you broke the silence. "Alpha, we need to get ready for your appointment. Ransom gave us her earliest time slot so we have the rest of the day to get ready for the trip."
Alpha had already known all of that, of course. You had told him the day before when you made those arrangements with Ransom. But he hadn't seemed to hear you then and he didn't seem to hear you now. His features were hollow with grief even as he got to his feet, gathered his clothing, and started toward the refresher.
You took a hovercab to Ransom's office. Alpha didn't speak, but he typed out a message on his comlink. You didn't recognize the frequency when you caught sight of it, but you didn't read the message. Alpha was entitled to his privacy. He would tell you if it were important.
You were several minutes early, but Ransom was already waiting when you arrived at her office. She hadn't heard much about what happened - it had been too fresh for you to discuss openly the day before, and Ransom wasn't informed about the intricacies of GAR politics - but she knew enough that she didn't offer a smile. Instead, she gave a solemn nod and ushered you into the physical therapy area.
Ransom made the examination as quick and painless as possible. She scanned Alpha's implants, then checked them with gentle hands and specialized instruments. Everything must have been in order, because she gave a satisfied nod and instructed him to walk back and forth across the physical therapy area. There were no bars for him to support himself with, but he walked with confidence.
When Alpha got back to you and Ransom, she smiled. "Your recovery is coming along nicely, Alpha. Your implants weren't damaged in… by the stress of the other night. The two of you are going back to Kamino tomorrow, correct?"
"Yes," you answered so Alpha didn't have to. "We leave tomorrow morning."
Ransom nodded thoughtfully. "I don't think you'll need to do any additional physical therapy off-planet. Rest on your trip and make sure to stretch, but you can try navigating around the transport without your crutches."
That made Alpha look at her questioningly, the first real emotion you had seen on his face since you had left the hotel room.
"Only when you're in hyperspace," Ransom clarified. "And only when you feel you can support yourself well enough not to fall if the transport hits turbulence."
"What do you hope he'll gain?" you asked, stepping forward and trying not to look too overeager. "Could he walk without assistance someday?"
Ransom shrugged. "Potentially. At the very least, I believe he'll be able to stand unassisted and walk short distances. Maybe do some training if recovery goes extremely well."
"Potentially and maybe." Alpha's scowl was fierce. "Not much to plan a life on. Who's to say the kaminii don't send me for reconditioning as soon as I get back on-planet?"
"Me," you said firmly. "I'm saying that. I haven't been sitting around waiting for you to be fully healed, Alpha. I've been making sure the Kaminoans know that you'll return as a qualified ARC trainer, with or without a mobility aid."
"A trainer can't use mobility aids."
The snort you gave was loud and skeptical, bordering on rude. "You're the best trainer in the galaxy, Alpha. The GAR trusts you to teach their most elite soldiers how to think critically and adapt fighting styles to fit their strengths and needs. You'll figure out a way to work with whatever mobility aid you may end up using and you'll be able to teach your trainers from experience that they can overcome any obstacles they run into."
The warmth in Alpha's expression was subtle, but clear. "It's a good point. Thank you for reminding me, little one."
Ransom cleared her throat lightly, and you remembered that the two of you had an audience. "And as for daily life, I designed your cybernetics to work with your activity levels. You may need crutches for now, but you'll likely transition to using a cane when your body has finished healing."
"A cane would be convenient," you encouraged.
"More than you know," Ransom agreed. "Cybernetics are designed and implanted in ways that work with and are powered by the body, but they're ultimately mechanical and electrical. With a cane that can release trace amounts of power, your cybernetics can stay running at full strength with minimal energy draw from your muscles."
"What does that mean?" Alpha asked slowly.
Ransom grinned. "It means, when someone relying on muscle alone gets tired, they have to rest. They can push through, but doing so takes a toll on their body. When you get tired, you use your cane for a few minutes - or even just hold it - and you'll be able to keep doing what you need to do. Not indefinitely, of course, but I'd guess your stamina will be better than it ever was before the cybernetics."
Alpha eyed her closely. "What are the specs?"
"With a cane that's calibrated for your cybernetics, you'll be able to get an additional 11 to 12 hours from 30 minutes of using your cane." Ransom paused for a moment, then shrugged. "Dependent on how demanding your activity levels are in that time, of course. That estimate is if you were doing something highly physical, like training, fighting, doing manual labor… If you have downtime, the estimate would be significantly higher."
"Are you saying that Alpha needs to use the cane every day or his cybernetics will die?" Your voice was tight. You didn't necessarily envision that Alpha would go without a mobility device for that long, but you wanted to know exactly what you could expect when you got back to Kamino.
"Almost the opposite," she assured you. "The cybernetics in Alpha's nervous system stimulate his muscles with electrical impulses. Since the implants don't really on his body's power to fuel themselves, they can stimulate his muscles even after he's exhausted."
"So I can run off the cybernetics alone," Alpha summarized.
"For a limited amount of time, basically." Ransom pulled out a datapad with the specs of Alpha's cybernetics pulled up. She indicated the major clusters of implants: along his spine, running down both sides of his thighs, and on the outside of his calves just below his knees. "These all charge when Alpha holds physical contact with the cane. Like I said, 30 minutes would be plenty to charge them up for as long as you needed them, as long as you have the right cane."
"Where do I get 'the right' cane?" Alpha asked.
Ransom stepped away for a moment, rummaging through a tall cabinet in the corner. When she came back, she held a thick piece of what looked to be durasteel, studded with glowing panels along its length.
"This is the right cane." She held it out to Alpha, who made no move to take it.
He narrowed his eyes up at her instead. "How much?"
"It's taken care of," Ransom said breezily.
"We can't let you do that," you protested, watching Alpha take the cane. His expression took on a sense of interest and determination, and you knew you had to get the cane for him no matter what. "I'm sure it's expensive…"
"Oh, it was," Ransom agreed with a mischievous smirk. "But when a senator offers to pay the costs, you go all-out. I doubt he even noticed it on the bill I sent."
"And when this one breaks?" Alpha didn't even look up from the cane, busy weighing it in his hands and studying it from every angle.
"I built a few replacements into Organa's bill." Ransom caught the look you were sending in her direction and sighed. "If he notices and objects to the addition, I'll let you know. You can cover the replacements or the current cane, depending on what exactly he objects to. Better?"
"Much." You highly doubted that Organa would have a problem with providing Alpha a cane, but you didn't like leaving anything up to chance. Both of you had been burned too many times by the GAR and the Republic for any other response.
"Alpha," Ransom announced, holding out a hand. When Alpha took it, she gave a firm handshake. "It has been a pleasure. I'll send you a fully updated schematic of your cybernetics in case you need help with them in the future and can't return to Coruscant for any reason. Please contact me with any additional questions or concerns if possible - I have better insight about your implants than some backwater cyberdoc."
Ransom turned to you next, also offering you a handshake. "Keep him from pushing himself too far, especially for the next week or so. I know you'll be on a transport, but there's still a risk. Maybe keep the cane somewhere safe until he can heal a little more. Let me know if you need anything, okay?"
You nodded, feeling unexpectedly emotional at the idea of saying goodbye to the enigmatic cybernetics specialist. "Thank you, Ransom. For everything."
When you and Alpha left Ransom's office and were waiting for a hovercab, he typed furiously into his wrist comm again.
"You've been contacting a lot of people today," you commented, tone neutral. "Anything I should know about?"
Alpha paused, glancing up at you with eyes too raw, too open, too full of pain. It had been little more than a day since you had gotten the news about Fives. You were compartmentalizing, tucking away the grief until you were safe to feel it all. Alpha was grieving now, the loss too close and sudden to delay until later.
"I'm trying to get Fives's body."
"There are no cemeteries on Coruscant," you said reflexively, feeling idiotic the moment your brain caught up with your mouth. You winced when the awareness of what you'd said hit you. "Sorry."
"We don't usually get to care for our dead," Alpha said slowly. He seemed to be thinking aloud as he spoke. "I'm not really sure what to do with him if we get him. I think the old Mandos used to say cremation was a warrior's preferred method."
"I think the Jedi do something similar."
Alpha glanced at you sharply and you waited for him to say something harsh… or at least sarcastic. Instead, he nodded. "Good. Then they have facilities that can handle the process."
"I don't know if they'll let you cremate a body in the Jedi Temple," you cautioned, moving back to allow the hovercab plenty of space to land. "Especially not if the GAR doesn't want to give Fives up."
Alpha shrugged, opening the door and ushering you inside. "Can't be that hard to break in. There are only a few of those Temple Guards on duty at a time. It's sloppy. Leaves security gaps."
When you got back to the hotel room, you started packing up your things. You hadn't brought much from Kamino, having been fully focused on getting to Alpha, but you had bought enough clothes and toiletries to survive on Coruscant for the length of his treatment. You also packed up the civvie clothes and toiletries you had bought for Alpha. During his time at the GAR medcenter, he had been provided with a body glove and a PT outfit, but you had wanted him to have more comfortable clothes for sleeping. The first time he had been able to get dressed by himself after the accident still ranked high on the list of times in your life you had been the happiest.
You left out pajamas for both of you, along with travel clothes. This would be your last night on Coruscant and you wanted to be ready to make the transport tomorrow morning. If your pilots noticed Alpha's civvie clothing, you were sure they would just shrug it off as a soft-hearted civilian working too hard to make a battle-hardened soldier comfortable.
"Just thinking too hard, I suppose." You pulled your mind away from the ridiculous series of thoughts. "Any news?"
Alpha shook his head. "No one knows anything about where the GAR might have put Fives. Even Maze doesn't know, and he's high up with the Corries."
"Was he… there?"
"No." He snorted. "They pulled Maze away for some osik admin work. Time-consuming and no one will ever look at it again, but it kept him busy. I have to wonder if they did that on purpose."
Giving Alpha an excuse to suspect a grand, overarching conspiracy on behalf of the GAR hadn't been your intention, but you couldn't say that you had entirely ruled out the possibility either.
There was a knock at the door of the hotel room - three sharp taps, executed with military precision. You and Alpha glanced at each other. Reluctantly, he retreated to the refresher while you checked who was knocking - technically speaking, Alpha was supposed to stay at the GAR barracks after he had been released from the medcenter. He could hardly answer the door to a room registered in your name while you packed up his personal belongings in the background.
The cheap hotel room doors offered no way for you to check who was standing on the other side, but the door panel did let you opt to partially open it, keeping the exposed opening to a sliver. You used that feature then, peering through a gap the width of your hand to see who was on the other side.
It took you a long moment to recognize Kal Skirata, especially since he wasn't wearing his gold Mandalorian armor. Instead, he wore a bantha skin jacket and dark trousers. He looked like a harmless old man, someone you would pass on the street without a second glance.
Until you saw the look in his eyes.
Skirata's eyes were full of emotion - sympathy, grief, anger, determination. They were the eyes of a mercenary, of someone who would gladly strike first if it gave him the advantage. And maybe even if it didn't, just for the satisfaction of hurting his opponent.
He didn't speak at first, allowing you time to study him while he did the same to you. At last, he offered you a shallow nod. "Can I come in? I'd like to speak with you both."
You hesitated. Skirata wasn't trying to force his way into the room, but you weren't sure whether Alpha would appreciate you bringing him inside. You wondered briefly if there were a subtle way to close the door on Skirata, check with Alpha, and return to the door to either let him in or send him away. You doubted it.
"I have some intel," Skirata added.
From somewhere behind you, Alpha heaved a loud sigh. "Let him in and we'll get this over with."
Skirata offered you another nod as he stepped inside. You closed the door quickly, but not before you glanced around outside. You couldn't see anyone watching the room, though that didn't mean much. The Nulls had shown a remarkable affinity for following orders from Kal Skirata. With their skill set, they could be hidden just outside the room and you would never see them.
Skirata hadn't moved far into the room. Alpha had come from the refresher and you both watched the Mandalorian study the room. You and Alpha had clearly been sharing a bed - there was only one in the room, after all - but you had finished packing up everything else. It would feel more… revealing, somehow, if he could see Alpha's civilian clothes tangled with yours, heaped up from when you had returned from a laundry service.
It was bad enough that he could probably see where you had rearranged the furniture to make it easier for Alpha to get from the bed to the refresher and back.
"I heard you've been trying to recover Fives's body."
While you were still blinking at the abruptness of that, Alpha nodded once. "You knew him?"
"Knew of him," Skirata corrected. "Enough to reckon he knew something that someone didn't want him to share."
"That's what we think." You glanced between the two of them, guessing that Alpha would be too proud to ask what he clearly wanted to. "Do you know where they're keeping Fives's body?"
Skirata nodded once, the motion tense. "Not that it means much. No chance they'll release him to us. He's being "studied". The kaminii say that something went wrong with him and that they can figure out what."
Alpha snorted. "Handy little trick, that. Pretend to investigate the cause while they cover up the real one."
"Is the GAR at least going to test his blood?" you asked. "All reports indicated that Fives was drugged or poisoned before the transport got to Coruscant. Surely they'll investigate to find out what affected him so strongly."
For two men who were so often at odds, Alpha and Skirata wore exactly the same expression as they looked at each other.
"They aren't going to do any tests," Alpha told you.
You lifted your chin at him. "Then maybe I can convince them that they need to."
The muscles in Alpha's jaw flexed. "You've done enough lately."
"Alpha's right," Skirata agreed. "My boys have intercepted some communications from that chakaar Tohu's office since you came off that prison ship with a trooper."
"What did he say?" Alpha asked, eyes sharpening.
"Nothing actionable." Skirata looked back in your direction. "But you need to keep your head down for a while. Both of you should."
You made a sound of disagreement. "I don't think that will be possible. Alpha's surgeries are to be studied. If a trooper's job is specialized enough, the GAR will consider paying for cybernetic surgeries."
"I'll believe that when I see it," Alpha muttered. "Are you telling me that I should stop trying to retrieve Fives's body, Skirata?"
Skirata lifted one shoulder in a casual sort of shrug. "Just saying that it'll be a waste of your time, Alpha. You aren't going to get him back, not in the next twelve hours."
You and Alpha both visibly deflated at the reminder of your upcoming departure. You could keep working through your sources and connections to bring Fives back for a proper burial, but you were simply out of time.
"Udesii." Skirata rested a hand on Alpha's shoulder. "I can't help you get his body, but I do have something for you. Come with me. Both of you."
Skirata brought you both to a quiet platform overlooking the burning expanse of Republic City's Industrial Sector. You were surprised - and a little dismayed - to see several of the Null ARCs there, but Alpha rested a hand on the small of your back, silently reminding you that he was there with you. There was no safer place to be than beside him, on or off his crutches.
Skirata stood next to the Nulls, looking solemn. All of them removed their helmets in turn, clipping them to belts or tucking them under one arm as they stood at attention. They turned to look out over the Industrial Sector, leaving you, Alpha, and a heat-shimmering stack for an enormous furnace at their back.
At some silent signal from one of them, the whole group began to speak in Mando'a, voices pitched low and thrumming with emotion. "Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc. Ni partayli, gar darasuum."
You recognized enough of the words to understand that it was a remembrance of sorts. The Mando'a was followed by a list of names and designations, the numbers spoken with just as much reverence as the names. There were so many of them.
Alpha had picked up on the Mando'a with the others, but fell silent during the recitation of names. He looked out over the Industrial Sector, gaze pensive and somber. When the names finally stopped, he turned to glance back at Skirata.
The old sergeant was holding out a kama, angular stripes in a familiar navy blue decorating the stiff , standard-issue cloth. "I couldn't get his body back for you, son, but adding him to the aay'han and burning his kama is remembrance enough for a Mandalorian."
"He was a clone, not a Mandalorian," Alpha decreed, but his tone lacked its usual fire.
Skirata simply watched him, the lines of his face set in an expression that was almost kind. He never withdrew the kama. Clearly, he was leaving it up to Alpha whether they burned it or not.
Alpha took the blue and grey striped material, staring down at it intently. After a long moment, he extended a hand and let it flutter down into the furnace stack in front of you. As he watched it disappear, presumably burned in seconds by the immense heat of the furnace, he said, "Fives."
"Fives," everyone else echoed, sealing their litany of lost brothers with this newest name.
Alpha's eyes were brimming and he turned away, facing the glittering skyline to avoid being seen. You understood - the Nulls probably wouldn't use such an intimate and solemn ceremony against him later, but the grief was so fresh and raw that it felt better to tuck away.
Skirata cleared his throat. "You boys go make sure the Aay'han is ready for departure. We've completed our mission. Best get you boys back off of Coruscant before we start drawing attention."
He clapped Alpha on the shoulder and stepped away, allowing him a moment of privacy. You watched the Nulls leave without a moment's pause. You caught Skirata's eye at the last moment, nodding when he jerked his chin toward the other side of the platform.
When you had stepped as far out of Alpha's earshot as you could manage, Skirata leaned in toward you, voice pitched low as if to avoid being overheard. You got the sense it wasn't Alpha that he was trying to avoid being heard by.
"Something is coming."
You frowned, trying to figure out exactly what he meant. "Why are you on Coruscant?"
"I can't tell you that and you don't want to know," Skirata said firmly. "But something is coming. I don't have details and I wouldn't share them if I did. The only reason I'm telling you anything is because you're important to Alpha. When it happens - whatever happens - you try to find me."
"Where would I start looking for you?" you asked, realizing abruptly that you didn't have the slightest idea of where Skirata lived or worked. You didn't even know who he worked for. The only faction he seemed loyal to were the clones.
"You don't worry about that, just start looking for me." Skirata grinned, but it was vicious. "You won't find me, tayli'bac? But when you look, I'll hear about it. Then I'll find you."
"Did you pull me over here to give a cryptic warning, insult me, and tell me to do what I would have already done?"
"You already would have..?" Skirata trailed off, studying you curiously. "Tried to contact me?"
"Alpha trusts you," you explained, knowing the simplicity of that statement stood on its own. Alpha didn't trust easily and he never put his faith in the wrong people.
Skirata's expression softened into something like a smile. "He's a good lad. You're not bad either, for an aruetii."
You stiffened. "No more insults. I'm no traitor, Skirata."
He laughed, a short bark of it that sounded more surprised than amused. "Seventeen is teaching you? Well, tell him to get the vocab right. Aruetiise aren't necessarily traitors. Just outsiders, and you are one of those. Too many more heroics on prison ships might change that, though, provided you don't end up dead."
You glanced back toward Alpha despite yourself, remembering how worried he had been when you had fought for Dogma's release. Maybe he hadn't been overreacting as much as you had assumed.
Skirata spoke again, voice serious once more. "You two better get back to your room and rest up for your flight tomorrow. Remember what I told you."
"Something's coming," you supplied with a nod.
Skirata nodded back. "Be ready."
And then he was gone.
---
Author's Note - Happy May the Fourth! Or… sad May the Fourth? Sorry for this one. Fives's death is my least favorite of the whole series, but it had to happen here. Though you know the old Star Wars-ism: no body, no death. So there could be hope?
I apologize if the stuff with Alpha using his cane to 'recharge' the cybernetics got a little overly complex. I rewrote that part about a dozen times and I'm still not thrilled with it. If you see me randomly editing this chapter, that will be what I'm working on. From a plot/character perspective, it's important to me that Alpha is still able to do his job as the GAR's ARC trainer, but the damage done to his body can't be hand-waved away the way Anakin's (and Luke's!) replacement hands were in the movies. Mobility aids in the GFFA need to be more prevalent, so I would be editing the EXPLANATION of the cane, not removing the necessity entirely.
I'll see you soon with a chapter that's less of a beast. Thanks for reading!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Lord it's been a horrible week.
Funny how things can go decently well and then it all just fking crashes and burns.
I can't make promises for more writing for a while because holy shit life fking sucks.
Still incredibly busy, but I managed to get this chapter done.
Enjoy!
Story Summary: Unemployment's a very stressful and precarious position to be in by itself. So what happens when you add a galaxy in turmoil and an understimulated preteen to the mix? Simply put, a rather disheartening situation that doesn't leave Clone Force 99 with a whole lot of options free from a rash of risks. Leaving Ord Mantell for a "daycation" could risk incurring the wrath of the Empire… but seeing as the squad is doing this for the sake of Omega's morale, Tech believes the risk is very much worth the reward.
Story Warnings & Information: Batch family story told through Tech's yellow-lensed point of view — so you're likely to find more than a few streams of consciousness. Fluff. Some mild to moderate angst. Minor language. Minor use of Mando'a. Scattered mentions of fictional plants/animals. Narrative and stylistic use of italics. Moderate amount of proofreading.
Word Count: 6,074
The last assignment Clone Force 99 received from Ciddarin Scaleback was approximately three weeks ago — and it was not what Tech would call an ideal situation.
He wished he could say the lack of employment was the result of something positive. That perhaps the squad was enjoying a well-deserved break. Lounging on a white sand beach overlooking a sparkling sapphire ocean. Basking in the winds rolling over pastoral fields of grazing shaak. Sampling choice specimens from the galaxy's wealth of alcohol. Corellian whiskeys. Wines from Alderaan and Glova. Testing whether Mandalorian tihaar truly contained the oft-boasted quality of degreasing engine parts.
Things of that nature.
One far and away from their unpleasant reality.
As it currently stands, they were only given jobs deemed most worthwhile to the Trandoshan info broker. And that was regardless of their collective skill sets. Or the base needs of organic life forms to, ideally, consume two to three meals a day. Or, put fuel in one's primary method of transport. OR, the ability to acquire all necessary ammunition and equipment to complete these jobs in the first place…
The longer they went without payment, the larger their debt grew. Again, a situation Tech would hardly classify as ideal. Their current arrangement — or rather lack thereof — was frustrating to be sure. Not only for him, but all three of his brothers.
And perhaps his sister most of all.
Omega has taken the lack of credit-collecting the hardest.
Today is no different.
Every morning for the past fifteen days, Omega goes into Cid's Parlor to ask about available jobs. Any jobs. She'll leave the attack shuttle, sometimes immediately after breakfast, hopeful. Confident. Certain, that today will be the day!
And every morning… she returns more disappointed than the last. This heartbreaking cycle has gotten rather difficult to witness. Today is no different.
If anything, it's worse.
Omega comes back from the Parlor in a dejected shuffle. Head hung low. A soft curtain of blonde curls falling into her face. The red edges of each sleeve splotchy and damp.
Tech wants to say he isn't the least bit surprised to see his sister's eyes glittering with pearl-sized tears rather than their usual curiosity. As well as such an outcome was an inevitability. Bound or even destined to happen. But what good would that do? This is not the most appropriate time for unhelpful I-told-you-so-s.
Instead he meets Echo's eye just as Omega tromps up the gangplank to the Havoc Marauder. Each likely wondering many of the same things. The chain of events. What was said. What to do about it. Which was most appropriate to offer: a soapbox, a shoulder, or a solution.
The grunts of exertion in wrenching off each shoe — and the following THUNK!-s that echo through the shuttle — along with Omega's tearful declaration is answer enough.
"There aren't any jobs and Cid bl-blamed the five of us for the extra Imperial activity!"
Even from the opposite end of the shuttle, Tech knew which brother a particularly stiff sigh belonged to.
Echo took this as his cue to exit the cockpit.
"Don't, Hunter… We'll handle Cid. Later," Wrecker urged in hushed tones. "The five o' us won't be in Cid's good graces if we try to have a little chat about it now…"
"I don't disagree. But–"
"Sarge. We know. Nobody knows why so many Imperials are crawling around — Cid least of all. But that's not important right now."
Make no mistake: someone would most certainly be having words with the Trandoshan about this recent interaction. Strong words. Making Omega the unwitting recipient of such a serious insinuation did not fly right with any of them. But as of yet there was nothing, repeat, nothing to explain the uptick in Imperial activity on Ord Mantell.
So Hunter didn't argue any further.
"You're right, Wreck. Guess I'm still too hot under the collar after yesterday."
Tech would call that statement a half truth. One Echo would agree with judging by the pointed look he offers Tech once he makes a belated exit from the cockpit.
"How nice of you to join us, vod," the ARC trooper says instead in a mock croon.
Tech formulates an equally snide reply. And holsters it immediately after. He asks himself once again what good it would do to act like a petulant little shit at this very moment… When Echo is in the middle of comforting Omega, no less.
He's knelt down to her level, left arm embracing Omega as tight as he dares in hopes it will soothe her. Omega's own arms are thrown around Echo's shoulders in return. Her fingers grip to parts of his armor with enough force to rival even the strongest of magnetized locks. She's simply distraught.
Hasn't stopped sniffling her heart out since boarding the shuttle and throwing her shoes. More like lobbed them, according to Hunter. One landed mere centimeters away from the ladder to the gunner's mount — now Omega's room. When he sets the boots at the foot of his bunk, Hunter takes great pains as to not scold.
"I gotta say; that was some arm…!"
"I'm really s-sorry. Am I in a l-lot of trouble?"
"No. You're not in trouble," Echo promises. "I know Hunter's not the only one dealing with a shorter fuse than usual. I think it's everyone. Imps have a real nasty knack for making folks more than a mite twitchy."
"Wish they'd g-go away."
Echo squeezed her tighter, voice tender. "Yeah. Us too, kid."
"Unfortunately they will not. But we can."
Tech's abrupt suggestion — a declaration, really — garners mixed responses from the others. Surprise. Confusion. Immediate concerns about how they'd get off-world. And remain off the Empire's radar in the process. (Better yet, undetected entirely.) All of which are perfectly understandable reactions.
Including Omega's anxious protests and interjections.
Where exactly would they go? How safe would they be from the Empire? What about their money?
This was too risky. It would be safer on Ord Mantell. They should stay here!
Echo was the first to offer a knowing but patient look. She did have a point. Several, even. But Omega had been bored beyond belief the past fifteen days, and simply miserable the last five. There were only so many hours of staring at study material on her datapad she could tolerate. Same went for further practice with her Zygerrian energy bow.
And ideally they'd run more blaster drills with Omega, too — really get her familiarized with the DC-17 hand blaster and DC-15A blaster carbine models in particular — but their current supply of tibanna cartridges was getting quite thin…
Tech kept all thoughts that it was a shame the plan to acquire more hadn't panned out to himself. Not because he believed himself to be the only one who held these thoughts out of his brothers and sister. But because he knew he didn't.
See, Clone Force 99 had a close call with Imperial forces in the markets less than a rotation ago. And he still couldn't explain it. Not yet, anyway. The prevailing theory was one of three things: old intel, a mistimed patrol unit, or an entirely new patrol unit.
By all accounts no one should've been through that sector for some time.
Hunter and Omega shouldn't have run into any trouble making the run for ammo and various sundries. They made for a quick and methodical team. Were typically two to three streets ahead of the voluntary foot soldiers on a good day. (Four streets, if it was a REALLY good day.) Just not yesterday. Yesterday was different.
Trouble came goose-stepping around the corner and the two of them reacted accordingly. It'd been decided long ago the best course of action was bailing after the first flash of white armor — no matter if it belonged to fascist enforcers or formerly friendly faces. So Hunter and Omega cut and run without a second thought.
They returned without a single item out of the list of provisions Tech sent them with. He wouldn't — couldn't — fault them for it. No one could. Not when they heard about their sergeant and sister's successful escape. Which would have been fairly difficult were it not for Hunter's sharp senses, Omega's quick wit, and the over-sized green poncho they'd borrowed from Wrecker.
A simple rectangle of woven cloth draped in such a way that it disguised two people AND messed with facial recognition software? That was maybe a touch too absurd for Tech to take seriously. (Maybe.) It clearly worked. And it shouldn't be that surprising, either.
Hoods, ponchos and other body-coverings have been utilized by people from all walks of life since the galaxy's infancy. There are enough species and planetary cultures that incorporate these garments into their customs and daily life that they are not immediately viewed as being out of place.
And that often gives the Batch a major advantage over the Empire.
Everyone assumed that these stormtroopers had to know what they looked like by now.
There was no telling what else they knew, too. How many team secrets Crosshair divulged in some perverted performance of loyalty and allegiance. What exploits he hand-delivered. What fail safes and fall-backs were compromised.
What report Cross gave when the Empire extracted him from that isolated landing pad on Kamino before whisking off… somewhere else.
Impossible to say where, really. It's a big galaxy. Yet the Imps have found ways to make themselves appear near-omnipresent. Leave some trace of themselves on a dizzying number of planets — that number growing with each passing week. Meaning Clone Force 99 had thinner and thinner margins of error in dodging detection.
Hence all the careful discussion after a few short games of Wandering Sylop. They needed a partial plan to avoid an aimless jaunt off-world. The idea of which, after she was given some time to calm down, Omega was seriously warming up to.
What truly helped was something of a playful nudge from Wrecker while discussing where to go.
"Since we'd rather not ration out the Marauder's fuel, I say we stick to planets closer to Ord Mantell if we can."
"Awh! So much for a trip to Kashyyyk, eh, Omega?"
"Wreck… Kashyyyk isn't exactly—"
"Oh, I know! I'm only tryna tease 'er, sarge. I mean, you've heard all those Ha Dian videos she's been watching on Galactic Gander, haven't you?"
"The what videos?"
"Ha Dian — you called her the pretty Pantoran lady the one time you walked by while Omega was watching one of her videos in a crash seat!"
"Ohh," Hunter knew who Wrecker was talking about now. More importantly, what videos, too. "Right. Meant to look into her. Just since I've heard bits and pieces and I'm not familiar with what it is she does. Sounds to me she's been all over the galaxy, though."
Oh boy. If only the sergeant's senses were capable of warning him about the can of conduit worms he just opened. At least they're fortunate and it's a very cute can — Omega prattles on about Ms. Dian with the kind of bright-eyed excitement her brothers haven't seen in days.
Apparently Ms. Dian creates educational videos on a number of subjects. Her three biggest subjects are paleontology, pteridology, and batrachology. To quote Omega, many on Galactic Gander cite Ha Dian as the "queen of fossils, ferns and frogs". Not long ago she released a long video of an extended trip to Kashyyyk covering these subjects. (Which also explains Wrecker's earlier comment.) And currently, she's awaiting permission to visit Mikkia and the sacred jungles of Ithor.
Something about showing support for anti-Empire travel restrictions while filming another video on the former Separatist world of Akiva.
It's the first planet Omega brings up the idea of visiting — and the first to be vehemently vetoed by two of the vode.
"Unless I'm mistaken, it's the middle of the Akivan monsoons. We can expect to find heavy rain and flash floods. Which will make jungle traversal difficult, to say the least."
"Can't say I'm terribly excited by the idea of visiting a planet that produced thousands of battle droids during the war…"
Omega frowns thoughtfully. Okay, so maybe not Akiva. Plus the planet was further from Ord Mantell than both Mikkia and Ithor. (And those planets were out of the question for their own reasons.) So what about… something even closer?
Something like Shili.
Shili proved their most promising planet by far.
The Togruta homeworld sits in the Ehosiq Sector of the Expansion Region — putting it far closer to Ord Mantell than other prospects. Temperate climates serve as a backdrop to some of the many planetary ecosystems: grasslands, forests, and scattered jungle valleys. Shili's loyalty to the Republic has been well documented, too. (What this loyalty looked like now with the emergence of the Empire, however, is not…) And, all told, it should be a relatively safe place to visit.
Apart from the local raxshir and akul. These carnivorous megafauna the Batch would benefit to steer clear of. Especially Hunter, judging by the half-serious "hypothetical situation" that Tech's overheard him and Omega discussing these last fifteen minutes.
"You really think you could take one down with just a vibro-knife?"
"Probably could, yeah."
"Buuuut… how? Akul are really big. And it takes whole teams of Togruta working together to kill one! One small knife wouldn't be enough."
Tech may not be there to see it, but he can hear Hunter's cocksure smile clear across the shuttle.
"Don't be so sure. How you use a knife is more important that it's size, Omega. That goes for any knife. Even a two credit vegetable peeler is dangerous in capable hands."
"Only if it's a vegetable-sized akul," Omega countered with a giggle.
"Or an akul-sized vegetable!"
Hunter laughed. "Now that'd be some little ankle-biter's nightmare, Wreck."
Tech tunes out the trio's mock-argument by this point, attention turned to the nav equipment. They were clearly keeping themselves entertained. Good time as any for a systems check. Make sure the way's clear. That the ship's signature is still scrambled. See how much fuel they've burned off.
Ensure they haven't been followed.
This is a concern the ARC trooper understands. Together they share a slowly simmering worry that "one of these days" is today. That they will make THE jump to hyperspace which they get themselves spotted. Or just the opposite — the drop into real-space in front of an absolute behemoth of an Imperial cruiser. Worse yet, multiple of them.
Luck is on their side. Nothing on the radar apart from small specklings of debris. Easy to disregard. Anything remotely ship-shaped is given another inspection, but that's about it. Nobody followed the Marauder from Ord Mantell. No one's in the "localized" hyperspace lane gaining on them, either.
So they should be safe. Shili should be safe.
With any hope, Shili would be fun, too.
Honestly that's what worried Tech the most — the fun factor. Would Omega enjoy this excursion? He had a lot of evidence to support his hypothesis that she would. Or rather might, if he permitted himself some pessimism.
Omega, like Wrecker, had an incredibly affable nature. She was easygoing. The social butterfly of their squad. (Sometimes too social, but there were reasonable excuses and logical explanations that accounted for this.) She had a knack for making fast friends. For sniffing out common ground. Becoming chummy with gangsters, criminals, and thieves — much like Roland Durand — with frighting ease.
But she could also be quite… sensitive. Prone to pouting with disappointment when situations did not live up to her grand expectations. Credit where credit is due, Tech could not recall her pouting for prolonged periods save these last fifteen days. Omega did have a way of bouncing back relatively quickly.
Yes, even today. Where after three weeks of polite — and it was ALWAYS polite — inquiry for money-making opportunities, things can to an ugly, horned head with Cid and Omega returned to the vode in tears.
The gall of Scaleback. Not to mention the sheer nerve of her to reach out with faux concerns about 'unexplained absences' well after their departure. And a half-dozen deliberate(ly manipulative) appeals to "reason" with emotionally-laden if-then scenarios. All of which involve Omega in some capacity.
Tech eyes each of these messages flashing across the communications console with increasing venom.
After the way Cid treated their sister this morning — how very dare she?!
He reaches to respond. Echo slaps his hand away. Like he has a hundred times before. Only this time the back of Tech's hand stings more than usual. A silent and stern warning. Leave it, or else. Not the first time the ARC trooper's slapped a bit of sense into him. Literally, that is. Though Tech will admit it was deserved.
If he reamed into Scaleback now, it would sully their sister's shenanigans on Shili before they even started.
The Havoc Marauder was due to drop out of hyperspace in less than a minute. Then they'd be approaching the planet, calculating where and how to land. Which of course would require a pilot's utmost concentration. What's more, the attack shuttle unfortunately experienced a "technological mishap" while bouncing through the planet's upper atmosphere that corrupted all recent transmissions. Something they failed to mention to Gonky before getting off the ship once they landed.
Otherwise, he would've known not to purge those from the communications log while tasked with guarding the Marauder in their absence. Which was unfortunate, seeing as he only meant to be helpful after all…
Tech didn't know if Cid would come remotely close to buying such an excuse upon the Batch's return. Nor did he care. Neither did Echo, Hunter, or Wrecker for that matter.
All that mattered was here on Shili.
The Havoc Marauder touched down in a quiet and sparsely-populated corner of the Togruta homeworld. Save for disturbing a small herd or two of kybuck, landing had been uneventful. Clone Force 99 would have complained about such a thing once upon a time. But times have changed. The galaxy has changed. Uneventful landings were a blessing nowadays. A big one at that.
The hardest part was over. The Batch successfully made it off Ord Mantell and through hyperspace without being spotted by the Empire. And provided the Imps hadn't yet found a way to put skittish horned grazers on their payroll, the vode wouldn't face the usual concerns about snitches and paid informants. Kybuck were more than welcome to eavesdrop on them seeing as they had no understanding of Basic.
Not that the five of them have had any particularly riveting discussions within the last fifteen minutes. Unless one counted topics like supply checks and the best time to have lunch. Or discussing splitting up versus staying together.
Though it meant any hope Tech had of gathering unspoiled audio recordings was slim to none, he'd much rather remain with the others than take off on his own. No one could dispute safety in numbers. Nothing would make up for missing a fleeting opportunity to bond quite like this. Or being absent from the fun of an afternoon adventure — the same kind they once had in the GAR's glory days.
All the boyish nonsense they got up to could fill a holo-novel (or two). And what bittersweet chapters those had become. Because now that Crosshair had sworn his service to the Empire, he was no longer here to pen new chapters with the rest of them. A shame, really… Tech thinks he would have enjoyed coming to Shili. In his own, quiet way, of course.
The Clone Wars never had the chance to send the squad here. Not even Echo when he served under the Jedi and cobalt captain of the 501st. A rare first for everyone! So though this trip would prove to be a relatively brief alleviation of Clone Force 99's collective cabin fever, it would solidify itself as the most positive excitement they've had in fifteen days. A desperately needed distraction.
From all of it.
From the echoing death throes of the Republic. From the dreadful, sweeping arm of the Empire far darker than any Kaminoan thundercloud. From the devastating loss brought by the bombardment of the closest thing they — Clones — ever had to call home.
From the bantha in the room that is Crosshair's absence.
Of course distracting themselves from that is easier said than done. Save for Omega, none are quite ready to discuss it. The other side of that credit is willingness. Who would want to prod a wound of that nature — especially one that is fresh and festering? It is all but impossible to ignore in it's current state. Even still, the vode have (and will) done their best to. Repeatedly ducking, shimmying and climbing around that big, woolen brown beast of burden. Until they well and truly can't anymore.
Every last one of them knows damn well the bantha is there. Yet so long as the squad had a distraction — specifically the employment Cid provided prior to this drought — they could all go to great lengths pretending otherwise.
Today was rather different indeed. The Batch were charged with supplying the distraction for themselves for a change. And with any luck, it'd become a fond memory for all of them.
A trot through the scrublands, a kilometer hike downhill, and a sock-soaking river crossing later, the Batch had officially reached a small stretch of Shili rain forest while the day was still young. It would be a good while before sunset. More than enough time to stretch their legs and bask in unspoiled sunlight.
Perhaps they would stay long enough to witness the awakening of Shili's six (or so) moons. Maybe even overnight, provided they could. It would come down to multiple factors. Whether or not staying would put a strain on food and water supplies. Or the battery life and ammunition to their equipment. How much fun Omega had overall.
Splashing through riverbeds, and looking for frogs would provide hours of entertainment so long as they had enough Swat Shield repellent to deal with any pesky bugs. Omega insisted upon checking every little river, creek, and puddle she came across for potential critters while Wrecker looked for a dry place to picnic. Nothing could be done to rush her. Tech was privately amused to see her being so meticulous and thorough.
He would wager the "edutainment" style of Han Dian's videos were responsible for influencing Omega's behavior. She had even declined her brothers' offers to overturn some of the larger rocks they came across for her. Going so far as to directly cite something from the Pantoran woman in question against disrupting too many micro-habitats and "respecting littler lives".
Thank the galaxy for positive role models — they were in short supply these days.
Eventually Wrecker's hunt for someplace to have lunch brough them to one of the rain forest valley's widest, deepest rivers. It positively teemed with all manner of life. Aquatic vegetation. Buzzing hoverwing birds. Congregations of mammals and fish both near and in the water. Dazzling, multi-winged insects that bumbled, soared and glided through the air. Even a few reptiles sitting statue-still to minimize their detection.
Finally: frogs — lots of them.
Omega could scarcely contain her excitement. This is the brightest smile her brothers have seen in fifteen days. Three miserable weeks of unemployment and increased Imperial presence is now the furthest thing from her mind. Giggling in unfettered glee, she bolts for the river. A certain ARC trooper has the privilege of being pulled along after her to witness the first of many froggy finds.
Echo's a great sport about the whole thing, including the eager arm-tugging when Omega asks about catching it.
"Look, look!! It's a rufous-bellied lily-trotter! Aren't they pretty? Want to see it up close?"
"Sure. We'll look for one first thing after lunch, Megs. Sounds like Wrecker's getting everything ready."
"But– But– That one's reticulated!"
Omega's protest has Echo's full attention. Tech's, too.
"Did she say reticulated?"
"Okay, you two. What's special about the reticulated ones?"
"They're rarer than the spotted trotters!"
"Ninety-five percent rarer, to be exact."
"So can I catch it? Pleeeease?"
Echo chuckles. He knows he's in a sticky situation here. Were the frog in question a more common variant, saying no would be much easier. But this is a special situation involving a special frog. So why not meet her halfway?
"Tell you what, Omega. Tech and I'll help you catch this frog since it's so unique. Then we can show 'im to Hunter and Wrecker, and have ourselves some lunch. Deal?"
"Deal!"
The hours spent near that river went by in a blink.
A creature-catching, mud-wading, water-splashing blink.
And Tech did all that he could to capture it. Create a digital collage of these precious, candid moments. Sound bites of boisterous laughter. Images of his brothers securing some sneaky shut-eye. Short videos starring his vode — with only one or two co-starring himself.
Some of these records were for Tech's eyes and ears alone. All of it admittedly random yet innocuous material. (Perhaps a bit embarrassing at the very most.) Snippets of data largely removed from the greater context of events. To an outsider, these lacked a clear pattern. But for Tech, they were moments he was fond of for one reason or another.
Hunter pointing out a near-endless parade of animals to the others. Diligently watching their surroundings, scanning the horizon. Tending to his trusty knife. Or Wrecker's. Or the spare blade Omega had been outfitted with for emergency use only.
Echo doing little favors around the crude camp fabricated for the afternoon. Proving why he was made an ARC trooper. Clambering into towering trees with ease — limb difference be damned! Sitting for a spell where brilliant sunlight had infiltrated the sprawling viridian canopy.
Wrecker taking stock of the uneaten lunch rations, factoring them into the meal later tonight. Mock-sparring with Hunter. Coaching Omega's rock-skipping technique. Moving upstream to fish without a pole or net (or rather try to).
Finally, there was Omega. And she had dozens upon dozens of these candid little moments. Several hundred snapshots to showcase the girl's sweetness and shenanigans. Digital documentation of every trooper's envy: getting to act like a proper kid. Living free. Safe. Happy.
Little could spoil such a golden mood. Nothing could dim the pearl-white radiance of her smile. Not so long as she had (supervised) free reign here on Shili and all its many, fertile environments. Or her brothers' encouragement to fabricate a game for herself — one she bases on numbers and facts. And pictures.
So many, many pictures. These make up a majority of Omega's individualized file, in fact. Visual, high-resolution records of every last fish, frog and fanged lizard she caught. Tech gives special emphasis to the more unusual, rare, or even dangerous specimens. Together the two of them call her game Find, Catch, Record, Release.
It's not the most creative name, granted, but the game is rather self-explanatory. As are its rules, which are few and flexible. (If you could call them "rules" in the first place.) Omega was allowed to catch almost anything. If she came across something risky, Omega typically fetched one of her brothers for back-up. Other times she settled for watching from a safe distance.
An errant cinnabar leaper, for instance, was a prime example of the adage "look, but don't touch". A truly stellar specimen to demonstrate aposematism — the evolutionary art of cautionary coloring — in Tech's personal opinion. The diminutive amphibian had the most remarkable, riveting raiment comprised of romantically rusted reds and wobbly white markings. An appropriate advertisement of the frog's sheer lethality.
Tech and Omega observe it together, limiting their time to "just" forty-five minutes. By then the day was creeping from mid into late afternoon. A smidgen too early for a crepuscular frog such as this to be out in the open, let alone active. But there's no chance in hell either would pass up an opportunity to witness the leaper's natural behaviors.
Or, to fudge another of the game's "rules".
Catch a creature, redeem a fact.
This is the part of their game Tech enjoys the most. All this rowdy river-romping — whether Omega did so intentionally or by accident — doubles as an educational opportunity. Its given him another bead on Omega's current knowledge of the galaxy. An updated sense of her intelligence. Where she flourished and where she might benefit from further study. More importantly, it gives him precious one-on-one time with Omega.
For the most part.
Hunter, Echo and Wrecker would occasionally wander over to whatever muddy patch of riverbank the pair were currently mucking in to ask how they were getting on. If they caught anything interesting lately. What they were looking for next. The most recent fun fact she'd learned.
And Tech didn't mind. In fact he found it refreshing. (Refreshing not to be teased for these intellectual interests like Hunter and Wrecker had back when all of them were no older than obnoxious little cadets.) He would even say he's pretty damn grateful for the additional reinforcements for Omega's positively ravenous curiosity.
Not to mention their company.
At some point everyone more or less stopped giving real attention to the precise passage of time.
No one quite cared. Hours and minutes became meaningless measurements. The late afternoon discreetly bleeds into evening. Hundreds of rain forest shadows gradually blue and lengthen the lower Shili's sun slinks across a once azure sky. And the brothers had yet to hold a serious discussion about making their return to Ord Mantell.
Certainly wouldn't hurt to do so, not that there was real need for one. Their minds were largely made up in advance. Well before tropical songbirds put on one final performance and the nocturnal choral frogs — like the all-female crimson peeper — began their vocal warm-ups. Still, where was the harm in sharing a few of their thoughts with each other?
"I think it'd be good for her if we stayed. Good for all of us. Just for another day," Echo said.
"The idea being we return on Centaxday? I dunno if we got enough rations for that…"
"Fair point. I was mostly thinking along the lines of returning sometime late Primeday. Camp here overnight, explore some more in the morning, and have ourselves a bit of a lazy afternoon before hitting good ol' hyperspace. If we wanted to, of course."
"Ooh! Ooh! Can we camp under the stars?!"
Hunter had the unenviable honor of letting Omega down gently. It sounded like a fun idea, but they'd recently sold off the last of their Swat Shield! bug netting in order to make a few emergency credits. And all they had in terms of the next-best thing was a small supply of repellent; otherwise he'd totally have been on board with her idea.
It would be a lot more comfortable if they slept inside the shuttle. Not to mention she'd have more energy, too. Energy to catch more frogs. Or maybe go rockhounding. Or birdwatching. Or tree-climbing. Or whatever it is she wanted to do.
After Hunter put it like that, Omega was inclined to agree.
They would enjoy the quiet splendor of Shili's blue hour then make the return trek to the Havoc Marauder. It feels twice as long thanks to fatigue. Especially to Omega after all her many frog-catching, river-fording forays.
It's no surprise she's fast asleep minutes after Wrecker makes an offer to carry her. "Someone clearly had lotsa fun today C'mere, kid. I'll getcha back to the shuttle." All that energy she spent finally caught up with her.
Yet even in her slumbering exhaustion, Tech swears she looks happy. So much lighter and carefree given the opportunity to shed all of her disproportionate burdens. Successfully wrestling her attention from the vice-grip of news tickers filled with endless galactic woe. Granted the security and space to act no different than children her age. To even act like a child at all.
No concerns of contending with the Empire. Or a sixteenth day without a job, without credits. Nor facing the start of another week since leaving their brother behind on that platform; sorrowfully stomaching the complex guilt and grief that comes with a parting of ways. With missing — or better yet mourning — the living.
But for the first in a long time Tech looks at his sister unable to find evidence for any of it.
And he hoped that tomorrow would look much the same.
Author's note: Thank you all very much for reading! I started this story many months ago (roughly Nov. of '25) while taking a long and much-needed hiatus. I felt some of my favorite fictional characters deserved a little dose of escapism while enjoying some of my own. 🩷 Heavily inspired by the multiple Sunday evenings my dad and I just sat out in the wash by a well-hidden pond to go birdwatching when my seasonal depression was at its worst.
✧ Summary: You’re sulking at your brother's wedding, and your friend Rex notices. One thing about him is that he cares and is loyal to everyone he holds dear.
✧ Tags & Warnings: modern au, comfort, reader has an older brother, reader wears dress and heels, platonic relationship, childhood friends, past heartbreak bcs of a cheating ex-partner, mention of reader and Rex quit smoking (just y'all being rebellious young adults in the past y'know), cody cameo
✧ Word Count: 3.5k
✧ A/N: Happy weekend to everyone, I hope you're having a good time! Having a bunch of wip's rn especially the requests that have been in my askbox for moons (I'm sorry). Working through 'em! Meanwhile here's a sweet one with Rex, I hope you enjoy 😗💛
Main Masterlist | Read on AO3 | divider by @diviniyae
Rex knows a thing or two about a wedding. Maybe three. He's seen stuff in social media, and he's researched as well. Mainly it's just about how he should behave. It couldn't be any different than high school proms—only less rowdier and definitely much more organized. More aesthetically pleasing, more joy and love permeating the air, continuously so until the night ends.
Everyone seems to be having fun and are content with themselves alongside their company. Tables and chairs are set in the outdoor garden venue. Laughter upon fond recollections, memorable things shared between one another, fairy lights twinkling overhead creating a romantic rendition of eternity. One oddness would be so easily seen amongst the happy atmosphere.
One oddness such as you. Sulking by the punch table, a cold, half full glass of the red beverage in your hand. Your lack of laughter and smile in your own brother’s wedding are so misplaced. You seem to be zoning out, and so naturally for Rex—your next door neighbor for the last two decades—he is terribly concerned about your wellbeing. The emotional side of it, specifically.
His feet take him in your direction. Like it's so natural. Just like how he ran to the rescue once you fell off your bike a long time ago in front of his yard that he happened to catch a sight of. You look beautiful tonight, in your very own sister-of-the-groom dress, in your brother's favorite earth tone. You'd look brilliant and would simply turn heads, but apparently not tonight. Something bothers you, Rex can see that.
“Hey, you,” he says, his voice pulling you out of your indiscernible gloom. Your eyes light up at the refreshing sight of him, but only for a second.
“Rex.” You turn your body to acknowledge him. “Hey you, too.”
Your best friend nods at your glass of punch. “Wishing it was spiked or something?” He catches your weak smile at his joke attempt. “You okay?”
At the question, your guards totally crumble and are all bare for him to see. “I don't know,” you groan, slumped shoulders stripping you of grace. “Feel like lighting one up.”
“Oh come on now, none of that.” Rex’s tone turns from friendly to sharp caution. “You've quit. We've quit altogether. Don't start again.”
“I know, I'm kidding.” Despite the glam meticulously painted on your features, you still quite look like his most favorite rebellious person. You seem to take his warning seriously, your tone full with guilt for even saying that in the first place. “Sorry, though.”
“Nothing to be sorry about.” Thank god you didn't actually do it, though. Rex senses the disrupted, nervous air fuming off of you. His protectiveness kicks in, causing him to sweep the entire venue with a single swift glance before gently throwing an arm around your shoulder, slowly directing you to a quieter spot in an attempt to shield you from the world. Accustomed to his closeness, you immediately seek for his comfort, snuggling close to his person. “Why don't you tell me what's going on? You're supposed to be having fun.”
“My ex's here,” you murmur dejectedly. Rex freezes. “Turning my happy-go-lucky night straight down like”—your fingers spread mimicking a bomb going off—”kaboom-fwoooshh.”
“No way Hayden's here.” He wants to groan along with you, but he's trying to keep it low-profile here. “I didn't see him.”
You huff. “He's bringing his new girl. Pretty sure you'll see them soon. She's wearing lilac which is pretty catching to the eye, and I don't know what the hell's gotten into her head because—”
“—you’re not supposed to wear shades of purple tonight.”
“Damn right.” Rex is quite taken aback at this information that the both of you stop right by the dessert table. You take a slow, slow sip of your remaining punch. “They're so dumb.”
“Well,” he blurts out, a strange spirit of sarcasm and determination to support you in every way he can possessing him somewhat. “Fast fashion is a thing.”
“Rex…”
“I'm just saying that she's probably broke—”
You snort into your drink.
“—hence wearing something she already owns.”
You carefully wipe spilled drops of punch from your lips so as to not ruin your makeup. “Repeat wear is the hot trend, Rex.”
He shrugs, though with a tiny hint of smirk on his lips—satisfied to see you entertained, even for a second. “Whatever.” And yet he's sweeping around again to look for the cheating bastard who left a dent and nasty scar on your heart a couple of years ago.
Quick shuffles on grass signals both of you of an incoming. Rex opens his mouth to say something but Cody's smug-ass, hard slap to his shoulder shuts everything in him down.
“Evening, you two,” Rex's older brother grins.
“Hey, Codes.” You wave a little, but Cody presses a fist into your open palm. He's the same age as your brother, and both of you have a unique connection, but not as deep as how it is with Rex.
“So.” As soon as Cody opens his mouth, Rex wouldn't get a chance to say anything anymore. He just stands there. Cody persists with his domineering, sun-like presence; his tone and expression turns conspiratorial at you. “You seen the asshole devil yet?”
A deep knit forms between your eyebrows, cautious. He's definitely talking about the aggravating presence that is your ex. “As a matter of fact, I have. What’s—”
“Right, perfect.” He inhales. “Girl’s Betsie Parker—Excelsor Scholarship awardee, uncle’s in Canadian parliament, red hair's fake, and—probably deals in the streets, I don't know. Lives in a lux apartment downtown, definitely showers in daddy’s cash. Talks shit behind your back. That elegant facade is just a facade, lady and gentleman. Now, you don't hear this from me.”
You blink, still trying to absorb all that information, but still catch his drift. “What?”
Cody nods once, pleased. “Excellent. Have a rowdy evening.” He pats Rex's shoulder once again in parting, but not before throwing you a warm smile. “Congrats to your brother and his wife, anyway.”
You raise your glass at him. “Thanks, Cody. See you later.”
The moment seems to float again while the DJ resumes his slow dance mix.
“So,” Rex starts, scratching his pale short buzz. “Did all that juicy stuff make up the rest of your evening yet?”
“I don't know, Rex,” you sigh once again, not in the position of figuring out what to do with your ex situation. “I just don't wanna know about anything anymore. I just wanna get out of here and get my beauty sleep, okay?”
Rex can finally see the exhaustion that drips off of you, and the desperation to be anywhere but here. Probably taking you out to a McDonald's just outside the neighborhood. “So,” he shrugs, “Let's get out of here.”
You perk up, taking him seriously. “You bring your car?”
“Uh-huh.” He shrugs, smirking at ease. “Technically Wolffe’s, but yeah. Technically Cody's the one drivi—”
“They'll look for me, though,” you scowl, coming to realization, but not meaning to cut him in the middle of speaking. “I don't wanna ruin my brother's night by going MIA.”
Rex exhales. “Crap, you're right.”
Couples have begun to slow dancing in the center of the venue, a slow r&b tune now playing over the speakers. He watches you for a moment, your hand gently placing down the empty punch glass on the table and in turn picking up a cup of chocolate pudding. Wordlessly, you offer him a scoop of the goodness with the tiny plastic spoon. Rex hums his thanks while parting his lips to receive it from you.
“Have you danced yet?” he asks, quietly chewing behind his hand.
You chuckle, mindlessly scooping another of the pudding in the cup. “I'm not planning to.”
“But what if your brother's taking you to dance?”
“That’d be very sweet. Of course I'll dance with him.”
Rex chuckles fondly. “Of course—you’re his baby sister, after all.”
You spare a bitter smile, your eyes glancing up to get a view of the room before quickly looking back down at your pudding. You scoop one for yourself glumly. “I just don't wanna be in the same room as Hayden, that's all.”
Rex crosses his arms and steps in front of you so you wouldn't get a chance to see your ex—and the other way around. “But why'd you let your brother invite him?”
“They went way back, remember?” They're the same age as Cody, after all. You shrug, as if it's not a big deal at all. You too meet his warm amber eyes for a second, the spoon in your hand mindlessly stabbing into the pudding over and over. The forlornness in your stare remains to be seen. You sigh, not entirely giving up but probably feeling a headache already. “I don't know, Rex. I don't wanna overthink this.”
“This is the only thing I don't really like about your brother.” Because imagine if Cody would ever get married and he’d just let him invite his ex just because his brother and said ex are friends. “Just speaking honestly here.”
“It’s okay, I get it.” Your forehead tips forward to his chest, resting just right over his jacket so you wouldn't cake his white shirt with your makeup. “I know you're trying to make me feel better. I appreciate that.”
“I just like it when you're not scowling and all,” he speaks lowly, while rubbing your bare arm. Gently, his fingers tend to your askew hair. Sounds of destruction struck upon the dessert are still heard. “And um, you're ruining the pudding, by the way.”
“Oh. Oh no.” You draw yourself away from him to get a better look at the crime scene, gasping and half giggling airily at your doing—yet your eyes are genuinely apologetic. “Sorry.”
Rex stifles a smile of his own. “That's okay. Here.”
He pries the plastic cup and the plastic spoon away from your hands, and he gazes at it. A wondrous form of chocolatey mud with an unnatural scent of vanilla paste. He’d still eat it though, and he does. Passing two large scoops of chocolate pudding-slash-porridge into his mouth right in front of you to prove that he's not scared, nothing's damaged, and it's all okay.
“You’ve known me tonight,” you suddenly say, apparently intending to keep to his side. Rex is your knight in shining armor for the evening, after all—always has been, too. “How about you? Enjoying yourself?”
Rex smiles amusedly at your tiny attempt of being a host. Small talks, small things—but at least you're initiating the conversation this time. “Well, thanks for inviting me—us. Everything's great so far, until, y'know.” He eyes you knowingly, sympathy hooded over his gaze. “Seeing you sulking.”
You roll your eyes, quietly watching him tossing the empty dessert cup into the nearby bin. “Hope me sulking is not ruining your night.”
He releases a small, airy chuckle. “Come on, you? Never. Never have and never will.”
I can tell that the grass is greener
On the other side, with you
They happen to be playing one of his most repeated songs now, he realizes. Rex gazes at you. Then he directs his attention at some more couples filing into the center of the venue to dance. Then at you again. It's simply unfortunate that you can't really go anywhere outside the venue unnoticed—your family would be looking for you. And he can't really shield you from all these people who knew that both you and your ex had dated each other, and now both are in the same room. They'd certainly talk, and you'd go back to your shadowy corner wishing it all to end swiftly.
It's sad. It's making him sad to see you like this. It's not about that you've moved on from Hayden after all—apparently the anger remains. Deep, hidden, and covered so well that it hasn't immediately clawed out of the depth of your emotional trench upon seeing the bastard. It's not about that, but being reminded of all that quite physically exhausts you.
Good thing he's invited. He's here right now. He's here with you. You know that Rex always wants to make things good with you, just as long as you both are happy. That's why you've never separated from each other for twenty years of friendship. You lean on to him, and he provides.
I know you care about the faults in my life
Just promise me this, stay with me
“Wanna dance?” Rex blurts out and before letting the second thought get the best of him, he pushes through the unusual warmth in his stomach and offers you a hand. “It's my favorite song.”
You raise an eyebrow, amused. “Your favorite song is Strawberry Guy?”
“Hey, I listen to Strawberry Guy,” he says defensively.
He shakes his hand in front of you. You stare at it, pondering that you should take it at all. You want to, of course, but considering your mood tonight…
“Come on,” your best friend pushes again, a smile tugging on his lips. “You’ll forget that you're ever here at all, I promise.”
A choir sings an encouraging tune in your head. His offer is enticingly warm as a promised escape you so crave. It's coarse from outdoor activities like climbing and scout movement that he regularly does, but you always find the comfort in his grasp that you need that no other people has ever given you. Physically his hands are much larger than yours, and they encapsulate yours every time they are to provide you whatever that you need.
And then not to mention his hugs, you always like his harmless hugs. Either he tackles you out of nowhere, protectively snatches you from guys looking at you too long, or he just simply holds you there. You're grateful that he's always there. You wouldn't know what to do if he'd move out. You'd miss him for sure.
“Rex…”
“Everything’s gonna be okay.” See, his promises are never hollow. He always works hard to make it come true. “Just one dance. Or a couple. It's up to you.”
You blink away the wet sting in your eyes. “Promise this'll be one good dance, huh?”
His reassuring smile draws you in. “I'll try to make it to be.”
After another second of pushing away your hesitation, you let your trust in Rex take its place. Finally you lay your hand gently on his open palm—and as soon as you do, he keeps a firm grip on you, leading you slowly but surely to the dancefloor without another word.
What would I do
Without someone like you?
“Just to make sure,” Rex says suddenly in your ear, once you’ve arrived, before turning around to face your front. He’s hesitating for a bit. “Just… sway, right?”
You let out a genuine laugh for the first time that night. “Yeah, just sway.” As if it's the thousandth time you've danced together, you close a considerable distance between you and place your hands on his shoulders. “It’s all about following the rhythm.”
“I know that,” Rex scowls, playfully pinching your side. You slap at his chest, giggling. He shushes you to silence, his hands finding a firm purchase on your waist. “Just not sure if I should've spun you around earlier,” he murmurs truthfully, swaying slowly to the rhythm.
Following his motion, you bury your cheek into his shoulder, your hands sliding downward to linger on his chest. “I wouldn't mind that.”
“Noted for next time.” Rex pulls you closer, leaving no space between you. “Practice makes perfect, y'know? This is, what, our second dance together?”
“Third.” Your voice is a little muffled, but even under the music he can still hear you loud and clear. “There was Aayla’s wedding, remember? First time was high school prom because neither of us could find a partner.”
He stifles a laugh in recollection. How desperate the two of you were that the both of you shared a lit blunt in joint stress, sitting on the hood of his battered car while parked on the side of some dirt road. “We were both such losers,” he says.
“Aw.” You giggle into his jacket, your fingers clinging onto its flap. “You’ll always be my loser, Rex.”
He chuckles quietly into your hair. “I’m not gonna let anyone replace you as my loser ever.”
“M’not leaving my post,” you reassure him, humming in content as he tightens his embrace.
You rise to meet his gaze and now have the courage to come up, your hands slipping upward and joining behind his neck. He can't lie that he's relieved to finally see you up and about, encouraged, natural blush smearing against your cheeks once again. The song now switches to a blend of oldies and R&B, certainly by another pop artist whose pet peeve he's familiar with. Perfect for a wedding atmosphere, a romantic ambience that he likes.
You stand on your tippy-toes (and in your heels as well) to whisper into his ear, “Thanks for being here.”
Rex stifles his grin. “What would you do if I hadn’t been here?”
“Don't be smug.” Your cheeks burn in embarrassment. “Rex. You're making me feel embarrassed.”
“Then don't be!”
His boyish chuckles rumbling off his chest causing you to cling onto him tighter. His laugh should’ve annoyed you, but for years you've had him around you makes you feel at ease. It'd be empty if he doesn't laugh at all, even. Something would be very wrong.
“You know,” Rex mumbles after a moment. “You could repeat that, if you want.”
It's not that he’s trying to embarrass you further. But he's giving you another chance to toss your intentions across. His fault. He teases you a lot and you hate him for it.
All that I can say
Is that you belong with me
And a dreamer should dream
How else would dreams turn reality?
You lift your head so you can meet his gaze again, embarrassed flush still smearing across your cheeks, your lips pouting. “Thank you, Rex.”
Your long-time friend leans in to kiss you on the cheek, and he stays there, body swaying with yours to match the soulful music. “Anytime.”
You hum, inhaling deep in content, in the safe bubble that he creates. Safe in his arms. So far it’s only been Rex to make you feel that way—no past ex of yours could ever. Velvety deep musk flows into your nostril as you breathe his cologne, and your brain registers it as strange. Foreign, alien even. Rex is always more into vanilla and spice guy, and definitely not into Dior Sauvage FOMO thingy. He’s always found a way to be original, to be himself.
“This is not your cologne.”
Rex pauses at your protest. You can see a faint flush across his tawny cheeks. “I spritzed Wolffe’s cologne on me, don't judge.”
You scowl into his jacket, but you make sure you mean it with your stern tone. “Doesn't suit you.”
“I said don't judge,” he reciprocates, but you're quite positive he’s pouting. “I just wanna smell nicer for the evening.”
“Okay, you did 5 out of 20 for the attempt.”
“Wow. Ouch.”
No, I'm not sorry
For the way that I am
I'm not sorry for the way that I love
Or the heart that I have
“Don't wear someone else's cologne next time,” you demand, after a while, mentally banishing the uncharacteristic musk that’s emanating off his skin. “Just be you with yours, y'know?”
Rex slowly nods, his jaw shifting against your hair as he does. “Okay, I hear you.”
A movement from him startles you—he draws himself away from you, only beginning to lift your arm. You catch his cue, steadying yourself as you spin around and land back to both your feet and into Rex’s arms.
“Nice,” he praises, grinning and somehow out of breath, perhaps from the early nervousness that you wouldn’t catch his cue and you’d embarrass yourself again—tripping over your own foot—with the music still playing.
“I want Wendy's so bad right now,” spouts out of your lips.
Rex snorts a chuckle. “Why’s there always random stuff coming from you? But hey, I can relate.”
You grin. “See? We're made for each other.”
He squeezes your waist fondly. “So true.”
No, I'm not sorry
For the dreams that I dream
Or the life that I live
And that's all I can say
“So,” Rex starts, softened amber pools observing you closely with a tinge of concern, still. “Is this making you feel better?”
You don’t think. The wedding is still going around you, people still make conversation with one another, the happy couple still celebrating. All you could do is to focus at the moment, at how your best friend is sacrificing his time just to be with you—to keep you safe and uplifted, to keep you from standing out in a happy crowd.
“Much,” you decide.
“Yay,” Rex says with a breath of relief, grinning, before planting yet another kiss on your cheek. The gesture positively drives a wide smile into your lips. “You’ll always be my girl, y'know?”
“Mhm.”
At the end of the night, you feel exhausted, yes—what else would you expect when hitting the bed right away after a major celebration that is your own brother’s wedding?—but Rex’s pleasant company lingers on your mind.
As well as his spur-of-the-moment promise to take you out to Wendy’s tomorrow.
🎵 Songs: What Would I Do - Strawberry Guy | All I Can Say - Kali Uchis
A/N: You can request for x reader in my askbox! If you're interested in my clone x reader oneshots you can sign up as well to be tagged of future works. (Link provided ⬆️)
Rex: Force, someone is holding a baby out of a window at the Senate Building!
Coruscanti citizens scream at the sight.
Fox, glancing up, waiting briefly, then opening comms: Thire, it's been more than five seconds.
Thire, calmly: A short delay.
Fox, turning back to his work: Another boring day...
Rex, looking from the dangling baby to Fox, who is checking ID tabs: Aren't you going to do something!?
Fox, sighing: Nope.
Rex: Fox! You can't j--
One Corrie dives out of the window above the infant, grabs the baby on the way down, and is promptly caught by two troopers leaning out of the window on the floor below. The crowd cheers.
Rex: ...That was ridiculously reckless...
Fox: I know. A full ten second delay? I'm going to have to talk to Thire about that.
Rex: You guys really need a better solution to that problem, but, also, how often does that happen that you know how long it should take to set up a rescue?
Fox, grumbling: Too often. We keep trying to either seal the windows or put bars up, but nooo. Senators want to be able to be thrown out of them at a moment's notice. I mean, I get the sentiment, but I want to become clone soup on the sidewalk to get away from them. What's their excuse?
Bonus:
Rex: Cody, did you see that osik?
Cody, snorting: That was hard Fox-coded...
Author's Note: Woo-hoo, a little birthday chapter!! 🥳
Chapter Summary: Five days after her semi-impulsive move to Coruscant, Ravena makes a few personal and professional plans as she enjoys a rainy morning. She can't help but think of her family as she slowly settles into her new living arrangements and life. After Ravena picks up her new comm from Hasher's store, she'll pay the Breezeway District Career Center the first of many visits to come.
Chapter Warnings & Information: 3rd Person POV. Mild to moderate stuttering. Mild language. Brief social anxiety(?). Narrative and stylistic use of italics.
Word Count: 3,944
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Rain greeted Ravena's bedroom window long before her eight-fifteen alarm.
Real rain, that is.
It came down over much of the city in a comforting, steady drizzle. Nothing at all like the "Rain on Tipoca" track she's taken to using since Mrs. Helios gifted her the amber and wood sound machine. That recording was a relentless and marching rain. Perfectly suited for covering up the constant crawl of Coruscanti (night)life beyond her bedroom window — all the speeders, air taxis and hollow hum of neon signage.
Freshly roused from a dream of trickling tide pools on Glee Anselm, Ravena hadn't taken immediate notice of the weather. She first mistook it for another track from the sound machine. Maybe she forgot to set "Tipoca" to LOOP last night. Or knocked one of the NEXT buttons in her sleep. In which case, thank goodness it changed to something so tranquil and life-like, right?
Reports from the Weather Control Station state the rainfall started somewhere in the early hours of the morning.
Not a bad start to the fifth Centaxday of the month.
The skylanes Ravena could see through the rain-streaked transparisteel panel were the slowest she'd seen them. People puttered about—no faster than Hutts—on walkways far below. Their movement looked more methodical. Felt more deliberate in light of the weather. Some walked straight, unyielding lines. Others swung around puddles on the permacrete. An unexpectedly entertaining display while she slowly rid herself of a sleepy stupor.
Sparing her bedside chrono a glance informs Ravena it's roughly half past eight. Another round of neighbors should be stirring soon. Hurrying off to work or educational academies, most likely.
She hasn't met anyone new to confirm that theory. Not yet at least. Which wasn't all that unusual. If anything, that was normal. Normal for an apartment complex. For a planet home to trillions — nearly all of whom were granted this uniquely near-sleepless environment to live by a schedule of their choosing. When to work, when to eat, when to sleep.
Ravena could freely choose a set rhythm to follow, or conduct her own. Neither option would be "wrong", per say. Wrong would be picking a schedule incongruent to her lifestyle. A topic she'd need to revisit in the near future, having moved out again. The day-to-day spontaneity can't last forever. Best to enjoy these semi-lazy mornings while she can. Ravena reckons she'll be busy and miss 'em before too long — paying for those impulsive inspirations behind not only the (eventual) change in career, but the scenery.
Half the time she looks out any given window Ravena still expects the hypnotic blue hues of hyperspace to fill her vision.
It's a humorous little hiccup after living so much of her life on a ship with her father. She's grown so used to looking out view ports. Staring at the mechanical mishmash of a clumsily-named spaceport when they needed to refuel. Mapping foreign constellations from the observation decks of whatever station welcomed weary hyperspace travelers. Those were temporary, impermanent sights. Oftentimes a 'blink and you'll miss it' type of moment.
Now Ravena has a far longer adjustment period at her disposal. The various landmarks and waypoints are, theoretically, something she can truly acquaint herself with.
Call home.
And speaking of calling home, Ravena reasoned she better get a move on if she wants to collect the new comm she ordered through Hasher before morning's end. Wash up. Find something nice to wear. Fix her something to eat.
No sense embarking on anything on an empty stomach.
Today's breakfast is simple.
And it doesn't get any simpler than instant. Ravena fills her favorite thrifted kettle with enough water for caf and porridge, and sets it down on the hotplate. While waiting for it to come to a gentle boil, she roots through her conservator. A bit of pre-sliced fruit would offer a nice flavorful punch when stirred into the porridge. Help it "stick to her ribs" as Grandmama Atea had been fond of saying. Keep her fuller, longer.
A full stomach was a focused mind.
One can't fly a ship on half a tank and expect it to perform Boonta Eve miracles. Thankfully Ravena wasn't relying on miracles. Not this morning, anyway. There's no rush to get out the door. No one place to race to. No hard-set buzzer, counter, or any other kind of deadline to beat. She plans to drop by Hasher's store before morning's end, yes, but that's about it.
Ravena knows she'll get there eventually. After she sees Hasher and honors the "silly favor" he asked for, she'll pay the Breezeway District Career Center a visit. Neither are going anywhere or due to close anytime soon. There's plenty of time to get ready. Mull through what she can reasonably accomplish before she's out the door. Think things over.
Such as looking over her lease for any renter's customization clauses. Researching the most cost-effective public transit passes. (She'll hold off on committing to one for some time — maybe until she has a fairly secure job.) When to wash her hair in the next three days. When to get it cut, too.
Hair bonnets made from silk or satin weren't substitutes for a proper wash day. Neither were her favored protective styles. Certainly not for the hair type Ravena inherited from her father and his side of the family: curly, thick, and voluminous. Not to mention a slight pain to secure under a waterproof showering cap. Ensuring every long, black curl stayed secure was often easiest when she left her sleeping bonnet in place. (Though, sometimes, only just.) There was no such struggle this morning. Ravena's hair felt cooperative for a change and it wasn't long before the second bonnet was fitted over the first.
"Whew. Glad that worked out… Wonder how much longer I can push my luck."
She knew she was at least a month overdue for a proper cut and style. Ravena meant to ask for one final appointment with her favorite cosmetologist before the big move. Gather some pointers, product lists and notes for herself. It never ended up happening. With everything going on, she simply forgot to schedule one. Ah, well…
Aunt Wyan would laugh about it with her when Ravena reached out to her later. She always had good tips to share, and never minded doing so by comm. On more than one occasion Aunt Wyan dropped whatever she was doing to coach a young niece or nephew through a hair emergency — including Ravena, many years ago. She was roughly seventeen at the time.
The first and last time she thought of giving herself a "little trim" hours before a big date. Or any important event, for that matter. (Kark, what a mess!) Her aunt walked her through fixing the "damage" over video transmission; patient and reassuring for every step of the process. She could look back and laugh about the over-liberal lock lopping now thanks to Aunt Wyan's help.
That became one of many lessons Ravena won't soon forget about a lapse in concentration.
If she was brave—or foolish—enough to attempt another home haircut, likely once she found somewhere to work, that would get her full attention.
Much like how to get the shower running and the temperature adjusted. Ravena got it running once, albeit by accident. Bumped the middle tap with her elbow on the first night here. So getting the water started was no mystery — but how would she avoid boiling herself like a fish? All of the taps were new-looking, yet unlabeled. Ravena quietly hoped she wasn't about to break anything.
Can't imagine the Troig superintendent would be too happy about that when she's lived in 4550Cresh for all of five days.
She pushes the central tap towards the tiled wall. The remaining two dials light up red and blue once the shower head is fully activated. Hot water on the right. Cold the left. An experimental twist of the right-most tap makes the light brighter. Ravena gives it a moment before testing the temperature. Barely above lukewarm.
Another twist. Another pause. A second test. This time was perfect. The warm water felt simply divine for the next five or so minutes as Ravena planned for the rest of her morning.
Once she was out the door, her first order of business was picking up the new comm. She, Hasher and Mrs. Helios were all in agreement it might be needed for the intake form at the Career Center. And since Ravena would already be at Hasher's store, what was she going to do about the shopping? There wasn't much to get. Merely a few odds and ends. Loose handful of essentials. Should she stick to the essentials? Non-perishables?
Maybe after she's been the the Center was best. Unless something truly interesting caught her eye, Ravena planned on coming straight home otherwise.
While choosing something to wear, she wonders what to expect on the intake form at the Career Center.
Did these sorts of places even use intake forms? This, admittedly, would be her first time going through one rather than simply passing by. Ravena's curiosity was far from satiated by the Breezeway District Career Center's landing page on the Holonet. She found it more than a touch too vague. Many questions left unanswered.
Was a career center similar to a Holonet café? Someplace full of assigned and impersonal terminals to use in place of paying by the standard half- or full-hour? If that was the case, then Ravena figured she may as well conduct her job search here. At her largely undecorated apartment. Save on the air taxi fares and all that.
Now on the other hand… if it was set up in such a way that Ravena was (semi)actively working with a career consultant, that was a major point in the center's favor to consider.
She quietly mused there was one way to know for sure while gathering up her things.
Crossbody bag. No comm. Credit chip to pay Hasher. Loose change. Apartment keycard. Shopping list. Rain repeller.
Before she leaves, Ravena grabs an oversized jacket after one last glance out her bedroom window. Her knitted sweater dress would keep her plenty warm indoors, but be rather inadequate at keeping her dry should the rain pick up later.
Kind of a pity she didn't have a balcony — her houseplants would've loved sitting the rain while she was out.
Safe to say the half-Dathomirian woman wasn't the only one who thought to use the morning's weather for botanical benefit.
Ravena saw a fair amount of foliage and watering cans sitting on the street along her walk to Hasher's. For the most part, potted plants had been left out in the open. Meanwhile cans, buckets and other vessels were positioned to catch the rainwater coming off the awnings. It was quite clever, really.
A curious pattern emerged street by street. Those appearing predominately commercial, a vast majority of the plants came from closely related genus or species. Oftentimes two. Three at the very most. Streets that were obviously more residential held greater variety — not just in terms of species, but also in successful care.
Ravena did stop here and there to admire a few rather remarkable leafy friends that caught her eye, but never lingered for long.
Nysillin hybrids. Ornamental shrubs. Flowers she recognized visually; their names unknown. Prickly, bioluminescent things from Umbara. Shivering saplings bearing pods the length of her forearm. Whistle-reeds and dragonsnake ferns from swampy planets like Nal Hutta. There were flickerings of quiet envy for every rare or uncommon houseplant she saw, too.
Oh, how she'd love to own a pearlescent pothos some day…
Those have been a favorite of hers since Ravena was little. And the vibrant, cascading curtains of velvet ivy — simply incredible! She lacks experience in the more delicate ivies such as the velvet and has to settle for daydreams of it instead. It's simply too expensive to ever justify buying one on a whim.
A single cutting would easily sell for two to three times the cost of a view-comm (which is 3,500 credits). A mature ivy plant on the other hand? Ravena doesn't have a doshing clue. Her best guess is that she'd need some pretty deep pockets. And they would certainly need to be deeper than those stubbornly added to the pattern for her sweater dress.
Oh, Ravena could not wait for the galactic trend of gutting a garment's function in the name of fashion to die the bitterest of deaths! Having a bag is helpful, make no mistake. She'd never say "no" to having other avenues of securing personal effects and small valuables. But pockets. Pockets are just too damn useful!
It was nice not to juggle her keycard, credit chip and her rain repeller when she strolled into Hasher's roughly a quarter after nine for an abbreviated visit. Something Hasher seemed rather disappointed yet appreciative of. The store's positively bustling with all manner of customers. Well dressed office workers. Ship mechanics in oil-spattered coveralls. People like her who skipped in off the street to pick up an item or two.
Ravena is appropriately mindful of all her pockets while also being quick to get what she needs. Just two items for the time being. She grabs a datadisc from the electronics section and heads straight to the counter once she's certain it has more than enough storage for her needs. Her new comm will be collected at the register.
The rest will wait until she's finished her visit to the Center.
Following Benduday's close call, Ravena wasn't running further nail-biting risks with her storage chip. The thought of gambling with the safety of so many messages and memories is intolerable to her. She got lucky once. And every thought of that emotionally-charged "what if…?" left a horrid taste in her mouth. The blank datadisc would become a safety measure. She could work on making copies of the chip's files by this afternoon at the earliest. Then copies of copies.
Hell, Ravena might even triplicate the most precious ones — simply for extra peace of mind.
One can't be too careful when luck is a finite resource.
Or dealing with forces beyond one's control.
Hasher is hardly shy about giving away thick plastic bags to each customer in line for this exact reason. There's no telling how the elements will behave themselves an hour from now. Rainfall can sometimes increase in bursts. Winds tend to shift unexpectedly. So the bags are meant to offer additional weatherproofing. On that note, Ravena asks if there's any chance she can get two.
In case her rain repeller ends up stolen at the Career Center, or something.
The Dug obliges. While finalizing Ravena's transaction, he draws another bag from under the counter and gives it to her along with a curious grin. "O-hoh…! This is why visit this morning is so short? And why today?"
"Thought it was best to st-start looking for a job before needing one became an urgent m-matter. Plus I wanted to see what t-the Center's like for myself. See if I like the place."
Ravena collects her things, thanking Hasher for everything. She'll pay the Dug another visit. Get the rest of her shopping list and tell him how things went. (Hopefully well.) Hasher says he's already looking forward to it.
He offers one final bit of encouragement before she makes it out the door.
"Best of luck, Vena!"
Though the landing page was an arguable atrocity, the Breezeway District Career Center itself is a well-oiled machine.
And well-oiled machines often garner themselves very loyal and dedicated fanbases.
Ravena's no exception.
She makes it to the Center by late-morning, where it comes as no surprise to find the most immediate room off the entrance at full capacity when she trickles in. What surprises Ravena more is the relative quiet. Some light conversation and electronic chatter can be made out, and not too much else. Being mindful, she stows away her rain repeller as quietly as possible. Seems only polite.
Looking around, everything is styled rather like a Holonet café. Damn close to what she expected, in fact. A large, carefully arranged room full of impersonal terminals; some longer ones had six while most were four to a table. Posters and digital marquee boards adorn the walls at median eye-level. The boards appear largely informational — many cycling through multiple languages.
Galactic Basic. Bocce. Dosh. Huttese. Pak Pak. Some Togruti. Lots of Twi'leki. Many others Ravena doesn't recognize.
All the posters are art. A few are modern and trendy. Colorful contemporaries that stand out against the muted blue paint found on the walls. The majority are landscapes. Verdant fields. Sunny orchards. Towering mountains. Swaying seas. Things of that nature. No quasi-motivational tooka kittens precariously dangling from tree branches to be found.
Upon venturing further in Ravena picks up the scent of caf and fragrant teas. Must be some beverage and snack services elsewhere in the building. Hologram signage on the intake desk, situated a little ways off the entrance, mentions something about unlimited free refills on drinks. (Good to know one could source any and all necessary caffeine here.) Positioned above the desk itself are multiple viewscreens — each displaying dedicated information.
Green Zone: 25 AVAILABLE TERMINALS
Blue Zone: FULL
Purple Zone: 20 AVAILABLE TERMINALS
Micro Zones: CLOSED UNTIL 1300
Eatery: 15 MINUTE LIMIT
By themselves, these were a major point in the Center's favor. Everything laid out in plain Basic. It's quite refreshing, honestly. No wasting anyone's time with guessing games about availability; not when job-searching is enough of a time-sink on its own.
The Center scores a few more points at the intake and information desk. A worker seated there not only gives Ravena a promising sales pitch, but a fluorescent orange data stick, too. It contains all the on-boarding forms necessary for today's visit. Nothing too tedious. All the Center requires of her will be the first three forms — even then, they aren't looking for 100% completion.
Day one is all about easing people in. Helping folks familiarize themselves with the system. Figuring out what "square one" looks like for them.
"Wow. I g-gotta say… Almost s-sounds too good to be real."
The worker meets Ravena's understandable skepticism with a disarming smile. "We hear that a lot. So here's the second shoe. Sign-up is free. The Center only charges for three things: caf, snacks, and a small fee to duplicate and/or replace data sticks enrolled in the Lost and Found program we run. Sympathetic consultants tend to 'eat' the single credit that covers first-time losses." Even the most diligent job-diggers have a bad day here and there, they explain. Furthermore, that fee caps at five credits. The Center aims to avoid creating further financial hardship on their customers wherever possible.
Ravena now has one final question.
"How soon can I join the Lost and Found program?"
As soon as she likes, she's told. The process is a cinch! Pick any free terminal, insert the data stick, and click the big button that says 'Call Consultant'. Someone will be by shortly to walk Ravena through it. Registering with LaF increases the odds of getting the data stick back to her — galaxy forbidding it ever ends up somewhere it shouldn't.
After what happened to her old communicator, Ravena won't pass on a free safety net.
It's anyone's guess just how hellish this job-hunting process will be in the end.
Having decided where she'll go, Ravena makes her way through the Center with a flurry of emotions.
Excitement. Nervousness. Optimism. Worry. Curiosity. A twinge of embarrassment. Unrepentant wonder.
How difficult would it be to find work in a new career field here in the Core? Were requirements lax? Stringent?
From lived experience Ravena knew there were no cemented requirements, no single method to hiring in select parts of the Mid to Outer Rims. Handshakes replace contract signatures. Many conducted business by ear and intuition. A day's wages could be something other than credits. Oftentimes it was material goods, any local currency, or food. (On some of her previous trips to Tatooine Ravena had been paid with water, wupiupi, and the occasional black melon.) Knowing how to barter was invaluable. Reputation was built or broken with every (dis)honored agreement.
There was a certain kind of structure to everything that some tend to mistake for disorganization. An unregulated, lawless free-for-all. But comparatively, she lacks a solid frame of reference for how structure looks so deep in the Core. Especially on Coruscant, the heart of the Republic — no, scratch that, the heart of the galaxy.
At least the Career Center vows to withhold any judgment… Assuming the digital poster declaring as much when she walks into Green Zone is far from an empty platitude.
Ravena hoped that candid pledge was also capable of transcending any… cultural conflicts.
The career consultant currently minding Green Zone is a Dathomirian Zabrak. He's tall; perhaps taller than the troopers from two days ago by several centimeters. Arms and face covered with thin umber tattoos. Orange-skinned. Brown or black deep set eyes. And a blunted crown of short, cranial horns.
Each look at the other in uncertain silence.
Not for long, but long enough that Ravena thinks it would be best to leave. There were plenty of terminals in other parts of the Center. She'd rather not cause any tension or discomfort for the consultant if it can be helped. She turns back to the door.
"Looking for someone, miss?"
Well shit. Leaving without giving an answer would be impolite. She'd been raised better than to do that.
"No, s-sorry," Ravena began, turning to face the consultant, "I'm, uh… Well I thought maybe I s-should go to a different room."
"You're welcome to sit wherever. Devices aren't assigned." The consultant remains rather quiet and short-spoken.
People were beginning to look away from their terminals, wondering what was going on. One or two offered polite little waves. Most only stole a quick peek away from their screens. None of them appear to pick up on any kind of unspoken wariness to his and Ravena's interactions. While true neither knows the other personally, some things remain clear no matter how far away one finds themselves from Dathomir. The raspy quality of his dialect gives away he was born to a clan of Nightbrothers — thus recognizing her dialect would be second nature.
He knows. He knows she knows. And he doesn't give a damn. There were more pressing headaches to grapple with.
Literal ones, in this case.
"One small favor before you join us, if you don't mind."
"Whatever you n-need, Mister…?"
"Tah Resk. But Tah will do just fine. Shut off half the lights — controls are to your right."
Ravena obliges before taking a seat behind an idle terminal. Muttering a flat 'thank you', Mr. Resk follows it up with an apology for not shaking hands or welcoming her sooner. (The former's more of a personal thing, apparently.) He's been fighting a stubborn rancor of a migraine two days in a row. Not so serious it prevents him from working, fortunately. Symptoms will simply come and go hour by hour.
He'll help however he can, provided it isn't urgent. That said, before he takes something for the photosensitivity, are there any questions he can take care of for her now?
"Nothing that c-can't wait," Ravena promises.
Mr. Resk nods. He'll let her get settled in, then. Recommends setting a password on her data stick whenever she'd like to get started. Keep it meaningful but easy to remember.
Odds are she'll be using it a while.
I promise, unlike the real world, I won't drag out Ravena's job-hunt forever. :') Hope you all enjoyed the chapter, and thank you for reading! 🩷
Can i request a smutty Jango x reader fic, pretty please? 🥹
My idea is, he's a famous bounty hunter and has a business on Tatooine, where you work as a mechanic. Maybe his ship starts to sound weird, so he lets you to see it and he's also flirty little shit, but very handsome. You feel total shy and blush, getting his ship repaired. After that, he needs to get that bounty, and you go to nearest cantina for a drink, still processing Jango, but some drunk assholes decide it's fun to get their hands on you, (and what a coincidence, one of them is Jango Fett's bounty). You panic and try to get out of there, but they hold you strong. Suddenly, the one holding you (bounty) drops dead on the floor, while Jango casually hides his blaster and goes check on you. He offers you to go with him and work as his mechanic, while also being under his protection, and then the feelings explode (and also something else hehe)....😏💙🥺😍 Just good old angst, fluff, smut combo? 🥺
OH, but OF COURSE! Only because you said please!! Bestie, when I tell you that this ask has me in a CHOKEHOLD, I do not say that lightly!! Good glob, this is all I have been thinking about since it popped up in my inbox!! Please enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!!
Someone Who Can☠️
Pairing: Jango Fett x F!Reader
Warnings: (18+) smut, glove kink, vaginal fingering, biting, kissing, hurt-comfort, sexual harassment, canon-typical violence, bar room brawl, creampie
Summary: A famous bounty hunter walks into a bar and saves a damsel in distress.
Read on ao3 - 4.5k words
SW Writing Masterlist - Main Masterlist - My kofi✨
You’re sprawled out on a hovering creeper with grease and dirt up to your elbows. The influx of clients from the latest pod racing event has tripled your workload, and while you feel the need to complain, the steady flow of credits coming in certainly makes it worth your while. Though, you’ve been hard at this since the races ended, that was nearly a week ago and people are becoming impatient to get their vehicles back.
The glimmering flash of polished steel catches your eye. You scan around the room to see where it’s coming from, noticing its source walking right up the floor of your bay. You recognize the pristinely forged beskar at first glance, knowing for a fact this guy is quite literally made of money. You turn up your nonchalance, imparting to your new client that whatever he may need, he’ll have to answer to your schedule.
“Ahem.” The new client audibly clears his throat, but the sound is slightly distorted by a modulator. You push yourself out from under the repulsorlift engine, adjusting your eyes on the T-visor above you. His arms are crossed over his chest plate as he peers down at you, and it is in this moment that you realize you should have gone the extra mile to greet him at the door.
“Oh!” You jump up so fast you end up a little light headed after recognizing who he is. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”
You try to offer your hand for a shake, but immediately retract it when you realize it’s slathered in grease, opting to wipe it on the back of your pants.
“I know you’re busy, but I was hoping you could take a look at something. My starship is making some… odd noises.” He attempts to coax you to his ship, but you’re rather keen on testing out a theory.
“You’re right on the first part, I’m not so sure about the second.” You respond flatly, hoping to haggle a little.
“Don’t make me beg.” Those words coming from him make you weak, but you stay strong.
“C’mon, the begging is the best part of my line of work.” You explain with a dry chuckle.
“Please.” He steps closer, altering the mood with his assertion. “My usual guy got arrested.”
“Sounds like a you problem.” You say, wondering how desperate for services he really is.
“It’s not like I was the one who turned him in.” Jango says, but you know better than that, giving him a look. “Alright fine, but it’s not my fault he is wanted in four systems.”
“Then I’m sure the return on your investment provided you with more than enough money to find a new mechanic.” You attempt to dismiss him, making for a crate with some spare parts to peruse through when something remarkable happens.
“It did.” Jango drops a hefty coin pouch just brimming with credits into the piled up crate you’re poring over.
“Now, why should I push you to the front of my queue?” You ask, turning your back on the substantial sum. “You’d have to pay me more than double my going rate, all of which these kind people have already coughed up in advance.”
“Trust me.” His helmet tilts towards you, making you feel small but in a good way before another pouch is set beside the first one in the crate at your back. “Money is no object.”
“I don’t suppose you have a time manipulator that will magically make all the hours I spend working just disappear so that I don’t get behind on my other projects?”
“Sorry, the only way I’ve been known to lose time is with a fifth of Merenzene Gold and a pretty woman on my arm.” His attempt at charming you works, but you can’t let him know that.
“Nice try, pal.” You push him playfully away from you, walking ahead of him to find a damp rag to wipe your hands “I can’t fit you in.”
A third pouch is dropped on the pile and you realize he’s not going to take no for an answer. Thank goodness you’ve been playing hard to get. You could probably milk him for every credit he’s worth if you kept this act up.
You accept the payment, tossing the pouches into your personal lock box tucked beneath the counter, slamming it shut and resuming your focus on him. “So, what exactly did you want me to look at?”
“Right this way.” You follow him to where his starship is parked. Your stomach drops at the severity of its damage.
Hull panels are shot clean off, carbon scoring stains it from top to bottom, and there are some components that you’re certain will put you on a planet-wide scavenger hunt to look for replacements. “Aw jeeze. I’m starting to think the weird sounds are the least of your worries.”
“It’s… not as bad as it looks.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” You start inspecting, running your diagnostic scanner over every inch. Contrary to Jango’s claims, it’s far worse than it looks, in fact. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was part of the races too. “Uhm… about when did you need this to be fixed up?”
“I was hoping within the next few days.” He meekly suggests, knowing the timeframe is tight “I got a gig in the Telos system that I can’t be late for.”
“Even if I happened to have four extra arms, I don’t think that would be possible.” You coldly declare while putting your scanner away
“Well, it’s a good thing I brought six.” He presses a button on his decorated gauntlet and his boarding steps creak to an open. The comedically slow revelation of your new guests causes you to chuckle, and if not for his helmet, you’re certain he’s smiling under there too.
A flock of rusty, chipper little pit droids file out of his ship and you feel the workload quite literally be lifted off your shoulders. What you said before was obviously a figure of speech, but now that you’re calculating it, you have been brought more help than you would have ever predicted.
“Does this change things?” Jango asks, knowing the answer.
“Erm, y-yeah I think I can probably make this work.” You pretend not to be impressed when in reality this is one of the kindest gestures you could ever receive.
“Good.” He immediately makes a break for the exit.
“Where are you going?” You investigate, desperate to know where he’s off to in such a hurry.
“I have another engagement.” Jango tells you steadily before placing a cylindrical comm device in your hands. “This will connect you to my personal channel. Let me know when it’s ready.”
“Sure thing!” And just as fast as he arrived, he was gone and you’re left alone with all his pit droids.
Due to all the newfound assistance, you make incredible time on his ship. You are able to be in two places at once by setting out a couple of the droids on a hunt for parts while you keep things moving in your shop. You work well into twin suns falling and all through the night. It is nearly daybreak, but you’re finished at last and way faster than you thought.
You reward the pit droids with an oil bath while you wash the day away before heading out to the nearest bar. Your hair is still dripping as you slam a few drinks while standing in your bathrobe. The exhaustion of the day melts away like the grease in the shower. You consider calling Jango, but you leave it for later in the morning, surmising it to be too early right now.
You get dressed, tie your hair out of your face with a clean bandana and head out to your favorite hole in the wall. The walk there was fine. You get a few rounds in and make your way to the counter for another drink when a drunken squad of Nikto bikers mistake you for being a waitress.
“Hey, sexy thing!” One of them hollers but you ignore him. “Bring us another round on your way back, will ya, sweet cheeks?”
As you pass, the one causing a commotion claps your ass, causing you to drop your steel cup. When it clatters on the floor, you pretend to grab for it but reach for a tray off a nearby table instead, weaponizing it across his face. You strike him so hard, you could have sworn you saw his teeth being sent across the room. He doesn’t like this display and forcibly grabs your wrist. He rips the tray out of your hand and is about to use it on you when a whipcord stops him short. “What the-
“Goro Vesh.” A voice addresses him from across the room.
“Who’s askin’?” Goro drops the tray with a tightening of his fist as he fights against the hold Jango has on him from afar, streams of blood leaking out of the corner of his mouth.
“Tyber Zann.” He answers as his other hand hovers by the blaster on his hip. “Wants to know why you walked out on his contract.”
“That’s none of your business!” Goro’s eyes advertise his fear. Cowardice sets in and he spins and does a swift turn on his heels, taking you hostage and bound by the whipcord.
“I’m paid to make it my business.” Jango’s fingers twitch, ready to draw his blaster. “Now let her go and maybe I’ll let you keep your arm.”
“Nice try, dirtbag!” Just as Goro’s grip on you tightens, he makes the mistake of going for his own sidearm when Jango triggers the whipcord to retract in an instant.
You’re spun out of his grasp, stumbling a few steps away when the squelching of rupturing flesh and snapping bones calls your attention back to Goro. His arm is hanging by a thread as he screams at the top of his lungs, his voice cracking and going hoarse as he draws out every shred of breath in his lungs. Before the shock of his missing arm could even set in, Jango puts a bolt between his eyes and he falls in a pile on the floor.
The club goes silent. The band stops playing. An awkwardness only hangs in the air for a moment or so before everyone resumes their own merriment; an event that happens often enough no one bats an eye. The only people still in shock are the vestiges of his gang, vulnerable and directionless without their leader.
“Get out now, or join him.” Jango dismisses them and they scatter. He walks over to corpse and throws it over his shoulder without ceremony.
His pauldron brushes against yours and despite being a mere extension, it’s as if you grazed his bare skin. A gruff breath sounds deeper through his modulator. He tilts his head as if to pop his neck and release the tension, pausing as if waiting for you to address or recognize him.
“I suppose I should thank you.” You mutter under the cacophony of the club’s noise.
“Are you alright?” You can feel him staring down the impressions his whipcord left on your skin, feeling at fault for any modicum of discomfort.
“Oh, it didn’t even hurt.” You attempt to rub the irritation away but it lingers, giving him a torturous distraction. “I’m fine.”
“I’d love it if you allowed me to repay you.” Jango insists, adjusting his hold on the corpse over his shoulder.
“Oh please.” You scoff. “It’s not like you intended to interrupt my time off.”
“Does that mean you’re through with my ship?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“How would you like to come work for me?” Jango poses the question and you truly weren’t predicting such a turn. “Personally.”
“Do I get to keep the pit droids?” You answer his question with one of your own. “I was already starting to think up names.”
“You can name them whatever you want.” Jango brushes his curled index finger just beneath your chin and you can almost hear a smile come through that helmet.
“What about my other clients?” You can’t possibly leave them high and dry.
“I never said you had to give them up.” Jango’s reassurance tells you this really is the job offer of a lifetime.
“Well, why don’t we head down to the bay and you can inspect my work, then you can see if I’m fit to work for you.”
“Good idea.” Jango glances at the body he’s holding with a demeanor of disgust. “He’s starting to smell.”
Once you both stroll your way to the shop, Jango’s boarding steps open so that he may load the corpse into his ship where it will be placed under karbonite suspension and filed away with a stack of other stone subjects in the preserver.
“Not bad.” Jango examines his ship and notices that you even matched the paint to its original shade despite certain replacements. You really went the extra mile. The intricate detailing makes it seem fresh and good as new. “I’ve never seen it look this good.”
“It wasn’t easy.” One of the pit droids rolls out from around the corner, its head compressed down the rest of its body. “They helped a lot.”
The little guy pops out to full size and takes a few steps to join the others.
“I guess you’ll be heading out to your next gig in the Telos system, right?” You declare, sad to see him go.
“I could think of a few reasons to stay.” His helmet cranes over you, an unbreakable steel barrier between and yet it’s so intimate. His breathing grows heavier. As does yours.
His hand raises slowly, pushing the strap of your top off your shoulder, his leather glove stroking your skin. When you lie your hands across his chest plates the cool steel disrupts the broiling heat growing between you. His thumb strokes the impressions still marking your skin from the incident at the club. “You know, you looked really beautiful fending off my bounty with that tray back there.”
“You should see what I can do with a spanner wrench.” You wink at him with a grin and he chuckles lowly, pulling you closer into him.
“I’m serious.” Jango’s voice turns slightly as you trace shapes into his armor, admiring each other.
“I am too.” You venture out of your comfort zone, hands trembling as they reach for his helmet. The weight of its unmoving frame shifts and a depressurizing hiss emits from the base when the seal is broken. He gasps and you flinch thinking you’ve overstepped, but he doesn’t object to your advances.
“Can I… kiss you?” You ask, feeling it necessary before you proceed.
He nods, allowing that to suffice for an answer.
You lift the helmet only halfway, stopping at his nose. There lies stubble on his chin in a chiseled shadow of facial hair. Scars paint his features. He’s incredibly handsome and you haven’t even seen his eyes yet. So strong and sturdy. His bottom lip trembles with the need so badly to kiss you. Sensing his desperation, you reach up, meeting him halfway with a perch on your tip toes.
His warm lips are soft as they mold to your mouth. It’s as if he’s not felt this close to someone before. While trying so hard to hold himself back, you can tell he wants more. An inner battle ensues with that urge to remain emotionless. Distant. Cordial.
“You know, you don’t have to pay me to do this part…” You joke, acknowledging his rigidness.
Your remark breaks the ice and he laughs. His lips crack into a smile, a set of bright and perfect teeth making a glorious appearance. “So she’s gorgeous, and funny.”
“That’s not all I am.” You push him into the nearest wall, cornering him but he’s exactly where he wants to be and immensely appreciative of your candor. “Can I see you?”
The cinder blocks he’s stacked in his mind are giving him a cold sweat when prompted by this additional inquiry, claustrophobic amidst the unshaken restrictions he’s fortified for himself. He sits high atop his tower, estranged from others while secluded in the foothills of regret.
Though he’s convinced himself he wants for nothing, the one thing he feared the most is beckoning at his gates. His avoidance has made this harder than it has to be. His heart beats with a rhythm of its own, testing him when he thought the instinct to survive was all there was to live for. It is only now, seeing you in front of him, that he realizes there is something more.
As his deep brown eyes peer right into your soul from beneath his beskar veil, you want to just rip this helmet off the rest of the way, but you’ll abide by your patience and wait for his admission.
He nods again, tucking his chin slightly so that he could escape the shroud before you even make another move. You are finally greeted by each other’s gaze, true and passionate. As the helmet descends, you feel Jango take it from your hands, to set it down on a slightly cluttered workbench while his unoccupied hand crawls up the length of your back.
His hand meets the nape of your neck. His powerful grip upturns your head so that his lips could fall over your mouth. His tongue ventures past your teeth, intertwining with yours until your flavors are indistinguishable from one another.
His leather gloves creak in your ears when he takes fistfuls of your hair. You wish to climb atop of him, pushing him harder into the wall when he thinks up an even better idea.
He reels back his kiss so that he could speak to you, struggling to enunciate through your peck placing all over his jawline and down his neck. “I hope you won’t mind my making a mess, darling.”
“You can do whatever you want...” You whisper against his lips, misconstruing the meaning of ‘mess’, thinking he meant something completely different.
“In that case…” He starts before momentarily directing his attention to the sturdy-looking counter space within arm’s reach. He uses his plated arm to clear a space large enough to accommodate the both of you, sending all your tools, parts and components over the edge.
Everything clatters to the floor in a loud crash. His ability to take control is invigorating and your stomach is all aflutter when he deposits you directly atop the workbench surface with a frenzied slam. You’re breathless from being manhandled so aggressively, gasping for air when he starts to peel off your clothes. Thank goodness you showered. He’s wasting no time in putting his head right between your thighs.
The cold plates of his armor sting against your bare flesh, but you’re soon acclimated when the radiating heat from your core spreads all through your body. You cannot believe this is happening. It’s all going so fast, and yet you don’t want things to slow down. He keeps your legs caged by his arms, both palms digging into your hips. He flashes a wickedly sinful look your way, before his hot mouth familiarizes itself with your other lips. His tongue spreads your petals, lapping up your nectar as it slickens its source.
It’s a fight to hold your head up. You want to keep watching him, but every touch of his tongue on your entrance has you crying out and gripping the workbench for dear life.
“You’re delicious…” He tells you through his southern make out before diving back in for another taste. You’re nearing the stratosphere, so high on this elation that you begin to see stars while he remains anchored to your clit.
His fervent devouring takes a thrilling turn when you notice one of his hands moving. His fingers trace the contours of your curves as they make their way to your plump cheeks. Without removing his mouth from your steaming sex, he circles your soaked entrance with his gloved middle finger, tempting the unthinkable while you lie there vulnerable at his mercy.
Your hips begin to gyrate at the notion of his invasion. You wish for him to breach your walls and claim you as his from the inside out. His stare is locked on you, that furrowed and darkened brow just burgeoning with concentration in getting you there.
Enough of his teasing. He plucks his mouth off of you, using his teeth to remove the glove from his hand. He bites down on the very same middle finger he used on you, letting not even a smear of your flavor go to waste. He sucks it clean, clenching his glistening jaw around the digit so that he can pull the glove off. All through this, he doesn’t stop looking at you for even a second.
His tongue finds your clit again. Jango shoves his articulate muscle against that little bud like there’s no tomorrow, only this time, he’s slowly sinking that salaciously used middle finger into you.
Your eyes cross at the displacement you feel within, mouth hanging wide open as he inches in a little deeper. Your hips move more erratically, and Jango takes that as your blessing to turn things up a notch.
In and out. In and out. Your walls clench and dilate around his finger while he steadily feasts on your pussy. You’re being simultaneously filled and played with so thoroughly, it’s in no time at all that those stars you see turn into fully formed galaxies as you yourself go supernova.
Your thighs clench around his head, suffocating him relentlessly as you come hard on his mouth. The curl of his finger inside presses your button at the right moment and you’re left quivering on the workbench. It’s like static ripples pass in waves over your entire being. And just when you start to catch your breath, he rescinds his contact with you.
You’ll not mourn the departure for long, watching in real time as he scrambles to rid himself of his utility belt and holsters. The chiming metal of his blasters falling on the floor advertises the weight of his ordinance and he hasn’t even dropped his codpiece yet.
As you wait for the inevitable, you beam at him with your lower half exposed. As if things weren’t hot enough, you think this is a good time to lift your shirt over your head.
“Oooh… Now that’s a sight to behold.” Jango licks his lips at your appetizing display, ripping his codpiece off once and for all and tossing it aside with a loud clang.
You prop your heels at the edge of the workbench while reaching out for the other sides, your arms apart to showcase your chest. He steps closer, hooking your leg over one of his arms to yank you closer. The creak of the workbench shifting startles you with the way it causes your heart to jump, but you feed on the spike of adrenaline and the thrill of this encounter. As he holds you in place, he undoes a clasped opening in his undersuit, freeing his cock from the confines of his clothes.
He needs not stroke himself as he’s already hard as a rock. Holding it at the base like a wand, he guides himself to your entrance, collecting some of your wetness on his plump and girthy tip. You cannot handle his constant teasing, softly begging him to spit you in half. “Fuck me… Please…”
“As you wish.” Jango ceases his intermission, knocking himself up against you so that he may immerse himself within your walls. The stretch puts his fingers to shame as he goes all the way in on the first thrust. You feel him punch the base of your stomach, igniting a burn that is impossibly scorching. Jango surrenders to his lustful desires and slams one of his hands beside your head on the flat surface for support. He’s hovering above you now, eclipsing the light that surrounds you to cast his shadow along your form. His hips roll into yours, sliding himself in and out just like his fingers, but with far more gratification.
As he thrusts into you, his head descends farther until he’s suckling on your breasts. He’s hunched and panting and all you can do is lie there and take everything he has to give you. His suckling on your breasts morph into kisses and love bites climbing up your collar bones until he finds a home at your lips. You kiss him back while wrapping your arms around his neck. He plunges as far as he could possibly go, bracing himself against the workbench with every push and lunge. The mechanical creaking’s pace quickens and you can tell Jango is about to experience the same euphoric experience with you following suit again and again.
It happens before he knows it. Things elevate much too quickly when he realizes he’s deprived himself of this level of bliss. The power behind his thrusts grows as he buries himself into your neck, but the hot air of his breath proves to be suffocating. He pushes off of you, peering at your whole body as he makes it jiggle and shake at his will.
This is what sends him over the edge faster than your tools on the floor. Your expressions, your half-lidded eyes love-drunk on him and no one else, the way you lie there repetitively getting impaled on his cock.
With one of his gloves missing, he uses booth hands to hold onto your stomach and concentrate on its distention as he pushes himself inside. As an added benefit to his view, you straighten your knees so that your feet are pointed to the ceiling. He’s fucking you so hard, the workbench can hardly keep up with the shifting back and forth, that is until Jango’s ballooning warmth starts to drip over the counter’s surface.
The friction inside ceases as his spend coats your inner walls. It’s sweltering as it combats with your own body temperature. Jango lets out his own shuddered moans and grunts at this climax. The cadence of your breathing matches his as you both ride the surge of ecstasy.
Even though this is the most fun you’ve had in years, you can’t help but think that an arrangement like this with any one of your clients would harbor the possibility of making things difficult. You leapt for desire and didn’t consider the consequences.
“Still want me to work for you?” You ask, thinking this engagement couldn’t possibly be fit for business, but you can’t deny wanting to spend the rest of your days by his side. Regardless, you’re eager to clear the air lest your heart be broken.
While still inside you, micro-thrusts keep the fire alight as if he’s ready to go another round, he asks, “When can you start?”
✧ Summary: You escaped the comfort of your own bed and your boyfriend Fireball only to have him chasing you down not too long after, sleepy and clingy and pleading.
✧ Tags & Warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, established relationship, fun clone namedrops and cameo, fireball and reader being L together, W rex this time, clones being comedians,
✧ Word Count: 1.7k
✧ A/N: HI EVERYONE LONG TIME NO SEE. I'm back with my “it's late you should sleep” bullshit and most importantly my Fireball bullshit because WE NEED MORE FICS ABOUT THIS MAN. Fun namedrops again, making mends to the last time where I couldn't place some more troopers 👀
Main Masterlist | Read on AO3 | divider by @dollywons
You sip on your tea. Herbal scent and steam swirls into the tip of your nose. The tips of your fingers holding the mug steady against your lips absorb the heat, the emanating warmth helpful in prying and keeping your eyelids open.
It's late. You woke up somewhere between 0200 and Gregor’s giggles down in the hall joking with another trooper, peeling yourself off of Fireball's arm around your waist. Getting dressed as quietly as possible and making your way to your station, sleep slipping away from your person with each step of the way.
You tapped Jesse in the shoulder and offered to replace him, and he headed out to his bunk gratefully. Not being a douche, but he was just back from another rescue mission and he was injured. Still injured. So, for now, manning the comms, monitoring the countdown to another check-in with another team who's sent out there, as is your job here helping their underground network—you’re on your own.
Or so you thought.
You hear the door zips open, and you hear firm, steady stomps of trooper boots. At first you probably think it's Rex, or perhaps Howzer. Or maybe Kix even, wanted to check in with his brother who's gone to rest at your behest.
“Mesh’la…”
Caught.
Fireball sighs loudly, a sound of disappointment and yearning just behind your person. “What are you doing?” The distance between you and him recedes with each step. His hand falls to your shoulder before it slides across your collar bone and entraps you in a sloppy hug. “You need to be in bed.”
You're almost, almost swayed by the drowsy drawl in his voice to actually hit the bed again with him in tow. But your damn brain still wants you to be awake. You set your tea mug down, and rest your hand on top of his on your shoulder, squeezing. “I can't sleep, Fireball.”
“Apparently,” he remarks softly, and you can smell more disappointment coming off of him in tiny, tiny waves of it. Your beloved plants little kisses to your temple, as if begging you wordlessly, his voice drawls adorably when he speaks. “Something bother you?”
“No, nothing bothers me.” You tilt your head, his cool skin brushing against your flushed cheek, and capture his lips with your soft ones. The notion tugs a soft, drowsy whimper out of him. “I don't know,” you whisper, honest. “I just can't.”
“Maybe just feeling a bit restless.” Fireball’s warm amber eyes meet yours for a second before he kisses you again, pouting and murmuring against your lips. “Missed you. We should be sleeping together right now. We don't get night shifts today.”
You give him a noncommittal smile, which makes him pull the chair next to yours and root himself on it. Fireball yawns. His eyes are determined when he sets his eyes on you again.
“Do you want me to fireman carry you?” Although he's smirking, there's a hint of patience in his voice. He drags the damn wheeled chair to your side and holds your hand. “Hm? Knock your lights out and drag your unconscious body to bed?”
“I will hit you,” you chuckle heartily.
“Nah.” He leans into your space again and kisses your cheek. “Not gonna hurt anyway.”
Your sweet, sweet Fireball can be very clingy when he lets his guard down. Not to the point of being insufferable as he's still got dignity to upkeep, though. And yet secretly you also crave this side of him at all times—touchy, clingy, a one-minute silence away from dropping everything and falling asleep. His hair isn't as styled as it looks during the day, looking like he only jabbed his fingers through and combed it roughly to keep it away from his face not five minutes ago. Nevertheless, he looks adorable.
“Why are you wearing armor?” you ask, scratching at a slight dent on his dark green chest plate with your nail.
“Because my armor is me, and I am nothing without my armor.” Fireball’s warm, gloved hand squeezes yours. “You know that.”
You hum, reclining back against the chair. Your mug of tea is abandoned. “It’s so quiet tonight.”
“Preferable Teth situation on a normal basis.” If not for his lingering drowsiness, it would sound like a deadpan. Fireball clears his throat, his tone quirking. The gleam in his eyes tells you already. “I have a few ideas, if you're bored. All of them include this interactive and persuasive human connection called ‘let’s head back to bed and sleep'.”
Your guilt sinks to your stomach. “Fireball…”
“Mesh'la, please.” He squeezes your hand again, using his hold as leverage to pull himself into you. The tip of his nose nudging your cheek, lips dragging lazily across your jaw to persuade you to the very best of his abilities while sleepy. His breath is warm against your skin, murmuring, almost inaudible. “Please?”
All you want to do now is to grab his face and place soft kisses on his lips. Wordless sorry’s in every touch. Fireball deserves that after you left him alone. Deep pools of glistening amber plead to you, and you can no longer resist the proximity. You kiss him, capturing his lips between yours, holding a couple of seconds longer while putting your apology at the forefront of your heart and willing to let sleep engulf you at last.
“Okay,” you concede, holding him upright by the shoulders when he seems to fall asleep for a second. Your heart sinks further. “Fire?”
He blinks sleepily. “Hm?”
“I'm sorry if I hurt you somehow.”
“You didn't.” Fireball's smile is slow and dopey with all the amount of power he's got in order to fight the sleep as he gets up and towards the door. “I'm gonna find someone. Stay here.”
And it isn't long when your private midnight solitude is breached with the sound of the door opening. Your knees prompt you to stand upon the anticipated declaration of freedom—from the impromptu comms supervision, that is—and you're just as much as taken aback as Rex is when he lays his eyes on you. Fireball is absent anywhere near him.
“Oh it's you,” the blond captain muses, eyebrows raised upon the discovery. His eyes scan over your station for a nanosecond before returning to you with a flash of concern. “Everything okay so far?”
“Um, yeah, good.” You scramble out of the vicinity of your previous seat. You're still caught off guard by the sudden presence of Rex, suddenly feeling cornered. “Ahem. Next check-in is due in 8, though.”
Rex nods his head taking that in, though he seems like he still can't put what's missing, aside that you're not supposed to be on the hour yet. “Isn't Jesse supposed to be here?” he asks then, remembering.
You swallow. “I, uh, sent him away.”
Rex visibly relaxes. An audible sigh through his nostrils, sounding almost grateful for one less thing to worry about. “Yeah, he needed a lot of rest from the last one.” He runs a hand over his face, tired. “You? Can't sleep?”
“Yeah,” you let out an awkward chuckle, cheeks flushed from the embarrassing story starter bit that put you here in the first place. “Got busted, though.”
Rex takes the information kindly with a fond laugh of his own. “Yeah?” he asks, a clear-as-crystal teasing hint in his tone. “Where is he, then?”
As if everything's on goddamn cued that makes you regret even more than twenty seconds ago—you really should've never gone out of your and Fireball's shared quarters—your boyfriend saunters into the room with another trooper behind him, the confidence in his steps is put to an abrupt, almost alarmed stop when Rex pivots toward the door.
Fireball's eyes widened, as if the drowsiness melts away entirely from his body. “Rex.”
“Fireball.” Rex arches one eyebrow, craning his neck over to catch a glimpse of silver hair just behind your boyfriend. “Sinker. What, you got pulled out of duty?”
The 104th vet sighs, turns to a defeated Fireball with a gaze that says I told you so, and pats him firmly in the shoulder. “Sorry, dude. Busted.”
Fireball pats Sinker’s back with a lazy swing of the arm, in the process of slightly shoving the other trooper away to make space in the cramped doorway. “Yeah. Seemed to be the main theme of the episode,” Fireball mumbles, nowhere near grumbling but hilariously accepting. Once Sinker's fully gone out of the vicinity two seconds later, Fireball shrugs apologetically. “Sorry, Rex.”
Rex shakes his head, arms crossed, a tiny hint of a fond smile daring to stretch his lips. He tilts his head back at you, and then at the door. “Why don't you two get some rest since neither of you are supposed to be here anyway? I’ll watch the comms.”
Without wasting time to ponder over the generous permit and volunteer, you slip past Rex and join Fireball at the door with a quick shuffle of your feet, eager to escape the teasing glance the captain is throwing at the both of you as you go.
“Night, Rex,” you wave a little, the other hand already held by Fireball to drag you out of the damn comms room. The tips of his ears are also red. “Thanks. And uh, sorry.”
Rex makes a little shoo-ing gesture at you just before the door slams in your face when Fireball finally drags you away, and swift, in the direction of your shared quarters in another wing.
“Seriously.” Fireball squeezes your hand instead, wishing that he'd grab your face and smoosh your cheeks together out of aggression. “It needed to be Rex to get you out of there.”
You slap at his shoulder blade. “Whatever.” No matter how close and casual both of you are with Rex, it's still embarrassing to go through all that literally in the face of a leadership, for kriff’s sake. “Let's just go to bed.”
Arriving at your door, Fireball pokes your flushed cheek, grinning. “Oh so you wanna go back to bed now.”
You let out a whine against his deep chuckles, ducking underneath him to key the door open, cool sheets and thin pillows waiting for the both of you. “Would be nice if you shut your cake hole.”
“Been itching to say it, mesh'la,” Fireball grins, pulling you to his chest once both of you are inside and kissing your flushed cheeks and pouting lips with a sleepy yet intense brush of his affection.
A/N: You can request for x reader in my askbox! If you're interested in my clone x reader oneshots you can sign up as well to be tagged of future works. (Link provided ⬆️)
Fox sacrifices protecting his Guard to protect the Vode above all else.
Even if he has to hurt his own men. The ones who carried him through the war. Dishonoring the memory of the brothers who died under his command. He was going to do it. But still, saving the GAR from this particular fate instead of saving his own corps feelt like betrayal. He didn’t expect forgiveness in death. He didn’t deserve it.
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Fox stared at the data pad. It had been over a thousand rotations on this planet called the Heart of the Republic and each one of them had felt like spiraling deeper into a void.
He had come to terms to never seeing an end to this war, to never receiving the support of the people they were created to guard, to be a face shared with millions of men so forgettable they never bothered to show it in their propaganda.
Fox always assumed he would march on with the knowledge he did everything in his powers - limited as they were - to create a current washing his brothers ashore when he would eventually drown. His lungs were already refusing to draw a deep breath with the realization that he would drag them to the bottom of the ocean with him.
There was no good or bad choice, only consequences someone would have to bear. The only way out for anyone was through. There was no time to craft a plan and wasn’t that ironic, the Marshal Commander with contingency plans for contingency plans had not prepared for this. He really didn’t deserve to lead the home front. His troops would turn it into a battle field.
He read the list of orders programmed into every code’s brain one last time before hitting an unassuming little button on the bottom right corner of the com. He just signed the Guard‘s death sentence.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Quinlan Vos had come to know the Guard as an integral part of Coruscant‘s security forces. They had filled the gaps when more and more Jedi were called away to the war fronts which were spanning to the furthest corners of the Outer Rim. They had communicated with the Temple Guard dispute the Temple being out of their jurisdiction. They had tried to create and hold up a network of support.
It was obvious the clones cared about the natborns, about the force sensitive beings, about the stray tookas and massiffs inhabiting Coruscant. They cared about protecting civilians and did an outstanding job guarding those who saw themselves above them. The commanders were courteous, competent and closed off - by extension their troops were efficient but evasive when approached about internal matters.
Similarly Quinlan hadn‘t any place on the stage filled with too many actors trying to outshine eachother. As a Jedi shadow he didn’t show up to dissolve a conflict and save the day. Sometimes he even instigated it. But he had dug deeper into the scripts the wide audience was unaware of playing out in front of their eyes. He had build connections.
When he had first dropped into CC-1010‘s office unannounced and uninvited the man had shot at him with a blaster set to stun. Without the force and anticipating this kind of warm welcome from studying the Marshal Commander‘s demeanor in the field he was sure he wouldn’t have had a chance to get a word out.
Revealing his affiliation to the Jedi Order without detailing any of it further had turned a hostile greeting into a professional talk bargaining for information. Sharing intel and crafting contingency plans turned into begrudging respect. One day Quinlan brought food to their meetings and was rewarded with a name. And that had been the start of a tentative friendship. Now Quinlan was about to lose one of his only friends.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Bly stared at the holo screen depicting a fight he couldn’t make any sense of. The images weren’t flickering because of a weak connection to the central signals of the GAR on their side, the transmissions had been cut from the side of the home front before they had been able to reestablish communications. The blackout had lasted less than half a rotation. How had this happened in such a short time frame?
His General had felt a disturbance through the bond shared with her Master shortly before the communication had cut. She had reached out to another Jedi Bly had not heard her mention once before. He was a bit taken aback watching the image of an older man with dark hair pulled into a low ponytails comforting a clearly agitated Aayla. She trusted this man and in turn accepted trusting the force was prevalent to anything. Bly couldn’t understand the force but he understood trust so he would follow Aayla‘s lead.
The man named Tholme encouraged her to follow its guidance instead of enacting a command from a war council. Bly wouldn’t agree but when the holos from Coruscant came to live on their displays Aayla had taken one look at them, one look at Bly frozen up in his place next to her and charted course to Triple Zero.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Fox opens his eyes slowly, he wouldn’t consider this waking up because his mind hasn’t caught up with his surroundings. He hadn’t expected to be here. He hadn’t expected to be alive. The last thing in his muddled thoughts he can clearly name is cutting signals from Triple Zero just before his comm activated without him picking up.
He tries to listen to his heart beat sure it would rush the blood through his veins on high speed but it’s strangely hard to notice. A hand grips at his fore arm and when the fuck did he lose his vambrace? His head snaps towards the hand and it’s clear the person holding on to him isn’t one of his brothers. Still some kind of recognition sparks in heart and he drifts off once more.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The moment they enter the orbit and descent to Coruscant air space the pressure feels unbearable. Bly starts drumming his fingers on his thigh plate eyes never leaving the view outside the ship‘s windows.
The Temple is belying little of the battle that had taken place on its grounds. There’s some rubble and stains on its warm stones but it doesn’t feel as monumental as it should. The Coruscant Guard had tried to storm it not even three rotations ago. The 327th was the first battalion to make it planetside after this betrayal.
Aayla projects a calm he’s sure she doesn’t feel. She had told him over a shared meal she knew Quinlan was alive but she still felt a sense of loss. He hadn’t know how to comfort her and he still didn’t. Her companionship always anchored him so he hopes he is at least able to return the favor now.
When they finally have their boots on the ground both of them rush into the Halls of Healing. Aayla all but runs to a cot tucked out of view and Bly stays close. First he registers the vod’s missing hand. Then he registers his gaunt build and it takes another second to register the red shine to the dark curls matted to the ashen skin.
Just as Aayla reaches out to the man slumped next to the cot Bly reaches out to his brother. He was alive. They hadn’t killed him for his treason to the Republic and the Jedi. His fingers clamp down on Fox‘s shoulder and he’s overcome with the urge to shake him awake.
Taking a deep breath he looks up to the pair on the opposite site of the cot and notices the Kiffar awake. The man smiles at Aayla in a way that makes him look more alive than any other of the few time the Marshal Commander had seen him. His long locks are tied back from his face and Bly spots a read bead in one of them. He would needle Fox for details later.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
On paper the vode had been lucky, the Republic had won. But many of the Guard had been killed during the attack of the Temple. And they couldn’t hate the Jedi for defending themselves. They could mourn the loss and harbor the guilt of being unable to cut the strings puppeting them. They could blame themselves and the Commander who had chosen to protect other vode above them.
Logically it made sense to prioritize the GAR. There were millions of vode deployed and only thousands of them planetside. The Jedi in the Temple had been warned by one of their Shadows. There simply hadn’t been enough time to destroy external and internal communications because this shouldn’t even be possible to begin with. Of course the Guard had direct contact to the Supreme Chancellor and cutting it would have alarmed him. The order had come too soon for Fox to warn his Commanders and troops.
A split decision had probably turned the Galaxy’s fate in their favor but they would never be able to follow Fox blindly again. Trust once broken can never be the same. Thorn had been the one who they turned to in their confusion. Thorn had been the one to hold them together even when Fox figured out a way to defend their crimes. They didn’t receive a death sentence for being stripped of their little autonomy and used as a weapon. Still Fox wasn’t their shield anymore.
Fox had never believed in making it through the war. He had never planned for a future. Thorn had always hold on to the thought of getting time to share his life with his closest brother. Now he let go of that hope. They had won the war but still lost each other.
Leaving the flimsi note on Fox bedside in the Halls of Healing Thorn walked away and never looked back. The Guard was his to protect now.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
„For old times sake sentiment, for the love I once held for you and the honor to once have been loved by you: I will cherish the time we had. And not resent the time we lost.“
Just trying to work through some emotions. I hope the alternating pov isn’t too confusing.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
It's been a rough week. Writing time's finally suffering the fact that I do indeed have to graduate uni this year. It's probably gonna be busy for the foreseeable future which will reflect in my upload schedule (or lack thereof)
Anyways, enjoy chapter 2!
Thorn, bursting into the room where his marshal commander is being held captive: Commander F--Uh...
Fox, shirtless with his arms tied over his head: Finally. I kept dozing off, so all of my weight was pulling at my wrists. The CMO is going to--Thorn?
Thorn, taking a holo: Huh?
Fox: Are all of you serious right now?
Thorn, looking over his shoulder at his team, who are also capturing holos of their marshal commander: In our defense, hot damn, Fox...
Fox: ...My wrists are bleeding...
Thorn, springing into action: Stop standing around and help me get him out of these binds!
Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! established relationship, fluff, a little hurt/comfort, smut, fingering, unprotected sex, pinv, dirty talk, me pushing my lingerie kink Kix agenda, and my Kix reads romance novels and poetry agenda, so much medical humor, these two are corny af
Summary: It's been eight months, two weeks, and four days since Kix's last true break away from being the glue holding the 501st together. You've been counting. And as the battalion's resident nurse, you have just the prescription for what ails him.
A/N: I guess this is a sequel to my first Kix fic? But this can definitely be read as a standalone. It's not proofread whatsoever so read at your own peril.
Previous Work | Next Work | Masterlist
"You...what?"
You grin up at Kix's stunned face, waving your datapad in the space between you with a triumphant little flourish. "That's right. Two weeks of shore leave, approved, signed, and sealed. General Skywalker's own seal, no less."
Kix continues to stare, eyes wide and lips parted. He looks a bit like a tooka that's just been offered a bowl of cream and isn't entirely sure it isn't a trap. You can practically hear the circuits in that perpetually overworked medical brain of his sizzling.
"But...the 501st is on active deployment," he finally manages, blinking slowly. "We just finished a campaign. Rex has us on rotation for training drills, the inventory of the entire Resolute's medical bay is due for a complete audit..."
He trails off, ticking items off on his fingers as if listing them will magically revoke the bright red letters on your datapad screen: APPROVED. Your grin widens.
"See, that's where your superior planning and my superior paperwork finesse come into play," you say, leaning your hip against the medbay console. The familiar, sterile scent of bacta and disinfectant clings to the air, a scent you've come to associate with safety, but you can't deny you're looking forward to breathing nothing but fresh air and maybe a little sea salt for a while. "I pointed out that you, my dear CMO, have not had a single day of leave since Saleucami. That you've personally logged over three hundred hours of surgical time this quarter alone. And that your stress levels are, and I'm quoting myself here, 'reaching a point where they could negatively impact combat readiness.'"
Kix raises a skeptical eyebrow. "You said that to Skywalker? General Skywalker?"
"I embellished for dramatic effect," you admit with a shrug. "The official report said 'a brief period of recuperation is recommended for optimal long-term performance.' But I got my point across. He signed it. Said we deserved it. Even suggested a destination."
You slide the datapad over to him. There's a note scribbled in the column in General Skywalker's familiar scrawl, barely legible to those not used to the General's chaotic energy. Go see the waterfalls on Zeltros. Zeltrons know how to party. -A.S.
Kix stares at the datapad as if it's a live grenade. His shoulders, which you hadn't even realized were perpetually tensed, seem to slump just a fraction.
"Zeltros," he says, the word sounding foreign on his tongue, a taste of something other than battlefield dust and recycled air. "He wants us to visit a pleasure planet."
"A beautiful, scenic pleasure planet with state-of-the-art resorts and excellent medical facilities," you add helpfully. "I checked. In case of... you know, relaxing emergencies."
He picks up the datapad, his thumb tracing the bright red approval stamp with a strange reverence. He doesn't look convinced. He looks tired. He looks like a man who's forgotten what a day off feels like.
"When?" he asks, the single word heavy with a hundred unspoken questions.
"Transport leaves in six hours," you say, unable to keep the beam out of your voice. "I've already cleared it with Rex. He's pulling two brothers from the 212th to cover your shifts. All you have to do is pack a bag and not think about bacta tanks for fourteen glorious days." You lean in closer, dropping your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I even bought you civilian clothes."
He finally looks up from the datapad, and for the first time, a real, genuine smile cracks through the weary resignation that usually holds court around his eyes. It's a small thing, but it transforms his face.
"You're a menace," he says, but the warmth in his tone takes the sting out of the words. He shakes his head, stepping closer to you, the clean, sharp scent of him washing over you. "An absolute menace to Republic bureaucracy and my carefully constructed sanity."
"And I'm your favorite menace," you counter, your smile widening as you hook a finger into one of the utility pouches on his belt and tug. "Admit it. If it wasn't for me, you'd be elbow-deep in a kriffing inventory spreadsheet right now."
You watch as the battle between duty and desire plays out across his features. The exhaustion is a heavy cloak, but the flicker of something else—hope, excitement, maybe even a little bit of mischief—fights to break free. He's so rarely given a chance to just be, to put down the responsibility of keeping everyone else alive and simply enjoy being alive himself. That's why you did it. That, and the selfish desire to have him all to yourself, somewhere far away from the war and its constant, grinding demands.
And to see him in something other than armor, of course. You have your priorities.
Finally, he sighs, a long, slow release of breath that seems to carry away a significant portion of the tension in his frame.
"Six hours," he repeats, the corner of his mouth twitching. "That's not a lot of time to forget how to be a medic."
"You won't have to," you promise softly, stepping into the space he's just cleared between you. "You just have to remember how to be Kix. For me."
His gaze softens, and he lifts a hand, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw with a gentleness that still has the power to steal your breath after four months of... whatever this is. This stolen, precious thing you've built in the belly of a warship.
"I'll try," he murmurs, and he leans in to kiss you. It's a kiss that tastes of relief and exhaustion and the faint, lingering promise of something more. It's a kiss that says, for a little while, we can pretend.
When he pulls back, there's a light in his eyes you haven't seen in a long, long time. The datapad is forgotten on the console.
"Alright," he says, and this time, the word is filled with a new kind of energy. "Let's go see some waterfalls."
As a traveling companion, Kix is a dream come true. His meticulous nature doesn't abandon him just because he's off-duty, and he's packed enough emergency supplies to survive a month on a hostile moon, much less two weeks on a pleasure planet. He unpacks the small kit on the journey, laying out antiseptic wipes, bacta patches, a dermal regenerator, and hydration packets with the solemnity of a high priest preparing for a ritual. He makes your packed sunscreen and three swimwear options look almost criminally unprepared.
"You do know Zeltros is a non-hostile planet with an overabundance of luxury resorts, right?" you ask from your spot on the small transport's plush sofa, watching him organize a field tourniquet. The package you purchased includes a full-service bar, and you've already helped yourself to something sweet and purple with an alarming amount of alcohol in it.
"And if one of those luxury resorts collapses?" he retorts without looking up from meticulously folding a sterile drape. "Or if you have an allergic reaction to a native fruit? Or if a sea squid with a paralytic neurotoxin tries to carry you off?" He folds the kit shut with a decisive snap. "I'm prepared. It's my job."
"Not for the next fourteen days," you remind him, swirling the purple liquid in your glass. "For the next fourteen days, your only job is to relax."
He sighs, and you recognize it as the long-suffering sigh he reserves for particularly stubborn patients. Still, he stows the kit away and sinks onto the sofa opposite you, the movement stiff and unnatural without the familiar weight of armor to anchor him. He's wearing the civilian clothes you picked out—a simple, dark blue tunic and comfortable black trousers—but he keeps fiddling with the hem as if he's not sure what to do with his hands.
"You don't have to relax right this second," you offer, sensing his discomfort. "We can... not relax together. For a bit."
A small smile touches his lips. "That's the most unconvincing offer for relaxation I've ever heard."
"I'm trying to ease you into it," you defend yourself. "It's a process. First, we stop working. Then, we start... not working. It's a delicate balance."
He shakes his head, but the smile lingers. He's still watching you, and the look in his eyes is one of genuine affection, tinged with that ever-present, gentle concern. After a moment, he seems to come to some sort of decision, and he holds out his hand.
"Come here," he says, his voice a low, soft command that sends a shiver down your spine.
You set your glass down and slide across the sofa, fitting yourself against his side. He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close until your head rests on his shoulder. The blue fabric of his tunic is soft against your cheek, and he smells less like a medic and more like... well, just Kix. A clean, warm scent that you've grown to associate with safety and home.
"Okay," he murmurs into your hair. "This is a good start."
You hum in agreement, content to just sit there with him, watching the swirl of hyperspace streak by the viewport. The silence is comfortable, a rare luxury you've both learned to savor. For a while, the only sounds are the gentle hum of the transport and the steady, calming rhythm of his heartbeat against your ear.
"You really went to all that trouble," he says after a long while, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm. "With Skywalker, with the leave, and the clothes." He gestures vaguely to the tunic. "This isn't bad."
"I have excellent taste," you say, tilting your head to look up at him. His expression is soft, his guard down in a way it rarely is aboard the Resolute. The constant tension in his jaw has eased, and the lines around his eyes are less pronounced. He looks younger. Happier. You can't help but reach up and trace the line of his jaw with your thumb. "You look good out of armor, you know."
"I feel a bit... exposed," he admits, his gaze drifting down to his own hand resting on your arm. "Like I forgot how to walk without the weight of it."
"You'll get used to it," you say. "And in the meantime, I'll be here to protect you from any rogue sea squid."
He lets out a quiet laugh, a real one this time, and it's a sound you want to hear again and again. He tightens his arm around you, holding you a little closer.
"I'm holding you to that," he says, and then he leans down to kiss you.
This kiss is different from the one in the medbay. It's not about relief or stolen moments. It's slow and deep, a kiss that says we have all the time in the world. When he pulls back, you're both a little breathless.
"That," he says, his voice rough, "is a very good start."
The resort on Zeltros is everything the brochures promised and more. It's a sprawling complex of gleaming white buildings nestled into the side of a cliff, overlooking a crystal-clear turquoise sea. Waterfalls cascade down the rock face, their spray catching the sunlight and creating a constant, shimmering rainbow. The air is warm and humid, filled with the scent of exotic flowers and the sound of distant, upbeat music.
And everyone is beautiful. The Zeltrons, with their vibrant pink skin and easy smiles, are a sight to behold, but even the other tourists seem to glow with a certain kind of carefree joy that feels alien to you. You feel a bit like you've stumbled into a different dimension, one where the war doesn't exist and the greatest concern is which cocktail to order next.
Kix, predictably, looks overwhelmed. He's clutching your hand, his eyes wide as he takes in the immense chaos of it all. A group of Zeltrons in revealing swimwear just passed by, one of them blowing a kiss in your general direction. You smile and wave back, but Kix is already pulling you toward the relative safety of the check-in desk.
"This is... a lot," he murmurs in your ear, his grip on your hand tightening.
"It's great," you whisper back, grinning. "Just breathe. Try to absorb some of the happiness. It's contagious."
"I'm not sure my immune system is equipped for this level of contagious happiness," he mutters, but he follows you dutifully to the desk.
"You've survived 79's on a Benduday night," you tease gently. "This is nothing."
A Zeltron with shimmering, silver-painted skin and a smile that could melt the polar ice caps of Hoth greets you from behind the desk. "Welcome to the Azure Cascade! How may I make your stay absolutely perfect?"
You handle the check-in, your Zeltrosian phrasebook proving invaluable. The resort employee's smile widens as you stumble through a few sentences, and she hands you two keycards, each with a fragrant flower tucked into the sleeve.
"Room 704, overlooking the main falls," she says, her voice a melodious purr. "And the honeymoon suite is complimentary, a gift from us for our brave soldiers of the Republic."
Kix makes a noise somewhere between a choke and a squeak. You give him a reassuring pat on the back.
"Thank you," you say, beaming. "That's very... generous."
"We aim to please," she says, winking. "Enjoy your stay. Enjoy everything."
She says the last word with such a deliberate, suggestive lilt that even you feel a blush creeping up your neck. You grab the keycards and a flustered Kix and make a hasty retreat toward the lifts.
"Honeymoon suite?" he asks, once the doors have slid shut and you're ascending in a quiet, glass-walled bubble. "You didn't..."
"I didn't," you confirm, holding your hands up in mock innocence. You can admit to yourself that it would've been a funny prank to pull, but you didn't have the credits for that kind of upgrade. And you're already walking a fine line between helping him relax and giving him a full-blown panic attack. "Must be a standard policy for Republic personnel. A PR thing, you know? Boost morale."
“Morale. Right.”
He doesn't look entirely convinced, but he's too distracted by the view outside the lift to press the issue. The landscape unfolds beneath you, a breathtaking panorama of green cliffs, white sand, and impossibly blue water. It's a perfect, postcard vision of a world untouched by the ugliness of war.
The lift opens directly into your room. And it is, without a doubt, the most luxurious place you have ever seen. The room you'd booked was a simple 'deluxe ocean view,' but this is something else entirely. The entire far wall is made of transparisteel, offering an uninterrupted, spectacular view of the main waterfall as it thunders into the sea below. A huge, round bed sits in the center of the room, draped in sheer white fabric that billows in the faint breeze from an open balcony. A sunken tub, large enough for four, is sunken into the floor near the window, an array of bottled oils and soaps arranged artfully beside it.
Kix stops dead just inside the doorway, one hand clutching both your duffel bags and the other holding his small emergency kit to his chest like a security blanket. He looks utterly lost.
"This is not a standard morale boost,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “This is…what is this?”
You drop your bags and walk straight for the balcony, stepping out into the warm, humid air. The roar of the falls is a constant, soothing presence, and the fine mist cools your skin. Below, the resort's private beach is dotted with lounge chairs and brightly colored umbrellas, Zeltrons and other guests splash in the resort's infinity pools. It's all so vibrant, so alive. After the recycled air and metal corridors of a Star Destroyer, it feels like a sensory overload in the best possible way.
You lean on the railing and look at him over your shoulder. He's still standing in the middle of the room, a statue carved from granite and confusion. You try your best not to smile too widely.
"Well, General Skywalker did say they know how to party," you call over the sound of the water. "Come on, we're not going to get our deposit back."
Kix hesitates for a full minute longer before setting the bags down by the door and walking cautiously toward you, as if the plush white carpet might give way to a trapdoor at any moment. He joins you at the railing, standing close but not touching, his gaze fixed on the view as he grips the metal tightly. He's still too stiff, too much like a soldier on sentry duty. You can feel the thrum of tension radiating off him. He's not here yet. Not really.
"It's beautiful," he offers after a beat, but it sounds like a clinical observation, like he's diagnosing the view. "The geological formation is impressive. The water pressure must be immense."
You turn to face him, leaning back against the railing. "Kix."
He meets your gaze, and you see it there again. The exhaustion, the weight of a hundred battles and a thousand injuries he couldn't fix. He's standing in paradise, but he's still stuck in a medbay.
"Your job is to look at that waterfall," you say, your voice firm but gentle. "And think 'Wow, that's pretty.' That's it. No diagnostics. No tactical analysis. Just... 'wow.' Can you do that for me?"
He stares at you, and for a moment, you think he's going to retreat behind the wall of medical professionalism he hides behind so well. But then he lets out a slow breath, and some of the rigidity leaves his shoulders. He looks past you, at the thundering cascade of water, and really looks at it.
"Wow," he says, and the word is quiet, a little rusty, but it's genuine.
A small victory. You'll take it.
"Good," you smile as you step closer and placing your hands on his chest. The blue tunic is soft beneath your palms. "Now, step two in Operation Make Kix Relax."
"Does this step involve less clothing?" he asks, a glint of the old, mischievous Kix returning to his eyes. His hand settles on your waist, and his thumb begins to stroke distracting circles against your hip. "Because I'm starting to suspect your motives."
"Excellent clinical assessment," you purr, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his jaw. "But for now, step two involves getting this med kit out of sight." You gesture to the bag still clutched in his hand like a lifeline. "It goes in the closet. You're not allowed to touch it for the next fourteen days unless there's a genuine, life-or-death emergency. Me getting a sunburn does not count."
He huffs out a laugh, the sound a little more relaxed this time. "But you did bring sunscreen, right? With a high SPF? The UV index here has to be off the charts."
He’s already scanning the horizon as if he can calculate the radiation levels with his eyes. The medic in him is a hard beast to put down.
"See? This is exactly what I'm talking about," you say, taking the kit from him and marching it over to a large, ornate wardrobe. You open it, place the offending bag inside, and shut the doors with a decisive click. "There. It's in vacation jail."
When you turn back, he's watching you with an expression you can't quite decipher. It's fondness, certainly, but there's something else, something deeper and more vulnerable swimming in those dark eyes of his.
"I don't know how to do this," he admits, his voice low. Kix gestures around the room, a motion that somehow encompasses not just the lavish suite, but the entire planet, the entire concept of peace. "Just... be."
"Then I'll be for both of us," you say simply. You walk back to him, stopping just short of touching. "You don't have to do anything. You don't have to solve anything or fix anything or be responsible for anyone. You just have to be here. With me. Let me take care of you for once."
The vulnerability in his gaze intensifies, and he finally, truly, seems to let go of that last thread of control. He reaches out, not to touch you, but to trace the delicate petals of a flower resting on the bedside table. His touch is tentative, exploratory, as if he's forgotten how to interact with a world that isn't trying to kill him.
"Alright," he says, the word a surrender. "What's step three?"
You look around the room, your gaze darting from the ornate bed, to the ornate tub, to the ornate minibar. So many options. But one seems most pressing. The afternoon sun is warm on the balcony, the roar of the waterfall a soothing backdrop. It’s too perfect a day to waste indoors.
"Step three," you declare, a playful grin spreading across your face, "is you, me, and dinner overlooking that—" You point a dramatic finger at the falls "—while consuming ridiculously overpriced drinks with little umbrellas in them."
He gives a small, weary shake of his head, but a real smile is playing on his lips now. "You're determined to corrupt me."
"Call it therapeutic immersion," you reply, grabbing your duffel and unceremoniously dumping it on the bed. You rummage through it, past your sunscreen and three swimsuits, until you find a simple, flowing wrap dress, the color of a sunset. Kix perks up at the sight of the swimsuits, an appreciative glint in his eye that makes your stomach flutter.
"So that's what you packed," he says, leaning against the bedpost. He looks more relaxed already, the clean civilian lines no longer feeling like an alien skin he's been forced into. "Any other... tactical outfits I should be briefed on?"
"I have a whole roster," you tease, holding up a string bikini that's more straps than fabric. His eyebrows shoot up. "But this one is for later reconnaissance."
"Right. Reconnaissance," he repeats, swallowing hard. "I'll need to inspect those later. For quality control."
"Of course," you say, and you toss the bikini back in the bag with a wink. "But for now, I'm starving. Get dressed. We have a date with a sunset."
Kix pushes himself off the bedpost, moving with a newfound fluidity. He finds his own bag and, with a final, longing glance at the locked wardrobe, pulls out a fresh set of clothes. You wait until his back is turned before pulling out the lingerie you'd packed as a surprise, tucking it under the dress folded on your arm with a secret smile. This trip was for him, but that didn't mean you couldn't have a little fun, too.
You disappear into the refresher to change, leaving the door open a crack. The room is as opulent as the rest of the suite, with a shower that has at least a dozen different spray settings and a mirror that doesn't just show your reflection but seems to enhance it. You take a moment to splash water on your face, the coolness a welcome shock against your skin.
For a second, the sterile scent of the water reminds you of the medbay, and you see a flicker of that old tension in your mind. You push it away before it can blossom. If you're going to be the anchor of normalcy for him, you have to believe in it yourself.
You slip into the lace undergarments and the dress, and when you step out, Kix is standing by the transparisteel wall, fully dressed, staring out at the view. He's wearing a dark grey shirt, slightly unbuttoned at the collar, and the fabric clings to his shoulders in a way that makes you want to forget all about dinner.
Kix turns as you approach, and the air in the room shifts. His gaze sweeps over you, slow and deliberate, and the appreciation in his eyes is so pure, so intense, it feels like a physical touch. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to. The slight parting of his lips, the way the tension drains from his face, replaced by something else entirely... it's a compliment more eloquent than any words.
"Ready?" you ask, your voice more breathless than you intended.
He nods, still looking at you. He closes the distance between you, his hands coming to rest on your waist, pulling you flush against him, and he smells of clean fabric and the faint, warm scent of his own skin.
"You look..." he starts, then seems to change his mind. He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. "I'm reconsidering my priorities. Dinner seems... secondary."
You laugh, a low, throaty sound. "We have fourteen days, medic. I promise, you'll have plenty of opportunities to reconsider. But I'm taking you out to eat. You need sustenance. I have plans for you later."
"Plans," he repeats, a wicked smile spreading slowly across his face. It's a look you've rarely seen, a side of him he keeps locked away under layers of duty and exhaustion. You decide you're going to do everything in your power to see it more often. "Should I be concerned?"
"Definitely," you whisper, then pull back. "But later. Now, we go. Umbrella drinks await."
The walk to the resort's primary restaurant is a sensory experience in itself. The path is paved with smooth, pale stones that glow softly as evening descends. The air is thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the faint, rhythmic thump of distant music. More Zeltrons and other guests stroll past, their laughter echoing through the lush gardens that line the path. You even spot a few exotic birds and insects with bioluminescent shells, their tiny lights dotting the foliage like fairy lights.
Kix walks beside you, his hand holding yours, but you can feel the coiled energy in him. He's on high alert, cataloging everything. You see him watching a group of children chasing a glowing orb, a faint, nostalgic smile on his face, before his eyes are drawn to a couple kissing by a fountain, and his expression tightens almost imperceptibly. He's a spectator to a life he's never been allowed to live, and it's bittersweet to witness.
"You're thinking," you say, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "Stop it."
"Sorry," he says, shaking his head as if to clear it. "Habit. Hard to break."
"I know," you say softly. You bump your shoulder against his arm. "So let me give you something else to focus on. Tell me something. Something that has nothing to do with the war. Anything."
He's quiet for a moment, the sounds of the resort filling the space between you. You think he's not going to answer, that you've pushed too far. But then he speaks, his voice quiet, almost hesitant.
"Before," he starts, and you know he means before the war, before the armor gained its weight. "I used to read. A lot. Not just tactical manuals and medical journals. Everything. Old myths, histories, poetry. There was this one poet, from Corellia. His work was... sad. But beautiful."
You're stunned into silence. You've been friends for a long time now, closer than you ever imagined you'd be, but he's never spoken of this. You've only ever known the medic, the soldier, the reliable, steady-handed rock of the 501st. This glimpse of the boy he might have been is a gift.
"Tell me one," you prompt, your voice barely above a whisper.
He glances at you, a faint blush creeping up his neck.
“I can’t remember most of it,” he says as he shifts uncomfortably. You can tell it’s a lie, but you don’t push it. “But…there was a line. Something about ‘holding the light of a dying star in your hands, and knowing you were never meant to keep it.’”
The words hang in the warm night air, heavy with a melancholy that feels completely out of place on a planet dedicated to joy. You understand, then, a piece of him you never had before. The constant pressure of being the one who holds others, who tries to mend what is broken, knowing all the while that some things are beyond repair. Some lights, some lives, are meant to fade.
You stop walking and turn to face him, lacing your fingers through his. The path is empty here, secluded by a curtain of fragrant, flowering vines.
"You're not a dying star, Kix."
He looks down at your joined hands, then back up at your face. His expression is unreadable, a complex tapestry of old pain and new vulnerability.
"Aren't we all?" he asks, and there's no self-pity in the question, only a quiet, weary truth.
"Not tonight," you say, and you stand on your toes to kiss him. You put all the reassurance you have into it, all the hope you're hoarding for him. You pour it into him until you feel some of the tension leave his body, until he kisses you back with a matching tenderness. A silent exchange. A fragile ceasefire.
You pull apart, breathless. His eyes are closed for a moment longer, and when he opens them, the war-weariness has receded slightly, pushed back by the artificial twilight of the resort.
"Okay," he says, and the corner of his mouth quirks. "Okay."
The restaurant, The Glimmering Grotto, is built into a cave behind a smaller waterfall, the entrance framed by curtains of cascading water. Inside, the cavern glows with the light of thousands of luminous crystals embedded in the rock walls. The air is cool and smells of damp stone and roasting meats, and both of you are stunned into silence by the sheer wonder of it all.
A Zeltron hostess, this one with deep magenta skin and a cascade of silver hair, leads you to a table on a private balcony overlooking the main resort, giving you a perfect view of the moonlit sea and the distant, majestic falls. Kix is quiet, but he's no longer cataloging threats. He's simply looking. At the glowing crystals, at the moon's reflection on the water, at you. The tight set of his jaw has finally, finally, relaxed.
He catches your eye as you’re about to take your seat and hurries closer, pulling out your chair. The small, old-fashioned gesture makes your heart do a stupid little flip. His look of quiet concentration melts into something more mischievous, and he leans in as you settle, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin just below your ear.
“You look breathtaking,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your neck. “I’m having a hard time believing you’re real.”
“Believe it,” you whisper back, a shiver tracing a path down your spine that has nothing to do with the cool cave air.
Kix straightens up, the pleased, predatory glint in his eye promising much more than just dinner. You have a feeling your plans for the evening are about to be co-opted. Not that you're complaining.
A waiter appears, a handsome Devaronian male with two small, gem-like horns protruding from his forehead and a smile that’s full of teeth and good intentions. He lists the specials with theatrical flair, and then it's your turn. Kix, who has been staring at the menu as if it's written in an ancient, dead language, finally looks up. The look of sheer panic is so out of place on his face that you have to stifle a laugh.
“Get whatever looks good,” he says, pushing the menu across the table to you. “Please.”
“Alright,” you say, taking mercy on him. “But you have to promise to try a bite of everything.”
He nods, already looking relieved to have the responsibility taken off his hands. You order for you both—a selection of grilled local fish, spiced fruit that sizzles in a hot stone bowl, and a carafe of something blue and bubbly the waiter swears is a local delicacy. And, of course, two cocktails.
The drinks arrive first. They are, as promised, ridiculous. Yours is a lurid green concoction in a tall, curvy glass, adorned with a slice of cactus fruit and a small, paper parasol that seems to defy physics. Kix’s is a deep red, served in a smoking glass that adds a dramatic flair to the proceedings. He picks it up, eyeing the purple smoke curling from its surface with the same suspicion he’d reserve for an unexploded ordnance.
“Therapeutic immersion,” you remind him, raising your glass. “To step three.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, but he raises his glass and clinks it against yours. The sound is a delicate chime that hangs in the air. He takes a tentative sip, and his eyebrows rise far enough to nearly touch his hairline.
“That’s…” He coughs discretely into his fist. “That’s surprisingly strong.”
“It’s a pleasure planet, Kix. They don’t mess around,” you say, taking a long, satisfying sip of your own. The drink is sweet, tangy, and kicks like a blaster bolt. Perfect. You take the little paper umbrella and tuck it behind his ear. He doesn’t even flinch, just gives you a long-suffering look that’s completely undone by the faint smile playing on his lips. The umbrella looks absurdly jaunty against the close crop of his hair. You want to kiss him again.
“It’s not so bad once you get past the smoke and the fact that it tastes like fermented berries and coolant,” he says, taking another, more confident sip. “Alright. I admit it. This is… nice.”
“Nice?” you challenge playfully. “We’re in a glowing cave behind a waterfall, drinking cocktails that could power a landspeeder, and all you’ve got is ‘nice’?”
He reaches across the table, his fingers finding yours. His touch is warm, a solid anchor in the fantastical surroundings.
“You're right,” he concedes, his gaze dropping to where your hands are joined. “It’s better than nice. It feels… like a dream. Like something that might happen if you’re unconscious in a bacta tank for too long.”
The comment, so casual, lands with a heavy thud in the middle of your perfect evening. The image it conjures is not pleasant. You tighten your grip on his hand.
“Hey,” you say, your voice low. “No bacta talk. That’s rule one. We’re on Zeltros. We’re happy. We’re… whole.”
He looks up, a flicker of apology in his dark eyes. “Sorry. Force of habit.”
“I know,” you say, softening your tone. You give him a small smile. “So let’s make a new habit. For the next fourteen days, your only habit is letting me spoil you.”
“Deal,” he says, and he means it. You can see it in the way he finally lets his shoulders rest, in the way he stops scanning the room for exits and injuries. He’s starting to drift with you, to let go. "But I'm spoiling you right back. Just so we're clear."
"I'm counting on it," you purr.
The food arrives, and it’s a feast for the senses. The fish is flaky and spiced with something bright and citrusy, the fruit sizzles and pops in its stone bowl, releasing clouds of aromatic steam. You coax him through the meal, offering him bites from your fork, making him try everything. He’s a good sport, even when he wrinkles his nose at a piece of fruit that’s a little too fermented for his taste.
“Nope.” He quickly shakes his head. “That’s an acquired taste I have no intention of acquiring.”
“More for me, then,” you laugh, popping the offending piece of fruit into your own mouth and following the trail of juice up your thumb with your tongue. His eyes follow the motion, and the easy-going warmth in them darkens into something more intense. The small, paper umbrella tucked behind his ear suddenly seems incredibly foolish.
“You know,” he says, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through the table, “for someone who claims their only goal is to make me relax, you’re doing an excellent job of counteracting that.”
You raise an eyebrow, taking another deliberate sip of your lurid green drink. “Am I?”
“Yes,” he replies, leaning forward. He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing your cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch lingers, a brand against your skin. “You are.”
The air between you crackles, the bustling sounds of the restaurant fading into a dull hum. The glowing crystals on the cavern walls blur into a soft, shimmering haze. All you can see is him. The way the dim light catches the angle of his jaw, the dark promise in his eyes. He’s no longer the weary medic from the Resolute. He’s just a man, looking at the woman he wants, with no war, no duty, no brothers to save standing in the way. It’s intoxicating.
“We could…” he starts, but he doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to. The question hangs in the air, a physical presence between you. We could leave now. We could go back to the room. We could stop pretending this is just about dinner.
You want to. You really, really want to. But this isn't just about want. This is about him, about peeling back the layers of armor he’s worn for a lifetime, layer by layer. And rushing this, letting it be just another stolen, desperate encounter, would be a disservice to the fragile, beautiful thing you’re trying to build. It would just be another mission objective, another task to complete.
You place your hand over his, stopping its slow, tantalizing journey down your neck. He stills, a flicker of confusion in his eyes.
“Later,” you say, your voice soft but firm. You turn your head, pressing a kiss into the palm of his hand. “I promise. But we’re not finished here.”
You pull away slowly, giving him a look that is all reassurance and simmering promise. He leans back in his chair, a small, wry smile touching his lips. He understands. He gives a short nod, a silent acknowledgment of your lead.
“You’re a cruel woman,” he says, but the warmth in his tone takes the bite out of the word. He picks up his smoking glass and drains the rest of it in one go, a decisiveness in the action that makes you smile.
“I’m patient,” you correct him. “And I have a plan. Step four, to be precise.”
“Step four,” he repeats, setting the glass down with a soft click. He looks intrigued now, the brief frustration forgotten, replaced by a playful curiosity. His elbows rest on the table, and he leans forward, chin propped on his steepled fingers. “Lay it on me, General.”
You laugh, delighted by this new, playful side of him. You gesture with your glass toward the view, the moon a silver coin on the black velvet of the sea.
“We’re going to walk on the beach.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Walk on the beach.” He says it like you’ve just proposed a tactical assault on a Separatist dreadnought. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” you confirm. “We’re going to walk on the beach, under the moon, and do nothing. Nothing at all. Just listen to the water. We can even take our shoes off.”
The last part is delivered with dramatic flair, but the look on his face is one of genuine consideration. He’s a soldier. To him, idleness is a weakness. To plan for nothingness is a concept so foreign it might as well be a different language. He’s weighing it, testing its heft in his mind.
“Alright,” he says finally, the word a quiet acceptance. “Walk on the beach. No objective, no destination, no timetable. Sounds… inefficient.”
“It’s called a vacation, Kix. Efficiency is the enemy,” you say, finishing the last of your own drink and standing up. You hold your hand out to him. “Shall we?”
He takes your hand, his grip firm and sure, and lets you lead him out of the glowing grotto and back into the warm, perfumed night. The resort’s pathways are even more magical in the moonlight, the glowing stones casting a soft, ethereal glow around you. He’s still holding your hand, but the tension is back in his shoulders, a subtle coiling of muscle that tells you he’s scanning, assessing, waiting for the other boot to drop.
“It’s quiet,” he murmurs, as you step onto the soft, white sand of the private beach. The roar of the waterfall is a distant bass note, a constant, rhythmic pulse. The only other sounds are the gentle lapping of waves against the shore and the faint rustle of palm fronds in the breeze. There are a few other people scattered along the beach, their forms dark silhouettes against the moonlit water, but they’re far enough away to feel like part of another world. The sand is cool beneath your feet, and you sigh, a long, slow release of breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“It’s supposed to be quiet,” you say softly, kicking off your sandals and letting your toes sink into the cool sand near the water’s edge. You tug on his hand, a silent invitation. “Come on. Get in touch with your inner civilian.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound barely audible over the gentle lapping of waves, but he obliges and bends down to unlace his own sturdy boots. He sets them neatly together by the path with his socks shoved inside, a small act of order in a world of chaos, before stepping onto the sand.
Kix moves stiffly at first, his bare feet sinking into the unfamiliar softness with a look of mild distrust, as if the sand might give way. But then you feel it happen. He takes another step, and then another, and the tension in his grip on your hand begins to ebb. He looks down, watching the pale foam of a wave rush over his ankles, and a slow smile spreads across his face.
“No sea squids,” he says, wiggling his toes in the wet sand. “I’m disappointed. I was all prepared.”
“We can hope they’re having a quiet night in,” you tease with a giggle, leading him closer to the water’s edge. The gentle waves foam around your ankles and then recede, leaving a cool, damp trail on your skin. The water is surprisingly warm, like liquid silk.
You walk in comfortable silence for a while, your hands swinging gently between you. You don’t push him to talk, don't try to fill the quiet with chatter. You just let him be. Let him feel the sand between his toes, the water on his ankles, the cool night air on his face. Let him absorb the simple, profound peace of it all.
After a while, you feel some of the stiffness leave him. His grip on your hand loosens, becomes more natural, less like a lifeline and more like a connection. He even stops scanning the shoreline for potential threats.
“Okay,” he says, the word a soft exhalation. “This is… also not bad.”
“‘Also not bad’?” you repeat, laughing softly. “You’re a hard man to impress, medic.”
“Not true,” he says, stopping to face you. He uses your joined hand to pull you closer, until you’re standing in the shallow water, the moonlight painting your faces in silver. “You impress me all the time.”
The sincerity in his voice, the way he’s looking at you, takes your breath away. He’s not just playing along anymore. He’s here. Present. His gaze is a warm, steady weight that makes your heart beat a little faster.
“Me?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper. “What did I do?”
“You did this,” he says, gesturing vaguely with his free hand to the beach, the moon, the entire improbable paradise around you. “You remembered me. When I forget how to be anything but a medic, you remember. And you… drag me back. Kicking and screaming, sometimes,” he adds with a wry smile. “But you do it.”
The unspoken thing, the truth you’ve both been circling for months, hangs between you, shimmering in the moonlight like the heat haze off a hot engine. It’s more than just affection. It’s more than a shipboard fling to pass the long, dark nights between battles. It’s a declaration, as quiet and as profound as the tide itself.
You don't trust yourself to speak, so you do the only thing you can do. You lean in and capture his lips in a soft kiss, your hands cradling his jaw. Kix's arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against your chest. He’s solid, real, and completely, utterly yours in this moment.
When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathless. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, a small, contented smile on his lips.
“I love you,” he says, the words so quiet they’re almost lost in the sound of the waves. But you hear them. You feel them all the way down to your soul. “Probably should’ve said that a while ago.”
A laugh bubbles up from your chest. You tighten your arms around him, burying your face in the crook of his neck. You can feel the vibration of his own laugh against your cheek.
“Yes, you probably should have,” you mumble into his skin. “You’re a medic. You’re supposed to be good at diagnosis.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and the love you see in his eyes is so bright, so overwhelming, it feels like staring into the sun. “I was… distracted. By the patient.”
“Distracting is my specialty,” you whisper. You brush a stray grain of sand from his cheek. “I love you too, you know. Just in case it wasn't obvious.”
His smile widens. “The threats, the kidnapping, the over-the-top vacation… it was all a little subtle, but I had my suspicions.”
You gently swat his arm, but your heart feels so full it might just burst. You’ve been fighting for so long, for the Republic, for the clones, for the next day, the next breath, that you’d forgotten what it felt like to fight for something purely, selfishly for yourself. And here it is. Standing right in front of you, sand in his hair and a ridiculous paper umbrella tucked behind his ear.
Kix captures your hand and pushes it away, before he wraps his arms around your back and squeezes, lifting you slightly off your feet. The gesture is so uncharacteristically playful, so full of life, that it sends another wave of happiness washing over you. He sets you down, but he doesn't let go, just lets out a soft chuckle and presses his nose into your hair, inhaling deeply.
“Diagnosis confirmed, then,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your temple. “Prognosis is...complicated.”
“Let me guess,” you say as you lean back to meet his gaze. “The treatment involves two weeks on a pleasure planet and complete and total submission to my every whim?”
“Something like that,” he agrees, dark eyes dancing in the moonlight. “And maybe a few of my own whims, thrown in for good measure.”
You grin, feeling reckless and bold and so incredibly in love it hurts. “Oh, really? And what kind of whims would those be?”
He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he bends down and scoops you up as if you weigh nothing. You let out a surprised squeal, looping your arms around his neck as he turns and starts walking back up the beach, his bare feet making steady, determined prints in the wet sand.
“Kix! What are you doing?” you laugh as he carries you effortlessly toward the path. The little paper umbrella, which has miraculously stayed tucked behind his ear this whole time, finally gives up the ghost and flutters down onto the sand, a tiny, colorful casualty of the night.
“Executing step five,” he says, his tone a delicious blend of authority and amusement. His hand slides up the back of your thighs, resting high and possessively on the curve of your backside. “Your plan was excellent. But I’m making an amendment.”
“And what amendment is that?” you ask, nuzzling against the warm skin of his neck, tasting the salt on him.
“Taking you back to that ridiculously opulent room and showing you just how much I appreciate your medical expertise.”
Heat pools in your stomach, a slow, liquid fire. You lean in, nipping at the sensitive skin just below his ear. He shudders, but his stride doesn't falter. He’s all smooth, confident strength, a man who has finally reclaimed the part of himself that knows what he wants and how to get it. This isn't the tired medic from the Resolute. This is a man on a mission, and you are the glorious objective.
“Hurry up, then,” you murmur against his skin. “My prognosis for patience is running low.”
Kix laughs, a low, throaty sound that vibrates through you. He doesn't hurry, though. He takes his time, carrying you through the glowing gardens and back toward the gleaming white structure of the resort, pausing only to grab both your shoes as he goes. A few Zeltrons you pass cheer him on with suggestive calls and knowing smiles, which he ignores with a focused intensity that sends another thrill through you. His world has narrowed to just this: you in his arms, and the promise of the night ahead.
The lift ride back to the seventh floor is a torturous ascent that feels infinite with anticipation crawling under your skin. He sets you down, but he cages you against the glass wall, his hands on either side of your head. He doesn’t kiss you, just looks at you, his gaze a tangible weight that traces the line of your throat, the swell of your breasts, the curve of your hips. The moonlit world outside the bubble is a forgotten backdrop to the private universe you've created in this tiny space.
"Stop looking at me like that," you breathe, your hands coming up to rest on his chest. You can feel the frantic thumping of his own heart, a betraying echo of your own.
"Like what?" he asks, though he knows perfectly well. He leans in, his lips hovering just millimeters from yours. "Like I've been waiting half my life for this?"
"Like you're about to devour me."
“Kriff, I hope so,” he whispers, and then the lift doors open, breaking the spell.
He takes your hand again, his grip urgent, and pulls you down the hallway to your door. You fumble with the keycard, your hands shaking with anticipation as he crowds your back, his breath hot on your neck. The lock beeps, and you stumble into the room, kicking the door shut behind you. The room is dark, save for the brilliant moonlight streaming through the massive transparisteel wall, bathing everything in a soft, silvery glow.
You turn to face him, but he’s already on you. He walks you backward until your legs hit the edge of the ridiculously opulent bed, and you teeter, falling back onto the soft, white coverlet. He follows you down, bracing himself on his arms above you, a predator poised over his prey. The look in his eyes is pure, unadulterated hunger, and it makes you feel more alive than the heat of a dozen battlefields.
“Hi,” you say, a breathless, stupid little laugh escaping your lips. The romance novels always made this moment seem so much more graceful, but this… this is messy and desperate and real. Just like every other stolen moment you've ever had with him, only this time, there’s nowhere to run. Nothing to pull you away.
“Hi yourself,” he murmurs, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face. He lowers his head, but instead of kissing your lips, he presses an open-mouthed kiss to the hollow of your throat. Your back arches off the bed, a soft gasp escaping you. “Did I mention I love this dress?”
“I think you might’ve hinted at it,” you manage, your fingers tangling in the front of his shirt. You want it gone. You want to feel his skin against yours, right now.
He seems to read your mind, because he pushes himself up, kneeling between your legs. He takes a moment to just look at you, stretched out on the bed, your hair fanned out around you, the thin fabric of your dress clinging to your curves. His gaze is so intense, so full of reverence, it makes you feel like the most precious thing in the galaxy.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, the words a rough, heartfelt whisper. “You know that, right?”
“Come up here and I’ll show you just how beautiful I can be,” you taunt, reaching for him. He laughs, a low, husky sound, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he reaches for the hem of your dress, his fingers tracing the line of your thigh with a touch that’s barely there, but sets your skin on fire.
“All in good time,” he says, his gaze fixed on yours. “I’ve got a lot of ground to cover tonight. And for the next fourteen days.”
He slowly, deliberately, pushes the fabric of your dress up, inch by agonizing inch. When the dress is bunched around your waist, he finally gets a glimpse of the lingerie you’d picked out with such care. It’s a simple set of black lace, delicate and feminine, a stark contrast to the soldier’s world you both inhabit.
His breath hitches. He just stares for a long moment, a muscle in his jaw working. Then he lets out a low groan and squeezes his eyes shut, and the sound goes straight to your core.
“You’re trying to kill me,” he says, his voice strained. He opens his eyes and pins you with an intense stare. “That’s the only explanation. This is all an elaborate plot to send a medic into cardiac arrest.”
“The treatment for that is usually more of the same, I’m told,” you quip as you prop yourself up on your elbows. Your confidence is a fragile thing, built on the solid foundation of the want in his eyes, but it’s there for as long as he looks at you like that. “Don’t stop now. Finish your examination.”
He grins, a flash of white teeth in the moonlight. He’s a man in his element, the exhaustion and anxiety of the past few hours burned away by a fire that you started. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your knee, then to the sensitive skin on the inside of your thigh. You gasp and let your head fall back as he works his way higher, his lips and tongue tracing a path of fire against your skin. As he reaches the spot where your thigh meets your hip, just a breath away from where you want him most, he stops.
“Kix,” you breathe, your hands fisting in the sheets. “Please.”
“Patience,” he murmurs against your skin. “I’m a very thorough professional.”
You’re about to make a snappy comeback about malpractice, but then he finally, finally touches you. His fingers brush against the damp lace of your panties, and a jolt of pure electricity shoots through you. You arch your back, a silent plea for more. He obliges, stroking you through the fabric in a maddening rhythm that has you gasping for breath. He watches your face, his eyes dark and intense, cataloging your every reaction.
“You’re so wet for me,” he whispers, a note of awe in his voice. “And I’ve barely even touched you.”
“I’ve been waiting for this,” you pant as your hips rock against his hand. “For us. Without a ship to catch or a trooper knocking on the door.”
“Me too,” he says, and there’s a raw honesty in his voice that almost breaks your heart. “Fuck, me too.”
He finally pulls the lace aside and slides a finger inside you, and you cry out at the overwhelming sensation. He hooks his finger, finding that spot that makes you see stars, and a second one joins the first. He sets a relentless pace, his thumb circling your clit, pushing you higher and higher until you’re teetering on the edge of a precipice in mere minutes, your breath coming in short, sharp pants.
It seems in your weeks of careful planning, you’d underestimated him. You were worried about him being too tense, too wound up to ever truly let go, but you never considered the other side of that coin. You should have been worried about what would happen when the coil finally sprang free. He’s all focused intensity and confidence, a surgeon’s precision applied to the art of pleasure, and suddenly you realize exactly what you signed up for for fourteen days straight. The thought is as terrifying as it is exhilarating.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice a low growl. You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze in the dim light. “I want to see you when you come.”
That’s all it takes. His words, the look in his eyes, the expert movements of his hands, it’s all too much. The world shatters into a million pieces, and you cry out his name as your orgasm washes over you in a powerful, all-consuming wave. It’s a long, slow, devastating thing, and he works you through it, his movements gentle now, coaxing every last bit of pleasure from your trembling body.
When you finally come back to yourself, he’s hovering over you, a smug, satisfied smile on his face. He gently pulls his fingers away, and you watch, transfixed, as he brings them to his lips and licks them clean.
“That’s one,” Kix announces in a low, husky purr. “Only about…” He looks off in the distance as if calculating, a wry grin forming on his lips. “...a hundred and ninety-three more to go before this trip is over.”
You’re still boneless, your body humming with aftershocks, but you manage a weak laugh. “You’re insane.”
“You’re the one who booked a fourteen-day vacation with a clone who’s been on active duty for the duration of a kriffing galactic war,” he says, leaning down to nip at your earlobe. His fingers find the tie of your dress at your hip, and he tugs it open. “What did you expect?”
“I expected,” you say, getting a surge of energy and rolling him over with surprising force, so that you’re now straddling his waist, “to be in charge. This was my plan, remember? Operation Make Kix Relax. And right now, you seem far too tense.”
His eyebrows shoot up in delight, and he settles back against the pillows, folding his hands behind his head. The motion stretches the fabric of his shirt taut across his chest, outlining the lean, hard muscle beneath. He’s a beautiful sight, sharp angles and coiled strength, a predator enjoying the turn of the tables.
“By all means,” he says, his voice a velvet challenge. “Continue with your therapeutic treatment. I’m your willing patient.”
You grin, leaning down to press a quick, hard kiss to his lips. He tries to deepen it, to take control, but you pull back, just out of reach. You can feel the hard line of his cock pressing against you through your clothes, a thrilling reminder of where this is all heading, and you shift your hips just enough to make his smirk falter. Just enough to make him groan.
Slowly, you reach for the hem of your dress and pull it over your head, tossing it aside to join your discarded dignity on the floor. You’re left in just the black lace and the necklace he once bought you on a rare day ’s leave, its silver chain catching the moonlight. His gaze on you is so intense it’s a physical caress, and you feel a fresh wave of heat pooling in your stomach.
“Better?” you ask, running your hands slowly down your own body, from your throat to your hips, tracing the lines of your lace-covered breasts as you go. You watch as he swallows hard, as a muscle in his jaw tics with restraint. He thinks he’s about to be in charge again, but you're not letting it go that easily.
He starts to sit up, reaching for you, but you shake your head, placing a firm hand on the center of his chest and pushing him back down onto the bed. He lets you, but there’s a dangerous, hungry glint in his eyes now.
“No,” you say softly. “My turn to look.”
You take your time, tracing the seam of his shirt with one finger before settling on the top button. He watches you, his breath held tight, as you slowly, methodically, undo each one. You press a kiss to each new inch of skin you reveal—the hollow of his throat, the flat plane of his chest, the hard ridges of his stomach. He’s silent, but you can feel the tremor that runs through him, the effort it takes for him to lie still and let you explore. The necklace drags a cool, teasing line over his warm skin, and you dip your head to follow it with your tongue.
When the last button is undone, you push the shirt open, revealing him to you in the moonlight. He’s a tapestry of scars, a map of the war written on his body in silvery lines and faded pockmarks. There’s the jagged tear on his ribs from a piece of shrapnel on Ryloth, the neat, circular burn on his shoulder from a blaster bolt on Geonosis. You’ve seen them before, in the frantic, clinical moments of field treatment and stolen moments in the dark of your bunk, but you’ve never really *looked*. You lean down and press a soft, reverent kiss to the scar above his navel, then to one just below his collarbone.
“I love you,” you whisper against his skin. “I love all of you.”
Kix lets out a shuddering breath, a sound that’s half-sigh, half-sob. He reaches up and cups the back of your head, holding you against him. For a moment, you think he’s going to say something, but he just threads his fingers through your hair, a gesture of such raw, unguarded affection that it makes your chest ache.
You decide to give him a break. You pull back, your hands moving to the waistband of his trousers. He lifts his hips, helping you as you pull both them and his briefs down, freeing him.
An appreciative hum rumbles in your chest at the sight of him, hard and ready, a testament to his desire for you. You want to taste him, to feel him in your mouth until he’s a quivering mess, but you also want this to last. You want to draw it out, to make him lose himself in you so completely that all the ghosts of the war are banished, if only for a night.
So instead, you reach behind you and unhook your bra, letting it fall away. His eyes go dark, his gaze fixed on your breasts. You slide off his lap, shucking your soaked panties in one fluid motion, before climbing back onto the bed. You straddle him again, this time with nothing between you. The feeling of his bare skin against yours is an electrifying burn that makes you both gasp.
Kix’s hands find your hips, his grip tight enough to leave bruises. He looks up at you, his eyes wide, a plea on his lips. He’s done with your game, done with the slow, deliberate torture. He wants you. Now.
But you’re not quite finished with him. You lean down, bracing your hands on his chest, and rub yourself against the length of him, slow and torturous. He’s slick with your need, and the friction is a delicious agony that has you both panting. You do it again, and again, setting a rhythm that’s as much for your own pleasure as it is for his.
"Maker," he groans, his head thrown back against the pillows. "I didn’t—kriff—realize torture was on the approved medical procedures list."
“It’s a new experimental treatment,” you whisper, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you rock against him. Your own control is fraying, the coiled heat in your stomach demanding more than this maddening tease. You want him inside you, filling you, completing you. “And this is just the beginning. I haven’t even brought out the handcuffs yet.”
That gets a reaction. His cock twitches hard against you, and a raw, guttural sound escapes his lips. He grips your hips tighter, stilling your movements. He’s had enough.
"Game's over," Kix growls, and with a strength that takes your breath away, he flips you over, pinning you beneath him.
He settles between your thighs, the blunt head of his cock nudging at your entrance as he hooks your knees over his arms, opening you completely to him. He looks down at you, his chest heaving, a wild, feral look in his eyes. The gentle, patient medic from earlier is gone, replaced by a man who knows exactly what he wants, and is about to take it.
“Say it again,” he demands, his voice a low, rough command.
You know what he wants to hear. The words you whispered to him on the beach, the words that have been the unspoken truth between you for months. You reach up, cupping the back of his neck, and pull him down until your lips are almost touching.
“I love you, Kix,” you whisper. “I’ve always loved you.”
It’s all the permission he needs. He slams into you, a single, powerful thrust that seats him to the hilt. You cry out at the overwhelming fullness of him, your head falling back against the pillows. He stills for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel every hard, perfect inch of him. He’s panting, his forehead pressed against yours, the effort of holding back a tangible thing.
“Okay?” he breathes, the single word laced with a surprising thread of vulnerability.
In answer, you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper. “Don’t you dare stop.”
He doesn’t. He starts to move, a slow, deep rhythm that feels less like sex and more like a desperate, soul-deep claiming. Each thrust is a punctuation mark in a silent, devastating conversation. This isn't the frantic, stolen coupling you’re used to, hushed in a cramped bunk with the ever-present threat of discovery. There’s no hurry, no fear. There’s only the moonlight, the roar of the waterfall, and the two of you, finally, completely, alone.
He changes his angle slightly, and the new pressure against your clit sends a jolt of pure electricity through you. You gasp, your nails digging into the sweat-slick skin of his back. You’re not surprised when he immediately recognizes the sound for what it is. He's a medic, after all. He's trained to read the body's signals, to understand its language of twitches and gasps and shudders. He’s using that training now, not to heal, but to unravel you, piece by piece.
“Right there?” he murmurs, hitting the spot again, harder this time. He watches your face, a look of concentrated pleasure on his own. “There?”
“Yes,” you pant, your eyes fluttering shut. “Fuck, Kix, yes…”
“Eyes on me,” he commands, his voice a low growl. He slows down to a deliberately maddening pace that has you writhing beneath him. “Look at me when I’m inside you.”
You force your eyes open, meeting his dark, intense gaze. He’s watching you with a look of such raw hunger, such unwavering focus, that it makes you feel like you’re the only person in the galaxy. The only thing that matters.
He increases the pace again, his movements becoming faster, harder, more desperate. The room is filled with the sounds of your pleasure—the slap of skin on skin, your harsh pants, his low groans, the creak of the opulent bedframe as it protests the assault. He’s driving you higher and higher, pushing you toward another peak, and you can feel it building, a coiling tension in your stomach that’s about to snap. Kix catalogues it all with the focused intensity of a battlefield medic, but instead of searching for wounds, he's searching for the exact points of your pleasure, the precise pressure and rhythm that will make you shatter.
You’re so close, right on the edge, when he suddenly stops. He pulls out, leaving you feeling empty and aching with a need so profound it’s almost painful.
“Kix!” you cry out, a frustrated, desperate sound. “Don’t you dare—”
“Shh,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. He’s breathing hard, his chest heaving, and you can see the effort it takes for him to hold back. “Trust me.”
You do. You do trust him, with your life, with your heart, with your body. So you nod, biting your lip to stop the flood of protests. He rewards you with a wicked smile.
“Turn over,” he says, his voice a low, husky command.
You hesitate for a heartbeat, surprised by the sudden shift, but then you do as he asks. You roll onto your stomach, pulling a pillow under your hips to raise yourself for him. You feel exposed, vulnerable, in a way you haven’t before. But as he runs a possessive hand down the curve of your spine, you feel a thrill of excitement, a heady rush of surrender.
His fingers find your soaked folds, parting the soft flesh with a practiced touch. He strokes your clit, slow and deliberate, just enough to keep the fire burning, but not enough to let it consume you. You’re writhing against the sheets, a wordless plea for more.
“Patience,” he murmurs, echoing your own words back to you. You can hear the smug smile in his tone. “We have all night. We have two weeks.”
Just when you think you can’t take it anymore, you feel the blunt head of his cock nudge at your entrance again. He enters you slowly, this new angle allowing him to sink even deeper than before, hitting places you didn’t even know existed. A long, drawn-out moan escapes your lips as he fills you completely, stretching you in a way that’s both overwhelming and utterly perfect.
He stills, giving you a moment to adjust, then leans over you, bracing his hands on the bed on either side of your head. His body is a warm, heavy weight, a comforting cage that you have no desire to escape. He presses a soft kiss to the back of your neck, right over the delicate knob of your spine, and sets a slow rhythm that’s both tender and possessive.
“Is this what you wanted?” he whispers, his breath hot against your skin. “When you were planning all this? Did you picture me like this? Fucking you until you can’t remember your own name?”
His words are crude, a stark contrast to the gentle way he’s moving, but they send a fresh flood of heat through you. You never imagined this, never dared to let your fantasies run this wild. He’s always been so controlled, so contained. But this… this unbridled, passionate version of him is a revelation. A gift.
“Yes,” you gasp, pushing back against him, meeting him thrust for thrust. “Fuck, yes…”
He growls, a low, primal sound, and picks up the pace. His hands grip your hips, holding you steady as he pistons into you, the headboard of the bed now banging against the wall with a frantic, rhythmic beat. The moonlight streams in, illuminating the room, but you’ve lost all awareness of anything but the feel of him inside you, the sound of his ragged breaths in your ear, the overwhelming, all-consuming pleasure. He’s not holding back anymore. He’s taking everything you have to give, and giving it back to you tenfold.
You can feel another orgasm building, this one different from the others. Deeper, more powerful. It’s a tidal wave gathering in the distance, and you can feel the tremor of its approach in your trembling limbs, in the hitch in your breath. You close your eyes, surrendering to the sensation, to the raw bliss of it.
“Don’t you dare close your eyes,” he pants, his hand fisting in your hair and pulling your head back, forcing you to look at the massive window, at your own reflection superimposed over the moonlit waterfall. “Watch. I want you to see what you look like when you come for me.”
And you do. You see your face, flushed with pleasure, your lips parted in a silent scream. You see him, powerful and dominant, his jaw tight with concentration, his eyes dark with a hunger that’s all for you. It’s the most erotic thing you’ve ever seen. The sight is the final push you need, and the tidal wave crashes over you.
You scream his name as your orgasm tears through you, a white-hot explosion of pleasure that leaves you breathless and boneless. Your whole body convulses, your inner walls clamping down around him, milking him for all he’s worth. He follows you over the edge a moment later, his own release a hot, pulsing flood that fills you completely. He groans your name as he lets go, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his whole body shaking with the force of his release. The sounds are raw and unrestrained, a perfect echo of your own. There’s no holding back here, no quieting your pleasure for the sake of stealth. There’s only this. This perfect, uninhibited union.
He collapses on top of you, his dead weight a comforting pressure. You can feel his heart hammering against your back, and you’re both slick with sweat, the room smelling of sex and salt and him. It’s everything you never knew you needed, and you feel a wave of fierce, protective love wash over you. You did this. You gave him this. This one, perfect, uninterrupted moment of peace.
You stay like that for a long time, your bodies still joined, your breaths slowly returning to normal. The moonlight streams in, a silent witness to your afterglow, and the roar of the waterfall is a soothing backdrop. You’re both spent, completely and utterly sated, but you don’t want to move. You don’t want this to end.
Eventually, though, he stirs. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder before slowly, carefully, pulling out of you. You whimper at the loss, and he shushes you with a soothing caress down your spine. He rolls off you, landing on the floor beside the bed with a soft thud, and you're about to ask what he's doing when the sound of running water reaches your ears.
A few moments later, he’s back, lifting you into his arms as if you weigh nothing. You’re so tired you can barely hold your head up, but you loop your arms around his neck and nuzzle against his chest as he carries you over to the tub. He’s started the water, and the room is quickly filling with steam, carrying the scent of some exotic, floral oil.
He gently lowers you into the bubbling water, and you sigh as the heat seeps into your well-used muscles. He climbs in behind you, settling you back against his chest. The tub is massive, and you both fit easily, the water lapping at your shoulders. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you close, and you rest your head back against his shoulder, completely content.
This is bliss. This is the peace you wanted for him. For both of you. This quiet, intimate moment, where the only thing that matters is the feel of your skin against his, the steady beat of his heart in your ear. There’s no war here. No death, no duty, no responsibility. There’s only the water, and the moonlight, and the two of you.
“That was…” he starts softly. You can feel the smile in his tone without needing to see it. “Way better than a kolto injection. We should put this in the standard issue medkit.”
You snort a weak laugh as you tip your head back to look at him. He's watching you with an expression of such naked adoration it makes your chest ache. The post-coital haze has softened all the sharp edges, leaving only the gentle, devoted core of him. You trail a wet hand up his arm, tracing the corded muscle before linking your fingers with his.
“We’d need a bigger medkit,” you retort, your voice raspy from exertion. He chuckles, the sound a deep, rumbling vibration that you feel through your entire back. He uses his free hand to scoop up some water and pour it over your shoulder, watching it trace a path down your chest. His gaze is hot and possessive, a banked fire ready to flare to life again at a moment's notice. You can feel the promise of it in the way he holds you, a silent assertion that this night, and the next thirteen, are all his. The thought makes you shiver.
“Feeling any more relaxed, medic?” you ask, your voice a low murmur. “I feel like my treatment is showing some progress.”
He tightens his arm around you, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.
“Relaxed isn’t the word I’d use,” he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice. “I feel… recalibrated. Like a set of karked up gyros that have finally been aligned.”
“Gyros,” you repeat, a giggle bubbling up from your chest. You turn in his arms to face him, straddling his lap. The water sloshes around you, and you place your hands on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath your palm. “You’re the most romantic man I’ve ever met.”
“I try,” he says, leaning in to nuzzle your cheek. His stubble scrapes against your skin, a pleasant, rough texture that sends a fresh wave of arousal through you. “Only the best poetic metaphors for my favorite nurse.”
You tilt your head, capturing his lips in a slow, sweet kiss. There’s no desperation in it this time, no frantic urgency. It’s a kiss of connection, of reaffirmation. A quiet acknowledgment of the new reality you’ve just built together. He deepens the kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips, and you open for him with a soft sigh. He tastes of you, and of the clean, slightly floral taste of the bathwater. He tastes like home.
You’re the one to break the kiss, resting your forehead against his. The water is starting to cool, but the warmth you feel radiating from him is more than enough to keep the chill at bay.
“So,” you say, your breath hitching as his hands start to explore, tracing the curve of your spine, the swell of your hips. “A hundred and ninety-two more to go? That’s a lot of work.”
“Ah, you know me,” he reminds you, a wicked glint in his eye. “I’m a workaholic."
You laugh, a bright, happy sound that echoes in the steamy room. You can’t remember the last time you laughed so freely. You can’t remember the last time you felt this light, this unburdened. He did that. He gave you this.
“We should probably get out before we turn into prunes,” you say, though you make no move to leave. You’re perfectly content right where you are, tucked in his arms, in this opulent, improbable bubble of peace.
“Probably,” he agrees, but he doesn’t move either. He just holds you, his hands tracing idle patterns on your skin. “I’m just trying to figure out what my official diagnosis is, so I can put it in my report.”
“You’re filing a report?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. “On our vacation?”
“Of course,” he says, all serious medic. “For the sake of medical science. So, what are we calling this condition? Terminal happiness?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a Zeltrosian Love Sickness,” you suggest, running a finger down the line of his jaw. “Symptoms include an inability to keep one’s hands to oneself, a sudden fondness for ridiculous cocktails, and a marked decrease in tactical awareness.”
“Sounds serious,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “And the prescribed treatment?”
“More of the same,” you whisper against his lips. “Administered daily, for the next thirteen days. Possibly longer, if the patient remains uncooperative.”
“I think we can classify the patient as extremely cooperative,” he says, his hands sliding down to cup your ass, pulling you closer. “But a full course of treatment is probably for the best. Just to be sure.”
You’re both smiling, a giddy, foolish happiness that feels almost dangerous after years of war and stoicism. This is the real magic of Zeltros, you realize. Not the glowing caves or the beautiful beaches, but the way it peels back the layers of armor and fear you’ve both worn for so long, until all that’s left is the raw, vulnerable, and wonderfully hopeful core of who you are. Of who you are together.
The water has grown cool, a gentle prod that it’s time to move. You finally climb out, grabbing two of the ridiculously fluffy, white robes that are hanging on a heated rack. You toss one to him before wrapping yourself in the other, and all the while you feel the warmth of his gaze on you.
You can’t help but preen under the attention, a smile playing on your lips as you take your sweet time tying the sash at your waist. The look on his face is worth it. The hunger that was sated is now a slow-burning banked fire, one that promises endless nights of this very thing. You know, without a doubt, that you will both take full advantage of this.
He watches with a wry, knowing as he shrugs on his own robe. The soft fabric hangs open, revealing a tantalizing stretch of his chest and that trail of dark hair that disappears below the sash. He makes no move to tie it, just stands there, radiating a comfortable confidence that sends a fresh wave of desire through you. It's a low hum beneath the surface of your contentment, a promise of more to come that makes your skin tingle.
"So," he starts with a nonchalance that belies the look in his eye, "you mentioned something about handcuffs?"
✧ Summary: It was going to be the usual night when you're hanging out at 79’s, until Tup approaches you, asking for your help to introduce him to experience sex. The real, hands-on thing.
✧ Tags & Warnings: SMUT - 18+ (Minors DNI!), friends with benefits, platonic sex, kissing, first time, alcohol consumption, reader is experienced, cunnilingus, fingering, edging, piv, unprotected sex, aftercare, mentions of Tup and other clones having watched porn and enjoying sex-related things as entertainment
✧ Word Count: 5.8k
✧ A/N: 🧍🏽♀️ Remind me to never write a sex ed involving piv again or I'd get carried away like this wdym almost 6k words for smut (I mean there are others more than that but still 🥹). Also, recently I couldn't help but find Tup as this sweet sweet innocent looking guy, and this is (perhaps) a generic genre of smut for him from me… but hope you enjoy! 💛
Main Masterlist | Read on AO3 | divider by @cafekitsune
“You want me to what, Tup?”
“Yeah, I mean,” the trooper's, your best friend, words break apart. Music blasts from the audio systems around you as tonight's atmosphere at the 79’s seems to grow tighter and hotter. “Only if you want. If you don't, I completely understand.” He bows his head down, completely embarrassed, and scoots his chair back to leave you to your own. “And I'm really sorry for making you uncomfortable—”
“Hang on.” You grab his hand before he could scurry away from you. “It's… fine. Sit down.”
You can see Tup visibly processes what you just said. Slowly, he drags the bar stool in and retakes his seat. “It's… fine?”
You pull up a smile. “Yeah. Let me think for a bit.”
“Wow,” Tup breathes a laugh, his gloved hand coming up to rub at his neck. He's still in armor, although you've heard that he's back from deployment just the night before. “Um. Thanks. For even considering.”
You've known Tup long enough. You've known him since he was still a shiny, clueless and awkward on his first night in a bar, even if it's a clone bar, so practically a safe space with his brothers around. But you helped him ease into the loud, rave-baiting atmosphere. Tup aims to find you first in the crowd whenever he steps foot inside the bar. It just happens to be your favorite place to hang out, they've surprisingly got the best Sazerac around.
And man, it's like you're watching him grow into a real man past puberty, curious about sexual acts and breaching past the what-ifs to execute the real thing.
You know he's sort of shy and keeps to himself. Tup is adorable in his own way. It's just that you didn't expect that he'd ask you, his best friend, to have sex with him so he could know what it feels like. Learn what it feels like, with you to guide him along.
You pull your chair closer to him, lowering your voice almost as if you're whispering a conspiracy that's happening between senate sessions. “Have you ever watched some porn, Tup?”
He tries to hide the shock that you're asking him that, but fails. “Yeah,” he clears his throat, speaking quietly to match your tone. “A fair share.”
A fair share, alright. One of the four companies under the 212th—not Ghost Company—is a well-known porn link broker in the GAR, specializing in human females and certain… kinks. Wolfpack of the 104th is much worse, much freakier. Hardcase recommended none of that shit yet to Tup, quite literally steering him into some of the tame good ole classic stuff, like the legendary holozine Busty Zeltron Beauties.
You lean on your elbow, jaw propped in your palm. Something in your smile changes. “Figured out what you like, then?” you ask with an eyebrow raised.
Tup hesitates. Truthfully? He thinks he has. “Uh. Yes and no, but…” His eyes meet yours, determined, the shyness gradually evaporates from his body gestures. “This time if we, um, agree to get outta here, I just wanna… have it. For once. So I could learn and know what it feels like.”
“It's okay,” you reassure him, tapping the bartop between you two. “There's no shame at all from your non-judgemental friend”—you gesture grandly to yourself, grinning broadly—”if you haven't done it.”
“So?” Tup asks, eager.
You sip the last of your Sazerac. Tomorrow's Primeday, so might as well. And, you've gone a long way with Tup, so you won't let his little ask for your favor ruin your friendship. “Okay.”
“Wow,” Tup huffs a relieved laugh, his stress sliding off his shoulders. Yet obviously, some of it remains. “You’re for real, right?”
A series of giggles escapes you, fueled by cognac and absinthe that were in your cocktail. You rest one hand on his thigh plate and give a friendly pat. “Come on, one round of hard stuff for courage.” Smirking, you flag down the bartender. “This one's on me.”
The night draws longer when each of you spent the next shared twenty minutes enjoying the Ghorman cognac the bartender poured for you two. Fives had to come up and bring up this new strip club in town, 15 minutes drive away from the barracks—somehow he found out the commanders had flocked to the establishment. He also cheekily pointed out Tup drinking a glass of spirit for the first time before sauntering away to the dancefloor.
As the special guest DJ steps onto the platform, you and Tup slip away from the crowd and into a taxi you flagged down. Inside the speeder, the tension is palpable, hot and bubbling and inflating like a balloon about to explode. Tup has been to your place a couple of times, but for entirely different purposes. Never this. The cord in your underbelly grows taut, even more so when you finally invite Tup into your apartment, locking the door behind you shut.
“Is this really your first time?” You're pouring yourself a glass of water to cool yourself down. Tup remains in the center of your home, nervously depressurizing his bodysuit and taking his gloves off.
“Yeah…”
“So you've never had…” You come around, the tone in your voice remains casual yet curious, watching Tup unclasping his armor piece by piece. “Another woman's hands inside your pants, another woman going down on you…?”
Tup glances up briefly at you, his back shuddering at the image of you on your knees in front of him. “Um. No.”
“Well, then.” You calmly sip on your water, cheeks flushed from alcohol, and set down your glass to pour another one for Tup. “I'm honored you went to me.”
“You're my best friend.” Tup sets his pile of armor next to your couch, unsure where to put it since he's never taken them off during his visits before. His boots are already by the front door. “I trust you with this kind of thing.”
“‘This kind of thing’,” you muse, smirking as you offer his glass of water. You wait purposefully until he receives your offer and takes slow sips gratefully. “Have you been aiming to get into my panties since the start, Tup?”
“What?!” He almost chokes. Even under the dimmed lights of your apartment, you can still see his cheeks darkening. “Of course not, I—”
“Relax,” you laugh genuinely. “I'm just kidding.”
“And tipsy,” Tup huffs.
“Oh well,” you shrug. “Best kinda feeling when you're about to sleep with your best friend.”
He blushes at your words. Tup sets his empty glass aside and returns to your side. He notices you've already slipped out of your jacket earlier, leaving you in just your top and bottoms, your typical outfit for a bar outing. Your eyes are hazy, half-hooded almost. Your parted lips exhale pent-up air as you seem to hold your adoring gaze at his teardrop tattoo.
“Can I kiss you?” Tup asks, quite unsure, yet reaching for your shoulders. “Don’t know the house rules here, it's just… it's supposedly part of the foreplay, right?”
You nod along, the initial hesitant thoughts of kissing your best friend on the lips sucked out of the airlock. “Yeah, you're right.”
Tup cradles your jaws in his warm hands, his breath shaky as he nears your lips, and you decide to meet him in the middle. A small gasp escapes him at the firm contact, his parted lips allowing you to gently suck on his lip. You draw him closer, your breasts against his chest, to deepen the kiss. Tup does his best to follow your pace, letting his hands wander south to your waist.
Then he feels your tongue pushing past his lips, he can't help the surprised moan out of his throat. You paw and clutch at his blacks over his chest. Your tongue, wet and hot and slick muscle against his own in his mouth, tasting him—he can't help his own erection against you either. Soon, you feel his hard-on against your stomach, bringing you to smile against his lips and pull away from the passionate kiss.
“Don't tell me that's your first kiss either,” you tease him, arms circling his neck and locking him in when he tries to pull away—mostly in embarrassment for his erection.
Tup pants, still on the high. “Huh. Nope.”
“With tongue.”
Heat crawls up to his cheeks. “Um. Yeah.” He sighs against your lips as you lean in for another kiss. The tip of your tongue flicks his bottom lip again to tease, making worse of his hard-on situation. “Stars, that was quite a…” he trails off, kissing you, “Sensation.”
“It's foreplay, it's sensual,” you mutter against his lips. “Supposed to build it up.”
Tup frowns. “Build what up?”
You can feel your own body buzzing. Slowly, you guide your hands to places where you want him to touch. One just below your spine, and the other just below your breasts, beckoning him to act on his instincts. “Here,” you instruct, “You can put your hands anywhere you like.”
Tup looks at you like a puppy offered a toy. “Anywhere?”
You chuckle. “Yeah, why not? At least, with me.” Turns out you don't have to wait—Tup already slides his hand to cup over your rear, fingers wide and splayed over your bottoms to cop a feel. His erection pressing against your stomach makes you whimper, your core aching. “Full consent, Tup. We're about to have sex with each other.”
“Okay…” His voice is tiny, whispery against your lips, yet fully determined. He devours them again, hungrier than before, seemingly picking up the previous trail of hunger as if you hadn't paused before. His hands wander again. You gasp into his mouth when you feel both coarse, warm hands finding their way under your shirt, eager thumbs slipping underneath your breastband.
Tup’s mouth against you tastes like the alcohol he drank, the tang and sharp fruity taste of the cognac fueling the fire in your brain. Soon the pad of his thumbs are brushing against your nipples, immediately bringing them to stiff peaks.
“Yeah, just like that,” you whine, trying to keep your voice levelled and get grammatically proper words out of you. “Oh stars, that's—good work…”
Tup experimentally flicks your one nipple, the other tweaked by his pointer and thumb. He keeps his eyes on you, watching your expression. “Is it too much?”
Panting, you shake your head. “Not at all.” You can already feel wetness in your panties. “A surprise, but an absolutely welcome one. Most of us like that kind of thing.”
“Noted,” Tup grins in relief, and you almost whimper when the heat of his hands leave you. He steals a kiss on your lips again before his eyes give an inquiry. “Can we… move this to the bedroom?”
You're still in the living room, you realize. Nodding, you lightly push him toward your bedroom. “Good call.”
Once inside, you lock the door as well. Your body hums with heated anticipation, cheeks flushed as you behold your friend carefully taking his hairband off, dark curls falling to his shoulders. “Oh,” you awe, as this is the first time seeing him like that. “Whoa, you're quite a charmer with your hair down.”
Tup laughs, a handsome sound to your ears. “Thanks.”
You hum, turning away from his stare so you can slip all your clothes off. You can feel Tup’s heated gaze on your bare back, and at your rear once you bend down to wiggle out of your bottoms, hoping that he catches a glance of your crotch and teasing him in the process.
Tup, understandably, falls silent.
You turn around, casually kicking your discarded clothes away to the side and let Tup's dark eyes roam over your naked glory.
“Ah, kriff,” he suddenly curses, caught fumbling with the top of his bodysuit. It's difficult to get his eyes off you when you’re standing looking all adorable and most importantly all for him to adore. “I’m sorry, you're just…” he chuckles airily, impressed, “You're beautiful.”
“Thanks.” You feel so small suddenly, and your stomach warming over his praise. You decide to acknowledge that, neutralize the awkwardness. “And nice work, too. Praising your partner will definitely get you somewhere.”
Tup grins as he goes to discard his entire bodysuit and set it aside. “Will it get me anywhere I like?”
“It… will.” You're swiftly distracted as your eyes roam over his toned muscles in plains of beautiful tan skin, and eventually down to the bulge under his boxers. Now you know and you've heard that clones are quite… well-endowed. Seeing the proof on your best friend feels strange, somehow. “But first things first!” you exclaim to coax enthusiasm, ignoring how your core aches for a fill already. “Female organ anatomy lesson, pretty boy.”
You sit on the edge of the bed, spread your legs, and pull your feet in against your buttocks. Reclining and supported by your elbow, you present your entire cunt for Tup to observe. His lips part in awe, shoulders panting in apparent hunger. His curiosity coaxes him to kneel in front of you.
“Wow.” You can feel his breath from how close he is. “It's like… a blooming flower.”
You chuckle at his analogy. “Yeah, that's why you see flowers or fruits cut in half in every female hygiene product advertisement ever,” you roll your eyes, Tup laughing along with you, his gaze glued to your crotch. You find yourself smiling, mentally praising how he hasn't touched you, not without permission. “You can touch, but um, lick your fingers before you do. Doesn't feel nice when you go down dry.”
Tup looks at you gratefully for your direction, seeming that he didn't know what to do at first. He follows your instruction; licking two of his fingers and his thumb before slowly and carefully inching towards your nether regions. The heat of his palm radiates all over your inner thigh.
Then at last the tip of what you think is his pointer finger travels between your folds. All in a curious manner. You bite your lip, enjoying the sensation while trying to explain every part of your pussy to Tup as best as you can without shuddering, but you can't help but clench sometimes. Tup notices, and his eyes lit up with awe. Soon enough your slick pools at the lips, begging to be touched and smothered all over.
“That's, uh, the clitoris hood,” you introduce after you explain about your equivalent to his male precum. Tup softly caresses the bundle of nerves with slightly damp finger, sending your body to jolt. “Supposed to be your male appendage equivalent, like a penis foreskin,” you pant heavily, “Reveal the clitoris underneath, and you have yourself the most sensitive organ in a woman's body.”
You swear you're about to drip more of your juice any moment. Tup doesn't seem to mind, taking everything you teach like treasure and precious stones, curiosity sparkling behind his warm brown eyes.
He gives his thumb another lick. Warmth courses throughout your body the moment he rubs your clit, experimentally and painfully slow. You regain your steady breathing, refusing to build your orgasm just yet.
“It's… hard,” Tup mentions, cute dark eyebrows furrowing. “Almost like a soft bone.”
“It's full of nerves,” you explain, panting, “You can make a woman climax from rubbing it alone.”
That takes his attention. His thumb on your clit instantly pauses its movement, and leaves you entirely. “Really?”
“Mhm.” You exhale deeply.
Tup runs a finger between your slit, half of its first knuckle just disappearing inside. Mentally you admire and applaud at his self-control. “Oh, you're wet,” he notes, marvelling at how slick it is. The sound of it and its sensation send you clamps down on nothing, coating his finger more of your juice. “Really wet. You're dripping.”
“I should be wet.” Your body shudders visibly when he pushes in just to the first knuckle. “I couldn't take a cock inside me dry. It'll hurt like hell, and I can't even imagine the pain.”
Tup looks at you worriedly, his knuckle inside you running up and down your slit. “Well, I don't wanna hurt you, so am I doing a good job?”
“Very good job so far.” You try to distract yourself by examining his curls, running your fingers through his scalp. Tup’s shoulders shudder at the contact, but he says nothing—a silent approval. You grin. “Do you have any idea how many men I've met are unable to find that little thing?”
Tup blinks, processing the fact. “But this is anatomy. Supposed to be basic,” he says incredulously, “And it's… right there.”
“Ugh, I know, right?”
His tongue darts out to lick his lips, dark pupils in brown pools dilating in undeniable thirst. “Can I taste you?” Tup asks you, almost meekly, voice sounding huskier than before and it shoots through your core.
You nod. “Yeah, you can.”
You can hear him swallow in anticipation, throat bobbing audibly. Tup inches his face closer toward your crotch, his breath hot against your core and the sensation of it already sends you reeling. You leak more, and Tup catches it with the tip of his tongue, licking upwards until it lodges in between your swollen lips. A rumbly moan of pleasure flows out of you like music in his ears, sending his cock to twitch in his boxers against his will. His hand comes up to hold your inner thigh and keep it apart.
“That's a pretty sound,” Tup marvels at you. He licks you again, gathering your slick on his tongue, and rolls it in his mouth, frowning ever so lightly to register your taste. “It… doesn't really taste like anything.”
“Surprise,” you chuckle weakly at his slightly disappointed tone. “It’s not sweet sweet as people say.”
He nods in understanding. “Yeah, but it's…” An audible rumbly sigh escapes him, eyes hooded as he pulls himself in once more. “Stars, it's addicting.”
Tup lays his tongue flat against your sopping slit and drags it upward, its tip catching your engorged clit making your hips jolt in response. Like a man starved he holds down your hips with a sturdy forearm, and with the other hand he spreads your lips open using two fingers. The shifts of limbs and his strength holding you down as his tongue wriggles inside you sends you up with the clouds, failing to register such party tricks that you've probably only seen in filmed porn.
He drinks off of you, messily pleases you with the rough edges of his tongue, occasionally flicking your hardened clit in the process. Tup. Your best friend. Someone you'd never ever think of to go down on you and eat your pussy out. For a virgin who's only watched a fair amount of porn in desperate times, Tup prompts you to the finishing line non-stop, the wet, warm muscle continuously stabbing into your cunt and lips close around you to receive your juices.
You whimper as he flicks your clit hard, your hand flying to clutch at his hair. “T—Tup…”
He raises his head, rasped voice alarmed. “What?” His thumb caresses your pelvis to soothe you. “Did I hurt you?”
Panting, you run your fingers along his cheekbones. “You're so sweet,” you coo, huffing a laugh. “And no, I'm okay. And that was really good.”
“I’m glad,” Tup grins triumphantly, wiping his glistening mouth with the back of his hand. His gaze returns to the sopping mess between your legs, your juices glistening along your slit. Then he peers up, dark pupils dilating, voice huskier than before. “I'm—I want to put a finger in, is that okay?”
Your core clenches once more on his consideration to even ask for your consent all this time. “Yeah, that's okay,” you reply, your voice sounding airy in raw anticipation. “Try to make a rhythm. Key is consistency.”
Tup makes little nods with his head, his middle finger zeroing into your cunt. Your pooling slick makes his path inside incredibly smooth, a whimpering noise escapes you as he bottoms out on his knuckles.
“Oh, Force.” Tup groans at your flesh suction around his finger, thrusting and creating a rhythm. “You're so wet inside… sucking me in.” He makes an experimental circling motion to stretch you out and inserts a second finger in. Fives taught him that two fingers is better than one. He awes at how your walls flutter around his digits. “Varp, you're quite tight.”
It's not even dirty talking. He's merely stating his findings like an archaeologist with their groundbreaking skeletons discovery, but the syrupy rumble that emits out of his chest is surely undoing you. You can't even deny it; doing this with your friend—with the taut string of tension between you two—is undeniably hot.
“Tup…” you whimper. If you're not actually fucking soon you feel like about to throw hands with someone who invented the idea of edging.
At your desperate call Tup rips his fingers off of you, causing you to whimper at the loss, and presses them against his own tongue, humming in delight at your taste. “Can I do it now?”
“I—fuck, yeah.” He's desperate, panting, one hand palming his painful erection over his boxers. He rises to his feet, the visible outline of his dick pushing past his waistband with its tip very much leaking precum, red and stiff from lack of friction. You shake yourself out of your trance and scoot back further down the bed. “So how do you want me?”
Tup’s eyes momentarily roam over your front, and how pretty and ready you are to… help your friend in the matters of sex. “Lie down on your back,” he requests, hurried and yet you're touched by how gentle he still sounds.
You scoot backward again before lying down and get comfortable, your pillow under your head. Tup tugs off his boxers, stepping out of them and carefully joins you on the bed.
“Kriff,” he gasps lightly, gripping the base of his erect cock as he takes in your position; legs spread with your drenched cunt on blatant display ready to take him. Tup has this pained expression on his face that almost makes you want to lunge forward and pepper him with soothing kisses. “Sorry in advance if I'm busting too soon.”
You let out a giggle at his apologetic tone. “Try not to,” you tease, but try to make yourself sound serious.
Tup rolls his eyes, looking jabbed. “It’s because you're teasing me a lot.”
You smirk. “And you didn't this whole time?”
“It’s foreplay,” he counters defensively.
“Tup, come on, legs feeling sore already.” You nudge his thigh with your foot.
Your friend responds with a breathy grunt, his body burning hot like Mustafar’s volcanic terrain as he lines up with your entrance. The bulbous head of his cock lodges between your lips, and you gasp at his girth. You feel fortunate that he's edged you earlier, ensuring a smooth flight as Tup slowly pushes half of his length in. His legs tremble at the sensation of your hot fleshy walls wrapping around him. You spread your legs more as you moan, a silent go for him to insert the rest of his length into you.
“Oh blazing stars,” you moan as Tup bottoms out inside you, your fingers digging into his shoulders. “Your girth is fucking impressive.”
“That means a lot to me,” Tup chuckles, his tone grateful. He stills, relishing the little clamps your pussy makes around him and letting you adjust to his size. His jaws tense, sweat beads on his hairline, dark curls falling to his face. His eyes plead to you. “Can I kiss you again? I really like the feel of your lips.”
The ‘yeah’ is barely vocal when you say it, your breath quickly stolen away the moment Tup leans down and captures your lips again. This time, with more heat and passion than before. His tongue slides into your mouth without hesitation, wet and tangling with yours. With one arm supporting himself, he uses the other to caress your breast and your side, trimmed nails grazing your skin leaving goosebumps in their wake.
You press your hand down onto his back, prompting him wordlessly, as you're liplocked with him, to settle over you. Tup obliges, the tip of his tongue running over your lip, his chest crushing against yours. You moan at the slight shift of your joined bodies, hungry for more movement and more friction to your sensitive areas.
“You can move,” you mutter against his lips, tenderly slipping his fallen hair behind his ears. “Adjust your body, your legs, however you're comfortable.” You hook your legs around his hips, glancing pointedly at your joined crotches. “This position is gonna make you sore, but your adrenaline will get to you.”
Tup’s face has this serious look, as if this is just one of the usual munitions briefings with his peers. “Got it.” He braces, shifts, reeling a little back, his cock retreating from your depths—experiments to find the comfortable position as you instructed. Then he thrusts into you once, reinvigorated by your gasp of surprise. “Like this?”
He repeats his movement, swinging into you with a rhythm in mind as you've told him before. His cock brushes against spots that make you dizzy when provoked. “Gods, yeah, that's—” you get cut off when he drives into you particularly hard, making you yelp. “Yeah, that's perfect...”
Tup drives his focus into his movement, hips rhythmically slamming into you. “Thanks for the guidance,” he huffs a chuckle in your ear.
“That's what I'm here for,” you grin lazily, your lips brushing against his cheekbone. “So you can fuck like a pro.”
“I'll never forget this,” Tup grunts, lightly biting a spot on your neck. You moan and stretch your neck to give him more access. “My… first time after all.”
“Heh. You're doing good, Tup.” He shifts into a new angle that drives him deeper inside you as he plants eager yet gentle kisses along the sensitive spots on your neck, paying attention to how you make your little pleased noise. “So, so good.”
You moan at his hot, wet tongue joining the fray. Tup grabs the pillow by your head within a clench of his fist, his senses overwhelmed by your voice and how soft and warm you are under his body. In the midst of your sex-induced haze, you don't remember telling him about his speed, but Tup seems to get the hang of it as he increases it, aiming to chase his own high while, blatantly put; using his best friend's cunt as practice.
“You wanna get on top?” he suggests in your ear, panting.
You acknowledge him with a hum, happy to help him through his first sex journey. It’s fun, you think, and as long as you're not harmed in any way, the pleasure is going both ways. “Feeling adventurous, aren't we?” you tease, rolling over once he's pulled out of you. “Sore?”
“Kind of.” Tup sighs fully as he reclines in your previous spot, dick glistening with your slick and pointing skywards, reeling you in. “Maybe I need to include some of those yoga exercises in my PT. For flexibility.”
“You do that,” you remark, swinging your leg over to his other side. You rise on your knees above him, grabbing the base of his cock and lining your entrance with it. “Or look for specific hips and legs exercises.”
You bring yourself down upon him in one smooth motion, both of your moans tangling in the hot atmosphere around you. You struggle to shift while full of cock, your walls clenching every so often as if acting as leverage as you shift your position; leaning back with your hands on his knees supporting your body, earning him the full view of his own cock penetrating your pussy.
“Shit,” Tup groans in awe, his grip over your ankles tightening. “I'd be 100% content if I'm coming to that sight.”
You rise with a grunt and slam back down on him, starting to build a rhythm, the head of his cock nudging your insides. “Yeah? Let’s make it our goal, then.” Tup’s hand slides between you to use his thumb to rub at your clit. You shudder at the heightening sensation, breaking your rhythm for a moment. “Ah, fuck, that's it…”
Tup watches you bounce on his cock with impossible hunger in his eyes, lips parted in awe, your moans filling the air. “Sounds like I'm doing a pretty good job,” he remarks teasingly.
Just lying down? You snort out a laugh, cynically eyeing him. “You're gonna do terrific if you could thrust up into me.”
His eyebrows raise in interest. “Is that a challenge?”
You decrease your speed, slowly stretching yourself with his girth as you respond to him, “We don't have to do too much, going past your limit…” As if offended, Tup’s ministrations on your hardened clit quicken, side to side, a clear attempt to get you off on his cock. “...In your first time, Tup.”
He eyes you seriously, his thumb sliding off your bundle of nerves to caress your inner thigh. “I’m here to learn.”
You feel like going crazy with his method of edging; varying his speed to pleasure you. How the fuck does he even know about edging in the first place? You huff. “What are you, a monk apprentice?”
Tup regards that as a green-means-go from you, and goes to grab your hips. “More like your apprentice learning how to fuck the living kriff out of people.”
He does just that; feet flat and planted into the mattress, then begins to snap his hips upward towards you. It's awkward at first, because there's no such thing as a perfect first time, his own rhythm clashing into the one that you're sustaining as you ride him. But you quickly adapt, matching his thrusts, clapping down on his pelvis as he thrusts up into you.
The filthy, pleased noises that you make indicate that he's doing it perfectly.
“Stars, Tup,” you whine, eyes screwed shut to relish the delectable high coursing through your body. “You're impossible for a first timer.”
“Highest compliment,” Tup grunts, panting as he fucks his cock into your fleshy depths, his thumb gliding across your skin again for your engorged clit. “Clones learn quickly, y'know?”
You nearly scream with delight, your walls clamping around him as he furiously flicks your bundle of nerves, eager to let you release first before he does. It isn't long until Tup's relentless thrusting throws you off the edge, the darkness behind your eyes exploding into a multitude of colors inside the void spectrum. Your climax slams into you in waves, fluttering around his cock inside you and rendering your jaw slack in a silent scream.
Tup’s entire body twitches, his hands attempting to push you off of him. “Shit, I'm about to—”
Without waiting to descend from your high, you slip out of him but yet to move aside, instead you hold his stiffness in your fist and jerk his cock swiftly, pointing its engorged, twitching head at your belly. Without command and order, Tup releases with a loud, satisfied groan, hot cum spurting onto your stomach and even shooting for your tits. It dribbles down your hand like a flood, its thick heat coating your fist.
“You came so much,” you remark, failing to hide your perverted awe. Not long after, your usual teasing smirk returns to your lips. “What, you saved for a month? The entire campaign?”
Tup pants heavily, his entire body sagging into the mattress. “I’m not obligated to spill the last time I took care of myself,” he chuckles airily. After catching a breath or two, he slips off the bed and touches your cheek reassuringly. “Wait here, okay?”
“It's my place,” you joke, watching his bare ass heading for the fresher. Soon, you hear the water running and water wringing off some clothes. “Not going anywhere, heh.”
Tup returns from the fresher with a deadpanned look, a delayed reaction to your joke just so he could pull that face at you without saying anything. In his hand is a damp towel, and it's warm against your skin as he rubs his spent off of you, his touch careful and tender.
You smile and, honest to Force, are touched by his gesture. “Thanks. Well done with the aftercare. Bonus points from me—” You double-take at the cloth in his hand, your expression turns into one of horror. “Tup, that's my facial towel!”
“Wait, really?” he panics, looking back and forth between you and the small towel, now soiled. His face falls, embarrassed. “I'm so sorry!”
You rub your clean hand over your face, laughing. “That's fine, I'll just fetch the other one later.”
Both of you make your way to the fresher; Tup discarding the towel into the laundry basket and you locking yourself in while you clean up and shower. Eventually you shout for him to grab you some fresh clothes and leave it by the door. The rest is pretty domestic and normal like before, even you kindly offer him your shower so he could clean up properly.
“Do you want me to stay?” Tup asks you, all cleaned up and sitting at the dining table, after both of you move to the kitchen to cook some instant noodle cups.
You slump into the chair next to him. “Only if you want.”
“My leave isn't until next Zhellday,” he muses quietly, twirling with the tiny plastic fork that comes with the noodles. “I've got an entire week.”
You take in his relaxed shoulders, happy for him that he is. And you, too. “Hope you're not spending that entire time in a bar and sleeping with people,” you joke.
Tup laughs, leaning into your space to whisper conspiratorially, “I don't know, you're kinda ruining it for me.”
You land a playful swat at his arm. “It's your first time! You still have plenty to explore!” you laugh along with him, rising from your seat. “I'm grabbing the extra pillow and blankets, then.”
“No need to hurry,” Tup grabs your wrist and tugs at you so you sit back down beside him. “You can do it later.” He nudges your noodle cup to your direction, the hot water inside still cooking its contents. “Why don't you rest for a bit for now, regain your strength?”
You jut your lips out playfully, cooing. “Aw, Tup. So sweet and gentle of a man.”
“Shut up,” he chuckles, ducking under your hand when you try to twiddle with his hair bun. His gaze meets yours, and you can see the slightest tinge of pink on his cheeks. “And all that in the bedroom was, um, really amazing.” Tup then leans in, pecking your cheek sweetly. “Thank you so much.”
You return the gesture and squeeze his hand, smiling. “Back at you, trooper.”
A/N: You can request for x reader in my askbox! If you're interested in my clone x reader oneshots you can sign up as well to be tagged of future works. (Link provided ⬆️)
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