bed chem.
(part two: juno. // part three: please, please, please.)
Qibbu’s Hut, entertainment sector—strike team operational house—early evening, 371 days after Geonosis
So … how long does it take two squads to finish their meals in the bar?
Long enough, I think.
–
After a hot shower, Etain and Darman fall back into bed, both sated and exhausted. Darman brushes Etain’s wet hair out of her face and pulls her into his chest. As long as they were alone, he would steal as much of her as he could.
Etain takes a deep breath, memorizing the way Darman feels—the firmness of his body against hers, the strength with which he holds her, and the peaceful way his mind comes to rest. He is a glowing light, bright and warm like a campfire at full burn.
The future is as inevitable as the turning of the galaxy, but for now, Etain basks in Darman. She looks up from where she’d curled her face into his chest to find him staring at her intently.
“What?” she grins.
“I’m counting your freckles.”
“Counting my freckles? Why?”
“Someone’s got to,” he insists.
Etain giggles, running her fingers over his shoulder. “How many are there?”
“At least ten.”
They both break into a fit of laughter. Etain rolls onto Darman, lying on him like a big pillow, and stares down into his face. They’d already made love twice and three times would be too much, not to mention surely the others would be back soon.
She kisses him anyway with nothing more than a brush of her lips. “Now how many?”
“I’m up to twenty-nine.” Darman grazes her skin with his fingertips, making idle shapes along her back, and if Etain doesn’t concentrate on his mind, then she can let the randomness of his touches cause a shiver.
They keep pausing to stare at each other, and Etain continues to marvel at how different he is from his brothers. It’s in his eyes, and the way he smiles, nothing at all like Niner or Fi or Atin or any of Delta.
Darman’s head rests back onto the pillows. Etain is staring at him, and he isn’t used to someone who isn’t one of his brothers paying such close attention to him. “You don’t have to read my mind, you know. You could just ask.”
“I wasn’t—oh, Darman.” Etain sits up.
And Darman flinches, realizing he’s said something wrong based on the way she frowns. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know.” Etain smiles, a little sad to think her Jedi-ness would always be strange to Darman. “I was only admiring your eyes.”
“My eyes?” Darman’s brow knits. He thinks she’s the one with eyes worth admiring, green with flecks of amber.
“Mhm.” Etain brushes her hand over his forehead. “And your nose.” She follows the bridge of his nose. “And your lips.” Her index finger lands on his lips, one of the softest parts of him.
Darman flushes. There is a joke in there about saying he’s one of a kind. He forgets to say it as Etain traces the line of his mouth.
Her hand goes lower, down his throat, over his collarbone. When Darman locks eyes with her darkened gaze, he doesn’t have to read her mind to know what she’s thinking.