“their reactions to when someone is staring at you.”
a/n: saw @tanobatcher’s tiktok where she wrote out her own head cannons and i NEEDED to write them out. thank you for giving me permission to write this out pooks. doing the commanders and captains first!
✶⋆.˚ CODY - CC-2224
It starts while you and Cody are waiting in line at a small café on Coruscant—one of those rare, quiet days where the war feels far away.
You’re reading the menu, rambling about wanting to try the new pastry, and Cody is just… watching you. Soft, relaxed, genuinely happy to be here with you instead of on a battlefield.
Then he sees it.. some guy at a table across the room, openly staring at you.
Not a passing glance.
Not polite curiosity.
A full-on, shameless, hungry stare.
Cody’s smile doesn’t even falter, but he shifts his stance ever so slightly—shoulders squared, chin lifting.
His hand rests casually on the small of your back, thumb brushing with a grounding gesture for himself more than for you.
You don’t notice.
But Cody sees everything.
He leans in, voice low, teasing, warm against your ear,
“Look at you… collecting fans wherever you go.”
You laugh, nudging him.
“Fans? Please. He’s probably staring at the menu behind me.”
Cody snorts, soft but incredulous.
“Oh no, cyare. Trust me.. he’s definitely here for you.”
You roll your eyes, amused, flustered, completely unaware that Cody has already mapped out five different ways to remove this man from the room without disrupting lunch.
“He’s harmless,” you shrug.
“Mm,” Cody hums, smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
Inside, his thoughts are a different story.
Stop staring at her. She didn’t invite your attention. Walk away before I make you.
He keeps his expression light, because the last thing he wants is to ruin your good mood over something so small.
You finally decide on chocolate, and Cody orders for both of you—calm, polite, charming.
But while you wait, the staring continues, and Cody feels every muscle in his body coil tighter.
He doesn’t confront.
Not yet.
Instead, he slides closer, arm brushing yours, claiming you without making a scene.
“Careful,” you tease him. “People might think you like me.”
Cody gives you that tiny, sideways smirk that always melts you.
“Oh, they already know,” he murmurs. And I want them to.
When you run to grab napkins, Cody’s eyes flick back to the man.
One single look—sharp, commander-level, utterly lethal.
Stop. Now.
And like magic, the guy’s gaze drops to his drink, shoulders stiffening, suddenly reconsidering every life choice he’s ever made.
Cody exhales slowly, controlled, tension draining from his posture.
Not because he doubted himself, he just didn’t want to escalate and ruin your day.
When you return, completely oblivious to the storm that almost happened, he wraps an arm around your waist, fingers resting comfortably at your hip.
You raise a brow.
“Possessive much?”
He chuckles, brushing a playful but honest kiss to your temple.
“Well, what can I say? My girlfriend’s famous.”
You laugh, leaning into him, and Cody decides, yep, worth it.
He’ll joke, he’ll tease, he’ll keep it light… because your happiness matters more than his pride.
But Maker help the next person who forgets how to respectfully use their eyes.
✶⋆.˚ REX - CT-7567
The 79’s cantina is unusually calm tonight—soft music, dim lights, clones scattered at tables unwinding after long rotations.
You and Rex sit in a booth tucked against the wall, his arm draped behind you, not quite touching, but close enough that you feel protected.
He looks relaxed even though he wore his armor, chestplate reflecting the warm lighting, helmet resting beside him on the seat.
He’s smiling because you just said something that made him forget there’s a war outside.
And then he sees it.
Across the room, a man—civilian, slouched at the bar—eyes locked on you.
Not accidental, not passing curiosity.
Lingering. Bold. Disrespectful.
Rex’s smile fades, jaw tightening just a fraction. He forces himself to breathe slowly through his nose.
Benefit of the doubt, he tells himself. Maybe he’s looking past her. Maybe he’s not actually staring.
You’re too busy talking, unaware, glowing in the low lighting, and all Rex wants is to stay in this tenderness a little longer.
But then the stranger’s gaze drops—slowly, lingering, crawling—and returns to your face with a smirk.
Rex’s patience snaps like a blaster bolt through glass.
His arm moves from behind you to rest firmly on the table—protective, grounding—as he turns his head just enough to confirm what he already knows.
Yeah. The guy’s staring at you.
Controlled yet furious, Rex exhales through his teeth. Maker, keep me from decking this man in front of her.
He really does try to stay seated.
To ignore it.
To be the reasonable, composed captain you deserve.
He lasts maybe a second.
Then he stands, his plastoid armor shifting with the movement. Smooth, silent, terrifyingly calm, and he starts walking.
“Rex?” you ask softly, confused.
He doesn’t answer, because he already knows what needs to be done.
He reaches the bar and stops right beside the man, close enough that the air shifts, close enough that the entire room quiets.
Rex doesn’t yell.
He doesn’t have to.
He leans in slightly, voice dangerously even.
“You wanna tell me what you’re lookin’ at?”
The man startles, eyes wide. “I—I wasn’t—”
Rex lets out a humorless and sharp laugh.
“Oh, you were. And now you’re gonna stop.”
The stranger opens his mouth, maybe to deny it, maybe to be stupid, but Rex raises a brow, and the words die in his throat.
Rex’s posture is relaxed, hands loose at his sides, but every fiber of him radiates do not test me.
The man swallows hard. “S-sorry.”
Rex nods, like this was a polite conversation about the weather.
“That’s what I thought.”
He steps back—not breaking eye contact—until he’s sure the guy gets the message.
Then Rex turns, face softening instantly when he sees you watching him.
He returns to the booth, sliding in beside you again, armor knocking lightly against the seat.
You give him a look mix of concern and affection.
“You okay?” you whisper.
Rex shrugs, arm returning behind you, this time brushing your shoulder deliberately.
“Fine. Just didn’t like how he was looking at you.”
You smirk. “Jealous?”
He scoffs, but his ears turn the faintest shade of pink.
“Protective,” he corrects, voice quieter. “There’s a difference.”
You lean into him.
“Well… thank you.”
Rex pressed a kiss to your forehead. It was gentle and grounding, everything he wishes the galaxy was.
“I’ll always look out for you, cyare. Always.”
Across the room, the man suddenly finds the floor very interesting.
And Rex?
He goes right back to smiling, because as far as he’s concerned, problem handled.
✶⋆.˚ WOLFFE - CC-3636
It’s supposed to be a peaceful night—just you, Wolffe, and a quiet stroll through a small Coruscant marketplace after his shift.
Shops are closing, lights dimming, crowds thinning.
Wolffe stays beside you, hand instinctively hovering near the small of your back. Not quite touching, but always there if you need him.
He’s in full armor, helmet tucked under his arm, hair slightly mussed from hours of command.
He looks tired, but content.
You’re pointing out a vendor selling tiny holo figurines when Wolffe feels it—the weight of someone’s stare.
Sharp. Intentional. Unwelcome.
His expression doesn’t change, but something in him goes perfectly still.
Without a word, his gauntleted hand finds your waist and gently guides you forward, placing you directly in front of him.
Your back meets his chest, solid and warm, as his legs widen just slightly, bracketing yours.
A wall of armor and possessive silence.
You blink up at him. “Wolffe?”
He doesn’t look at you—he’s too busy tracking the man across the walkway, gaze narrowed to a sniper’s focus.
“Nothin’ to worry about,” he mutters, voice low, controlled.
But his arm stays firm around your middle, pulling you closer, tucking you securely into his side like you belong there.. because you do.
The guy keeps staring—pretending he’s not, but failing miserably.
Wolffe’s jaw flexes once. Twice.
He won’t cause a scene… not unless he has to.
You go back to browsing, unaware of the storm brewing behind you.
Wolffe rests his chin lightly atop your head, positioning himself so his body blocks the man’s line of sight completely.
Then the stranger decides to walk past you both—slowly, deliberately—eyes still lingering.
Wolffe doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t warn.
Doesn’t negotiate.
He just moves.
As the man passes, Wolffe straightens, shifts his stance, and shoulder checks him HARD.
Hard enough to send the guy stumbling, nearly losing his footing, making a few heads turn.
“Oh. Sorry,” Wolffe says flatly, tone so insincere it’s practically a threat.
The man looks up, ready to start something, until he sees who hit him.
The armor.
The scar.
The unblinking grey-striped commander staring him down like prey.
Wolffe tilts his head. Just a fraction as he silently challenges him.
The guy swallows, quickly averts his eyes, and keeps walking fast.
Wolffe watches him disappear into the crowd, making sure he’s gone.
Only then does he soften, hand returning to your waist, pulling you gently back against him.
“You good?” he asks quietly.
You turn, confused but smiling, completely oblivious. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”
Wolffe exhales through his nose, relief slipping into something warm, almost fond.
“No reason,” he lies, thumb rubbing absent circles into your hip.
You loop your arm around his middle, leaning into him.
“You’re in a cuddly mood today.”
He huffs. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation.”
You laugh and start walking again, and Wolffe follows—close, attentive, protective—eyes still scanning the area, just in case.
Because if anyone else even thinks about staring?
They’re getting shoulder checked too.
✶⋆.˚ FOX - CC-1010
Coruscant nightlife always felt a bit too loud, too bright, too chaotic, but you liked it.
And Fox liked you, so here he was, escorting you to a late dinner during his shift, armor still on, helmet on, posture relaxed for once.
You’re talking about your day, your voice was soft yet excited, and Fox can’t stop staring at you.
Not in the way others do.
His gaze is reverent. Protective. Home.
Then he notices it.
A man at the bar—leaned back in his stool, drink forgotten—eyes glued to you.
Tracking every movement. Undressing you with his stare.
Fox’s pleasant mood dissolves instantly, replaced with a cold, razor-sharp alertness.
You don’t notice since you’re too busy looking through the dessert menu.
Fox does, though. He always does.
He leans slightly toward you, voice calm but edged with steel,
“Stay here a moment, mesh’la.”
You blink. “Everything okay?”
“Oh, absolutely,” he says with a reassuring smile. “Just handling a little… administrative matter.”
You don’t even have time to ask before he’s already striding across the room—purposeful, predatory, commander mode activated.
The man doesn’t look up until Fox’s shadow falls over him.
Fox crosses his arms—biceps straining against plastoid, posture perfect and terrifying.
“Enjoying the view?” he asks pleasantly.
The guy stutters. “Wh-what?”
Fox smiles dangerously under his helmet. “I said, were you enjoying staring at the woman I’m with?”
The man’s mouth opens and closes like a dying fish.
“I-I wasn’t staring—”
Fox taps the Coruscant Guard emblem on his shoulder plate.
“Right. Because if you were, that would qualify as harassment. Which, fortunately for you, falls under my jurisdiction.”
The man pales, looking around for help. There is none.
Fox leans closer, lowering his voice so only the man can hear.
“Here’s how this goes. You’re going to stop looking at her, finish your drink, and leave. Or I will drag you out of here in binders, and you won’t see daylight again without clearance codes.”
He pauses, letting it sink in.
“Do we understand each other?”
The man nods so aggressively Fox worries he’ll sprain something.
“Good,” Fox says, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”
When Fox turns away, the man grabs his coat and practically sprints out of the building.
Fox returns to your table like nothing happened, sliding into his seat, expression calm, voice soft again.
“Sorry about that. What did you decide on?”
You narrow your eyes.
“What did you do?”
Fox shrugs innocently.
“Public safety is my responsibility.”
You give him a look. “…Fox.”
He sighs, reaching for your hand.
“Alright, alright. Maybe I reminded him I outrank literally everyone in this district.”
You snort. “You love pulling the rank card.”
Fox smirks, kiss-creases forming at the corners of his eyes.
“Why have power if you can’t weaponize it in defense of your beautiful partner?”
You laugh, shaking your head, until your datapad pings.
You glance at the screen.
“Um… Fox? Did you just add him to a watchlist?”
Fox removes his helmet as he pops a bite of bread into his mouth, casual as ever.
“Of course. Can’t be too careful.”
“Fox—”
“What? Saves time later.”
You stare at him in disbelief, and maybe a little awe.
He softens, thumb brushing your knuckles.
“I’m never letting someone make you feel unsafe. Not on my planet.”
You melt, because honestly? You believe him.
And somewhere in a database, a brand-new entry reads:
Subject: Creepy bar guy.
Status: Watched, monitored, and extremely unlucky.
✶⋆.˚ GREGOR - CC-5576-39
The hideout was busy today—more civilians than usual had come to drop off supplies: food, medical stock, blankets, spare tools.
You were helping organize it—clipboard in hand, sorting crates, directing where things needed to go.
Gregor was supposed to be helping too.
He was not.
He was leaning against a stack of ration boxes, helmet on the floor beside him, arms crossed, watching you with that familiar lazy grin—like you were the most entertaining thing he’d ever seen.
Then he noticed it.
One of the civilian volunteers—a young guy carrying a crate—kept staring at you.
Not quick glances.
Not accidental looks.
Full-on, wide-eyed, wow who is she staring.
Gregor didn’t tense.
Didn’t get jealous.
Didn’t even frown.
He just let out a quiet, amused little laugh.
You looked over, brows furrowing. “What?”
He tilted his head toward the civilian, smirking.
“You’ve got an admirer.”
You blinked, confused, until you caught the guy doing that lingering stare again.
Your face warmed instantly.
“Oh Maker,” you muttered, pretending to check your clipboard. “He’s being obvious.”
Gregor shrugged like it was the most natural thing in the galaxy.
“Well, of course he’s staring. Look at you.” He waved a hand at you dramatically. “Anyone with functioning eyesight would.”
You swatted his arm lightly. “Be serious.”
He leaned in, voice rich with playful innocence.
“I am being serious. You’re hot. It’s practically a public hazard.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but Gregor cut you off—eyes sparkling, grin widening.
“Honestly?” he mused, nodding toward the guy, “Maybe you should give him a chance. Poor kid looks like he’s about to faint.”
Your jaw dropped. “Gregor!”
He held both hands up like he was being reasonable.
“What? I’m just saying, good for him. Look at his taste! Impeccable!”
You stared at him, scandalized and flustered.
He leaned closer, dropping his voice into something softer, warmer—meant only for you.
“But…” his fingers brushed yours, just barely, “you’re already taken.”
Your heartbeat stuttered.
His grin shifted—still playful, but undeniably possessive—like he enjoyed reminding you as much as saying it.
Across the hideout, the staring civilian suddenly found something else to carry—quickly, awkwardly, and in the opposite direction.
Gregor chuckled, satisfied, bumping your shoulder with his.
“See? No need to scare him off. Just had to remind the room who you belong to.”
You squinted at him. “You are insufferable.”
He winked, picking up a crate like he finally intended to help.
“Yeah, but I’m your problem.”
And as he walked past you, he added—just loud enough for you to hear.
“Lucky you.”
✶⋆.˚ HOWZER - CT-7569
The two of you are standing in line at a small open-air café on Ryloth—warm lights, soft night breeze, quiet chatter filling the streets.
Howzer’s shift ended an hour ago, but he’s still in his armor—minus the helmet—arms crossed loosely over his chest, hair slightly tousled, expression relaxed.
He’s listening to you talk about your day, nodding along, eyes warm and focused, because when you speak, he always listens.
You’re mid-sentence when he notices someone a few tables over staring.
Not a curious glance.
Not a passing look.
A lingering, territorial stare.
Howzer’s smile fades just a touch, shoulders straightening.
He doesn’t interrupt you—he never would—but his attention shifts, eyes narrowing slightly.
He watches for a moment, giving the benefit of the doubt.
Maybe the guy will look away. Maybe he’ll realize he’s being weird.
He doesn’t.
In fact, he stares harder—eyes dragging over you slowly, disrespectfully.
Howzer’s jaw ticks.
He tries to breathe through it, tries to stay calm because he hates conflict, hates making a scene, hates the idea of ruining your evening.
But he also refuses to let anyone treat you like that.
So he steps forward—smooth, controlled, radiating authority—and positions himself slightly in front of you, blocking the man’s view.
You pause. “Howzer?”
He offers you a gentle smile. “One sec, mesh’la.”
Then he turns and walks toward the man with a calm, steady, and purposeful stride.
The guy looks up, startled, clearly not expecting a cloned captain built like a wall to approach him.
Howzer stops right beside his table, tilts his head slightly, voice polite, but sharpened with steel.
“Can I help you…?”
Not friendly.
Not genuine.
A warning wrapped in manners.
The man blinks. “What? No— I wasn’t—”
Howzer raises a brow, unimpressed.
“Oh, really? Because you’ve been starin’ for a while. Thought maybe you needed something.”
The tone is condescending and just enough to make the point without escalating.
The entire patio goes quiet, all eyes suddenly on the interaction.
The guy flushes, shrinking into himself.
“N-no, sir. Sorry.”
Howzer holds his gaze for a moment—long enough to make sure it sinks in—then gives a curt nod.
“Good. Then keep your eyes to yourself.”
His voice is calm, quiet, but devastatingly firm.
He doesn’t wait for a response, he just turns on his heel and walks back to you.
You’re staring at him, wide-eyed.
“Everything… okay?” you ask slowly.
Howzer’s expression softens immediately as he reaches you, placing a gentle hand on the small of your back—guiding you forward in line again.
“Yeah,” he says, voice warm now, almost playful. “Just helped someone remember their manners.”
You snort. “You didn’t have to do that.”
He leans down, lips brushing your temple.
“I know. But I’ll never let someone disrespect you, not while I’m around.”
Your heart flips, cheeks warming.
You loop your arm through his, and he pulls you a little closer—protective, but tender.
Behind you, the man hurriedly pays and leaves, head down.
Howzer watches him go for half a second—satisfied—then returns his full attention to you like nothing ever happened.
“Now,” he says, smiling gently, “you were telling me about the part with the flowers?”
And just like that, your night continues—safe, comfortable, yours.
✶⋆.˚ MAYDAY - CC-????
The outpost is quiet for once—snow drifting lazily outside, heater humming, you and Mayday sharing a rare moment of peace at his cluttered desk.
He’s half in armor—pauldrons off, chestplate unbuckled, gloves tossed aside—hair slightly messy, scruff framing that devastating smirk.
He looks tired, but lighter with you there, shoulder brushing yours as you flip through supply logs together.
Then he notices it.
Some visiting lower rank officer across the room—pretending to review paperwork—eyes glued to you.
Not subtle.
Not respectful.
Just staring like you’re a warm fireplace in the middle of a frozen wasteland.
Mayday doesn’t tense, doesn’t posture, he just… laughs.
A low, amused, is this guy serious? kind of laugh.
You glance up. “What?”
Mayday tilts his head toward the man, voice dripping with smug amusement.
“You’ve got an admirer.”
You roll your eyes, dismissing it. “He’s just looking around.”
Mayday arches a brow, no he isn’t, and leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest like he’s settling in for entertainment.
But his gaze stays soft on you—never threatening, never demanding—just quietly claiming.
Then the staring continues.
Longer.
Harder.
Bolder.
Mayday exhales through his nose—still amused, still dangerous.
He shifts forward, elbows on his knees, leaning in close enough that his breath brushes your ear, voice low and wicked.
“Wanna give him a show?”
You freeze, pulse tripping. “Mayday—”
He chuckles again, hand sliding to your thigh—not squeezing, just resting there like it belongs.
His eyes never leave yours.
“I’m just saying,” he murmurs, tone playful but possessive, “a kiss would send a very clear message.”
You turn slightly, meeting his gaze—dark, confident, inviting.
“And what message is that?” you ask, breath softer than intended.
His smirk deepens—dangerously slow, smug, sure.
“That you’re mine.”
Not up for debate. Not a question.
A fact.
Before you can respond, he gently cups your jaw—thumb sweeping across your cheek, touch both reverent and territorial—leans in, and kisses you.
Unhurried and certain. Completely unapologetic.
The kind of kiss that says I’ve waited for this and I dare you to look away.
You melt into him, fingers gripping the edge of his pauldron, and he smiles against your lips because yeah—he knew you would.
When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t glance at the staring officer.
He doesn’t need to.
Instead, he keeps his forehead resting against yours, voice soft but laced with smug satisfaction.
“Still looking?”
You peek over his shoulder.
The man is suddenly very invested in a blank datapad.
Mayday laughs—low, satisfied—and presses one more kiss to your temple, thumb brushing your chin.
“Thought so.”
Then he sits back, arm draped over the back of your chair, posture relaxed, claiming you without touching.
“Now,” he says casually, “where were we?”
Like he didn’t just ruin someone’s self-esteem and mark you as his in one breathtaking move.
So funny request, feel free to ignore it if your busy. But I just can help but think about how the clones have no sense of misogyny due to how they were raised. There were so many female Jedi and many of the kaminoans that created and raised them were women. I was wondering how a platonic bad batch would react to casual misogyny towards a female reader maybe? Nothing too bad, just them being absolutely bewildered that someone would think something like that and then low-key upset when she's like "it is what it is🤷♀️".
If this request makes you uncomfortable no pressure to do it, I just thought it was an interesting idea. And I love your writing so...🤭
“It Is What It Is”
Bad batch x Reader
The market square on Raxus was buzzing with noise, chatter, and the metallic clank of droids carrying cargo. Clone Force 99 didn’t exactly blend in—broad-shouldered armored soldiers tended to stand out among merchants and civilians—but for once, no one was actively shooting at them.
You were walking a few paces ahead with Tech, trying to follow the datapad’s map to a contact’s stall. Hunter and Echo trailed behind, eyes scanning the crowd. Wrecker wandered with a bag of candied nuts, happily munching. Crosshair was…well, Crosshair, which meant scowling and looking like he wanted to shoot someone at random.
Everything was fine—until it wasn’t.
A vendor selling blaster parts leaned on his counter as you stopped to check the stock. You’d been trained enough to know what you were looking for, so you asked a perfectly reasonable question about the power capacity of one of his rifle scopes.
The man gave you a once-over, slow and dismissive. His smirk was greasy. “Sweetheart, this isn’t a fashion booth. Leave the tech talk to your boys over there, yeah?”
Your stomach sank. You’d heard it before—on Raxus, Coruscant, practically everywhere outside Kaminoan military channels. You blinked, pasted on a polite smile, and shrugged. “It is what it is,” you muttered under your breath, already turning away.
But Tech froze.
His brows knitted in confusion as though the vendor had just spoken an alien dialect. “I beg your pardon?” he asked sharply, adjusting his goggles. “Are you implying that her gender renders her incapable of discussing weapon components?”
The vendor blinked at him, startled. “I’m just saying she might not understand the specs—”
“Incorrect,” Tech interrupted, voice like a vibroblade. “She has demonstrated clear comprehension of the question she posed, which you have thus far failed to answer. Statistically, the biological sex of an individual has no correlation with their capacity for mechanical or tactical knowledge.”
Hunter’s voice cut low and warning. “Tech.” But his tone wasn’t meant for Tech—it was for the vendor.
Crosshair had stopped pretending to be bored. He leaned lazily against a crate, toothpick between his teeth, but his golden eyes gleamed sharp. “Go on. Say something else stupid.”
Echo stepped forward, expression tight. “She asked you about the power capacity. Answer it. Or we’ll take our business elsewhere.”
The vendor sputtered, suddenly sweating under the combined scrutiny of four armored soldiers and one visibly furious man in a bandana. He fumbled for the datapad to pull up the specs.
Wrecker lumbered closer, looming over the counter like a mountain. “You were real quick to run your mouth,” he said, voice deceptively cheerful. “Funny how you don’t sound so smart now.”
The poor man stammered out the details, stumbling over numbers until Tech snatched the datapad from his hands and checked the information himself.
Satisfied, Tech handed it to you instead of back to the vendor. “As I was saying, this model will serve your intended purpose. Though, if I may recommend, the alternate design from Kuat Systems is superior in stability.”
You nodded, grateful, and tucked it away. “Thanks, Tech.”
The Batch didn’t move until you’d stepped away from the booth, and even then, you could feel their agitation vibrating through the air like static.
⸻
Later, when you regrouped at the ship, it was impossible to ignore the stormy mood.
Hunter leaned against the ramp with arms crossed. “Does that kind of thing happen a lot?”
You shrugged, sitting on a crate. “Depends what you call ‘a lot.’ It’s not a big deal.”
All five sets of eyes landed on you at once, incredulous.
“Not a—” Echo cut himself off, staring at you like you’d grown another head. “He dismissed you for being a woman. That’s not nothing.”
Crosshair scoffed, pushing off the wall. “He’s lucky Tech spoke first. I’d have put a bolt through his datapad.”
Wrecker frowned, scratching his head. “I don’t get it. Why would anyone think you can’t know about gear just ’cause you’re not a man? That doesn’t make sense.”
“It doesn’t,” Tech agreed firmly. “On Kamino, many of the Kaminoans responsible for our education and maintenance were female. Numerous Jedi Generals are female. Statistically, gender distribution among the skilled and the incompetent is equal.”
Hunter tilted his head, studying you. His voice was gentler now. “And you just…accept it? ‘It is what it is?’”
You sighed. “What do you want me to say? It happens everywhere. People think like that, they say dumb things, and I move on. If I let it bother me every time, I’d never get anything done.”
That didn’t make them feel better. If anything, it made it worse.
Echo’s jaw tightened. “So you’ve dealt with this your whole life.”
“Pretty much.”
Crosshair muttered a curse under his breath, pacing away. Wrecker still looked baffled, like he was trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces. Tech was visibly unsettled, recalibrating his entire worldview around a variable he’d never considered. And Hunter…Hunter looked downright pained.
“You shouldn’t have to just ‘deal with it,’” he said quietly.
You smiled faintly, trying to lighten the mood. “Yeah, well. Galaxy’s full of idiots. Can’t shoot them all.”
Crosshair smirked darkly. “Try me.”
That actually earned a laugh from Wrecker, but it was short-lived.
Tech crouched in front of you, serious. “Please understand, your dismissal of this treatment does not reduce its illogical and offensive nature. If you encounter it again, we will intervene.”
“Tech—”
“No,” Echo cut in. “He’s right. You don’t have to just brush it off, not when we’re around.”
Hunter nodded firmly. “We look out for each other. Always.”
For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. You’d long since accepted casual misogyny as background noise, but looking at them—all five soldiers utterly baffled and quietly furious on your behalf—you felt something twist in your chest.
Wrecker gently nudged your shoulder, voice soft for once. “You’re part of our squad, ya know. Anyone messes with you, they mess with us.”
Crosshair flicked his toothpick aside and smirked again, but his eyes were serious. “And trust me. They don’t want that.”
You laughed, but this time it wasn’t hollow. It was warm, real. “Thanks, boys. I’ll try to remember that.”
Hunter offered a small smile in return, the tension easing slightly. “Good. Because ‘it is what it is’ doesn’t fly with us.”
And just like that, you realized—maybe it didn’t have to fly with you, either.
Description: You and Rex get some time off. Rex likes to cuddle. Gender neutral.
Words: 906
Warnings: established relationship, none unless you're allergic to fluff
Main Masterlist
Note: Past three weeks have just consisted of me being sick plus exams, so this is the best I can do. But who doesn't like a short fluffy fic?
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You’re propped up on one arm, half lying on Rex’s chest, while you’re watching him sleep... not in a creepy way. You're just appreciating how at peace he looks because it's very rare for him to relax, even in his sleep.
You guys are on leave and that means Rex can finally get a full night's rest. Obviously, he's a light sleeper due to always having to be ready for a fight, but that isn't a problem right now. He claims he sleeps better when you're with him. Even though you and Rex are in a relationship, nights together are few. You work with the 501st, but that doesn't mean your schedules are exactly lined up. You were lucky to even get a few quiet moments with your lover.
It was frustrating; you're close in proximity, as you're on the same ship as him, but yet sometimes it still feels like there's a distance between you. So, moments like these where you can spend nights and mornings in his arms, you never take for granted.
Currently, you're at some cheap hotel in the polluted urban maze that Coruscant is. It's what you can afford, since the GAR isn't paying their soldiers. Rex feels bad because he wants to be the one taking care of you, but you always insist it's fine. You're telling the truth too.
Renting a measly hotel room is the least you can do for a man who deserves the most. Besides, Rex makes it up in many other ways. He's a very attentive partner. Always checking in on you throughout the day, always finding a moment to come see you when you're having a bad day, bringing you souvenirs and telling you why they reminded him of you, or making you feel cherished as he whispers the sweetest nothings into your ear are a few examples.
You're snapped out of your thoughts when you feel Rex's arm that's around your waist pull you closer to him. He's still sleeping, but his hand slips under your sleeping shirt, seeking the warmth of the skin of your lower back. You watch his face, looking for any signs of him waking up, but when his breathing becomes softer again, you conclude he's not.
You want to reach up and press soft kisses along his face, but you resist the urge in order to not interrupt his rest. You decide to get out of bed and start making breakfast, so that way you don't have to fight any other urges to touch him.
You slowly untangle yourself from his grasp. At first, you hear him murmur something, and you're afraid you woke him. However, he doesn't make any other move. You tiptoe to the small kitchenette and, as quietly as possible, start gathering ingredients.
You're in the midst of washing some fruit when you feel strong arms wrap around your waist. You let out a yip of surprise and turn your head over your shoulder to see Rex's face inches from yours.
"What are you doing?" He's the first to speak.
"I'm making us breakfast. Did I wake you up?" you playfully pout.
Rex nuzzles into your neck before he answers, "Yeah, you did."
You feel your heart sink and are about to profusely apologize, but he cuts in, "You know I can't sleep without you, cyare."
You feel your racing heart start to slow when you process his words. You set down the fruit in your hands before turning in his arms. You wrap your arms around his neck before teasing, "My poor baby."
Rex scoffs at your words. You gently pull his head to yours, until you're able to place a soft kiss on his lips.
"Can you ever forgive me?" you put a dramatic pout on your face. Rex lets out a low hum of contemplation, while his eyes dart all across your face, taking in your features.
"I might need another kiss before I decide," he murmurs against your lips. A small grin breaks out on your face before you're pulling him back in. The kiss isn't hurried nor is it deep. It's one that blocks out all the noise coming from outside. One that makes Rex feel like the only thing in your world. One that's full of love.
When you break apart, Rex rests his forehead against yours, not ready to part from you.
"You're forgiven," he whispers, which makes you giggle. Suddenly, you feel his arms move down to hook under your thighs, and now you're up in the air. You cling to Rex as he starts moving.
"Rex, our breakfast," you laugh again.
"Mmm, don't care. I haven't had enough cuddles," he states matter-of-factly. Your giggles don't cease until he's placing you on the bed and crawling over you. He plops himself down on top of you, his weight stopping you from escaping.
"Rex," you try again, but really you don't care about breakfast anymore.
"I'll make us something later. Let me just enjoy having you in my arms," he says looking up at you. You could never resist his big brown eyes. You feel him place a kiss against your clothed sternum before resting his head against it. Your fingers automatically find his scalp to start giving him light scratches, and you hear him let out a hum of contentment before his weight is further relaxing onto you.
"I love you, Rex," you whisper through the peaceful silence.
I'm not sure just how far this road will go (Part 2)
Pairing: Fox x Padawan!Reader / Fox x fem!Reader
Summary: After weeks of distance and silence, the fleeting moment you shared with Fox seems destined to fade into memory. But your Commander in scarlet armor has other ideas.
Word count: 8.7k (when i said he possessed me...)
Tags/Warnings: NSFW 18+; the plot got in the porn again; fingering; semi?-public sex; pinv sex; unprotected sex (armor up your little trooper before deployment guys); armor kink if you squint; pov parkour because I like knowing what everyone is thinking; so much fucking angst; slightly even more awkward!Reader; soft!Fox; would anyone be interested in a part 3?
Read part 1 here | Part 3 | Taglist
ori'vod - older brother ; vod'ika - little sister
vod - brother ; vode - brothers
cyar'ika - sweetheart, darling
ner - my
mesh’la - beautiful
Jetti - Jedi
shebs - ass
As much as you couldn't wait to message him when you got his frequency, you surprisingly simply... didn't. You got back to your cabin, all giddy and excited, you opened his comm channel and... you froze. You stared at the small typing bar flickering on the screen for what felt like hours urging your brain to let you do anything.
Cody said he asked for your frequency first, that meant he wanted to talk you – logically you knew this. But your damn anxious brain wouldn't let you message him.
You deleted what had to be five attempts at nice, normal greetings, scoffing at the weird phrasing. Everything you wrote felt off, as if you suddenly forgot all the Basic you've been speaking for your entire life. The words looked wrong and you triple checked the spelling on almost all of them, worried that you'd gotten the simplest ones like 'mission', 'system' and even 'weeks' wrong. It was infuriating.
After half an hour of staring at your comm you gave up, threw it on your bed and jumped in the shower, vowing to finally send a simple 'hi' once you were done.
But that was six weeks ago.
You're sitting on a cot in the medbay now, watching the clone medics milling around. The battle was long and exhausting, but it's finally ended and you're en route to Coruscant. You're not injured – you're there for moral support for Waxer, who caught a stray blaster bolt right at the end of the siege. He'll be fine, nothing major – you're actually in there to keep yourself distracted if you're honest.
You still haven't commed him. You thought about it daily, but you kept putting it off. And now you're on your way back to Coruscant where you'll spend the next seven rotations while the men finally have some much-earned leave.
And you're terrified.
Has he thought of you at all these past weeks? Does he still want to see you? You'd know if you'd managed to kriffing comm him… But your anxiety and insecurities didn't allow it. And well, there was also the other issue… the small, impossible-to-ignore issue of, you know, the fact that you’re a Jedi. You’re not supposed to form attachments. Not supposed to get involved with a clone. Not supposed to be hiding in the medbay, unable to focus on anything around you because all you can think about is seeing Fox again.
Will you even run into him? You don't really see how your paths might intersect – you have no business in the Senate, he has no business in the Temple.
Maybe at the 79s? But he's rarely there. In all the times you’ve been there with Cody, Rex and the other troublemakers of the 501st, you've never seen him in.
No... you doubt you'll run into him unless you actually pick up the comm and send him a message.
But it's been so long. Six standard weeks of no contact. And after what? One single night of drunken mistakes? One amazing night that you can't get out of your head... But who are you kidding – the odds of him clinging to it the same way as you have are slim. There's no way he's still thinking about you.
Fox watches the stream of troopers pour out of the transports, his eyes scanning for any sign of Jedi robes among the orange-painted plastoid.
He’s not really supposed to be there. He happened to be on patrol in the area, noticed the transports coming down, and decided to wait for Cody since he'd not seen him in a while.
Well… that’s the story he'll give him and anyone else who asks what he’s doing at the main Base. But the truth is he'd arranged his schedule this way. He wanted to be in the area, knowing that the 212th was returning on-world.
He wanted to run into you.
Fox had tried a second time to get your frequency from Cody – a couple of days after his vod had refused to give it to him – and he learned that you've also asked for his. And Cody gave it to you.
So Fox waited.
And waited.
And waited…
The first rotation passed as it usually did, with Fox dealing with the banthashit thrown at him by various senators or the Chancellor. He’d not even had the time to check his comm until the evening, and when he finally did, he was disappointed to see there was no message from you. He hadn’t even realised how much he’d been expecting it…
The next rotations were spent checking his comm increasingly often. At first it was a couple of time throughout the day, but as the days turned into weeks and you still had not reached out to him, Fox began to check it constantly… obsessively.
After four weeks he caved and sent a comm to Cody.
CC–1010: Are you sure you gave her the correct frequency?
His brother’s response came excruciatingly slow – the 212th was in the middle of a siege after all.
CC–2224: I did. She hasn’t messaged?
CC–1010: Oh she has, we’ve been talking all day, every day, and I’ve commed you for no kriffin’ reason.
CC–2224: Don’t take it out on me, vod. She probably came to her senses. It sucks, I get it. But she’s Jetti. You’re a GAR officer. I suggest you follow her example and snap out of it.
CC-1010: Thanks, vod. Always such a pleasure speaking to you.
He hated this. Hated that he expected something from you. That a part of him – the part that should’ve known better – kept hoping you hadn’t forgotten what it meant, even if it had only been once. You’d been his moment of warmth in a never-ending sea of anxiety, pressure and political nonsense. You’d been the first real connection he’d felt with another person in way too long.
And he thought you’d felt it too.
Cody was right, however. Fox had to snap out of it. He had to get his head back in the game. He was the commanding officer of the Corries. He had a duty to the Chancellor, to the people of Coruscant, to his vode. He had to focus on that. He had to get you out of his mind.
And yet, every time the comm lit up, he checked it.
And every time, it wasn’t you.
To his credit, Fox really did try to let it go. He tried to focus on anything else – even on the conversations of senators he usually tuned out. But you wouldn’t leave him. You haunted his dreams, your face appeared clear as day in front of him every time he closed his eyes. It was pathetic, infuriating. And it was really getting to him.
His mood had soured more than usual, his patience even thinner than before – he actually made a couple shinnies cry at one point. The others noticed. Thorn, Thire, Stone, even Hound – they all tried to figure out what had happened, their worry for their vod growing.
But Fox was Fox. The more they tried to reach out to him, the more he pulled away. Especially from Thorn, who knew about that night. Knew about you. Knew what to imply with his questions.
His vod tried, but Fox refused to speak about it. Every time Thorn approached him, he would find something that needed his attention, some place he needed to be. He didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to name it. Because once he did, it became real – and real things could be lost.
You asked Cody for his frequency. You had the means to contact him. So why didn’t you? Why even ask for it if you weren’t going to use it? You must’ve wanted to send a message – Fox was sure of it. Was it a rejection? Was that why you hadn’t commed yet –were you going to reject him, tell him that it couldn’t happen again, but you didn’t know how? Were you going to tell him it had meant nothing to you, or worse, that you did regret it?
All these questions swarming in his mind – it was driving him crazy.
You were driving him crazy.
So when he learned that the 212th was returning to Coruscant, Fox decided he needed to see you.
So now he’s here, stiffly stood at parade rest in the hangar of the main Base, as if he’s preparing for a thorough inspection.
Ideally, he wants to talk to you – but he knows he shouldn’t. Because what he really wants is to ask if you’d thought about him, if that night had meant anything to you. He wants to ask why you haven’t commed.
He wants… he just wants to be in your warm presence again, hear the melody of your voice – even if only for a moment.
It’s embarrassing, really, how much of an effect you had on him.
Fox steps to the side to let the medics pass, eyes briefly scanning the injured troopers laid out on hover-stretchers. The first transports are always filled with the wounded – those being moved from field medbays to proper infirmaries, or even to the GMF if the damage is bad enough. He’s actually relieved you weren’t on any of them…
He counts the LAATs that have already landed. He’s read the casualty reports – he knows how many transports should be allocated for the injured.
Then come the officers.
If he estimated correctly, you should be on the next one.
He squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath, the exhale filtering loudly through the voice modulator of his helmet. The transport is approaching. His left hand balls into a fist before he flexes his fingers a couple of times, trying to shake the nerves.
He shouldn’t be this nervous – it makes no sense. He’s never nervous. Not when chasing dangerous criminals through the lower levels. Not when dealing with temperamental, vindictive senators who throw a fit if they don’t get their way. He’s always calm, collected, in control.
Hell, he wasn’t even this nervous that night. He was the one in control – you allowed him to be. Sure, he was also emboldened by the vapours of alcohol, but there’d also been something about you – an openness that encouraged him to let his guard down, to flirt and tease. To be himself. Not a clone. Not a commander. Just–
“Fox?”
The voice almost makes him flinch.
Fox turns, seeing blue-painted plastoid approaching from behind him. His eyes then lift from the tally marks scratched into the vambrace to the bleached buzzcut of his little brother.
“Rex,” he greets with a nod.
Rex’s face lights up. “Didn’t think you ever left the Senate,” he says, clearly pleased to see his ori’vod. “What brings you all the way out here?”
“Saw the transports coming in, figured I’d catch Cody,” Fox replies casually. “Haven’t seen him in a while.”
Rex pauses, giving Fox a quick once-over. “You alright?”
“Still breathing,” Fox says, then hurries to change the subject. “I didn’t know you were on-world.”
“Special assignment with Skywalker,” Rex answers. “Redeploying tomorrow. It’s why I’m here actually. Was gonna ask Cody to join me at the 79s tonight.”
The hiss of the repulsorlifts draw Fox’s attention and he glances over in time to see the doors of the LAAT swish open. He swears his heart stops for a moment.
But the first to jump off is Cody.
Fox can pinpoint the exact moment his vod spots him. Cody’s walking beside his general, gaze scanning lazily across the hangar – until he freezes mid-step. His helmet snaps toward where Fox and Rex stand. And he just stares.
This isn’t ideal…
Fox hoped he’d manage to get your attention while somehow avoiding him.
Cody, who will immediately see through his lie and know the true reason he’s there.
Cody, who thinks of you as a little sister and is fiercely protective of you.
Cody, who he’d never seen furious – properly furious – until that night outside his office.
Their last interaction had been that comm exchange two weeks ago. It didn’t exactly end on a friendly note.
“– so you’re coming, yeah?” Rex’s voice cuts in, clapping a hand to Fox’s shoulder.
“What?” Fox blinks, only now tuning back in.
“To the 79s,” Rex grins. “You’re coming with us.”
“Uhm… sure,” Fox mumbles, his gaze already moving back to the 212th’s Commander.
Cody is marching towards them, his helmet now off, eyeing Fox with a mixture of confusion and suspicion. Fox straightens instinctively, his posture going rigid.
The uproar of the chaotic hangar fills the gunship as soon as the doors open, momentarily drowning out the noise of your anxious mind. You’re among the last to disembark the transport, hovering around Waxer despite his protests that you have no reason to fuss over him. But you need something – anything – to keep your mind busy. To keep your mind from thinking of–
Him.
Hard plastoid hits your chest as you walk straight into Boil’s back, knocking the wind out of you for a second.
“Sorry,” you mutter under your breath. You bring your hand up to the left side of your sternum and rub what will undoubtedly become a new bruise – as if you didn’t already have enough after the siege.
“You alright, vod’ika?” Boil asks.
But you don’t even register his question. Your eyes lock on a figure you didn’t expect to see here.
Commander Fox – talking to Rex and Cody.
His scarlet armor is glistening in the iridescent light of the hangar and he is standing tall, hands clasped behind his back and shoulders squared. He looks just as imposing and maddeningly confident as you remember. As if nothing happened…
“I wonder what he’s doing here.” Waxer unknowingly voices the question buzzing in your mind.
Well… one of the questions anyway.
“Eh, can’t be anything bad” Boil comments. “No other Corries in sight.”
Their conversation doesn’t quite reach you – it’s like you’re listening to it from underwater. Plus, the sound of your heart thudding loudly in your ears seems to muffle all noise of the busy hangar.
You don’t know what to do.
Should you go over there and say hello? Risk embarrassing yourself – blurting out something idiotic, or worse, admitting you’ve been thinking about him nonstop for six weeks?
Or should you bolt?
He hasn’t seen you yet. You could make a run for it and catch up to Obi-Wan who’s heading toward the shuttle that'll take him back to the Temple. But he’s just given you permission to stay behind after you said you wished to remain with the men a little longer. If you suddenly change your mind he might figure out that something’s wrong.
No… the risk is too high – you don’t trust yourself to properly mask your emotions right now.
Maybe if you stick close to Waxer and Boil until you’re and out of the hanger… then head straight for the infirmary. There’s bound to be more than enough for you to do there. Help the medics. Focus on the walking wounded. Take the minor cases and lose yourself in the work.
Long enough for a certain Commander to return to the Senate where he belongs.
But you don’t get to make a decision.
You glance back toward the three men–
And your stomach lurches.
A shiver jolts through your body. He’s seen you. Fox is looking straight at you.
You’re sure of it. Even through the dark visor of his helmet, you can feel it. Your eyes meet – you know they do.
For a few moments you don’t move. You can’t – it’s as if you're frozen in carbonite.
Then, after what feels like an unreasonably long time of just staring, your brain kicks back into gear and you realise how ridiculous you must look. And how ridiculous this whole situation is. You are a Jedi – a damn good one too – and here you are, freezing like an Alderaanian deer in the headlights at the sight of a man you slept with once. Get it together. You’re supposed to be better than this.
Unfortunately for you, the others can see that something is wrong.
"Are you okay?" Waxer asks. "You look a little out of it."
"Uhh... fine," you manage to croak. You swallow hard, then start walking without another word.
Every step you take feels heavy, like wading through water. Your hesitance is impossible to hide. He's not making it easy either. The only sign of tension is the slight stiffening in his shoulders – barely noticeable, but you catch it. Though you don’t know what it means. He still stands tall, still looks unbothered. Calm. Collected. It makes your stomach twist.
Because a small part of you – a tiny, treacherous part – hopes that maybe, somehow, he’s here for you.
And that scares you. You’re worried that if you let that seed of hope take root in your heart, it’ll just be crushed. You can feel the heartache before it even takes place. Maker, you wish you’d bolted when you had the chance.
Captain Rex notices you approach, and warmly says your name.
“Captain,” you reply with a slight curl of your lips.
It’s a rehearsed smile – the kind that doesn’t quite reach your eyes – but it’s the best you can manage right now. Too bad Cody knows you so well – you really wish he didn’t look at you with such blatant concern written all over his face.
“How’d the siege go after we left?” Rex asks, glancing between you and Cody.
“Believe it or not, we can actually handle a few of droids without the 501st,” you sigh, rolling your eyes with theatrical flair. “Careful, Rex – it sounds like you’re letting Anakin’s overconfidence get to your head.”
“Never,” the Captain chuckles.
Next to him, Fox shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The slight movement catches your attention, and without your permission, your eyes glance his way again.
“Do you know Commander Fox?” Rex asks. “He’s–”
“We’ve met,” Fox cuts in.
His voice hits you like a physical blow. It’s not cold. It’s not bitter. Just… impersonal, completely devoid of any emotion. No wonder some troopers joke that the Corrie Guard Commander is secretly a droid – he might as well be, speaking and standing so damn rigidly.
Actually…
You look at him – really look at him. He’s too rigid. His voice is too emotionless. Not at all how you remember him from that night. He’s… different. Apprehensive. Maybe even anxious?
That little seed of hope stirs again in your heart.
“Yes,” you confirm. “We met at the fundraising gala.”
Your voice is lighter now, and the small smile you offer is more genuine. Maybe you’re reading too much into it – analysing the smallest movements – but it seems to have an immediate effect on him. Some of the tension leaves his shoulders and there’s a slight tilt of his helmet your way. Like he’s waiting. Like he’s hoping you’ll say more. Acknowledge that night in some way. You need to think of something quickly.
“The Commander actually saved my shebs,” you blurt out. Heat rushes to your cheeks as both Cody and Rex turn their heads to look at you. Maker, why did you open your mouth? “The Senator of my home planet he… uhh – there were these-these journalists taking photos – and, uhm, anyway I could’ve been in trouble.” You wince. “Still think that was abuse of power though,” the conclusion is accompanied by an awkward laugh.
Your eyes drop to the floor and you bite your lip, cursing your heart for racing and your mouth for spewing out incoherent nonsense. And yet, it worked.
“Brenko lost the election,” Fox says, voice steadier. “The new Senator actually seems decent.”
You glance back into the black of his visor, hoping that your eyes meet – it feels that way anyway. That sounded… more like him.
“Good. I couldn’t stand that fucker,” you chuckle.
A quiet, amused huff crackles out through his voice modulator. He laughed – sort of.
And just like that, that seed of hope is a flower in bloom.
“You were planning his murder if I remember correctly,” Fox says, the edge in his voice softening into something almost cordial – maybe even a little teasing. “Bold of you to admit that to the commander of the Guard.”
Definitely teasing.
“I said I was considering it, not actively planning,” you shoot back, slipping easily into the banter. “Don’t twist my words, Commander. That won’t stand in court.”
Another small huff escapes his lips and you can’t help the bright smile that lights up your face. Fox seems more at ease now – the tension in his shoulders has melted away and he finally releases his hands from behind his back.
“I could probably fabricate some evidence,” Fox continues, crossing his arms over his chest. “We’ve already established I’m not above abuse of power.”
“I knew the Coruscant Guard was corrupted,” you exclaim dramatically.
Next to him, Rex frowns slightly, shooting Fox a quick, confused look. He’s not actually… flirting, is he? The confusion deepens when he glances at Cody – who is glaring at Fox. His jaw is clenched, and the helmet is gripped so tightly, his knuckles must be white under the glove. So Rex isn’t imagining it. Cody sees it too – and he’s clearly not thrilled.
Rex takes half a step back – he’d rather not be standing between the two commanders right now. But the movement startles both you and Fox, breaking the spell. You glance around the hangar, then at Rex, whose eyes flick between his brothers, suspicion written plainly across his face.
You feel it now – the ripple in the Force coming from Cody. Not as furious as that night outside Fox’s office, but still… very much not happy. You swallow hard and risk a glance. Just as you expected, an annoyed grimace darkens his face.
Fox sees it too, and his posture instantly goes back to rigid.
The uncomfortable silence that settles over the four of you is deafening, and as much as you’d like to talk to him for longer, you need to escape the tense atmosphere. You cannot deal with Cody right now, and you can basically see the wheels turning inside Rex’s head – he’ll figure it out if you don’t dissipate the tension soon.
“I uhh…” you start quietly, pausing to clear your throat. “I should head back to the Temple.”
Fox’s helmet dips toward you, then shifts ever so slightly to Cody. His left fist clenches and unclenches by his side a couple of times as he quickly runs a few scenarios through his mind. It can’t end well – he knows it – but he still wants to do it. He wants to be close to you just a little longer.
“I can give you a ride,” Fox offers. “I’ll drop you off before I head back to the Senate.”
Cody inches closer to you, in an unspoken plea for you to decline. But nothing he could do or say right now could stop you. Not when your heart is racing with anticipation and butterflies are fluttering in your stomach. All at the prospect of spending more time with him. Alone.
“Thank you, Commander. That’s… really kind of you,” you reply with a small smile.
Fox stands a bit taller. A warm flicker of pride swells in his chest every time you smile because of him. His eyes linger on you just a moment longer before he turns his head toward his brothers.
“Rex. Cody,” he nods at them before he starts walking.
“Bye guys,” you say as you move to follow. But your steps falter as you make eye contact with your ori’vod. “See you later, Cody?” you add timidly.
Cody exhales hard, shaking his head with a loud, disappointed sigh. “See you later, vod’ika.”
You mouth a silent “sorry” before jogging to catch up with Fox.
Rex’s watches the two of you disappear out of the hangar. “What… was that?”
“Don’t ask,” Cody replies flatly.
The BARC speeder wasn’t designed for two people, so you feel a little cramped sat behind Fox. At first, you try to give him space, gripping the seat's edges instead of him as the two of you leave the military compound, but Fox is having none of that. He lifts the bike up and accelerates sharply, then veers into a higher traffic lane, swerving around a transport like he’s in a podrace. A tiny squeal involuntarily leaves your lips, but you still don’t do what he wants.
“You’ll fall. Hold on to me,” Fox orders over his shoulder.
You don’t immediately comply, so Fox switches traffic lanes even more abruptly. This time, your arms fly around his waist, anchoring you tightly to him so you won’t slip. You hear him make a satisfied grunt and the bike significantly slows.
“Were you flying like a lunatic on purpose just to get me to do that?” you exclaim.
“You were being stubborn,” he deadpans.
“You… you are such an asshole,” you mumble.
A low chuckle comes through the voice modulator. “We’ve already established that, cyar’ika.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks at the Mando’a pet name – you’d forgotten how much you liked it when he called you that. Thank the Maker he can’t see your face; it’s probably the same shade as the paint on his armor.
You tighten your grip around his torso and lean forward, pressing yourself against his back and resting your chin lightly on his shoulder. You look around; Coruscant doesn’t look so bad from up here.
The durasteel buildings gleam under the harsh midday light and the colourful speeders flying around in all directions paint a chaotic picture of life. You close your eyes, enjoying the feel of the cool wind on your heated face. Then you breathe in. Underneath the smell of fuel that is ever-present in the busy traffic of the city, you can make out the clean, familiar scent of GAR-issued soap… with just a hint of bitter caf. His scent.
Fox hears your content sigh and turns his head slightly – but the sunvisor of his helmet makes it impossible to catch even a glimpse of your face. However, he can see ahead, and in the distance, the Jedi Temple already looms, tall and imposing. The end of the line. Another goodbye with no promise of tomorrow. No resolve, no clarity… no reassurances.
You see the Temple too. He can tell by the way you straighten, then let out a deep, defeated breath. You nuzzle into the crook of his neck, like you're trying to get as physically close to him as possible. The hard plastoid must be digging into your skin, but you don’t seem to care. You just want to savour the fleeting moment for as long as you can.
He should be content. This already was more than he’d expected. He didn’t think he’d even get to talk to you, let alone have you so closely pressed against him. This is more than he could’ve hoped for.
But it’s not enough.
A few soft words policed by his brothers’ presence are not enough.
Your arms around him for half the duration of an already short speeder ride are simply not enough.
Fox needs more. He wants more.
And Maker help him – he hopes he’s right to think that you do too.
He veers sharply.
The sudden change of course startles you, and you look up as the speeder bike starts to descend. The Temple fades from view, swallowed by the skyline as the tall buildings rise around you. You’re getting closer and closer to the surface. You can’t pretend you’re not relieved.
“Are you kidnapping me, Commander?” you ask sweetly.
“Yes.”
You chuckle at his curt response, soft and amused, then rest your chin back on his shoulder. You have no idea where he’s taking you and, truthfully, you don’t really care.
Fox steers the speeder deeper into the planet. Sunlight fades, giving way to neon lights and flickering holograms as you enter the lower reaches of the Uscru District. But Fox doesn’t stop. You ride past glowing shopfronts and loud clubs, catching fragments of cheers and bursts of laughter. The nightlife of Coruscant is always awake this deep within the planet.
But he keeps diving lower. The light dims, the streets thin out, and the architecture grows more industrial. You’re somewhere in the mid-levels now – right on the border of what most would consider the lower levels. It’s not a place you’ve ever been before. The streets are rougher, more dilapidated – the kind you wouldn’t walk alone, even as a Jedi. But you’re not scared. You feel completely safe.
Because you’re with him.
The speeder glides to a stop on a narrow street in front of what looks like a warehouse. Fox dismounts and offers his hand to help you up. You accept, timidly curling your fingers around his. There’s no fireworks at the touch – just warmth and grounding steadiness. The kind that melt your insecurities away and encourages you to be at ease in his presence.
He doesn't let go once your feet are on the ground. Instead, he keeps your hand in his, tracing the back of your palm with his thumb. You take a breath in and step closer, looking up into the dark visor of his helmet. You wish he would take it off already.
Fox gently squeezes your hand, then let's go, his gloved fingers settling on the small of your back, applying tender pressure.
“This way.”
“You know, regular people go to a caf shop on their first date, not to dodgy industrial areas in the lower-levels,” you say half-teasingly.
Fox freezes for a second – is this a date?
He clears his throat. “We’re in the mid-levels. And uh… I’m not a regular person.”
You glance down at the floor and bite the inside of your cheek to temper your grin. He didn’t argue with the ‘first date’ part.
Fox guides you to the entrance of the warehouse, pulling his hand away from your back in order to pry open the control panel and start messing with the wires.
You chuckle at the sight. “Are we allowed to be here?”
“Abuse of power, remember?” he shoots back. You let out a soft laugh that makes his chest tingle.
The door half-opens with a mechanical hiss, just wide enough for a person to slide past. You glance at it, then at Fox, who gestures for you to step inside.
The lights begin to turn on one by one once you’re past the threshold and activate the motion sensor. You take a couple steps in–
Then you stop, eyes wide.
The room is large; you count at least two dozen support pillars lined in two parallel rows. But the size is not what captures your attention.
There’s grass on the ground. Actual grass – wild and unkept. The ceiling panels show images of blue skies and clouds – scattered with dark patches of faulty screens that keep glitching. There are large planters with purple-leaf bushes and even a couple of trees – you recognise the species as one native to Chandrila, although they’ve definitely seen better days. In the centre there’s a shallow dip in the floor – you can only assume it’s meant to hold a pond.
You’re speechless. You did not expect to encounter a corner of nature this deep in the heart of Coruscant.
“It was supposed to be a community garden,” Fox answers your unspoken question, coming to stand by your side. “There was an issue; something about permits, funding – whatever. Got tied up in red tape, so it’s been sitting like this ever since.”
“It’s beautiful,” you breathe.
“I thought you’d like it,” Fox quietly mutters.
The small comment wasn’t meant to reach your ears – but it does. You look up at him and find his helmet tilted your way. He’s clearly startled that you caught him. Fox clears his throat and abruptly looks away, then with a couple hurried strides he’s by the side of one of the duracrete pillars.
“There used to be bird songs too,” he says, pointing to the speakers mounted at the top of each pillar. “The sound system broke a while ago.”
“So you’ve been coming here for a while then?” you ask, slowly walking until you’re leaning against the pillar, facing him.
“Yeah,” Fox admits with a long sigh. “It’s a good place to clear your head.”
“And you come here a lot? As in…” you continue sweetly, “if I wanted to accidently run into you, would this be a good place you try?”
Fox turns to face you better, crossing his arms over his chest. “If you want to run into me cyar’ika, you could just use that frequency you asked Cody for and comm me.”
You straighten from the pillar, feeling your stomach drop and chest fill with embarrassed panic. “Y-You know about that?”
“I do.”
The garden suddenly feels too hot. You stare into the dark visor and swallow hard, even though your throat feels as dry as Tatooine.
“Oh…”
Your gaze drops, idly fixating on your boots. Silence settles around you, broken only by the low hum of the overhead lights and Fox’s breathing, filtered out through the voice modulator. But then – a hiss cuts through the air. You lift your eyes and watch as Fox finally pulls his helmet off.
He looks just as gorgeous as you remember – and just as tired. The bags under his eyes are still there – an ever-present part of him – but now there’s also a thin layer of stubble all across his jaw. His silver-streaked hair seems a bit longer as well. His duties must’ve kept him busier lately.
And, Maker, those whiskey-coloured eyes… your knees feel weak just at their sight. You could easily get lost in their amber hue. But the way he’s looking at you? It takes your breath away. There’s a longing in his gaze, a quiet hunger. And underneath all that, a softness you hope he holds just for you.
The corners of his lips lift into a small smirk and Fox cocks his head to the side. “You’re staring.”
“Maybe I missed your face,” you say in a kittenish voice.
“You've been surrounded by my face,” he snorts.
“No” – you shake your head – “not by yours.”
Fox studies your expression, his eyes lingering on your lips for a brief moment. Then he inches closer, voice dropping low as he utters the question that’s been tormenting him for weeks. “Then why didn’t you comm?”
The question is not accusatory. It’s not angry or disdainful. It’s raw, vulnerable – more vulnerable than Fox ever allows himself to be with anyone else. There’s a gentleness in his voice that stirs something in your chest.
“I…” you start, words eluding you at first, “I was worried you didn’t really want me to.”
Fox reaches his left hand and tenderly cradles your cheek. “I did, mesh’la.”
And then his lips are on yours.
It takes a second for your brain to catch up with what’s going on, and by then, your hands are already grasping his chestplate, fingers hooked at the base of his neck. Fox moves his lips against yours in a slow, deliberate pace, taking the time to reacquaint himself with your sweet taste. Your eyes flutter closed, melting at the way his thumb delicately strokes your cheek.
You shift a hand, lazily sliding it around his neck, until your fingers tangle in the hair at the base of his skull. It’s soft – softer than you remembered – and just long enough now to start curling at the tips. Maker, you’ve missed him; and from the way he’s kissing you, it seems like he’s missed you too.
When you tentatively slip your tongue past the seam of his lips, something in Fox snaps.
There’s a faint thud as his helmet slips from his grasp, landing in the grass by his feet – but he pays it no mind. His right hand comes to tightly grip your hip, pulling you flush against him, as his body presses you firmly into the pillar. The hand that was cradling your cheek slams against the duracrete just above your head, caging you in.
The kiss deepens, turns hungrier. His tongue enters your mouth, sliding around yours in a desperate dance of needy intimacy. It’s so soft, and there's that taste of caf again, dark and earthy. Him. Oh how you missed the taste of him.
You match the frantic movements, your heart racing in your chest. It feels so good that you can’t stop the whimper that sounds from the back of your throat.
Fox breaks the kiss and pulls back, taking a moment to admire your heated cheeks and slightly swollen lips. A self-satisfied smile tugs at the corners of mouth.
“Am I moving too fast?” The question is half-genuine, half-laced with teasing.
“N-No,” you answer. You’re breathless, panting for air, but Maker, you do not want to stop.
“Good.” Fox leans back in. “Normally I’d be more patient,” – he moves his lips along your jaw, then start trailing down your neck – “but you made me wait, cyar’ika,” he murmurs into your skin. “I don’t like waiting.”
You gasp when you feel his teeth sink into the base of your neck. Fox chuckles, a low and dangerous sound that travels straight to your core, causing tingles of anticipation to shoot through your body.
Then his hands move, quickly travelling to your chest and sliding your overtunic aside as much as possible. His mouth returns to yours as his left hand cups your breast through the fabric of the undertunic. But his right hand trails lower and lower.
“We're technically in public,” you break the kiss to whisper against his lips, as if anyone could hear you in this desolate garden.
“We are.” His hand doesn’t stop, and it finally reaches the waistband of your trousers, fingers toying with the button. “If you want me to stop just say so.”
Your ragged breathing is the only sound you hear as you meet his gaze. His pupils are blown with lust and desire – and you know yours must be too. You want everything he has to give, and you want to give him everything you have in return.
“I... I don't. Don't stop, Fox. Never stop,” you pretty much whine.
“That's what I thought,” he leans in to rasp in your ear.
Fox unbuttons your trousers and slips his hand between your thighs. His fingers graze over the fabric of your underwear, moving back and forth in a slow, maddening pace. Your breath catches lightly every time they slide over your clit and without thinking, you start grinding into his hand, trying to build up that delicious pressure. His eyes are studying every shift in your facial expression, every crease of your brows and parting of your lips. But just as you think he’s about to slip his fingers underneath the thin fabric – he abruptly pulls his hand away.
“No! Why–” you start, your eyes snapping to meet his.
But you don’t finish your complaint.
Fox lifts his hand to his mouth, gaze locked on yours, and pulls off his glove with his teeth. The motion is fluid, controlled – intimate in a way that punches the air from your lungs. You swear your brain short-circuits. That was the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.
You gasp when he swiftly returns it to your core, this time slipping it underneath all layers of fabric. His fingers glide through your folds, gathering your arousal before gently circling your clit. He repeats the motion, slowly dragging his fingers from your apex all the way to the edge of your entrance and back, but every time he reaches your sweet spot, his touch turns so featherlike, you can barely feel it.
Fox crashes his lips back into yours to keep you from objecting to his teasing. The kiss is deep and hungry, but you can feel the way he’s smirking against your lips. He’s very much enjoying the small vexed whimpers you’re making and the way you try to grind down on his hand. His codpiece feels uncomfortably tight, but he is determined to see you fall apart on his fingers before he does anything else.
“Fox…” you whine, breaking the kiss. “Please.”
“Please what, mesh’la?” he asks.
“Please stop teasing.”
“You want me to stop teasing?” he repeats between the kisses he’s planting along your jaw.
You respond with a nod, unable to form any words as you feel his fingers glide closer to your entrance. He pulls back to look at you, eyes darkening.
“I’ll stop teasing.”
And with that he pushes two fingers inside.
Your sharp gasp turns into a moan as Fox sets a rapid pace. His fingers pump in and out, curling just right along your walls. You can’t help the way your nails dig into the back of his neck, while your other hand is still holding on for dear life to the rim of his cuirass. His lips frantically return to yours, kissing you with a speed that matches the motion of his fingers. Then he trails his mouth lower, licking and nipping at the column of your neck. Your head falls back against the duracrete of the pillar, eyes fluttering closed.
“Don’t stop,” you beg.
The pressure is building, Fox can feel your muscles tense, clenching his fingers tightly. He keeps up the speed and brings his thumb to brush against your clit. Your eyes snap open, meeting his burning gaze. The determined look alone is almost enough to make you come. He’s not just trying to pleasure you. He wants to ruin you in the best possible way. To remind you exactly how good he can make you feel.
With just a few more thrusts of his fingers, Fox gets his wish. You squeeze your eyes shut as the pressure releases, and cry out his name. Pleasure spreads like electricity all over your body, surging through your veins in warm, rapid pulses. Fox doesn’t slow the relentless drag of his fingers until he feels your walls relax.
You’re panting heavily and your knees feel weak, like they might melt away at any second. But before you can even catch your breath, the world spins – and you find your front pressed against the cold duracrete pillar. Fox is right behind you, his body molding to yours, the hard edges of his plastoid armor biting into your back. Not that you mind – the pain quickly reignites the desire in your core.
His hands roam your sides, greedy and unrelenting, before one of them slides up to grope your breast. His mouth returns to your neck, the kisses now desperate. You can feel how worked up he is by the intensity of his movements. A hiss escapes your lips as he gets carried away and sucks on your neck a little too hard.
“Sorry,” he whispers, soothing the sting with the slow drag of his tongue.
“I don’t mind,” you breathe. “But I wouldn’t make them too visible if I were you. You’re the one in trouble if Cody sees them.”
Fox grunts. “Let’s not bring him up right now.”
Your giggle is cut short by Fox suddenly yanking your trousers and underwear down in one fluid motion, exposing your bare ass to the chilly air. There’s another small thud as something hits the ground, but before you can identify the sound, his hard length presses against your inner thigh. You arch back, encouraging him to slide through your folds and coat himself with your arousal.
“Kriff,” he mutters under his breath, hands tightly gripping your hips.
The tip of his cock catches at your entrance and your entire body tingles with anticipation. Then, without waiting any longer, he sinks in, accompanied by an incoherent Mando’a curse falling from his lips. You press your forehead to the cool duracrete as you adjust to the sting of the stretch, taking a couple of breaths. Fox pauses, buried to the hilt inside of you.
“Are you ready for me to move?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you nod. “Just start slow please.”
Fox leans in and plants a gentle kiss on your cheekbone. “Alright, mesh’la.”
He begins to move, rolling his hips slowly and listening to every small whimper that leaves your lips. The painful sting soon gives way to pleasure and you start pushing back to meet his thrusts, letting him know he can move faster. Fox groans and buries his face in your hair, inhaling deeply. He can’t tell whether it’s perfume or shampoo, but whatever it is, it’s intoxicating – and his new favourite scent. His grip on your hips turns vice-like.
You reach your arm back, curling it around his neck, and you tilt your head against his shoulder in a silent invitation. Fox immediately complies, crashing his lips to yours in a messy, uncoordinated kiss. His hips pick up speed, and his armored chest slams against your back with every unforgiving thrust, knocking the air out of your lungs. You almost laugh – he’s quite literally taking your breath away. You squirm, trying to make room for your ribs to expand, and he notices. Shifting slightly off you, he braces one forearm against the pillar and leans to the side. The new angle is exquisite for the both of you.
“You feel so good,” Fox mumbles in your ear. “So… so tight. So good.”
You moan his name as a response, your vision starting to blur around the edges. The tip of his cock is hitting that spot inside of you perfectly and you can already feel your second orgasm approaching. He is not too far behind. More incoherent mumbles fall from his lips as Fox gets lost in chasing his pleasure. At one point you think he says “ner mesh’la Jetti,” and your heart skips a beat.
You probably misheard. But the thought alone? The thought of being his? It’s enough to push you over the edge.
Your fingers tangle into his hair, pulling firmly at the strands, and you arch back into him. He groans, but you can barely hear it over the loud moans that leave your lips as the climax ripples through you. Fox keeps the rhythm steady as you ride out your high, not changing a thing until he feels you melt into his grasp. Then his hips pick up speed, the thrusts turning harsh, unforgiving, frantic, as his low grunts fill the air around you. He slams into you a couple more times before going rigid, his cock the only thing still twitching inside your walls, filling you with his warm release.
His head falls on your shoulder and his ragged breath feels hot on your skin. The hand on your hip wraps around you, holding you tightly against him. You bring your own to his, interlacing your fingers together as you simply stay there and breathe. The moment stretches on in comfortable silence and you savour every second of it. His armor is still digging into your skin – there will definitely be some bruises tomorrow – but you can’t bring yourself to break the spell. Not when his other arm wraps around your chest. Not when he’s holding onto you like you’re a rare sunny day, shining after weeks of cold, unrelenting rain. Not when you can feel how much he needs the closeness – how much he needs you.
But your body betrays you – the chilly air of the abandoned garden makes you shiver. Fox notices immediately and slowly slides out of you, tucks himself back in with two quick motions, then helps pull your trousers up.
“Thanks,” you say as you turn to face him.
The sight that greets you is one you want to carve into your brain. There’s a soft smile frozen on his lips and his eyes are bright, pupils still a little blown. A thin layer of sweat glistens on his forehead and the hair you ruffled during the act looks wild and messy. But the most striking thing is that he looks so young, so relaxed. It won’t last long – you both know it – but just for a moment the two of you and this garden are the only real thigs in the galaxy.
You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of seeing him like this.
Without thinking, you reach your hand to smooth down his hair. Fox closes his eyes, a small hum slipping from him on the next exhale. It’s such a small, natural gesture, yet it fills his chest with a warmth he’s almost afraid to name. He opens his eyes and finds you watching him, your gaze soft in a way that stirs something deep inside. But there’s something else behind your eyes – something he can’t decipher.
“You okay?” he asks gently.
“Better than okay,” you chuckle. “That was amazing. Ten out of ten.”
“Maker,” Fox groans. “That joke was terrible then, and it’s still terrible now.”
“Too bad,” you grin, a little smug. “I’ll make it after every time.”
His brain short-circuits for a second. Every time. That implies a next time. A next time he’ll get to have you in his arms, to hear you moan his name. ‘Every time’ implies a future he’s never allowed himself to dream of. But now? Now that it’s standing in front of him, wearing your smile, he wants it more than anything.
He recovers fast, and arches a brow as he steps closer.
“Every time? So we’re doing this again?” he teases.
Heat rushes to your cheeks. “W-Well, I do-I’d like to” you stammer. “If you want to of course, I can’t demand-I-I’m not assuming you want to because it-it is against the rules and–”
Fox silences you with a kiss. Searing, but slow. Passionate, but careful. His tongue moves around yours in measured, deliberate motions, fully demanding your attention. It tastes dangerously close to a promise.
When he pulls away, you feel weightless, and can’t stop the bright smile that spreads across your face.
He plants another small kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Come on. I need to actually deliver you to the Temple before they send out a search party.”
You roll your eyes, trying not to show your disappointment. You knew you couldn’t stay here forever – but that doesn’t mean leaving won’t sting.
Fox reattaches the codpiece and picks his helmet up, then frowns as he looks around.
“Where the hell is that glove?” he mutters.
You both look around the pillar, but it’s like it vanished into thin air. After a few minutes of sifting through the tall grass, Fox gives up with a resigned sigh – he’ll just get a new one – and the two of you leave the garden behind.
The ride back flies by in comfortable silence. You hold onto him tightly, smiling the entire time. He doesn’t go to the hangar; instead, Fox pull up on a street close to the Temple entrance, but just out of sight from any Jedi that might walk past.
“Thank you, Commander,” you purr, sliding off the speeder. “It was so kind of you to give me a ride.”
You can’t see his face under the helmet but you can just about imagine his unamused expression – and the slight shake of his head confirms it.
But before you can leave, he catches your wrist.
“Don’t make me kidnap you again,” he says, his voice a low growl.
“You say that like it wasn’t the best kidnapping I’ve ever had,” you laugh.
“I mean it, mesh’la,” Fox continues. “Actually comm me this time. I… I want to see you again.”
There’s a slight anxious edge to his voice, one that immediately sends butterflies to your stomach. He wants to see you again. Whatever this is blooming between the two of you, he feels it too, you’re certain now. You gaze into his visor, briefly wondering if he can feel the racing pulse in your wrist.
“I will. I promise.”
His hand lingers a little longer, thumb gently stroking your skin.
“Good.” He lets go.
Then he’s off, revving the engine of the speeder twice before disappearing into the Coruscant traffic.
You walk away, still feeling the warmth of his fingers on your skin. You’re already planning the comm you’ll send tomorrow.
A/n: if anyone is wondering what happened to the glove, a rat took it. Give me a shout and i'll write the rat's pov too
Taglist: @selene131 ; @lilooos-stuff (hope you don't mind the random tag, but it was your comment from a few weeks ago that motivated me to actually start writing, so thnx)
Okay I know we all agree that the clones should be darker in the animated series BUT what about tan lines? They get so much sun when they’re out on missions and maker knows they aren’t taking the time to tan everything. Well, most of them aren’t. Fives and a few others might. Actually, I can picture most of torrent (torment) company pulling out the tanning uh shields? Whatever they’re called. Just to annoy Rex. Ahsoka would so be in on it. Actually, Anakin would too. Rex, Obi-Wan, and Cody are just standing there watching like disapproving parents fighting back smiles.
But give us clones with armor tans (instead of farmer tans lmao). I think it would be so funny if their heads were darker than the rest of the body. And it’s super noticeable when they’ve been on a planet that gets an obscene amount of sunlight. Like they go to spar and workout and off goes the shirt and BAM the rest of them is several shades lighter.
Clone trooper of your choice + inapprotiate use of the force
This is written in a rambling manner, because I've been worn out these past couple of days. I wanted to make it possible to imagine your clone of choice, cuz I love them all.
My writing program has decided to be an ass, so I can’t use autocorrect at the moment. I’m hoping it gets fixed or whatever. Expect errors.
Kinktober 2025 masterlist
Okay, so. Imagine being a jedi, or a force user, or whatever. You can access the force, and you work alongside your beloved Clone. It can be as their superior, if you like that, or more as their equal, or as equal as a jedi can be to a clone in the eyes of the republic.
Maybe you are one of those forceusers, who can sense people’s emotions and feelings much more than average, which is how you figure out your clone has feelings for you.
It wouldn’t be too out of this world to imagine it starts with fantasies, of your clone letting his thoughts wander when he thinks he’s alone, or that nobody will notice.
Most jedi aren’t incredibly open about their skills, so it would make sense if you weren’t either. At least, not describing all of it in detail. They might know that you can feel strong emotions, but your clone thinks his fantasies won’t be noticed.
And normally they wouldn’t, had you not already been attracted to him and checking on him on a regular basis. You know as much as the next guy that jedi aren’t meant to have attachment, but you can’t help it.
Only all your training keeps you from blushing when you see his thoughts. As your clone imagines bending you over your desk and flipping your robes up, leaving fingerprints on your hips and hickeys all the way up your spine as he splits you open.
It's even worse if you guys are having an active conversation as his thoughts drift, eyes focusing on the way your lips move, and how he imagines it wrapped around him. Or the times where he’s feeling softer, and just wants to kiss and love.
If I remember correctly, some force users can enter dreams or manipulate them to a certain degree. So, imagine you do just that after you start dating. You guys can’t be openly affectionate in public, so it has to happen in dreams.
Imagine your clone being so exhausted from active duty with little rest, and he falls asleep in his bunk, mourning the fact that he couldn’t see you this entire time.
Only to be met with you when he opens his eyes in his dream. It’s much clearer than any normal dream, helped by the force to be more solid and real.
Being in a dream means pretty much anything is possible, which you two get to use to the fullest. There are no rest periods in dreams either, so you two can keep going for what feels like hours.
When your clone wakes up though, he gets laughed at by some of the other troopers, as he would mumble and groan your name throughout the night. Everyone assumes he just has a crush, because who doesn’t.
You snicker when you learn about it, teasingly asking your clone if he’s been struggling to sleep lately. He knows exactly what you are doing, and gets back at you the next chance he gets.
Having the force is also useful, since you guys can’t be physically affectionate out in the open and all that.
You guys don’t even need to be together for you to pleasure him. When your clone is alone, he might feel a ghostly version of your lips kiss his cheek, your hands on his shoulders, your arms wrapped around him.
Or your ghostly mouth kissing down his chest and stomach, or your tight hole squeeze around him until he’s spilling inside his undersuit. It leaves him uncomfortable for the rest of the day, as he won’t have time to go off and change without being suspicious to the others, who already enjoy ribbing him too much.
Obviously, you know he’s gonna get back at you for that, but that is part of the fun. Especially using the force to just barely give him glimpses of you before slipping away, so your clone has to actively chase you down from time to time.
CONTENT: Anakin Skywalker introduces another Jedi Master to work alongside the 501st. He didn't mention they were beautiful, and now the legion has to suffer respectively.
RATING: SFW
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REX – CT-7567
The first time Rex saw you, he admitted he didn't spare you any second glance as he stood by while General Skywalker addressed you. Too focused on the path ahead, too bound to duty to be distracted. But then, the general introduced you to the legion formally. Starting with your rank, Jedi Master, followed by your name.
When you finally stepped forward, revealing yourself from behind his general, Rex felt his skin jump beneath his armor.
You were. . . not what he was expecting.
From your robes, you looked like a Jedi. You stood like a Jedi. You even had that same mischievous glint in your eyes masked by the perfectly serene calmness. Rex knew all about it all too well. But then, something about you seemed unfamiliar—unpredictable in a way that has his mind blanking and racing at the same time.
Thankfully, he has donned his helmet. Or else you would've seen the surprise openly displayed on his face and the traitorous way his gaze swept over your figure. To assess you, he told himself. Nothing more. Nothing less. Just pure professional curiosity, a captain regarding another general, not a man admiring another individual deserving of such manners.
Rex forced himself to salute, to which you smiled at, and he swore his heart might've stopped.
No, soldiers do not do that.
Especially around the Jedi.
It's unlawful. It's against their protocols.
But then your smile stretched, and you uttered his name so clearly that everything else became so muffled.
“It's nice to meet you, Captain Rex. I look forward to fighting alongside you and your men.”
Yup, it was final. He's going straight to Kix to report his condition, or straight to the Republic to get himself court-martialed.
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ECHO – CT-1049
Oh, well he wasn't expecting that.
You were beautiful. Too beautiful. For a Jedi.
And it's making him suspicious.
It's making him question the Jedi, do they just allow highly attractive individuals within their ranks as a new tactic to confuse the enemy? He's questioning every manual and protocol he's ever read, not one mentioned of the slight panic he felt upon your presence. And he's even questioning his purpose to the Republic, why was he even here when all his training suddenly vanished the moment General Skywalker introduced you?
On the outside, Echo performed the perfect salute. Masked by his helmet, protected by his armor. The good image of a soldier loyal to the cause.
But on the inside, he's clinging to every information he has read in case a solution may come up behind his turmoil. That turmoil being why does he suddenly feel lightheaded? Why did his eyes linger longer than usual? Why did his breath catch when you said his name, not his CT number?
You were a Jedi. Completely off limits at the very beginning.
Not only that, a Jedi Master.
Definitely off limits.
Until you stepped closer, just two feet in front of him, and suddenly Echo forgot all the rules and regulations he had memorized. Every word spilled from your lips, every soft hum you produced, every little witty remark you made against General Skywalker's sarcastic humor. It's making Echo cling more desperately, clenching his hand around the hilt of his blaster to remind himself of who he was, what he carried, and what separated you from him.
But then, you smiled at him again—gentle and unforgivingly beautiful—and suddenly Echo might consider breaking a rule or two just to see it again.
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FIVES – CT-5555
Now, Fives was the most curious one of them all.
His curiosity can sometimes get him in trouble, more often than not. And from his experience, curiosity was a dangerous thing. It can lead to unsuspecting roads where either he's regretting his choices or making a claim to everyone he knew that he told them so.
The moment General Skywalker stepped aside to introduce you, Fives’ curiosity was piqued to a dangerously high level. Everything about you screamed of an encryption, waiting to be solved and decoded. And knowing himself, he will stop at nothing until he finds out. Even if it trespassed a line he knew he shouldn't cross.
What's someone like you doing in a place like this? Where did you come from? Why has he only seen you now? Oh, different questions arising, not one answer surfaced, and it's making him more restless in his armor.
You took your time appraising each one of his brothers. Starting from Rex at the front of the line, to Echo just beside him, and finally him.
“You must be ARC Trooper Fives,” Your voice made his chest puff out with pride and recognition. “I heard what happened on Kamino. You and Echo did a good job, I commend you.”
He couldn't help it, he was grinning so wide that it might've looked like picture day during his cadet years. Echo was about to say something, when he stepped forward and stole the words right from his brother's mouth.
“Thank you, General. We're looking forward to performing our best too alongside you.”
The rest of his brothers snickered, and he knew he was in trouble. Very big trouble. He knew what would happen if he let his curiosity win against logic and reasoning. Because again, curiosity was a dangerous thing—uncontrollable, unpredictable, and incurable.
When you left with General Skywalker to be debriefed on the mission, his curiosity never did.
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KIX – CT-6116
Maker's name.
As soon as Kix felt his heart flutter beneath his chest, it sank the moment he realized why.
You were beautiful.
More beautiful than any living being he has seen.
You looked like you were born in the high gardens of Naboo, flocked with aides and guards. Your hands were made to cradle chalices and golden spoons, not blasters and lightsabers. He didn't note that to demean your capabilities as a Jedi, you were a master and he wouldn't doubt you were more than capable, but he couldn't help but imagine.
It was the first time someone caught him this off guard. A stranger, a Jedi Master no less, has managed to cause him panic in a way he cannot interpret. Perhaps it was just from environmental stress, from his constant deployment and never-ending posts. But the more he tried to deny it, the more his symptoms didn't make sense.
Pupil dilation. Tightness of chest. Shortness of breath. Tensed muscles. Sweaty palms. Dry throat. Slight confusion. Increased heartbeat.
Acute stress? Possible. Anxiety? No, he didn't feel like having an attack, or maybe it was about to come. Some kind of chronic concussion? Definitely not.
“And Kix, our trusted medic.” General Skywalker introduced him, and it took Kix a second to register before he saluted. Clumsily, clearly out of his forte, and obviously distracted.
Still, you didn't point it out. Instead, you smiled up at him and nodded. “If I ever need someone to heal me, I trust I'll be safe in your hands.”
He finally had a diagnosis for his condition.
He was irrevocably and completely kriffed.
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JESSE – CT-5597
Woah.
That's the first thought Jesse had.
Now, that's just unfair. The Jedi are weaponizing beauty now?
He should be listening to what General Skywalker was saying, but all he could pick up was your name, your rank, and how you'll be working closely with them for this campaign. He's telling himself to focus, reminding himself they were as the frontline offense and distractions were the last thing they needed.
But then the Jedi had to bring you out of their temple walls and cause havoc without even knowing the damage you caused. And it looks like he's not the only one. Jesse could pick up his brothers' stance, as straight as training rods, as you walked over to assess them. Each of his brothers, on the outside, did their standard salute and introduction—totally normal and expected.
But Jesse saw right through them.
Rex rambled with his introduction, he did that when he's nervous or lying. Echo stammered, while Fives’ gaze became curious. Even Kix shifted on his feet, he could see the way his hands clenched and twitched. Jesse's almost laughed at their expressions, thoroughly enjoying their not-so-subtle
Oh, you're all gone men.
But then, your eyes slid over to him, and Jesse's grin faltered. So did his composure.
Your smile was disarming, and he swore he could see the sun right in front of him. And for the first time, Jesse felt like everything was testing his strength as a soldier. Now he understood why his brothers were taken back. What more out there when they see you on the battlefield? What more if he sees you fighting armies of clankers without even breaking a sweat?
He can already picture you—deadly, graceful, and strikingly beautiful—and he swallowed the lump in his throat. He was a soldier for kriff’s sake, he's faced worse enemies before and came out battered yet alive. But this time, it wasn't an enemy he needed to survive from.
It was a Jedi, and with you on their side, he thought he might not make out of this one alive.
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HARDCASE – CT-9415
“Woah,” Hardcase was the one who was able to speak, and he ignored Jesse’s alarmed glance. “You're pretty. I mean—you look nice. For a Jedi. General. You look good, General.”
All his brothers stopped and stared at him as if he just set off another detonator that destroyed a fleet of starships in one single blow. Not yet, maybe later. But for now, he's busy trying to contain the large lovesick grin on his face. By the looks of everyone's faces, he's failing spectacularly. Not that he cared, he's only saying what they're all afraid to.
“Thank you, trooper.” You replied smoothly, and he almost swooned himself into fainting. “Though, the flattery won't save you from this war.”
The amusement in your eyes glinted, and his grin beamed. Chaos recognizes chaos. He could feel his blood surging through his veins like molten fire, the kind of adrenaline he gets from attacking the enemies head on.
But this time, the one in front of him wasn't an enemy.
It was someone more dangerous.
And Hardcase liked danger.
If he could, he could have it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He wouldn't mind having you for the exact same reasons. Sadly, you were a Jedi. The only thing he could do was look and imagine. And Maker the things on his mind right now could get him court-martialed or thrown off of a cliff with your Force powers if you were ever to see or hear them.
“You're not even hiding it,” He heard Jesse whisper beside him. “Maker, vod. You're doomed.”
“I am, aren't I?” Hardcase whispered back, still staring at you. “But what a way to go.”
Somehow, you must've heard his words. Because the smile on your lips twitched, and he grinned wider at that.
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TUP – CT-5385
Oh, wow.
When Tup was woken up earlier by his brothers, he expected a short debrief with General Skywalker in the hangar before leaving for their next planet. No one told him about the new general, and no one told how pretty they'd be.
Tup shuffled quietly, casting glances at your direction as you stood beside Skywalker.
No, you weren't just pretty. You were beautiful. The kind of beauty he heard some of the pilots talk about in 79’s. How they often see angels, with unmeasurable and otherworldly beauty during their flights. He knew damn well those were just pilot talk, a small ongoing inside joke to make others believe a nonexistent creature.
But at that moment, Tup realized they might be right.
Angels were real, and one of them was a Jedi.
He gulped, averting his gaze just time for you to glance his way. He should've not removed his helmet. He shouldn't be finding a Jedi pretty. He should look straight ahead of him, remember why they were here, and not get distracted by someone he has no chance of knowing.
But then his eyes drifted to your direction again, lingering at the small smile on your lips. The way you appeared perfectly serene, as if you're not gonna fly off to war later on. He tracked the way your lashes fluttered softly, the way you nodded at General Skywalker's words, and how you smiled at each of his brothers in line.
“Uh oh,” He heard Dogma snickering beside him. “Little Tup has a crush.”
“I do not,” Tup bit back, but still his gaze wandered to you again. “They’re our general. We can't.”
Dogma nodded, casting him a pointed look. “You telling me that or yourself?”
Sighing, Tup turned to look ahead and nursed his already broken heart.
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DOGMA – CT-6922
What? That pretty face is a Jedi? And a general?
Dogma almost bristled under his armor, because no way in all Sith hells was he seeing this right.
You were better off as royalty, or a senator who could flaunt and use their looks to persuade the Senate. He wouldn't even be surprised if you secretly were, and those robes were only a disguise to protect your identity. What was someone like you doing here? Wearing those robes and carrying that lightsaber?
When you directed a smile at his direction, he scowled at the effect it brought inside him.
You were a Jedi. He was a soldier, and he needed to act like one. His brothers might act all smitten right now, but out there, you were just another general they needed to obey. He won't take the bait, you were just a pretty face he needed to respect.
He won't fall for it. He can't.
“I'm looking forward to fighting alongside you,” Your voice carried over, and he fought the urge to flee. “I do have to warn you. My approach is much more forward than Skywalker's.”
“Sounds like you'll lead us to our deaths,” The words were out before Dogma could stop himself. “What makes you so sure you won't?”
The small smirk you gave him should anger him, he hated how it thrilled him instead.
Dogma glared at you, which only made your smirk bigger. “Then, keep up.”
When you left with Skywalker, he cursed at himself for going against his word—he took the kriffing bait.
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APPO – CC-1119
Sergeant Appo stood beside Rex, as still and silent as ever, only acknowledging General Skywalker with a short salute.
He must admit. He didn't have any idea of someone else joining their campaign, but another set of help wouldn't be too much of a bad idea. The more numbers they have, the better. Maybe the new general was with their battalion as well, but he failed to remember which one would be accompanying them. Now that he thought about it, he hasn't seen the new general before.
He kept his gaze forward, expression protected inside his helmet.
Appo tuned out most of the words being exchanged, until a sound—lighter than any tune he has ever heard before—hit him harder in the chest than any blasterfire he has survived from.
His helmet shifted, a slight incline towards the sound, and his eyes widened by a fraction when he finally laid sight on the new general.
Sergeant Appo tensed impossibly still, if that were even possible, breath trapped inside his lungs.
Beautiful.
A single word rang clear in his mind, but somehow it didn't feel enough. And Maker, he really tried to tear his eyes from you. But something prevented him from doing so, as if something was drawing him further. The great and unshakeable sergeant, as swift and silent as the wind, was rendered speechless just from presence alone.
It took him a while to come back to reality, realizing that Rex was talking to him.
“Sergeant? Are you alright?”
“Fine.” Clipped and curt, Appo replied dismissively. “You were saying?”
Rex regarded him for a moment, but the sergeant didn't spare him a glance. “The generals are asking if you have the formations ready for the debrief?”
Nodding, Appo caught your eye beneath his helmet. “Yes, I have.”
“Good,” Your voice cut in, and it struck him again like lightning. “Then, shall we proceed?”
When you turned to head towards the ship, Appo finally released the air from his lungs and followed. He hasn't shared much word with you, but if you ordered him to follow you to war, he was scared he wouldn't waste a second or a heartbeat.
Rating: Explicit/nsfw smut | 18+ only! Minors do not interact
Length: ~4.5k
Warnings: pwp smut, dom/sub undertones...and sort of overtones ig, reader works for the Senate but is not a Senator, Fox deals with his feelings by destroying his office, slight miscommunication, oral (m! receiving), p in v, they fuck so hard they break his office chair, strength kink... if i forgot anything let me know!
Description: Fox is having a bad day, and you're afraid you're about to make it a little worse. Which is the last thing you want to do for the man who works harder than most, the man who you've been hopelessly and secretly pining for.
A/n: I forced myself to finish this today for Fox day and the first day of Corrie Week, I think it counts if I post it before midnight, right? Not beta'd, we die like clones men. Everyone go check out @corrieweek for this week's prompt list! I'm gonna try to do more but we'll see if I have any follow through lmao 🙃 Let me know what you think! cross posted on my ao3
The first thing you hear when you walk in to the trooper base on Coruscant is the sound of glass shattering and the thumps of something heavy being thrown around. It's admittedly not the first time you've heard noises like this coming from this very building, but this time feels… different.
That difference is highlighted by Thire saying, "Oh, thank Maker you're here," and is punctuated by the sound of Thorn's helmet thunking onto the desk after the sound of crashing stops.
It's enough to stop you in your tracks, because as good as you are at your job — which admittedly is very, very good — and you're at the base on a near daily basis, you've never gotten a greeting quite like this.
"What's all this about?" You blink at them in response.
"Just head back, you'll see for yourself," Thorn groans, "Commander is in a mood; maybe you can talk some sense into him."
You sigh, giving them both a tense smile and a nod before you retreat down the familiar hall toward Fox's office. The door is slightly open, and all you can see in the crack of the door is neatly stacked plastoid sitting on the floor in the midst of a sea of empty cans — all barely legal energy drinks you always see Fox carrying around. Its almost funny to see such an orderly pile in the midst of the outright chaos, and its enough to make you question if another one of the Guard have taken up the Commander's post for the night. You don't think Fox has the ability to be orderly outside official capacity. But the helmet, nearly entirely red, sitting next to the orderly stack is undeniable.
As soon as you push the door open all the way, it confirms that the sounds you heard from outside were from the Commander, because the rest of the room looks like it was attacked by a rancor. The stack of datapads Fox usually keeps on the edge of his desk are scattered around the floor, the shitty lamp that stands at a perpetual lean is now broken on the ground, and the sturdy desk with one leg that's slightly shorter than the rest, the one he bitches about near constantly, has been flipped onto its side and pushed up against the far wall, now missing two legs that you can see have been ripped off flung to the edges of the room.
But then you see him — and you know its him from the slightly crooked angle of the tip of his nose, and from the silver scar that starts on the bridge of his nose and traverses across his cheekbone, and from the patches of gray hairs that dot the temples of his unruly curls — and your brain goes blank and your mouth goes dry. He's leaned back in his chair, eyes closed with head hanging back, beautifully thick throat exposed, arms hanging limp at his sides, legs stretched out in front of him, with his thick, glorious thighs falling open ever so slightly. The skin tight black material clings to him, seeming to emphasize every inch of pure muscle that hides beneath the red and white plastoid every day. Its something you've seldom seen, but its pure sin — downright pornographic if you're being honest.
If you didn't know any better — and if it wasn't for the lit cigarra dangling from his fingertips — you'd think Fox was asleep. But you do know better, and you're grateful for the moment to study him regardless, because you want to remember it all. Because this is the most relaxed you've ever seen the Commander and it has a tendril of softness curling around your heart as the gnaw of pure want ignites in your belly. Because you've been hopelessly pining for Commander Fox for months now and he barely has time to give you a second look — and you don't blame him; you know exactly how much work he has sitting on his desk and how little sleep he gets on a good week, and its been a downright terrible week in Coruscant thus far.
But the fact that he's reduced his office to this with his bare hands sends another wave of desire through your veins. Kriff, you want him so bad.
"Y'gonna stare at me all night, cyar'ika, or did you need something?" his voice comes out in a low mumble, and it goes straight to your core like lava. You can't open your mouth — you know if you do you'll say something stupid. You're not sure what the word he said means, Mando'a isn't one of the languages you speak with any fluency, but the way it comes out as a purr makes your knees weak. You hope, selfishly, it means something nice.
Fox raises his head and cracks one eye open, molten amber finding you effortlessly and pinning you down. Your breath catches in your throat as he raises an eyebrow at you and brings the cigarra to his mouth. The challenge in his expression is unmissable and it has you spewing utter nonsense.
"I-I-uh-comm from-Senator—" you manage to squawk out, your voice breaking, but his voice renders you silent as he cuts you off.
"Karkin' Senators," Fox nearly growls, his head dropping back again, and you fight the urge to drop to your knees at the way it reverberates into your bones. "Can't go a single rotation without them ruining somethin' for me."
"S-sorry, I can come back l-later," you stutter out, hating the way he's managed to get you so off-kilter today.
"Don't go running off on me," Fox says, words coming out in a slow drawl that makes you freeze in your tracks. Your eyes follow the cigarra that he pulls up to his lips again, eyes still closed and head still tipped backwards. "You're not a Senator, you just work for one. Out with it, it's not like you can make my day any worse."
Your cheeks heat with shame because you're afraid you're about to make his day much worse. "I-I've been reassigned to—"
At this, Fox's head shoots up, eyebrows furrowed. "What?" He barks, cigarra still between his teeth. You can see something akin to panic flaring in his eyes, "They can't just do that without warning!"
"They can, actually. I work for the Senate Office, they can tell me to move wherever they want," you cringe. "I'm sorry, Commander, I swear I won't be—"
But another deep, guttural growl that resounds in the room has your teeth clicking as you snap your mouth closed, the words dying on your tongue. "Stop," he snarls, the command echoing in your brain. You can feel yourself trembling, energy and tension fizzling under your skin because you can't help but obey him right now.
You watch as he pushes his sleeves up to his elbows, black material giving way to the expanse of brown skin, marked by a constellation of white scars, and your body reacts against your will — you take two steps toward him, coming to a stop in front of his splayed feet, and sink to your knees, eyes never leaving his.
This view is one you never thought you'd get, and you're not shocked at how good he looks. Fox looms over you, powerful and broad, tension rippling in his arms and legs, and to you, from here, the shitty rolling chair with the flaking leather looks like a throne, his throne. It's enough to make you forget about the scratchy, and dubiously stained, carpet that's digging into the fabric of your pants, and the fact that you may have just embarrassed yourself beyond repair.
But a slow, dangerous smile grows on his face as you blink up at him, and any thoughts of repercussions fly out of your brain. All you want is to make him smile like that at you again — it flares something equally dangerous in your mind.
"Yeah? Came all the the way down to my office just to get on your knees f'me?" Fox asks, his words slurring slightly as his knees part further. You can't help but notice the growing bulge in his lap — the black fabric tenting, and you feel heat rising to the surface of your skin from your scalp to your toes.
And again, subconsciously, you find yourself nodding, shuffling forward so you're within the confines of his legs, knees bracketing your shoulders. The smile on his face keeps you from feeling embarrassed, you'd do anything to keep that smile on his face.
You shiver in anticipation as you watch him stamp out the lit end of the cigarra on the arm of the office chair; you've given in to the reality of the situation and accepted it as fact. Fox is, and always has been, in charge. You knew from the moment you met him you'd do just about anything he asked, and now you're just waiting for a command.
He leans forward, crowding into you and you have to bite back the moan at the feeling of his breath on your face, the sharp-sweet of the tabac on his tongue making your brain go hazy. You barely notice Fox's hand curling behind your neck, tilting your head back to expose your throat. It makes you feel like prey, but you know he won't hurt you. The press of his plush lips against yours is chaste and fleeting, and it has you chasing after for another but he's gone, leaning back in his chair as he kneads his thumb into the side of your neck, grin sharpening as your eyes roll back.
"So good, so obedient," he sighs and your heart flutters in your chest. "You can touch me, cyar'ika."
You don't need to be told twice; your hands are drawn to his thighs like magnets, and the feel of his muscles beneath the fabric makes you gasp. He's solid, warm, and so tense you can feel every twitch and flex. Your nails dig into the fabric, careful not to anchor yourself in his flesh when his fingers knot in the hairs at the base of your neck.
Your eyes flutter open, prepared to try and plead with him for something, but your gaze fixes on the now exposed sliver of muscle low on his hips where his shirt has ridden up. This time you don't act without thinking — its a fully conscious decision that has you surging forward to press your lips to the firm line of exposed skin, and your hand brushes against the growing hardness.
The effect is immediate; Fox sucks a sharp inhale in through his teeth and his fingers tighten in your hair, forcing your head back to look at him. His pupils are blown, barely any amber is left for you to see, and his chest heaves like he's out of breath.
"Kriff. You're gonna kill me," Fox grunts out. "You want my cock?"
You let out a truly shameless high pitched keen at the question, and you nod despite the tight hold he has on your range of motion. And before you know it, you're rocketed forward and you have to catch yourself on his thighs as he presses your face against his clothed cock.
But as soon as you have your balance again, you're skimming your hands up his thighs to rest on his waist, fingers pushing under the fabric of his shirt to rest against the glorious expanse of skin. You can feel his heart beating against the pads of your fingers and you realize your hearts are nearly beating in time.
Your fingers flex experimentally, nails scratching against his skin, and the low moan you get in response has you contemplating divesting him of his blacks yourself, but you don't get the chance.
Fox grunts again and pulls your face away before using his free hand to push the compression material down his hips, exposing his sculpted stomach and deep cut v-lines, and your thighs clench in anticipation when his cock finally escapes its confines.
He looks like a statue sitting there, cock hard and thick, curving slightly to the left as it leans against his stomach as he pants and stares down at you. His tip is weeping pearly fluid and you can feel your mouth filling with saliva. It's the kind of cock that wipes every thought from your head and replaces it with his name and barely coherent moans, and you don't want to wait any longer for that to be reality.
You try to surge forward, but his hand in your hair holds you back, and a frown paints your face. "Why–? Commander, plea—"
A wrecked groan cuts you off, "Kark, pretty thing, don't call me that unless you're sure you want—"
"Commander," you purr, voice going airy and soft as you bat your eyelashes at him, "I want it. I want you."
As soon as you feel his hand go slack in your hair, you rock forward on your knees again, stopping a breath away from his cock. You can feel his whole body go rigid, as if he moves you'll disappear, his fists clenching at his sides.
When you press a chaste, open mouthed kiss on the head of his cock and it sets off a chain reaction in Fox. First, his body goes slack and his hands unfurl; next, he lets out a sigh that sounds to you like he's never been this relaxed in his entire life, and finally, one of his hands grabs your wrist, and he slides your hand from its place on his waist up his stomach, coming to rest over his heart.
You can feel the rapid pace of his heart, and you know this is a level of trust and affection that you don't think Fox has ever shown to another being. It has your tongue poking out from the confines of your mouth, tasting the velvet skin, and you relish in the strangled moan it rips out of Fox's throat.
But its not enough, not for you. While Fox is gasping for air, mumbling words that sound like your name and curses, you close your lips around his tip and swirl your tongue along the divot, tasting the salty-sweet fluid. You feel his body shutter beneath your hands and it sends a bolt of confidence in you that matches a flare of lust, making you press yourself further down onto his cock, letting gravity assist as you allow his cock to bully its way into your esophagus and settle heavily in your throat.
Fox freezes below you, but you can feel the tremble in him, as you work your way down. Your eyes water and you have to focus on not panicking at the sensation but you're determined to go as far as you can. The tip of your nose can feel the wiry hairs at the base of him, but you can't go any further at the current moment — he's simply too much, and you aren't prepared for it.
With a breath sucked in through your nose, you hollow your cheeks and bob softly. The almost pained sound that comes out of the man below you would have given you pause if not for the way his hand tightens around yours, and how his other hand brushes your hair from your face tenderly.
"Mesh'la," he moans, "so perfect, kriff, could die happy here."
The praise makes you preen as another wave of delicious want curls in your stomach, almost painful, and forces a whine out of you that sounds pathetic. You hope Fox doesn't hear it, but you aren't so lucky.
Without hesitation, he's pulling you off his cock and tilting your head back to look at him. You're not sure what you expect his expression to be, but pure concern is not one of them. His eyebrows are knitted together, and his frown is borderline heartbroken.
"What's wrong? Did I hurt you?" he asks immediately, voice cracking. You shake your head, throat feeling a little raw and you don't want to make him feel any worse. "Cyar'ika, I need words. You need to tell me what that sound was because I heard it, and if I hurt you, I'm going to throw myself into the sewers and drown my—"
You cut him off with a frown and a delicate clearing of your throat before speaking. He waits for your words like they're the only thing keeping him alive and it has you reaching out to him to put a hand on his cheek. "I'm fine, Commander—"
"Fox. Fox for this, when we're like this," he says softly, almost pleading.
You soften, letting a smile bleed onto your face. "Fox, I'm fine, I swear. It was nothing, really—"
"But I heard you!"
"Maker, what do you want me to say, Fox?" you ask, rolling your eyes at his demanding concern. "I was so turned on by what you said that it physically fucking hurt, okay?" You spit out tactlessly.
It seems to take a second for your words to catch up to both of you — when it does you feel the flush of shame warming your face as a cold sweat beads on the back of your neck. But Fox's grin is back, sharp and predatory as ever.
Your brain goes decidedly offline when he grabs the hem of the tight black material and peels it up over his head, exposing the expanse of gorgeous, smooth skin and the powerful rippling muscles. There is nothing in your mind but him as he tosses it somewhere in the room.
Fox's hand in yours tightens, and you take the hint, using his strength to steady yourself as you get back on your feet, which are tingling and numb from sitting on them and you stumble toward him to stand in the opening of his thighs.
His fingers work quickly as he unbuttons your blouse, his mouth kissing up every inch of newly exposed skin starting from your navel and trailing up the valley of your breasts, and your knees threaten to give out as you thread your fingers into his curls. He's the only thing keeping you upright — and you have complete faith he'll keep you from falling.
"I can't—" you sigh, trying to warn him of your state, but your words get cut off with a gasp when the sheer material that covered your breasts falls to the floor at your feet and his teeth graze your sensitive bud.
"That's right, cyar'ika," Fox growls in response, nipping at the soft skin of the underside of your breast. You barely notice that his fingers have unbuttoned your pants and they're already sitting in a pile at your feet. But you do notice his fingertips skirting over the edge of your lace panties, almost reverent in their movement.
You feel like a newborn lamb when you step forward, knees shaking and ankles wobbling in your heels, and you see the fondness and playfulness hidden in the lustful, blown out gaze in Fox's eyes. His hands find a home around the backs of your thighs; big and warm, spread out across your bare skin feeling like sunlight on a distant, verdant planet.
A yelp tears out of you when he gives you a harsh tug forward, sweeping your legs out from under you as you end up on his lap in his chair, nothing between you but your soaked through lace.
"Cyar'ika—" he breathes into your ear, and you can't stop the words from coming out.
"What does it mean, Fox?" you whisper, pressing a kiss into his temple. The question has burned in your mind since the first time he said it, months ago now. He had said it after you'd spent all night fixing reports with him, and he hadn't said it again until today. You're pretty sure you know its at least something kind, but you have to know. Before everything changes.
"Maker," he hisses, sounding almost self-chastising as he pulls you closer and settles you in his lap. Fox's hands come to cradle your face and he stares directly into your eyes, and you feel the weight of the moment crashing on you. "It means you're making me soft," he says, pressing his forehead to yours.
You can't help but chuckle when he says it, knowing that explaining any more is likely to give him hives right now, but you understand his meaning all the same. You don't ask for more, you just press forward and find his lips with yours, sighing in relief as the sparks ignite in your chest.
You feel everything he does, and maybe more, but there will be time for that later. Right now, you need him inside you more than you need air in your lungs.
"Fox, please," you keen after you break off the kiss, rocking against his length. He chuckles deep and throaty, and you can feel it wrap around you like an embrace. But you refuse to be deterred and grind down on his cock, feeling it push against your clit. "Commander," you moan, high pitched and needy.
But it has the desired effect — his fingers rip apart the lace that's separating you and he teases his cock between your folds a few times before he's lining up with your entrance. The feeling of him is consuming, mind-numbing, and dizzying all at once. It steals the air from your lungs and thoughts from your head and any semblance of sense you once had.
The process of sinking onto him is slow and by the time you're seated on him fully, your skin is sweat slick and the baby hairs at your hairline are plastered down. Fox is no better; his hair is unruly from all your musing and his eyes are blown dark again, lower lip caught between his teeth in concentration.
"Kriff, move, Commander," you plead after the burn fades into relentless pleasure pangs that shoot through your gut. He takes the order, but the look in his eyes is a warning — that's the only command he's willing to take from you for the night.
Neither of you say anything else as you begin to ride him, twin gasps falling from your parted lips in time with his. You find yourself becoming obsessed with the sounds he makes, desperate to hear more, and he rewards you with every roll of your hips.
You're so caught in the pleasure that you don't hear the loud crack! that echoes in the nearly empty room, but Fox does. You only notice something is wrong when he pushes himself out of the chair, still holding you in his arms, and strides across the room. The brute strength he's displaying makes you a little lightheaded, and you feel yourself clenching around him, earning a deep groan and a bite to the junction of your neck as your back meets the wooden door.
"What…?" you mumble, confusion blurring with pleasure as you try not to chase your pleasure.
"Don't worry about it, cyar'ika," he grunts, giving an experimental roll of his hips and your eyes roll back, completely lost to the feeling of him. "Just let go, I've got you."
You nod and let your head fall back against the door, the force of his thrusts sending you spiraling into desire and want. Time stopped existing, the world outside his office could have burned to ash and you would have smiled; all there was was him.
The building pressure in your core started to coil, your body shaking with tension at the impending orgasm. "Fox-kriff-I'm—" you babble helplessly at him.
"Good," he grits out through his teeth, "cum for me. Now," he demands, punctuating his words with the press of his lips against yours and a roll of his hips that has your vision whiting out and the coil in your gut snaps. You couldn't stop the half-scream-half-moan if you tried, not when it's mirrored by Fox's teeth sinking into your earlobe and his hips coming to a stop.
You're barely conscious, mind floating a thousand lightyears in the distance, when he pulls out of your heat with a hiss and strides back through his office toward the small, lumpy loveseat hidden in the corner. He keeps you safely tucked against his chest and sinks into the cushions, adjusting you to lay your head in the junction of his neck.
You both bask in the silence and afterglow for a while; he lights another cigarra and you let your brain make its way back into your body.
After a while you turn to study him; he really is too kriffing pretty. "So—" you say, stopping to press your lips to the underside of his jaw before you continue speaking, "—what had you turning your office into your own personal war zone?"
"Got a message from the Senate office," Fox sighs, and your chest tightens in anxiety. "They're gonna put some natborn on base and they're sending someone to clear out the office right next to mine for them." He lets the smoke escape from his chest and curl around you both before speaking again. "Don't know what the kriff they're doin' all that for."
You fight the urge to wince, but evidently you fail, because Fox's free hand is winding in your hair and tugging your face out from where you've tucked yourself back into his neck.
"Words, mesh'la. Tell me what you know." His words are a command you can't refuse, and you hope he won't kick you out of his arms as soon as the words hit the air.
"It's me. They're moving me here. Permanently," you whisper, bracing yourself for the sting of rejection and anger.
But what you get is a deep throaty laugh, and the hand that's wound into your hair moves, coming to cradle the back of your head. "Now why didn't you just say that?" he chuckles, words rumbling and rough in your ear. "Got me plotting to release one of Hound's beasts in session to get back at them for no reason at all."
You choke a little on air as you pull back to look him in the eyes, "Wait," you question seriously. "You're not upset I'm going to be here from now on?"
"Upset?" He asks, as if the possibility is entirely beyond his comprehension. "I would kill Palpatine himself to get you here with me all day, and you think I'd be mad about it?"
"I don't know, maybe you'll get sick of me," you shrug, voice teasing, but the dissatisfied and outright affronted grunt that leaves him sends butterflies fluttering in your gut.
"Me? Sick of you? No, cyar'ika, you've got it wrong. You're going to be sick of me bending you over every available surface multiple times a day," he grins, all predatory teeth and promise that makes you shiver in anticipation.
"I look forward to it, Commander," you smile back at him breathlessly.
