Pairing: Bacara x Jedi!Reader / Bacara x fem!Reader
Word count: 7.3k
Tags/Warnings: whump; angst; Order 66; canon-typical violence; reader has an acquired disability; guilt-ridden Bacara; description of injury; i love making men cry; a little ptsd
For the @gar-romance-month
Event prompts: blaster; only one bed; "You should hate me." | "I don't." | "Why?" | "Because I love you."
A/N: Title is from When the Night Is Over by Lord Huron, which also inspired a lot of this fic. I recommend giving it a listen before reading 🌜
This is what I have in my head when I'm picturing Bacara btw
Masterlist
mesh'la - beautiful
sarad - flower
Jetti - Jedi
Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum - I love you, (lit: "I know you forever.")
tat - brother (Concord Dawn dialect)
~~~
You never expected to find yourself on the wrong end of a blaster. Or well, technically you were always on the wrong end of a blaster, but the person holding it wasn't a person at all. It was, typically, a droid.
What you never expected was that the man you loved would be the one aiming his blaster at your head.
You were on Mygeeto, deep in another endless seeming battle. You’d been there for weeks, rerouted straight after another tedious campaign with your own battalion in order to assist your former Master.
Truthfully, you had mixed feelings about working with the 21st again. After finally being knighted, you wished to prove yourself more than anything – which was a little difficult to do if you were once again following Master Mundi around, listening to his orders, doing everything his way.
But you couldn’t argue with the Council. Not now when everyone was stretched so thin throughout the Outer Rim.
And well, there was a silver lining.
You got to see Bacara again, after months of distance and uncertainty. After that moment before your knighting ceremony when the words spoken between you felt a little too final, and you realised – properly realised – that his heart was breaking just as much as yours.
But finally, you were close to him again. And you were determined to find a way to fix everything, figure out a solution.
Maybe even confess those three words you’d always been a little too scared to say before.
If only things didn’t end the way they did…
The howling wind was almost as deafening as the blasterfire and canons, seeping deep into your bones despite your cold-weather clothing, and clouding your vision with a white, franticly moving curtain of snow. At least the constant running and slashing and dodging battle droids was keeping you somewhat warm. That and the promise of a heated embrace from the man leading the troops right behind you.
The thought kept you going. You were so close. You were going to push the Separatists back, right into the trap set by your men. Then the battle would be won, and you would be able to return to camp and slip away from debrief into the tent of your Commander.
Well. The 21st’s Commander.
But he was yours in other ways.
You just needed to cross this bridge, force the droids back and the battle would be won.
But then the Force was flooded with despair.
With so much pain and fear and suffering you felt like you couldn’t breathe. The lightsaber slipped from your grasp as you turned and watched your Master being gunned down by his own men. By his own Commander.
By your lover.
And then the helmets snapped to you.
With staggering steps you backed away until your calves hit the low barrier of the bridge, as Bacara and his men advanced on you with long, determine strides. The DC-15A blaster rifle in his hands did not falter a moment, trained on you the entire time.
The marines surrounded you, with Bacara right in the middle, a safe distance away were you to try anything. Your eyes fell to the blaster aimed right at your head, before moving past the barrel to his visor.
“Commander... what's going on?” you asked, slightly raising your trembling hands.
“You have been marked for execution by Order 66,” his cold voice announced, filtering unnaturally through the vocoder.
“Bacara,” you whispered, dread filling your chest. “I-I don't understand. Please–”
You barely finished uttering your plea when the booming shot cut through the air.
The pain you felt was like nothing you've ever experienced before. But not in the way you expected. Yes, the plasma scorched your skin, shattering the bone and damaging some nerves beyond repair. And yes, it was physically excruciating.
But nothing compared to the deep, crushing ache you felt inside your very soul, watching the man you loved turn on you. Staring in the dark visor of his helmet, not sensing him anymore. Not really. Not his warm, soothing presence.
Then you fell. You hit the water.
You don't even know how you survived. How you managed to keep afloat in that frigid water, and swim though the thin ice to shore with only one arm. How you managed to run when the fatigue wanted nothing but to pull your body under the waves of consciousness. How you found a ship. How you disappeared.
All while still seeing the blaster pointed at you. The same blaster that, only a week prior during a rare moment of calm between battles, he’d insisted he teach you how to use.
“I have my lightsaber, ‘Cara,” you chuckled. “I'm never going to touch a blaster.”
“You never know what will happen, sarad,” he argued. “You need to be able to defend yourself.”
That dammed blaster. How it would haunt your dreams...
Bacara knew he failed his mission. He knew it the second he pulled the trigger. The barrel had slipped down at the last second and he missed the clean shot he had on your head. Maker he was angry with himself. A clean, straightforward shot. It should’ve gone straight through your skull. Instead, it hit you in the right shoulder, and you fell backwards off the bridge.
Sloppy. Useless. Defective.
His captain tried to assure him you wouldn’t survive – the river was half-frozen, the water frigid. So they continued the battle and pushed back the droids, and soon enough they’d destroyed the last of the Separatist positions on Mygeeto.
Then came the clean-up. Bacara returned to the bridge, and oversaw as his men dragged the river in search of your body. He stood in the same place for hours, almost as if frozen, waiting for the confirmation he knew would come.
You weren’t in the water.
And then word reached him of a missing ship – a Y-wing equipped with a hyperdrive. He went to see it for himself, as if that would somehow change the outcome.
Bacara’s fists clenched by his side.
Sloppy.
You were long gone.
Useless.
And for just one small, fleeting moment – he felt relieved.
Defective.
The months spent in service of the new Empire passed in a blur.
Bacara returned to Coruscant to find that the end of the war did not come without a price. Fox was gone. And so were Rex and Gree. Just more brothers to add to the list of remembrance.
But just because the war ended, it didn’t mean their duty did.
There were planets resisting the safety that the Emperor offered. Insurgencies rising. Lucky Jedi who’d managed to evade execution and were now being hunted down.
There was plenty to do, plenty to keep his mind occupied.
And Bacara needed to keep his mind occupied, because if he didn’t, if he thought too much of his beautiful, kind sarad – of the stolen moments shared together, of the blaster and the river – his mind would scream.
The pain was excruciating, twisting high above his right temple and wrapping around his eyes. It felt like he was being stabbed from the inside out every single time you crossed his mind.
So he kept being a good soldier. He kept following the orders he was given, just trying to survive one day to the next.
But there was no escaping the dreams.
Every night, without fail, Bacara relived that moment on the bridge. The fear in your eyes was embedded in his brain like a stubborn bloodstain on white fabric. But it never stopped him for firing the blaster. And every morning he woke up with a nauseating feeling in his stomach that festered into a burning frustration.
Why should he care about a traitor?
That's all you were. A Jedi traitor. An enemy of the state. A plague onto his mind.
But, as the months kept passing, his frustration and anger transformed – until one morning he woke up and realised what he was feeling was guilt. A deep, convoluting guilt that no amount of alcohol would be able to drown.
He sure tried anyway.
And then Cody disappeared.
His loyal, by the book tat… just gone. Vanished. AWOL.
“You're not serious,” he almost gasped when he first heard.
“Dead serious,” Neyo confirmed.
“Makes you wonder why we're all still hanging around,” Wolffe muttered, absentmindedly swirling the drink in his glass.
Bacara stared at his tat liked he’d punched him. It felt like a switch was turned off in his brain right that very second, and suddenly his chest was flooded by unbearably painful shame and guilt. 79s felt too small, too crowded. The room was closing in on itself and the air was slowly being sucked out.
All he could see, all he could hear, was the blasterbolt hitting your shoulder and your body staggering off the bridge.
“Are you good?” he thought he heard Neyo ask.
But he didn’t answer. He abruptly shot from his seat, the chair scraping loudly before falling backwards onto the floor, and pushed his way to the exit through the crowd of troopers and nat-borns. There was no air anymore inside the cantina. Inside the place where your eyes first met his. Where you shared a drink and talked and formed a connection that transcended anything he’d ever felt before. And he broke every rule just to keep you close, despite knowing you could never fully be his.
What has he done?
How could he have hurt you?
His beautiful, kind sarad.
His one and only love.
Bacara walked back to the main base almost in a trance, flinching whenever he caught his reflection in a storefront window. Because it wasn’t him he was seeing. No, your image was the one staring back from the glass. Wide-eyed and scared, and whispering his name like a prayer of protection. One he failed to answer.
When he reached the barracks he tore his private questers apart, ransacking the entire place until he felt empty inside. A ghost of the Commander he once was. Of the man who, yes, was loyal to the fault, but who never blindly followed an order he knew was wrong. Never once until that damn bridge.
But with emptiness came clarity.
Yes, he shot you. Yes, he injured you. Yes, you probably hated him – as you should. But you were alive. You’d made it off that frigid planet.
Bacara realised then and there that he needed to find you. He needed to apologise – even if you'd never forgive him. He needed to see you again.
And before the rays of Coruscant Prime touched the main base the next morning, he was gone.
The first thing he does is return to Mygeeto. He’s not entirely sure why – probably to fulfil some subconscious, masochistic need for self-punishment – but he needed to go back to the place he lost it all.
It looks different. Of course it does. It’s been months since that horrible battle, since he fought on the bridge, with fallen brothers, droids and UT-ATs all around. Since he watched you turn your head and offer him a small, loving smile before running ahead into the fray. Only minutes before everything went wrong.
He feels sick to his stomach the entire time, but Bacara goes down to the frozen river and retraces his steps along the bank. Just like he did after the battle, when he and his men were searching for a body. But the only thing they’d found were marks in the snow, and an empty space where a ship should’ve been.
A surge of disgust twists in his gut as he remembers how angry he felt that you escaped, and the bitter taste of bile creeps up his throat. Sure there was a moment of relief, but it was quickly drowned by frustration. How the hell could he ever feel anything remotely negative when it comes to you?
He never hated you. Not even when you chose the Order over him. He was hurt, heart-broken, dejected – but he never hated you once.
And yet, all it took was three words from the Emperor for his own heart to betray you.
Thick, frozen snowflakes bite his cheeks, making him shiver and forcing him back to a present he can’t stand. He still has his armor – all except the thigh gauntlets and codpiece – and draped over he has a black, impermeable poncho. But his helmet is hidden back of his stolen ship. Too recognisable. Too clone.
Without it he can better hide in plain sight – just another man on the run. Maybe a bounty hunter. Maybe a mercenary. But at least when people look at him, the word ‘trooper’ wouldn’t be the first to come to their mind. Not with the beard concealing some of his features, and the genetic mutation that made his eyes blue.
He always hated his eyes as a cadet. They made him stand out, and the last thing a clone wanted was to stand out in front of the Kaminoans.
But then they also made him stand out in the 79s that night he first met you, all those years ago – and suddenly his eyes became his favourite feature, simply because you always liked them so much.
He still needs to be careful. He’s a deserter – as difficult as that it to believe.
And he definitely can’t stay on this planet too long.
Bacara takes out a small holo-projector from a belt pouch, bringing to life a blue, flickering map of the surrounding sectors. And the latest report on you that he's managed to access before going AWOL.
He wasn't involved in tracking you, that task was given to someone else. He simply returned to Coruscant like he was ordered. But the Empire did try to find you – thank the Maker you were smarter than whoever had picked up your trail.
The transponder ID of your stolen Y-wing was tracked to Ord Trasi, which made sense – you would've needed to refuel.
So that's where Bacara heads next.
Maybe it's a good thing he's never tried to find you before. He knows you. He knows how you think. Within a few rotations spent on the planet, he actually manages to locate the small repair shop where you took the ship to scramble its signature and the unlicensed med centre where you went for your wound. And with some convincing words, he gets a vague, possible location where you headed next.
He follows the almost invisible trail from planet to planet. It’s not easy to find the intel he needs – you were careful, moving like a ghost, never attracting too much attention to you, only spending one night somewhere before vanishing in the sun. But there are some breadcrumbs he can follow.
A Y-wing like your stolen one stopped on this moon to refuel.
A woman matching your description passed through this town.
A goodhearted person helped a little kid in danger here, even though no one can explain how she got the nexu to simply walk away when it was prepared to pounce.
An inquisitor came looking for someone, and the girl who had only just moved in this neighbourhood was mysteriously gone the same rotation.
Small clues that have him jumping from system to system, while taking the occasional job or bounty for some much needed credits.
In the many hours spent travelling through hyperspace, Bacara can only pass the time by thinking of you.
What have you been doing all these months? Are you still running? Always looking over your shoulder? Always moving, never feeling safe?
Or have you found a place to call home? Somewhere quiet where you can actually live your life? Have you made friends? Have you settled down with someone?
Do you still think of him?
Do remember him fondly? Or has Mygeeto ruined every tender moment the two of you shared?
If he finds you, will you even hear him out?
Not that he actually understands what has happened. Lately, before waking up himself, he heard whispers of a conspiracy. Hushed words about biochips and orders imbedded deep into their brains. And it would make sense, wouldn't it? How else can he explain turning on you? Hurting you – the best thing that had happened to him? And yet, he’s at a loss when he thinks of how he could even explain it all.
He hopes you will believe him.
But he won’t blame you if you don't.
It’s raining when he lands on Ossus, so Bacara throws the poncho over his armor and pulls the hood up before lowering the ramp. The breeze rushes in, smelling of saltwater and petrichor, while the waves break in a loud, rhythmic hiss on the rocks of the cliffs below. It took too long to find this place, and the sun is already starting to slip past the horizon – not that he can really see it under the curtain of grey clouds. He needs to start walking.
The trail he was following has gone cold on Niamos, and it felt like there was nowhere else for him to go. So he wandered into a local cantina, deciding to search for answers at the bottom of a glass and drown the painful loneliness that was settling over him like dust in an abandoned home. The people inside were way jollier than he could stand, and despite the corner he hid himself into, there was no escaping their howled cheers and shouted stories.
And that’s how Bacara heard about Ossus – the ruins of an ancient Jedi Temple, still half-standing after millennia. Filled with possible treasures that the pirates talking about it had never managed to reach – or that were simply no longer there.
Hope sparked in his chest instantly. Could this be where you’ve been hiding?
It would be dangerous to settle there, but… your connection to the Force was always sacred to you. It’s not impossible to imagine you’d want to go somewhere you could be close to it.
That very night, he was back on his ship.
The constant pattering of rain is periodically interrupted by roaring thunder, and so Bacara picks up the pace. The raindrops falling all around almost seem to mock him, slowly driving him insane. In this low light, and with the breeze blowing in from the sea, it looks like shadows shifting in the distance – and his tired, lonely mind fills in the blanks with a memory from long ago. Two bodies, dancing and holding each other in the downpour, on a much warmer planet than this one. A beautiful forbidden moment from the beginning of the war, when hope was stubbornly taking root in his heart that a life with you was waiting at the finish line.
A promise of a life he shattered when he raised his blaster to your head.
Or maybe you shattered it first when you were knighted.
Bacara shakes the memory out of his mind, trying to bring his focus back on the muddy path ahead. He’s too in the open and the worst of the storm is moving inland. He needs to reach some cover before the lightning reaches him.
The scanners picked up a small settlement, just a few klicks ahead. Dwellings carved into the stone of the cliffs in a vertical village of sorts, with no more than thirty lifeforms residing in it.
There’s no guarantee he will find you there. But it’s the closest community to those Temple ruins. It’s worth a try anyway.
You don’t expect to hear a knock on your door. Sure, the people here have welcomed you into their small community – but it’s a secluded one for a reason. Everyone here is running from something. And everyone knows not to ask what from. You’ve made a couple friendly acquaintances, but they all prefer to keep to themselves unless something happens – in which case they gladly jump to help.
So, naturally, you worry a little when the knock sounds again – louder, urgent. The first thought that pops into your head is Ayanma, the older Togruta who lives closest to you and who has been feeling under the weather these past few days. You’re not much of a healer, but you will try to help if she desperately needs it.
But when you open the door, it’s not her or any of the other members of your small community waiting on the other side.
No, when you open the door you’re met with a pair of blue eyes you thought you’d never see again. Not outside of the realm of sleep anyway, when the bed almost feels like it dips under the weight of another person, and your half dreaming mind conjures the memory of strong, warm arms, holding you in a tight embrace.
“‘Cara,” you gasp, eyes wide.
“Sarad,” he speaks, a small, wary smile curling his lips.
Immediately your eyes fall to the blaster hanging from his hip – and you don’t miss the rifle draped on his back either. You don’t move, and you don’t breathe. Truthfully, you’re not entirely sure what you’re supposed to do.
Bacara notices the alarm in your eyes, so he pulls on the hem of his poncho in an attempt to conceal the weapon causing you distress.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” he says, keeping his voice low and soft.
“Why are you here then?” you ask, eyes lifting to meet his.
Your tone is not sharp or dismissive – but it’s guarded. Cautious in a way that breaks his heart. Because you’re scared of him, he can see it. And it pains him in ways he never expected that you’re now looking at him with mistrust instead of love.
“I… I came to– I-I’ve been searching for you…” he trails off. And for the first time in his life, Bacara finds that he’s at a loss for words.
He’s dreamed of this moment for so long. He thought he knew what he would say. But finally having you in front of him again – and also not being able to miss the way your right arm hangs a little too limp by your side, and how the muscles look visibly smaller than on your left – a tight knot forms in his throat, preventing any words from reaching his lips.
You see it – of course you see it – and you sense it too. The turmoil in his mind, the pain in his heart. But most importantly – him. You sense him, the man you loved. That same soothing presence you’ve longed for ever since that night on the bridge, and who you’ve cried so many tears over, convinced you would never feel next to you again.
And yet, here he is, in front of you.
In the cold, pouring rain.
Shit. You’ve kept him waiting in the rain.
“Come in,” you invite, stepping back from the doorway.
Your place is small and a little dark, especially in the evenings when the dying light struggles to pass through the two round windows on either side of your door. Bacara stands awkwardly in your living area, as you busy yourself in the corner where your small kitchenette sits. His trained soldier eyes immediately make note of his surroundings – the small blue couch, the old holo-screen, the plants living in improvised pots and botanical drawings he recognises are in your style, although the lines are simpler and shakier than he remembers.
But, Maker, it’s the smell that almost brings him to tears – the exact same sweet perfume of dried herbs and flowers which always lingered in the air in your cabin aboard the Ro-ti-Mundi.
Despite the anxiety that has wrapped around his mind, he smiles. You’ve made a real home for yourself.
“You don’t have to stand, you know?” your voice sounds from behind him.
Bacara turns to see you carrying two cups of steaming tea on a tray. Your right hand is only half lifted, supporting the tray from the bottom instead of holding it from the side. His heart clenches in his chest.
“I uhh… didn’t want to get mud on your couch,” he murmurs, rubbing the back on his neck to hide some of the uncomfortable things he’s feeling.
“Take the boots off then,” you suggest. “Make yourself comfortable.”
You place the tray on the small caf table in front of the couch, then decide to help out the poor commander who doesn’t seem to comprehend the word ‘comfortable’.
Without even realising, Bacara straightens nearly at attention as you stop right in front of him – and his breath catches in his throat when your left hand lifts to the fastening of his poncho.
“Take this off too,” you instruct, your tone light-hearted. “It's wet and dripping on my carpet.”
He follows your command just like all the times he's followed your orders in the past. And yet, it's different. He's hesitant, unsure of himself – of where to stand, where to go, where to hang the wet cloak. Your brows pinch unintentionally. You've never seen him look so... small. If that's even possible.
Because the word ‘small’ was never one you thought you'd use to describe him. And you're not only talking about his physical appearance – you're talking about him. All of him. His personality, his entire presence – it always took space. He commanded every room he was in proudly, boldly, exuding confidence in a way that intimidated any admiral that tried to give him orders. He made it known he was there, without even uttering a single word.
But now, in your modest living room, Bacara looks… lost.
You huff a small chuckle, but the sound is more baffled than amused.
“Take the boots off and place them by the door next to mine,” you decide to give him a clear order. “And hang your poncho and weapons on that hook over there.”
He follows the instructions with the quick precision of a soldier, then turns to look at you, awaiting the next set.
“Come here,” you say, patting the place on the couch next to you.
Bacara approaches slowly, almost as if he’s afraid any sudden movement will spook you. He tries not to crowd you by sitting as close to the armrest as possible – but the small two-seater isn’t exactly spacious, and when you turn to face him better, tucking your knee under you, it grazes his thigh in a way that makes him shiver. Maker, he sure missed being so close to you.
“So,” you start, passing him a cup of tea. “You’ve been searching for me?”
He nods, trying not to stare at the right hand resting on your lap while you twist your torso to grab your own tea with your left one.
“I needed to find you,” he rasps. “To apologise.”
“What happened on that bridge ‘Cara? Why–” You purse your lips as the blastershot echoes in your mind. “W-Why did you…?”
Bacara closes his eyes, exhaling deeply through his nose. You still use your nickname for him, even after everything that’s happened.
“It’s a little weird,” he told you when you first called him that.
“I’m sorry, do you not like it?” you asked, immediately concerned.
“No, it’s not that,” he explained. “It sounds like ka'ra, which is Mando’a for ‘star’. Feels a bit childish, I guess.”
“Oh,” you said, smiling brightly and batting your eyelashes. “Well, I think that works perfectly then. You’re my guiding star after all.”
“Maker, you’re so corny,” he muttered before kissing you.
There are tears in your eyes when Bacara looks at you again and the sight nearly guts him – especially when he can tell how hard you're fighting to hold them back for his sake. He needs to say something, explain. But where the hell does he even start?
“I… I didn’t– I wasn’t me,” he fumbles. “Or I was but I…” He stops and shakes his head, frustration brewing in his chest. “I-I don’t know! I got the order form the Emperor and everything else – everything I felt for you, the loyalty I had for General Mundi – it was just… pushed out of reach.”
Bacara places his untouched tea back on the caf table, then lowers his head in his hands, resting his elbows on his thighs. This isn’t going as it should. He’s not explaining it well and you’re not going to understand. And if you don’t understand you won’t forgive him and soon you’ll ask him to leave and he will never see you again and–
“Hey.”
Your tender touch makes him jump, and Bacara stares at you almost in shock. You’ve gently untangled one of his hands from his hair, and you’re now holding it in yours, caressing the skin with your thumb.
“Breathe, ‘Cara,” you urge.
He takes a shaky breath as his eyes fill with tears, but unlike you, he can’t hold them back. They roll freely over his face, catching in his beard.
You’re touching him. You’re holding his hand.
You’re looking at him with the same kindness he remembers, the one that made him fall for you in the first place.
“I got the order and I had to follow it,” he says, voice a little steadier. “I couldn’t fight it.”
You nod and let go of his hand so you can wipe your own tears. He tracks the movement, before his gaze falls to the right hand that still rests on your lap. You’re holding the tea cup – or rather, your hand is acting as a brace to keep it from sliding off your thigh. You haven't actually gripped anything with it, and Bacara is quick to put the pieces together.
“I’m so sorry, sarad,” he adds in a whisper. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you say, reaching for his hand again.
He lets you take it, but he shakes his head at your words. “It’s not! I… I hurt you.”
“But you didn’t kill me,” you counter, somehow managing to offer him your sweet smile. “You must’ve fought it, even if you didn’t realise.”
“I didn’t–”
“That blaster was aimed at my head, Bacara,” you interrupt. “Trust me – I’ve replayed that moment countless times. It was aimed at my head but you changed the angle at the last second.”
He grimaces as both pain and relief overwhelm him. You guide him to the crook of your neck, gently running your fingers through his hair while allowing him to cry.
You don't remember ever seeing him break down like this before, and your heart shatters at his pain. With the Force, you try to envelope him in a soothing embrace, making sure you're tethering just on the edge of his mind and not pushing your way in. But you still need him to feel you, to know he's safe and loved.
He used to like having you in his head – he would sneak into your cabin after long, draining campaigns, claim your Force touch was the only way he could feel calm, quiet. And you wanted him to feel it, to relax and forget about the horrors of war he constantly had to face, so you were always happy to oblige.
You take a deep breath and pray you’re right to think he still needs you.
Then you softly dive in and caress his tired consciousness.
His mind is filled with guilt and shame, and also the bitter sting of self-loathing. You move through those cold emotions, attempting to gently guide him through them. You don’t want to influence him – or Maker forbid, control him – but you want to help him let them go so that he can find some peace.
He doesn’t push you away. Quite the contrary. Bacara melts into your embrace, both the physical and the ethereal one, allowing himself to be held for the first time in way too long. And yet, he doesn’t dare touch you, already worried that his forehead resting on your shoulder is too much and you’ll soon push him away.
But as the tea cools down, forgotten on your lap, and you’re still cradling the back of his head, he finally, hesitantly, wraps his arms around you.
You’re not sure how long it takes, but eventually his tears run dry, and Bacara pulls away from your arms, embarrassment rippling in the Force around him.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, avoiding your eyes.
“It’s okay,” you answer.
His gaze darts to yours for only a second. “You’re saying that a lot.”
“Twice isn’t really ‘a lot’, ‘Cara,” you chuckle. “But it’s because I mean it.”
He hums a low sound, more an acknowledgement of your words than an acceptance of their meaning, then picks up the tea he’s abandoned on the caf table. The beverage has long gone cold, but the floral aroma is just as strong.
“This is nice,” he comments, unsure of the next steps. He never really thought you’d hear his apology, let alone hold him as he cried and allow him into your home for so long.
“Thank you,” you reply, studying his face. “I picked and dried the flowers myself.”
Bacara’s lips briefly twitch upwards. “I thought that was the case.”
“Well,” you muse, taking a sip of your own cold tea. “You do know me.”
“Know?” he challenges, his tone a little lighter, almost slipping back into the comfortable banter you once shared. “Present tense?”
You shrug. “Not much has changed.”
But Bacara doesn’t miss the way only your left shoulder lifts with the motion, and the small smile fades from his lips. Guilt coils in his stomach once more, tight and uncomfortable, as his eyes lock onto your right arm.
“Stop that,” you chide.
He quickly averts his eyes to the cup in his grasp. You shake your head and sigh.
“It wasn’t easy, but I adapted,” you explain. “I had to. So I don’t need you to pity me, Bacara. And I certainly don’t need you feeling sorry for yourself for doing something that was never in your control.”
You watch as his grip tightens on the tea cup, momentarily worried he might break the ceramic.
“I still pulled the trigger,” he says, voice strained.
“Yes, you did,” you agree.
His eyes snap up to gawk at you, a little surprised by your bluntness.
“You can’t go back and change that,” you continue. “You can only accept it and move on. Like I did.”
“Damn Jetti,” he mutters under his breath. “How are you so okay with all this?”
You laugh – actually laugh for the first time since he walked through the door – and warmth floods Bacara’s chest.
“I won’t lie, ‘Cara, I’m not entirely okay. And I definitely wasn’t at first,” you tell him. “I was angry and hurt for a long time. But then I found this place.” You finish your tea and slump against the backrest of the couch, staring at the amber quartz embedded along your ceiling. There’s patches of it in the rock, and from certain angles, the light of the lamp makes it shine like little stars in the sky. “This entire planet hums with the Force. It helped me, and hopefully it’ll help you too.”
Bacara sharply inhales. “You… you want me to stay here?”
You turn your head to look at him, finding that his eyes are full of confusion and disbelief. “I… of course I do. Is that not… why you were looking for me?”
“I didn’t… really have a plan for… for if I found you,” he admits, voice low and a little unsteady.
You swallow the knot in your throat, heart slowly breaking at how vulnerable he still sounds.
“Alright,” you say, trying to maintain the light-hearted lilt in your voice. “You don’t have to figure it out right now. Why don’t we get some sleep and talk more about it in the morning? It’s late and you seem… tired.”
“Yeah,” he nods, placing his empty cup, then yours, back on the table. “I’ve taken up enough of your night. I should head back to my ship.”
“Don’t be stupid. You’re not going anywhere in this storm.” You stand, and hold out your hand, choosing to offer him your right one, even though you can’t lift it more than waist level. Maybe you’re pushing him to confront the past too quickly, but you’re tired of the way he’s looking at you like you’re something he broke. “Come on.”
Bacara takes your hand immediately. It’s almost instinctive, a reflex lingering from the countless times he’s done so in the past. Only once he’s pushed himself off the couch does the reality of the contact sink in. His grip loosens, turning hesitant, as if he’s afraid he’ll snap the bone all over again.
You try to squeeze back as hard as you can. It isn’t much; only your thumb and forefinger still work that way, applying soft pressure to his palm. But it’s enough to sense a drop of relief in the anxious sea of his mind.
“Come on,” you repeat, guiding him down a small stone hallway, deeper into the dwelling.
Bacara follows you dutifully, walking one step behind – but freezes in the archway that leads into your bedroom.
The space is small and simplistic. Since there’s no natural light in here, you haven’t decorated it much, preferring instead to spend your time in the other room. There’s a carpet on the floor, but its purpose is more utilitarian than decorative, keeping you from stepping on the cold stone. The furniture is mismatched and nothing fancy – just a wooden dresser, a desk that’s either metal or plasteel, a chair, and sitting on the far side of the room, a wooden-frame bed.
That is what Bacara’s eyes fall on.
The bed. With its colourful throw pillows, light pink sheets and a thick blanket that seems to be bantha wool.
And all the implications that it carries.
You walk to it, taking off your sweater and draping it on the back of the chair. You’re left in a white tank top, and when you turn to face him, Bacara can finally see the blasterburn scar on your shoulder. The one he gave you.
He shakes his head and takes half a step back.
“I can sleep on the couch,” he mutters.
“Really?” you challenge, giving him a look. “You can sleep on that tiny couch?”
“The floor then,” he suggests.
“Bacara,” you sigh, trying to remain patient. But your frustration is raising, and with it, a gnawing fear. Is it guilt or something else? Does he not want you anymore? “Just come to bed,” you plead.
“I don’t deserve it,” he blurts.
The words hang heavy in the air, almost like they take up all the space in the room. You blink, the confusion on your face fading into a heavy, quite understanding. But as you open your mouth to contradict him, Bacara speaks again.
“I just… I don’t deserve your kindness. And I don’t deserve to be that close to you again.” His voice is low and full of pain, and he keeps shaking his head, trying to convince you to hate him as much as he hates himself.
But that’s not something you could ever do.
Yes, there’s a part of your mind that’s still on edge, still replaying that night on the bridge and trying to tell you that you should be running. And there’s a voice in the back of your head that’s still angry for the way your arm hangs like a dead weight by your side.
Maybe you haven’t forgiven him yet. Not fully.
But you will. You know you will.
Because you want to – and you want him to forgive himself.
You want him to stay here, with you. To look at you the way he used to. You want him to hold you, touch you.
You want mornings sipping caf as you listen to the waves crashing on the cliffs. You want nights on that tiny couch watching old holo-films.
You want to grow old together.
You want everything you thought you threw away when you became a Knight.
And you just need him to want it too.
“You’re not going to convince me of that,” you declare, stepping closer until you’re standing right in front of him. “You deserve kindness. You… you deserve everything. Even if you think you don't. So please, just come to bed.”
“You shouldn’t want me,” he argues, eyes glassy with new tears that threaten to spill. “You should hate me.”
You shake your head. “I don't.”
“Why?” he asks weakly.
Your head tilts to the side as you look up at him, a soft smile curling your lips.
“Because I love you.”
Bacara blinks the tears away, his expression a mix of disbelief and adoration.
“Y-You...?”
“Love you. Still,” you say with a small chuckle. “I didn't say it back then – couldn't say it – but I… I've loved you for a very long time, Bacara.”
Bacara is speechless. His lips slightly part but no words come out. He’s been waiting so long to hear you say those words, he thought the day would never come. Especially not after Mygeeto.
You take his hand and slowly step back into the room, and he follows without fighting you, or himself, anymore. Carefully, you start taking off his armor. You remember every clasp, every latch, but the task is a little more difficult now that you can only do it with one hand. Bacara eventually snaps out of his daze to help you, and the pieces of plastoid fall on the carpet with quiet thuds, until only he is left in front of you. No longer a commander. No longer a trooper. But a vulnerable, unguarded man.
Yours.
He climbs into bed after you, his hesitation melting away into the burning need to have you close. The possibility that this is all a dream crosses his mind, especially when you snuggle into his side, seeking refuge in his warm body from the cold of the sheets.
Bacara turns to face you and pulls you tight into his chest. This is all he’s ever wanted. All he’s dreamed of since waking up from the nightmare that was Order 66. You look up at him, your eyes wide and full of love, and Bacara doesn’t think anymore – he acts. Surging forward, he presses his lips to yours in an impulsive kiss that's over as quickly as it began.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, his cheeks darkening.
You smile and close the distance between you, capturing his lips in another quick kiss.
“Nothing to be sorry for,” you say.
His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, and finally, Bacara allows himself to properly admire your face. There's a scar he doesn't recognise above your eyebrow, and the lines on your face are just a little more accentuated. You're even more beautiful than he remembered.
“I’ve missed you so much,” you whisper, planting a kiss to the heel of his palm.
“I’ve missed you too,” he replies. “Even when I couldn’t. There was something always… absent.” He leans closers, pressing his forehead to yours. “Do you really want me to stay?”
“Forever,” you confirm. “I never want to be apart from you again. I… couldn't bear to be apart from you ever again.”
“Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, ner mesh’la sarad,” Bacara rasps, planting another chaste kiss to your lips. “Forever it is then.”
The raw, vulnerable moment stretches until sleep pulls the both of you under its veil. With breaths mingling, and your steady warmth against his body, Bacara sleeps through the night for the first time in months.
And when he wakes up the next morning to muffled singing coming from down the hall, and the inviting aroma of fresh caf floating in the air, he finally believes he’s home.
✧ Summary: You sustain a great deal of injury that it'd take a whole week for you to heal just about three-quarters of the way. You also find out that Bacara, the infamous cold marshal commander of the Galactic Marines, cares about you. Might even be harboring feelings for you.
✧ Tags & Warnings: reader is injured, indirect mentions of reader being tortured during Separatist imprisonment, can be read platonic or pre-relationship (my fav genre fr), reader drinks hot chocolate
✧ Word Count: 1.6k
✧ A/N: Last one for Sicktember is our dear old ice cube Bacara! He's one of the best fanmade tsundere out there if you ask me, and this guy came from my poll that you may or may not have voted, and he earned the most votes! Enjoy this one vode, and thanks for sticking around! 🤗💛
Main Masterlist | Read on AO3 | dividers by me
What Bacara expected when he entered Mess Hall Cresh aboard the cruiser he's on at 0200 is quietness, so still that one can almost hear the usual chatter—the noise, the hustle and bustle courtesy of his men making themselves content with adequate meals and cheap entertainments. If one's delirious enough. Solitude past midnight is surely one of the great wonders of the world, where everything falls past quiet and allows one to let down their guard.
Just a little. He knows better than doing so entirely. Shedding vigilance from his being is nearly a laughable concept. If you're meant to wear armor, then you wear that armor until it's ripped away from you.
Past midnight every time he can't sleep, he seeks solitude among the plain durasteel walls in the interior of the cruiser. Patrols that pass him by nod at him in reverence, and fear. He knows he's ruthless in combat. Sometimes he seeks the nearest mess and sits there to go over recent battle plans, the vast space in the hall wrapping around him like a ghost. Constant. Sure. Invisible.
That is until he catches an anomaly that makes a difference than his usual strolls. At one of the tables is a slumped figure, forehead planted into the crook of their elbow, shoulders rising up and down in steady breath of someone's asleep. Fallen asleep, evidently.
His visor system registers quickly that it's not one of his men. It's his Jedi Commander.
Bacara is quite aware of your situation and has been urging you to be calm about it. Use the Force, or whatever, to get rid of the trauma you've endured during your imprisonment. They've only just retrieved you in a stealth mission that involved a commando squad. Even for a Marshal Commander like him, he's very much aware the operation was incredibly delicate. He stayed out of it. Until he saw you in the medbay last week, when you've finally returned to the 21st where you belong.
You're still recovering. And you shouldn't be in the mess hall past midnight.
Bacara approaches you carefully, thoughtfully, silently. Not only because he doesn't want to disturb you, but he wishes not to disturb the absolute atmosphere of solitude in the air during the night cycle.
“Commander.”
You don't wake. Bacara hates to breach through your peaceful slumber, but it's simply not ideal.
His hand comes down on your shoulder. He then shakes you gently. “Commander.”
You inhale deeply, roused, whimpering at the slightest convenience that's a pressing headache. Bacara’s hand slides off of you and goes into parade rest as he watches you rise from the table, eyes squinting at overhead lights, and eventually his visor. They widen.
“Bacara?”
“You should go back to your quarters,” he says, not waiting until you fully regain consciousness. “It's not ideal to sleep here.”
“You don't say,” you scoff weakly, rubbing the sleep away from your eyes. Your back and neck feel a little sore from your earlier slumped position.
“What are you doing here?” the marshal commander can't help but ask, can't bring himself to leave you on your own. He'll escort you back.
“I, um. Can't sleep.” You rub your neck, massaging it a little to relieve the soreness, refusing to meet his steely visor. “And I ran out of hot chocolate.”
Bacara’s gaze shifts to the empty flimsi cup in front of you, a faint residue of the dark beverage coats the inside. His sensors are also picking up the faint scent of it, cold and no longer carrying the inviting sweet aroma. He never fancies that sort of thing.
“Are you finished?”
“Yeah.” You rise from the bench, wincing at the stinging pain in your ribs where it's still healing. You press a hand onto the spot in an attempt to soothe the pain. Bacara notices. You swipe the empty cup and attempt to make your way to the trash chute on the other side of the room, but Bacara rips the cup out of your hand and does it himself. With long, powerful strides, he bins the damn thing from a distance and returns to your side in less than ten seconds.
“Let’s go,” Bacara prompts you to the door, briefly touching the small of your back in guidance. The wordless offer to escort you back to the quarters wing sits on his tongue, but the intention is there.
You follow him out. You're nearly limping—not quite, but you are currently weakened that you're at snail's pace when you're walking. Bacara has to keep up with your pace, and not the other way around. No use in speeding things up when you're still healing, otherwise you'd injure yourself again, and you'd be useless in the next campaign.
“Why are you awake?” you dare to inquire, glancing at him every once in a while. The overhead lights of the corridor lit your path with Bacara as your guide.
“Battle strategy reviews,” he answers curtly, pair of burgundy kama swishing by his sides. “We need to come up with a minor modification. Intel's been breached, we had a mole in Communications.”
“That sucks,” you slur, very un-Jedi of you. It's definitely drowsiness. “Is the threat—”
“Neutralized,” Bacara cuts you off.
Not a question to finish your sandwich. A statement. You sigh. “Trial?”
“On the spot,” Bacara says wryly. “There was a shootout. One of the staff sergeants intervened and took the shot.”
You can't say it's commendable. Good work for identifying the mole, but not for the actions afterward. Even though it was something that must be done. And you're too tired to argue about what was supposed to be done so justice is upheld, so you stay silent.
“You sound like you disagree,” Bacara remarks, so rare of him to do so. But you appreciate the lengthened conversation.
“I could lecture you a long one,” you chuckle but wince soon after. Damn ribs. “But not my place.”
“I would listen.”
“Would you?” you question, smirking. “From a Jedi. About neutralizing threats. And that'd mean offing someone.”
Bacara doesn't say anything for the entire quiet stretch of silence you allow in between you, so you continue.
“You’ve never wanted to take moral advice from a Jedi before.” For all it's worth, you sound like you're teasing him. “In fact I know you think every one of us is annoying and clueless about war.”
Bacara sneers under his helmet. “Not everyone,” he lowly mutters under his breath.
You heard that.
Not long the door of your quarters comes into view. Bacara politely glances away as you key the code in. You enter and are about to shut the door behind, a goodbye and thanks already on the tip of your tongue but what's next shocks you. Bacara steps aside and slips through, his helmeted head swivelling around, seemingly to scan for threats, and goes to sit in your meditation platform.
“Um.” The door closes behind you. “What are you doing?”
“Making sure you receive a proper and well-earned rest.” Bacara pulls out his datapad and a couple of data sticks from his pouch, determined. Steely visor glares at you. “I won't advise sneaking out to the mess hall again. Didn't the entire walk back hurt you? You're too sick to even walk.”
“So you're just gonna sit there the entire night?” you ask incredulously, a little anxious that you're having the marshal commander of the entire kriffing corps in your room. You might mistake him drunk. “You're not real.”
Bacara is already immersed in whatever is on his datapad by the time you finish staring at him, a silent concede in your sigh.
You drink a glass of water to clean your palate before carefully climbing into your bed, wincing as you go, pulling the blankets up to your chin. “You're creepy.”
Darkness swallows both of you the moment you turn out the lights from the panel on the wall next to you. Only the amber glow from the night lamp on your desk and Bacara’s datapad provide enough sight for one to walk around.
“So I've been told,” he replies dryly, and if you're not half asleep already you might think you hear a smirk in his voice.
“Careful, Bacara. If you keep talking smart back at me like that I might think you have a crush on me.”
His movement stills. Not even his thumb for scrolling through the datapad. The Force around you suddenly warms, and attempts to hide you in its snug grasp from Bacara's eventual cold, steely glare. The air hums with something inexplicable, but considering you're putting the marshal commander in a tight, awkward spot, you dismiss it immediately.
“This time you care a great deal,” you say, bringing your gaze to his dark visor. Blue light reflects on white plastoid. “It's a refreshing sight and I appreciate that.”
Bacara hopes his pounding heartbeat isn't loud enough for you to hear. But it's so quiet in here, laden with the perfect solitude that he likes. You might as well hear it. Or the Force does, and it snitches him out.
“Good night, Bacara,” you stifle a yawn, and revisit your slumber realm with the calm, rhythmic rise and fall of your chest.
Bacara blinks at a certain series of dots littered over his HUD, depressurizing his helmet and tugging it off. He sets it down by his side, breathing deeply the mysterious scent of white pine and faint lemongrass in your room. Clutching his datapad close, his gaze momentarily swings by your sleeping figure. Safe. Healing. On his watch.
And then, through the night; he works.
Thanks for reading! Taglist is moved to event masterlist.
A/N: You can request for x reader in my askbox! If you're interested in my clone x reader oneshots you can sign up as well to be tagged of future works. (Link provided ⬆️)
Cold in a way that wasn’t just temperature, it was deep, bone-sapping, the kind of cold that made every inhale feel like splintered glass in your lungs. You’d been warned. Everyone had. Thermal gear was standard issue, briefing protocols were tight, but still, six hours of standing perimeter watch in the open, in blinding wind and drifting crystal dust?
You were freezing.
Not shaking violently, not collapsing, not in danger, but just enough to make your jaw ache from clenching, just enough that your fingers were numb inside your gloves, just enough that you’d started curling in on yourself without realizing it.
You weren’t one to complain. Especially not in front of the 21st Nova Corps. Especially not in front of him.
Commander Bacara.
You felt his presence more than you saw him, like he was made from the same stone as the cliffs that loomed beyond the shattered skyline. He stood nearby, issuing orders with quiet authority, every movement deliberate, clipped. Gloveless. Face bare to the icy wind. You wondered if he even felt the cold.
And then his voice cut through the comms static, quiet but sharp.
“Stop fidgeting.”
You startled. Looked over at him. “I’m not fidgeting.”
He turned his head slightly, his visor catching the light. “You’re shivering.”
“That’s… different.”
“It’s inefficient.”
You gave a weak snort, breath fogging the air between you. “Sorry, Commander. I’ll try to optimize my body heat distribution next time.”
He didn’t reply, not with words. Just gave you a look, unreadable as ever, and then turned sharply on his heel with a single command to the closest trooper:
“Hold perimeter. I’ll be inside.”
Then, to you: “With me.”
You blinked. “Sir?”
His tone brooked no argument. “Now.”
You followed.
The inside of the small command tent wasn’t much better, canvas flapping, heat flickering weakly from a barely-working portable unit, but at least it blocked the wind. You took off your helmet and exhaled a shaky breath, rubbing your arms through your jacket.
“Commander, I’m fine. Really—”
“Gloves.”
“What?”
“Take them off.”
“I— seriously, I—”
He turned to face you fully.
“Your hands are shaking.”
You looked down. They were. Only slightly. But he’d noticed.
“Give them to me,” he said, stepping toward the heater.
You hesitated, trying to muster some joke or defense, but then slowly, cautiously, pulled off one glove, then the other.
Bacara held out his bare hands.
And when you laid yours in them, he cradled them with a gentleness so at odds with the reputation he carried, harsh, fierce, the kind of commander who walked through hell without blinking. His hands were calloused, roughened by war and cold, but warm. So very warm.
And it felt like something broke.
Just a little.
You didn’t say anything at first. Neither did he. His thumb brushed over the curve of your knuckles, slow and quiet, and he said nothing about the fact that your fingers were trembling. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t joke. Didn’t ask if you were weak.
He just held them. Held you.
“I’m not used to this,” you said finally, voice a whisper in the warm hush of the tent.
“Neither am I,” he replied.
You looked up at him. “Then why…?”
He glanced away for the first time, brow tight. “Because I noticed. I always notice.”
There was silence for a while after that.
You stood close now, almost too close, but neither of you pulled away. His grip never loosened. If anything, he shifted, adjusting your hands so they fit more snugly between his palms, his touch like a shield against the cold.
“You never complain,” he said, voice low. “Not once. Not even when your boots are soaked through. Not even when you’re running comms without backup for twelve hours straight.”
You opened your mouth to reply, but he kept going, voice quiet, steady.
“You stand out there and pretend you're fine. But you’re not. You’re freezing. And I don’t like watching you freeze.”
Something inside your chest tightened. And it wasn’t just the cold.
“...I didn’t think you noticed things like that,” you said.
He didn’t answer right away. But the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth told you he might’ve smiled, or almost did.
“I notice everything about you,” he said.
That silenced you. Your breath hitched, and for once, he didn’t look away.
“I'm not good with softness,” he admitted. “I wasn’t trained for this. I don’t know the right words. But I know this.”
He squeezed your hands gently.
“You’re cold. I’m not. So I’ll keep you warm.”
You swallowed. “You don’t have to do that.”
He leaned just slightly closer. Not enough to touch, not really, but enough that you could feel the heat of his breath between your chests.
“I want to.”
Your heart fluttered in a way you weren’t proud of, like a nervous soldier faced with the gentlest ambush.
“You can keep your hands warm with me,” he murmured, then paused, gaze softening just a fraction. “And mine too.”
You didn’t answer with words.
Instead, you stepped just a little closer. Let your head tilt gently to the side, resting your temple against his chest, where the edge of his armor gave way to fabric and warmth.
His arms wrapped around you, slow and sure, and you felt him exhale like he’d been holding something tight for a very long time.
Neither of you moved for a while.
And out there, the storm raged. Ice tore through the sky. War loomed beyond the edge of the tent.
But here, in this one small space between battles, you were warm.
In Case of Forgotten Heating Pad, Use a Clone Medic Instead
Pairing: Kix x F!Reader
Word Count: ≈ 2k
Citrus Scale: Orange
Prompts Used: || cuddling ||
⟪tumblr⟫ || ⟪AO3⟫
By the stars above, I know we were in love
Pairing: Bacara x F!Reader
Word Count: ≈ 7k
Citrus Scale: Orange
Prompts Used: || blaster || only one bed || "You should hate me." | "I don't." | "Why?" | "Because I love you." ||
⟪tumblr⟫ || ⟪AO3⟫
When does a man become a monster?
Pairing: Fives x Rhea (Original Character)
Word Count: ≈ 2k
Citrus Scale: SFW
Prompts Used: || amnesia || ground quake ||
⟪tumblr⟫
Summary: Bacara is not impressed with carol singers. Not at all. Especially when they interrupt him and his cyare.
Characters: Marshal Commander Bacara
Pairing: Bacara x GN!Reader
"Oh come on Bacara! It's one party. What's the harm?" you chuckled, looking between the outfits in your hands. The Jedi was throwing a party for the upcoming Life Day for the civilians of Coruscant and mainly, the clones. Bacara had been persuaded by his brothers and you to attend. Grudgingly that is.
"Having to deal with my dikuts of brothers" Bacara grumbled, sitting on the bed and watching your choose.
Snorting at his answer, you picked the one in your favourite colour. Yep, that would look lovely with your skin tone. "You love your brothers really. You do everything you can for them" you reminded him gently.
"Doesn't mean I want to spend a second longer in their company than I have to!" Bacara huffed, rolling his eyes. He slowly pushed himself from the bed, sauntering over to you as you stood in front of the mirror. Warm, large hands landed on your waist as he pulled you into him.
"Bacara" you warned lowly, glancing up at him with mock disapproval through the reflection.
"Why don't we skip it this year?" he rumbled, pressing his lips against the sensitive spot behind your ear.
A pleasant zap down your spine had you sinking back to him, mind short circuiting for a moment before you shook your head. "I- uh- we can't-" you stuttered, as you felt his hands trail up your stomach.
"We can, cyare. We can stay right here, and I can take this off" he murmured, tugging at your clothes before he nuzzled into your neck, quickly following it with gentle kisses. "And I can show you a real party" he suggested, pressing his hips against your ass.
"Cara" you sighed, eyes closed as you felt yourself beginning to give in.
BZZ! BZZ!
The buzzer for your apartment cut through the sensuous atmosphere sharply, and Bacara growled into your neck, releasing you as you pulled away to go answer the door.
Brushing a hand over your hair, and praying to any celestial being that was listening that your cheeks weren't as red as they felt, you hurried to open the door.
As it swished open, you were met with a choir, dressed up in wonderful matching outfits of red and green. It made you smile as they began to sing for you. The one in front, a young Rodian, barely 12 years old, was holding out a collection tin for the local refugee camp.
"If that's my idiotic brothers, tell them I'll be making them run laps of the GAR headquarters!" Bacara threatened, coming down the hallway to see why you were taking so long.
"It's carollers" you announced, turning towards your irate partner as he came to investigate.
The Marshal Commander ran his fingers through his grey hair, brow furrowed as he watched the group stand eagerly outside your door. He didn't like how close they were to the door, it would be so easy to overwhelm you and push into your home. Narrowing his eyes, he rested a reassuring hand on your waist, pulling you back into him. His rarely used DC-17s were just on the shelf next to the door, perfectly within grabbing distance if he so needed it. However, a particular high note distracted him from his planning.
"What is that awful noise?" he demanded, face grimacing at the way his ears stung. An old purple Nautolan woman sent him a scathing look that he ignored.
Heat rushed to your face and you gave Bacara a sharp jab of your elbow into his gut. A rush of air filtered past your ear but he didn't sound too affected. Asshole.
"Bacara! They're singing!" you hissed at him, tilting your head away from him to send him a glare as some of the younger choir singers faltered at his words. You didn't want them to feel bad or to stop just because of your partner's brutish, uncaring words.
"It sounds like a tooka being strangled!" he retorted, rolling his eyes but still impressed with the jab that you had gave him. He knew you were a feisty little thing, he'd have to give you some more training. A little more to the left and you'd have gotten his spleen. It would be enough to stop someone if they were attacking you. Bacara wouldn't allow you to become a victim to none of the scum on Coruscant.
"Hush! And enjoy it. They do this every year to raise money for the refugee camp down on Level 1863. It's for a good cause" you explained, slipping your fingers into his and pulling his arms around you.
Bacara huffed, wrapping himself around you even more. Fine. He could listen to them for a few more minutes. If only to make you smile and hear the delight in your voice as you praised them.
You made sure to leave them a big donation, both for their singing and having to put up with Bacara's negative comments.
As soon as the door was shut on them, Bacara spun you around pinning you against it.
"I'm still not finished with you, ad'ika" Bacara growled, pressing kisses down your neck to your collarbone. "I want you all to myself" he groaned, hands sliding down the back of your thighs. He lifted you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as you giggled, he was going to party with you all night long.
A/N: Why yes, this is the long-awaited companion to “Everybody Hates Neyo.” Usual disclaimers apply; Bacara and Neyo are the toxic twins of the GAR, and nothing about this interaction is healthy.
Pairing: Commander Bacara x Reader (Fem; has hair, daddy issues, a justifiably bad attitude, and a high body count)
Rating: M (mature content intended for readers 18+; minors DNI)
Wordcount: 3.6K
Warnings and tags: strong language; mutual antagonism; verbal/emotional abuse (surprisingly not by Bacara); smoking and/or drug use (depending on how you HC deathsticks); SMUT; anonymous sex; semi-public sex; unprotected PIV; fingering; oral sex; spitting; light degradation; rough sex; revenge sex; cum play; jokes about murder; DJ needs an exorcism
Summary: After witnessing an unpleasant interaction, an unknown clone offers to help you forget your problems.
Suggested Listening:
This fic smells like: Jasmin et Cigarette by Etat Libre d'Orange (cigarette smoke and an unused condom)
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Marshal Commander Bacara leaned against the durasteel wall of a Republic base that officially did not exist, on a moon whose location was heavily classified, enjoying a rare moment of silence. He shouldn’t be out there, he knew—particularly not in the middle of the night, and particularly not without his armor. It was dangerous, exposed. It was also the first moment of Force-damned peace and quiet he’d had in weeks.
He gazed up at the stars, tracing the constellations that had been unfamiliar when he’d arrived, but which he now recognized with ease. The calls of nocturnal creatures echoed through the darkness, emanating from the forest grew densely up to the edge of the base. They weren’t likely to come near; not with the plasma fences set up around the perimeter. And so Bacara relaxed against the durasteel wall, finally enjoying some Force-damned peace and quiet.
Alas, the moment of tranquility was shattered as the small side door slid open and a woman stormed out, carrying a commlink.
“—can see your issues from a parsec away, and they avoid you like the blue shadow virus because you're so goddamn difficult! You are too farking broken for anyone to love—"
The transmission cut off abruptly as you flung the commlink to the ground and stomped on it until it shattered, then snatched up the pieces and hurled them into the darkness with an enraged scream.
“Kriffing scughole!” you snarled, your voice hoarse.
Bacara couldn’t quite suppress a huff of quiet amusement at your thoroughness in destroying the commlink, and you whirled at the sound.
“The kark are you?” you demanded.
“What, are you some tragic character from an old romance holoflick?” he asked. “No need to take it out on me because you got dumped.”
“What, are you some fuckin’ prick who likes to make people even more miserable than they already are?” you snapped back.
“No need to get your tits in a twist,” he said. “You can’t put on a show like that and expect me not to break out the Mantell mix. Just bein’ honest. You’d do the same.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” you spat. “I would never twist the vibroblade in a total stranger and justify it by calling it ‘honesty.’ That's not honesty, it's just sadism.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” he said, ignoring your growl of fury. “A sadist gets off on inflicting pain on other people.”
“Are you going to pretend you aren’t enjoying being a raging asshole to me?” you demanded.
“I might be enjoying it a little,” he admitted. “But that's not sadism.”
“Yes it is, you absolute—cabbage! That is exactly what sadism is.”
“I’d say ‘voyeur’ is more accurate in this case,” he remarked conversationally.
You arched a brow at him. “Are you saying you’re getting off on this?”
He blinked. “Wait, ‘cabbage’?”
“Not a denial,” you observed, your eyes flickering down his body. “Interesting.”
Dank farrik, he hadn’t been turned on before, but under your assessing glance, he felt his body respond. He shifted, turning to give you a better view. He wasn’t stupid; he’d heard the natties gossipping about the fit of the black body gloves the clones wore under their armor, and he was fully aware of just how little they concealed the anatomy.
“You like what you see?” he asked.
“I don’t see anything,” you said flippantly. “But there’s a microscope back in my lab.”
He stifled a laugh. “That was uncalled for.”
“Oh, now who’s a whiny little bitch with your tits in a twist? Are you gonna cry?”
He burst out laughing. “You know, I’m starting to like you.”
“Don’t tell me you’re a masochist, too,” you quipped, but your voice lost its hostile edge. “I kinda like you, too. It's fun to bitch you out. Nice to meet somebody who can serve it back to me instead of crying in the locker room.”
“That’s… suspiciously specific.”
You shrugged, not bothering to deny that you spoke from personal experience.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” you replied.
He tilted his head in acknowledgment, but didn’t respond. Your reticence didn’t matter. He recognized you now. You were one of the base’s medics; you looked different in civvies than in your usual drab medical uniform, but it was unquestionably you. He outranked you by so many degrees that it was laughable. There was no way you recognized him; otherwise you never would have dared address him so disrespectfully.
It was kind of sexy, actually.
You reached into your pocket and pulled out a packet of deathsticks. “Want a smoke?”
He looked down at the packet, which was extremely contraband and unquestionably his responsibility to confiscate and destroy.
“Yeah,” he said. You passed him the pack and lighter. “Thanks.”
He lit a deathstick and handed them back to you, and you leaned against the durasteel wall next to him as you lit your own and pocketed the pack.
You inhaled deeply. “So who’d you piss off to get stuck on this rock?”
“Mouthed off to the general,” Bacara lied. “He didn’t like it.”
You laughed quietly. “I hear you.”
“You got a story along those lines, too?” he asked curiously.
“Something like that.” You exhaled a long stream of smoke as you closed your eyes and tilted your head back.
He watched you, taking a moment to appreciate the graceful curve of your neck and the blissful expression on your face. “You’re hot, you know that?”
Your eyes blinked open in surprise, and you turned to look at him under lowered lashes. “You’re no slouch yourself. Too bad about your personality.”
You smirked, and he realized he was staring at your mouth. He looked away and took a long drag of his deathstick.
“So… what do you like to do for fun?” he asked somewhat awkwardly, wondering just how badly he was about to blow the whole conversation.
You didn’t reply immediately, and when he glanced to the side, he saw that he apparently wasn’t the only one with an oral fixation. He turned toward you and leaned in.
“I think you meant to give me an actual answer there,” he murmured.
You looked him dead in the eyes. “Clones.”
He paused. “... Excuse me?”
You shrugged, and somehow the movement brought you closer together. “You asked what I like to do for fun. The answer is clones.”
“What the kriff does that mean?” he asked, turning a little more toward you.
“Do I need to spell it out for you?”
“Yeah,” he said, glancing down at your mouth again. “You’re gonna have to spell it out for me.”
“It means,” you said, leaning closer, until he could feel the warmth of your breath on his lips, “I like…” Your gaze slowly traveled down his face. “to F. U. C. K. clones.”
Your tongue darted out to brush over his lips. Your touch was so light, and it happened so quickly, that he almost wouldn’t have believed it if his eyes hadn’t been riveted to that sexy, vicious mouth of yours. His breath stuttered.
“You, uh… do that often?” he asked. “With clones?”
You shrugged. “Everybody needs a hobby.”
“And yours is making love with random clone troopers on military assignment at the ass end of the galaxy?”
“‘Making love,’” you laughed. “You’re adorable.”
“What do you call it?” he asked.
“Fucking.”
“That’s a lot less poetic,” he observed.
“Truer, though.”
“Not as romantic,” he pointed out.
“Do I look like the romantic type?” you asked.
"Actually... yeah. Yeah, you kinda do. You're so damn pretty, and you got a look in your eyes like there's a whole world beneath the surface."
Your eyebrows snapped together as you met his eyes, and then you looked away.
“Of course,” he continued, “you also look like you’ll kick anyone’s ass if they tell you that.”
You stared out into the darkness as you took another long drag of your deathstick. “Where exactly do you think this is headed?”
“I have no idea,” he confessed, stroking his fingers under your jaw to tilt your face back toward him. “But I want it to go somewhere. Hopefully not toward an ass-kicking.”
“How about against this wall?” you suggested. “I could use a distraction.”
“I can work with that,” he said.
“Good,” you replied. “For a minute there I thought you were gonna get all sappy.”
You weren’t entirely certain why you found yourself drawn to the nameless clone. Force knew a hookup had been the last thing on your mind as you’d rehashed the same argument you’d been having for the past decade. You inhaled the last dregs of your deathstick, trying to ignore the way those cruel words echoed in your mind.
“Too farking broken for anyone to love.”
You dropped the butt of the deathstick into the dirt and ground it beneath your heel though you could extinguish the hurt along with the embers.
As if he wasn’t the one who broke you.
The clone was still smoking, and when you glanced at him, the glow of the deathstick illuminated hard, cold eyes that watched you without blinking. From his GAR standard haircut to his lack of tattoos, you would have thought he was a shiny, if it weren’t for those deadly eyes.
Well, the eyes, and the body, if you were honest. Despite your earlier taunt, you couldn’t deny that he looked good. Damn good. All the clone troopers were in peak physical condition, but this one—this one was a kriffing specimen. He was thick and broad, with muscles honed from years of combat, and you would eat your military-issued boots if he didn’t also have specialized training. You’d patched up—and done other things with—enough troopers since the war started to be able to spot the difference between the regular clones and the commandos, and there was no doubt in your mind which group your mystery clone belonged to.
His gaze didn’t falter as you inspected his body. He didn’t preen like a narcissist, nor did he shy away. He simply watched you, watching him. The air seemed to thicken between you. You reached out and rested your fingers on his chest, then traced down over the hard expanse of his abdomen. When you reached his waistband, you slipped your fingertips beneath the fabric and stroked them over his smooth, warm skin.
“Straight to business, then?” he asked.
“What, do you need a dozen roses?” you asked.
He laughed quietly. “Might be nice.”
You slid your hand further beneath the fabric, flattening your palm against his hip.
“The, uh, ‘kriffing scughole,’” he said. “That your boyfriend?”
“Hardly,” you replied. “It’s my father.”
His expression didn’t alter, but his eyes flickered down your body and back up to your face. “What’s his problem?”
“Every decision I’ve ever made,” you said evasively. “Plus he hates clones.”
Slowly, very slowly, he took the deathstick out of his mouth and extinguished it against the durasteel wall of the base, then flicked the butt out into the darkness. He raised his hand to cup your jaw in his palm, his fingers pressing lightly against the side of your neck as his thumb brushed over your lips. Then he slid his hand to the back of your head, threading his fingers through your hair as he tugged it gently, tipping your head and exposing your throat.
His mouth descended onto your skin, and he dragged his tongue languidly from your collarbone up to your ear. You shuddered quietly, your body instantly reacting to the sensation.
“Fuck that salty old bastard,” he whispered. “You want me to make you forget him?”
“Yeah…” you breathed.
The heat of his breath ghosted over your skin as he closed his lips on the shell of your ear and then turned his attention back to your neck. He worked you over slowly, taking his time to explore your skin and find all the spots that made you shiver and moan. He tested your reactions methodically, using his lips, tongue, and teeth to find the most effective tactics to take you apart.
You launched a reconnaissance mission of your own, exploring his body, sweeping your hands over his arms and shoulders, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing against him luxuriously. In return, his hands roamed over your body, pulling you tight against him, stroking your back and sides, fondling and squeezing your tits, and finally stealing beneath your clothes to caress your bare skin.
As he cupped your pussy in his large, warm hand, he let out a grunt that sounded almost pained as he discovered the extent of your arousal. He abandoned his post at your neck and dropped to his knees, gripping the waistband of your trousers and yanking you toward him. He jerked down your pants without bothering to unzip them, as though he couldn’t spare even that much time before plunging his tongue into your wetness.
He groaned as he tasted you, gripping your ass and pressing your body against his face as he thrust his tongue frantically into your cunt. Your trousers prevented him from spreading your thighs enough to give him the access he so obviously wanted, so he impatiently pushed them down to your ankles and lifted your thigh onto his shoulder. He dived into you, his eyes drifting closed as he devoured you.
His strong hand slid up the inside of your thigh, and his fingers stroked your pussy, but before they entered you, he gave one final, mind-blowingly pleasurable suck to your clit, then withdrew slightly, staring up your body into your eyes to make sure you were watching. You felt two of his fingers slide over your entrance and spread you open, then he leaned in and spat into your cunt.
You felt it splatter against your clit, and you nearly came on the spot. You barely had time to gasp before his fingers swirled over the saliva, circling your clit and spreading the slick fluid over your pussy before plunging into you. He pleasured you roughly, stretching you out with his fingers as he sucked and licked your clit, and before long, your legs began to quiver uncontrollably.
Hearing your stifled and increasingly desperate moans, he pulled away and looked up at you again.
“Gonna come?” he asked.
“Uh,” you panted. “Yeah.”
“Good.”
He leaned forward, but you stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He glanced up at you questioningly.
“Can—” You licked your lips, utterly mortified to make the request. “Can you spit on me again?”
His eyes never lost that cold, emotionless expression, but his mouth twisted into a smirk. “Filthy.”
You weren’t proud of the hoarse moan you let out when he called you that, but to his credit, he showed no sign of judging you for it—though he definitely noticed. He never stopped working you with his hand, and now he pressed his thumb on your clit even as he continued to thrust his fingers into you with devastating precision. You trembled on the edge of an orgasm as he leaned close to your cunt and locked eyes with you. He spat, and you came so hard your vision blacked out. Your leg buckled, and he caught you just in time to prevent you from toppling to the ground.
He stood quickly. You clung to his shoulders for support as he pulled the bottoms of his body glove down just far enough to free his cock.
“Yeah?” he asked.
You nodded, too blissed out to speak as you basked in the aftershocks of one of the most intense orgasms of your life.
“Say it,” he ordered.
“Yes,” you gasped.
He ran his hand down your thigh and hooked it behind your knee, and the instant your leg wrapped around his waist, he thrust into you. You were well prepped, but it was still a massive, abrupt stretch, and you cried out. He clamped his hand over your mouth.
“Surveillance,” he explained curtly.
You nodded your understanding, but he didn’t move his hand—and a good thing, too, because he set a merciless pace, fucking you hard, fast, and deep.
“Too bad you called in a tactical strike on your commlink,” he murmured, sinking his teeth into your neck. “Otherwise you could send your old man a holovid of his precious little girl getting destroyed by one of those clones he hates.”
You let out a sound that was something between a groan and a sob, and he moved his palm off your mouth so you could respond.
“I—like—you,” you panted, the words punching out with every brutal thrust of his cock. “You’re—fuck!—devious.”
His teeth flashed in the moonlight. He hooked his arm under the leg you had wrapped around his waist and shoved it abruptly against your shoulder, bracing his hand against the wall as he pounded into you so hard it almost knocked the air out of your lungs. He covered your mouth again to muffle your scream, but after the initial hoarse cry, he moved his hand down to your neck and traced his thumb over your throat. His lips crashed into yours, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as he kissed you deeply, and you tasted your own arousal on him. It occurred to you that this obscene coupling was, in fact, the first time he’d kissed you on the mouth.
Who says romance is dead?
A deep, quiet growl rumbled from his chest as he kissed you with a ferocity that was almost unsettling. He didn’t let up, didn’t give you a chance to catch your breath as he chased his own pleasure. You were under no illusions that any of this meant anything: after all, you were using him just as much as he was using you. And it was kriffing hot.
The durasteel of the wall was hard and unyielding behind you, and the force of his thrusts only intensified as he ravaged your mouth. It hurt just enough to feel good—amazing, actually—and before long, you started to feel your body winding in on itself again.
Abruptly, he pulled out of you and thrust hard against your hip. You let out a low howl of rage and frustration into his mouth as you felt the heat of his cum spurt across your pelvis and belly. He groaned, but didn’t pull away from your mouth as he slumped heavily against you, dropping his hand to your cunt and sliding his fingers deep into you again. He knew exactly what he was looking for. The instant he found it, he zeroed in on it, not wasting any time with pleasantries. His finger moved in tiny, rapid motions with the perfect amount of pressure, and within seconds, he wrenched another orgasm forcefully from your body, stifling your cries of pleasure with his tongue.
You twitched away from him slightly as your body began to pass from pleasure into overstimulation, and he slowly withdrew his fingers from you. Dragging them lightly across your hip and belly, he traced them through his cum before wiping it firmly off your skin.
“Sorry about your shirt,” he murmured.
“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” you demanded irritably.
“No,” he replied, deadpan. “I really am sorry.”
“That’s not what I—” You cut yourself off, then sighed, “Kriff you, buddy.”
“Already did,” he smirked. “Hope it’s not dry clean.”
“I’m more concerned about getting back to my quarters covered in your jizz.”
“Nobody’s awake,” he shrugged. “Besides, it’s not that bad.”
“It isn’t?” you asked, glancing down.
“Nah, I lied. Anyone you meet is gonna know.”
You stared at him for a moment, and then you started to laugh. You dropped your forehead to his shoulder as you giggled helplessly. He leaned his face against your head, and you felt the telltale huff of his breath as he joined you silently. Eventually, your giggles faded away, and you sighed.
“Thanks for pulling out. I have an implant, but still. I’m a medic. I should have been more careful.”
He shrugged. “No offense, but I don’t want my kids to have your shitty dad for a grandfather.”
“Holy kark, can you even imagine?” you said with a short laugh. “He’d have a coronary if I let a clone knock me up.”
He exhaled quietly through his nose as he pressed his lips into your hair. “If you ever want to put the old fuck in the ground and get away with it, comm me, and we can do this again with even less protection.”
“I don’t even know who you are,” you pointed out. “How am I supposed to comm you?”
“Solid point.” He didn’t volunteer his name, and you didn’t ask.
The cool night air gradually became uncomfortably chilly on your bare legs, and you suddenly began to feel awkward as hell.
“I should get back to my quarters,” you mumbled.
You pulled away and tried to figure out exactly how he’d managed to turn your pants inside-out without ever fully removing them. He watched with those cold, expressionless eyes as you dressed. It was almost disconcerting, except every so often you’d catch him looking at your body, or your mouth, and you knew he wasn’t as impassive as he appeared. Once you had pulled yourself together, he walked with you to the side door and keyed in his security code. The door hissed open, and as you passed through it, his fingers closed around your wrist, the pressure warm and surprisingly comforting. You turned to him, your question unspoken.
He released your wrist and stared expressionlessly into your eyes for a moment, then said, “He’s wrong about you.”
You didn’t reply, just stared back at him. After a brief silence, he released your wrist and stepped away. The door slid closed with him on the opposite side, and you turned to make your way to your quarters, suddenly feeling a little less alone.
