Did a piece of Tech in my sketchbook today (when I should have been packing for my trip). First time I’ve ever drawn Tech traditionally, at least that I can remember. Who knows, maybe I’ll tackle the other guys too🤷🏻♀️
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.
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"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?"
I can finally share the gift I created for @99aceace made for the Clones for the Holidays event! :) This is set during one of the Bad Batch’s earlier missions and Tech and Crosshair are stuck in a snow storm waiting to be picked up. Happy Holidays!
Delightfully Delusional @stellarbit - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
