Hi there, I’m Ru. Nice to meet ya. I’m mostly here to further my current Clone Wars obsession, but I fancy other fandoms as well.
All of my fics have whatever kind of pairing I feel comfortable with, depending on the phase I’m in. I like what I like, and I respect anyone else’s preferences as well.
I love fanfiction, both reading and writing it. Sometimes I make art. I also love to chat, but I’m more active on my main account—so message or ask me over there for a faster reply!
A fair warning that no one told me before watching TCW is that it’s a dangerous show if you get easily attached to characters. Like,, some of the clones have MAYBE 3 episodes of screentime and I still cry when they die. Also, it makes the prequels, which are already tragic, sooo much worse because instead of being like “awww dead jedi :(“ you’re like “oh no, dead jedi i KNOW”
And then being in the clone wars fandom is WORSE because you’re like “these clones with entirely fleshed out personalities are dying” and “oh no, aayla was shot down by bly, her husband” and “ahhh, plo koon was murdered by his own kids”
But also like, it’s also a great show if you get easily attached to characters because there are SO many and they’re all great
Tags: Medical Kink, Gloves, Dom/Sub Undertones, Praise Kink, Est Rel, Pre-Negotiated Scenario, Touch of Aftercare
18+ ONLY
Warm breath, cool hands, the wet between your thighs. Hungry eyes, yet a gentle touch. Cold lips, contrasting soft caresses.
There’s want there, a deep desire to make you feel. Press your buttons, finesse your body’s interface, a perfectionist at work.
He’s everything you could possibly need. An amalgamation of tenderness, technique, and tenacity. He molds himself for you, seeking out your wants, gradually pin-pointing each place, each subtle motion that makes you tick.
It’s not the first time you’ve engaged in this scenario, he indulges your fantasies so easily, slides into the role like he was made for it. Hells, he actually was.
“Need you to lay all the way back for me sweetheart…that’s it, all the way down.”
Your back hits the padded table, knees up in the air, tense, poised for what’s to come. But also carrying an uncertainty that always comes with leaving yourself vulnerable.
Callused fingers stroke your thighs, thumbs soothing circles across your taught muscles. A shiver slithers its way down your spine, curling around the need coiled at your center.
“Need you to relax for me hun, it’ll be much easier if you’re not so tense.”
The sensation of his experienced hands holding you in place grounds you. Reassures you that you’re safe, that he’s got you.
“Alright…” The breath escapes your lips in an almost inaudible sigh, whispering your pent reservations out into the void.
“There you go, easy does it, love.” He gently taps the inside of each thigh, indicating where he wants you to move, “I need you to open up a little more, give me some room to work.”
Melting into his firm touches, letting yourself be positioned, limbs fluidly stretching and bending to accommodate his seated form between your legs. You want to be good for him. Pliable in his hold, letting yourself be spread open before him like an antique chest, baring the treasured contents for his perusal.
The thought of him examining your core, gaze raking over the most intimate parts of you, trained eyes calculating the most clinical way to torment you—causes a gasp of anticipation and pure lust to crawl its way up your throat.
“We’re just going to take a quick look, and make sure everything’s in working order…”
A loud snap.
A pulsing jolt to your senses sends an electrifying pattern rippling across your skin. It’s a stark reminder of your completely naked body. Your head bolts upward from the table, eyes wide.
He’s there, close, right between your spread thighs still. Hands in the air, poised—stretching the second glove on.
His eyes meet yours.
Something devilish, the need to toy with you, all the while maintaining a calm, professional facade. It revs your internal engine of desire like nothing else. If it was an actual piece of machinery it would have caught fire by now.
He snaps the other glove on, reaching one of the protected hands forward to rest it on your stomach, dragging the material across the expanse of bare skin until it stops, pressing into your pelvic bone.
And then he squeezes.
You can’t hold back the moan.
He knows how much you love those gloves, knows how the sensation of their tacky texture on your skin excites you, has you dripping all over his carefully wrapped table, leaving unseemly splotches of your essence.
He leaves his hand there, squeezing, then pats you a few times, as if reassuring a wary massifs.
“Don’t want to make a mess now, do we?”
You shake your head wildly back and forth, “No Sir…” It’s an exhale as well as an exaltation. He wants to know you’re giving him control, letting him lead you and recognizing that leadership. You’re giving him the power here, and he’ll swoop it up happily, and gratify you substantially for your submission.
Maybe you're a pushover, but you like it when he takes the lead. Maybe it’s old hat, but it satisfies your wanton fancies like nothing else can.
“Now lay back, and let me do my job.” He brings his other hand to rest on the opposite side of your pelvis, pressing both covered palms down, encouraging you to do as he’s instructed.
It leaves little room for discussion, and a shudder of anticipation racks you, the first pricks of perspiration tickle the curve of your lower back. Lowering your shoulders and head back down onto the table, your lust swoon mind emptying of all other thoughts. There’s only the pressure of his warm hands, the shameful slick trickling from your entrance, and the cold air of the sterile room pebbling your skin.
Everything else can wait. Everything else quiets.
When he speaks again, his tone is deeper, huskier, low notes of velvet and spice. Forcing your head to remain against the table is a fraught battle, drawn to his voice like a blossom to the sun.
“Relax. Just going to have a look, let me know if you feel any discomfort…”
You find it impossible to form coherent speech as his hands drag down from your hips so slow, it might as well be torture. The fingers coast over your inner thighs, teasing inward, framing your sex on both sides.
He presses, then pulls outward, spreading you open, the dampness of your core catches the cold air, spiking your gut with thrill. He can see everything like this. Guilty of envy for his touch, your sentence is about to be delivered.
And gods above, let it be a cruel punishment. Please.
“Hm…seems like overproduction of lubrication, given the lack of stimuli. We’ll need to take a closer look at that.”
Two large fingers drag across your opening, starting at the very bottom, working their way to the top, dipping into your folds, dragging through the wetness. It’s as if he’s about to taste the topping of a delicate desert.
You hope to sith hells he does.
The two digits reach the top of your slit, barely brushing over the swelling bundle of nerves. A gentle caress, yet volts of pleasure crackle up your spine, a furnace igniting at your core. He’s just knocked the ignition switch with the casualness of a part-time mechanic.
Your whole body quakes, breathy keen elicited from the simplest of touches. The buildup having brought you to the brink already. But he’s not going to give it to you so easily.
After all, a good medic…takes his time.
“Kix…” Despite all your resistance, despite your desire to remain immersed in the fantasy, your lips betray your want, begging, singing praise for your medic like a goddamn choir.
A low laugh, and a kiss to your thigh forgive your exclamation, “It’s a delicate process, patience sweetheart.”
You're whining now, shamelessly.
“Going to have to get a feel of what’s going on…inside. You’re going to feel a little pressure.”
The two fingers tracing your opening, slip down, seek the right angle, and then breach your entrance. It’s like finally getting air after holding your breath for too long.
Stars form behind your eyelids when you blink, little specks of gold and silver bursts. The gloves are coated in your slick, but the material still catches on your walls, an odd gripping sensation. The traction, coupled with the entire scenario, his calm explanations—it’s coming to a head.
He pumps them into you deep, spurring a cocoon of heat to form in your abdomen. The fingers curl, seeking your most sensitive spot, pressing even farther into you.
You gasp, choking on air, and your legs reflexively pull inwards, muscles reacting to the tension in your center, the pleasure pulsing through your nerves.
His elbows hold them back, “Keep your legs out.”
He’s pumping in and out of you slow, but hard and deep, using his free hand to hold you spread open.
“Need to open you up a bit more, you’re going to feel some more pressure…”
A third finger crooks its way up and presses inside. The stretch has you gasping, his broad hands a blessing of incomparable wealth. It breaches your entrance, joining the other digits in pumping you full. Any discomfort is overwhelmed by the pleasure it brings with it, and the slide comes easier now, your wetness bleeding out around his fingers.
“Easy hun, just like that. There we go.” His voice is steady, instructions uttered without any hesitation or doubt. It feeds your want like kindling.
“Please…” You can’t take it anymore.
“You’re doing so well. I’m going to add a little more stimulation.”
His other hand which had been previously spreading you, slides upwards towards the point of aching need. Two fingers dare to court the crux of your pleasure, masterfully pulling back the hood, and baring the throbbing bud.
Everything goes silent inside your mind, the languid thrusts of his fingers fade, and the sloppy sounds of your arousal pale, leaving only the moment of pure anticipation.
“Hold the table if you need to—” He purrs, and this time it doesn’t sound like the medic, exuding smug deviousness and satisfaction. It’s Kix now, and he’s very pleased with his work.
His thumb runs across the swollen bundle, and you lose the ability to comprehend.
White hot pleasure zips across your body, limbs clamping up, fingers seeking purchase on something, anything. You grip the edges of the table like he told you, nails clawing at the padding, mouth agape as if to scream, but no sound comes out.
He circles you, tracing patterns back and forth, and it’s icy hot ecstasy, mind gone blank with the strength of your climax. He’d worked you over slowly. Letting your peak build with everything but what you actually needed to come. All it took was him pressing the final button to push you over the edge.
And he’s not just pressing the button, he’s holding it down. And you’ve gone into overdrive. His fingers are still thrusting into you, but fast and hard now, and he’s not going to stop until you exhaust every single drop of pleasure left in your body and mind.
“So good for me, love…that’s it, let it all out.” He praises you, as your body thrashes against the table.
It just keeps going, and you’re gulping for oxygen that seems to have exited all the air around you, leaving you incapable of drawing breath.
Your core is on fire, throbbing, pulsing along with his thrusts, pricking ever so slightly with the pain of overstimulation.
Finally, you’re released from your silent scream, and your muscles acquit you. Falling with a shuddering slap back onto the table, catching up on the breaths you couldn’t take, limbs curling up into yourself, swaddled in the aftershock of bliss.
He ever so slowly slides his fingers out of you, letting your shaking legs close, gloves hands leaving a shiny trail behind as they withdraw.
You hear him moving, the sound of shuffling and the snap of gloves being removed and tossed. It’s only a quick moment until he’s standing beside the table.
“Hey sweetheart, how do you feel?” He leans down and cups the side of your face, angling it up to meet your eyes.
You’re utterly spent, pleasantly shattered by his ministrations. Body still racked by the tremors of his touches. He leans down, shading you with his broad form, and lands a delicate kiss on your forehead. It’s soft, sweet, warm, brimming with appreciation and love. The kiss of a partner, and not a clinician. He’s back to his usual self.
“You did so well.” He whispers into your ear, shivers, and tingling trails of leftover desire coast across the back of your neck. Fine hairs still standing on end.
You can feel his breath catch, what could be a gentle laugh, “You also made such a mess, going to put down extra protection before your next appointment.” You groan in resignation and helplessness, it’s less about shame, and more about wanting round two.
“You may feel the after effects for a few hours, but that’s nothing to worry about.”
Glancing upwards, mirthful brown eyes meet yours and you manage a stuttering laugh.
He’s going to be the end of you, and you’re absolutely fine with that.
I am in awe. The way you frame the give and take, the domination and submission in this fic is beautiful. It's sokix soft and it allows the devotion between them to be palpable.
But if I may, somehow your spiciest line wasn't even explicit at all ...
“Hold the table if you need to—” He purrs, and this time it doesn’t sound like the medic, exuding smug deviousness and satisfaction. It’s Kix now, and he’s very pleased with his work.
Kix being proud of how well he brings you pleasure is so fricken hot I cannot control myself. Thank you for this.
Gonna say something that will definitely get screen capped and used to doxx me someday but like having a fetish isn’t. It isn’t evil. You know? People have fetishes. It’s part of the human condition. You’re not a serial killer just because you’re unusually and offputtingly hype about women’s shoes. Thought crime isn’t real and it especially shouldn’t be applied to fetishes. Every human brain is a diy project built by unlicensed electricians.
Already I’m getting caveats that it’s okay to have a fetish “as long as you don’t expose unconsenting people to it” and while yes, obviously, I do agree (whenever sex is involved, you should always make sure people are on the same page as you first) I feel the need to point out that this post isn’t even about who you share your kink with or when. It’s just me saying that liking feet or piss or inflation or whatever doesn’t make you a bad person, it’s okay to like things, even weird things, even gross things. There’s nothing morally wrong with being gross. We are all gross. John 8:7
The caveat that I would put on this post, as OP, would be like… your instincts don’t decide whether you’re good or bad. Your actions do. Act ethically, be considerate, and have any fantasy that floats your goddamn boat. Thought crime isn’t real.
