Hi Frost! Congrats on the 200 followers 😍 if you're up for it I'd love a little fic with one of the Bad Batch boys (your pick) and meeting someone online? Can be canon or modern au, but developing a crush before they've ever met in person. Fem or GN is fine. Details can be up to you!
Congrats again 🧡
Cyber Crush [Wrecker x Fem!Reader]
Story Summary: When a hot new dating site hits the Holonet dedicated to the soldiers of the Grand Army appears practically overnight, it becomes all the rage for many a hopeful romantic living in Republic space. No one’s admitting to who created it, or why, but you’re simply too curious to not check it out for yourself. You get lucky and end up hitting it off very well with the first soldier you match to, Wrecker of Clone Force 99. A mutual crush leads into a small handful of “digital dates” before there’s finally an opportunity for the real deal.
Warnings & Information: Second Person POV; undescribed, unnamed Fem!Reader living on Coruscant. Clone Dating Service AU. All dating profiles have little clues to various Clones [some are my OCs; most are Canon!]. Minor amount of Star Wars and real-world swearing. Some use of Mando’a. Narrative and stylistic use of italics.
Word count: 6,630
The old proverb “Curiosity killed the Loth-cat, but satisfaction brought it back.” had never been more true than tonight as you opened a new browser on your home terminal and pecked in the URL scribbled upon a strip of flimsiplast taken from a tear-off flyer.
You had just gotten home after a long day of running errands, making the very last just before the evening rush-hour was initiated by Coruscant’s diverse nightlife. It’d been a hurried grocery run; grabbing only missing essentials for dinner. You were probably in and out in less than five minutes. Seven tops. There was nothing out of the ordinary when you ducked into the store. Ducking out, however…
Well it was impossible to miss. Fliers had been stuck to every conceivable surface – probably a hundred more at the average eye-level alone. There must have been a huge group of people working together to hang up this many in such a short time. Nothing really remarkable about them from a distance, either.
A closer inspection showed all of them bore the Republic’s eight-spoke Galactic Roundel along with a tantalizing offer.
“Wishing the nice night you had at 79’s was EVERY night? Take one to find out how!”
You couldn’t really resist discovering what this was for yourself. Pocketing one of the strips, you hurried home and threw anything temperature-sensitive into the conservator first, thinking this would only be a quick peek.
Dinner could afford to wait a few minutes. You just have to see for yourself what was being teased about a popular hangout in the Entertainment District from such an otherwise nondescript flyer. Which… maybe you should have used the incognito feature for. The welcome message on the landing page is ambiguous enough to cause uncertainty of the “service” being advertised, but the growing allure proves more powerful than your caution.
"WELCOME TO THE #1 HOTTEST SITE ON THE HOLONET – GUYS OF THE GAR!
"Looking for a sensitive, sweet or strong soldier to steal your heart? Please sign in or create an account to make use of our services!"
Curiosity nips at your heels. The cursor hovers thoughtfully over “Sign Up!” for a quiet moment. A dating service? For the Grand Army of the Republic? To hell with it, you decide. There’s no harm in looking!
Clicking in, you’re presented with a small pop-up window after creating a username and password.
‘Thank you for showing interest in the newly-developed and secretly-run Clone Dating Service (CDS). Be advised that our site is closely monitored at all times and in spite of our last “fumigation” before the site went live, there may still be a few stubborn bugs. They will be squashed shortly. - CDS Sysadmin’
Dismissing the pop-up opens the profile editor for you. (Rather convenient.) In the bottom left corner of the page sits an animated, digital “mascot” of sorts. It, or rather he, looks mostly like a standard Clone - granted one who’s been stylized in such a way to appear more “cutesy”. The helmet is slightly oversized, lending to a bobble-headed image, and the visor is very… shiny.
Inclusion of a digital mascot is unexpected; that kind of quirk is rare these days now that the practice has largely lost its charm. Relievingly, this one is not immediately annoying. He salutes, informs you of his purpose through a small speech bubble, then falls silent and assumes a parade rest position.
“Clicks, reporting for duty! I’ve been assigned to cover your six in case you run into trouble setting up your CDS profile!”
For a site that went live very recently, you’re impressed by how many options have been provided. There was a matchmaking service run by “in-house” analysts, or the option to self-match with profiles that fit within selected parameters. Additionally, you could opt for in-person dates, long distance relationships, keep it strictly online, or, curiously, even be pen pals.
That option creates some pause. Why would a dating service offer a pen pal program? You do a little digging around the site before editing anything.
Was this something new cooked up by the Commision for the Protection of the Republic - some clever bit of COMPOR propaganda to drum up more support for their literal poster boys? Were they the ones behind this?
Strangely enough, you can’t find anything that smells like their usual influence. You continue to look around, even trawl through other parts of the Holonet to find an answer while making dinner. (No sense doing detective work on an empty stomach.) There are many varying schools of thought muddying the waters, but nothing that puts a bad taste in your mouth about the Guys of The GAR CDS at the same time.
Profiles promise to be “pretty painless” to create and deactivate. Militaristic lingo had two possible explanations: the CDS was made by the Clones themselves or it was part of the theming. Naysayers casting doubt on whether or not these profiles actually belonged to GAR soldiers were quieting as the mountain of evidence only grew. Incredibly, there were already multiple reports of dates set to meet at 79’s tonight - of which was rumored to involve one of the Corries.
And admittedly, those reports looked pretty damn legitimate. Okay, the pen pal thing is still a little odd, but you decide to proceed as planned.
Beginning with the basics, a few tiny embellishments are added to your lists of interests, hobbies, and personality traits. Not so much that it becomes dishonest, but enough to add intrigue. Then came the oft-dreaded photo selection process. Call it a stroke of luck that finding something high-quality and you liked well enough didn’t take too terribly long. And finally, an optional ice breaker question.
This you opt to skip for the time being. You’re far too eager to get right into the heart of it and waste no time selecting your preference of services.
Clicks “speaks” for the second time after you hit ‘Submit and Save’, breaking from parade rest to offer two thumbs up. “You’ll have your boots on the ground in no time! Please just give the CDS a moment to finish filling out the roster. It should be available shortly.” True to the digital mascot’s words, the site offers a batch of eight profiles to start with, labeled RO for Roster One.
“Good luck!” he adds before assuming formation once again.
Looking over RO, you feel your heart quickening with excitement. You have a promising listing full of very intriguing prospects. It provides a two word moniker, tagline of sorts, detachment, and the chosen services for every Clone - his likes and dislikes included in the expanded view of his particular listing. A small taste of who he is as an individual person.
What truthfully grabs your attention the most is a promise of getting the trooper’s name on one fair condition: a successful match.
The rest of your evening was free and there were no pressing responsibilities to take care of tomorrow. This gave you the freedom to spend however much time you’d like on the CDS tonight with the rest of the galaxy’s hopeful romantics.
So what were you waiting for?
ROSTER ONE
Blue Hawk
Very experienced.
Deployment: Legion
Preference: Matchmaking
Gentle Giant
Date me, and I GUARANTEE you'll have a blast!
Deployment: Specialty/Commandos
Preference: Self Match, In-Person, Long Distance
Glorious Daylight
If you think my scar looks bad, you should see the other guy.
Deployment: Battalion
Preference: Other/Hidden
Last Domino
ARC troopers do it better.
Deployment: Specialty/Commandos
Preference: In-Person, Pen Pals
Lost Eyebrows
Enough heart and soul to go around!
Deployment: Specialty/Commandos
Preference: Other/Hidden
Missing Paintbrush
Made a profile because I lost a bet to my brothers. (Thanks, guys…)
Deployment: Legion
Preference: Pen Pals, Self Match
Silver Moon
Only here to keep my one good eye on my men. Sorry in advance about “Filthy Flower”.
Deployment: Battalion
Preference: Other/Hidden
Young King
I’ll be as loyal to you as I am to the Republic.
Deployment: Legion
Preference: Long Distance, Matchmaking
Taking a moment to peruse this small wealth of choices here within Roster One, you gradually gain a better understanding of the site mechanics available. There are no pictures to look at – conceivably, by design. Maybe the idea is once you match with a trooper, you get more than just his name, but some idea of his physical image. Mildly ingenious.
Your given options are ‘Like’, ‘Dismiss’ and ‘Maybe’. Results will refine themselves accordingly, steadily supplying the best possible prospects for subsequent rosters. You wonder how large the CDS dating pool is at this very moment. Hundreds, maybe thousands of live profiles? How many more were well on their way - set to join the database by the end of the week? Hopefully the Clone Dating Service had a plan (or two) to accommodate the sheer number of civilians making profiles and the influx of digital foot-traffic they were likely to see...
Could get hairier than a Wookie for their servers if everyone and their tooka created a profile on Coruscant, alone. A trillion or so people lived here. Turn the scope out to the entire rest of the galaxy and it was nigh impossible to get an accurate sense of the populace. You’d sooner find a way to reintroduce nature to the Jewel of the Core Worlds than acquire such records.
How long will this ‘Guys of The GAR’ be sticking around, anyway?
How likely would it be that you, competing with trillions of other sentient lifeforms, find someone who could end being right for you?
You look again at Roster One. Unsure of what “right” looks like to begin with, you read what little information is provided again and again. Maybe you’re looking for casual, laidback experiences. Or yearning for depth and devotion. Putting what it is you hope for into words is not as simple as you thought.
Something about the second from the top speaks to you over all the others. It starts first as a whisper. Before long it grew louder. Clearer. What could it be about this soldier who dubbed himself “Gentle Giant” that you return to his profile more than the rest? His non-specific promise of a good time? And in the midst of a war, no less.
He identified himself as some variation of SpecOps; such a service might come with elevated privileges whenever he’s granted leave (or leisure or liberty or whatever they call it). Could it be that Gentle Giant has special connections and/or favors to collect on – something he hopes to make use of with slightly more select company?
With another tooka for your curiosity to threaten, you take one final opportunity to consider.
The bait set on this hook was mighty tempting. You’re willing to take a chance with it. Test your luck. You select ‘Like’, knowing that all you can do now is wait. Hope. Keep your search going. Requesting the next roster, your examination only takes you as far as the third profile before the digital mascot is vying for your attention.
“Incoming transmission!” Clicks exclaims, his shiny blue-black visor now blinking green. “This is straight from command: you’ve received your first successful match! Shall I patch you through now?”
For a beat, you do nothing, surprised. Hadn’t been very long at all and you already had an eager bite of your own.
Curious, you open the notification presented to you by Clicks. The portal for direct messaging opens to some rather sunny correspondence from Gentle Giant - evidence of a social and friendly disposition.
Giant: Hi miss! Thanks for matching with me. Love your pictures!
You type out a partial reply, half hoping there’s no indicator for Giant to watch. It might show him when you stop to open his CDS profile in another tab and have a look at the expanded information. At the uploaded pictures with… Are those hand-written notes? Aside from the commentary left on each of them, and perhaps the fact he wore (a majority of) his armor in most, there is a more immediate theme throughout all of these images.
Gentle Giant wore his helmet in every last shot.
That, you don’t entirely think too much of. He had been upfront about his classification as some variety of specialty soldier; which the unique shape and ominous rancor-inspired design would be very befitting of. You’re more focused (and perhaps even impressed) by the thorough attention to detail everything has been given.
Safety measures, you would guess, that the helmet is an extension of. Reflective surfaces are covered by large drop cloths. Data screens in the background are set to display little bits of trivia, playful messages or jokes. Anyone in the frame had their face obscured by helmets, hoods, or strategically positioned items such as datapads. (And a whole GNK-series power droid, in one case.) That’s the sort of thoroughness Gentle Giant, and the squad with him, by the look of it, had put into everything.
You won’t get to see his face or really anything that isn’t carefully curated. Maybe not for a while yet, depending on how the first exchange plays out. That doesn’t mean there isn’t already plenty about him that you can see.
Showing off for the camera, the black undersuit has been rolled up past his elbows to show off well-muscled forearms in the third image out of the collection. Basked in the light of some midday sun, the familiar warmly tanned and rich brown skin many knew the Clones for almost appeared to glow. You can’t tell what planet he’s on. Nor what he’s holding up to the picture-taker with a pair of firm, dexterous hands. Some kind of quad-eyed fish, perhaps?
From the fourth picture you can infer that he must be strong. This, like the picture before, is also posed. Gentle Giant stands in a typical bodybuilder’s pose against a brushed-metal wall; his legs shoulder-width apart, elbows raised high. With a pair of troopers sitting on each arm you’ll have to settle for imagining the biceps firmly flexing beneath them. No clues come from the small-print annotations about who they are, only that they wear the same set of armor labeled with the following.
“K-Class armor, 20kg; not that wimpy 6kg stuff!”
A second annotation states the soldiers stand 1.83m tall, Giant at 1.96m. Damn, wouldn’t that put him at six-foot-five or six-foot-six? Now you see where the ‘Giant’ in his moniker comes from.
That sets him apart from COMPOR’s typical poster boys. A fairly reasonable assumption to make is he may or may not stand apart from them in other ways as well. But so long as he continued to be pleasant and friendly, what did that matter?
You: Thanks for matching with me too. Didn’t mean to take so long to reply! Got a little distracted taking a look at your pictures as well. Kinda liked the one with the fish-thing, haha.
Giant hardly seems perturbed by the delay. It appears he expected it, if anything. Given that you had listed your location as ‘On/Near Coruscant’ he had assumed you must be having dinner or taking care of some daily task.
Giant: No need to worry! If you have stuff you need to do, take all the time you need! I was catching breakfast for my squad after saying hello - more of those fish since there’s a LOT of them here. (And we’re all pretty sick of rations, haha!) You: That’s very nice of you, but I already took care of the most important stuff so I’ll be free to talk for a while. Very kind of you to do that for them, too! Variety once in a while must be extremely nice and/or rare. Giant: HAH, you have no idea!!
He signs off the reply with a smiley face. A little thing that lends further credibility to your earlier impression about his friendliness. Makes it easier to talk to him throughout the evening and late into the night.
Time manages to seriously get away from you. Before you know it, you’ve stayed up entirely too late. The dull burn behind each tired eye seems to flare when you glance at the first available chronometer. Ah, poodoo… You really should have gone to bed long before now.
But you had been having a pleasant and easy-going chat with Gentle Giant for hours on end. Doing so was almost effortless; taking notice of less-immediate needs became less of a priority as a result. In the natural course of conversation he had shown incredible kindness and genuine interest over everything that was discussed.
That made it easy to speak a little more playfully and jokingly at times, even when it came to asking one another the usual questions.
Favorite colors, foods and beverages, what hobbies you had. Learn if you have any in common. Compare the list of planets the two of you know of – where you’ve been, and where you hope to go someday. Determine the farthest you’ve ever been from your respective homeworlds. Then the longest you’ve been away after that. And if it was too long, or not long enough.
Long before belatedly bunking down and asking your final question of the night – when would he like to talk again? – you had learned his name.
Wrecker.
The line between get-to-know-you questions and first-date-together questions blurred somewhere very early on.
Far sooner than either of you might have expected. Maybe even as soon as the night you had mutually matched on the Guys of The GAR webpage.
It helped that Wrecker was an incredibly attentive and curious guy. Possessed a well of intelligence tempered by a humble streak. Left no room for doubts pertaining to whether he genuinely cared whenever he got a chance to hear from you. Peppering in little follow-up questions. Reaching out for recommendations regarding more mundane things.
It hardly mattered what the subject was, either. You could, and often did, talk for hours together.
Endlessly. Easily. Flirtatiously.
Wrecker only wished it were more often, were it not for the nature of his detachment. He and his brothers do a fair number of the ‘dirty jobs’ the GAR might require. Getting more specific than that wasn’t something he believed would be wholly necessary. Not at this stage where there were healthy embers between you, to be certain, but no steady flame.
Not just yet.
The first dozen or so conversations were strictly text-based. A way of testing the waters before committing to the idea of taking a swim in the shallows. If the temperature between you was too chilly for someone’s liking, then no harm done! Just wade back to shore, acclimate, and try again. Your time in the shallows carried on for a good few weeks, paddling about in the current with cautious optimism. Only once there was more confidence did Wrecker think of proposing the transition.
Audio only; no visuals to start. That way you could both be in the other’s ear while going about your lives, so to speak. Going to bed with the suns. Rising for a new day with the moons. Catching speedercabs and lunch. Putting away provisions and groceries. Cleaning. Killing time.
Giddy giggles.
Boyish laughs.
Hearts racing, racing, racing.
Elation, frequent. Excitement, boundless. Crushing all the while.
Falling for one another. Steadily. Deeply.
And subject to much teasing. By far, the vast majority of it was dedicated to Wrecker – given the source was his brothers. You often caught snippets of passing remarks and fragments of conversation from them when he tried finding the most private spaces on their small ship to chat with you. Hardly anything cutting. Nor relentless and cruel. Nothing more than standard sibling smack-talk.
“Don’t forget to get some sleep, loverboy.”
“Ohh, shaddup. I’m not gonna forget!”
“Uh-huh…”
Things were a little different once you graduated to video feeds and hologram projections over the same secured lines. These adjustments were far more intimate. More personal. More real. You were engaged in an exercise of trust and vulnerability by adding another sense - sight - to these real-time interactions previously limited to sound.
Wrecker would return to the dedicated practice of wearing his helmet facing this change. Assumingly, it was just one of the precautionary measures that would be stubbornly holding on longer than the rest. He had been talking with you for well over two months, at this point.
You could honestly say these last fourteen weeks or more had truly flown by. In that time, you had grown so incredibly fond of him. So you had asked Wrecker during one of these calls. Once. And not for him to shuck the helmet from off his head. Just about it.
“I would imagine you’re largely used to your helmet Wrecker, but does wearing it ever get uncomfortable?”
He tugged on the neckline of his undersuit, offering only a guarded chuckle at first.
“Uh… Yeah. Sometimes, anyway!”
The careful way he had admitted this to you gave off the impression he would have been avoiding eye-contact had he not been wearing the black, gray and white bucket. The one you sometimes find yourself staring at the red double nines painted over the brow rather than the visor directly below. The aurebesh 99, perhaps unintentionally, functioned like an eyespot or ocellus. Difficult not to feel like the numbers were almost watching you.
You wouldn’t press the question any further on that particular occasion.
But it wouldn’t be long until it was brought up again, this time by one of Wrecker’s brothers.
It was a rare instance where everyone was in the same galactic time zone. No chance of his squad making a ‘friendly pitstop’ on Coruscant, however. They were duty-bound, and it was late into the night. You and Wrecker were on yet another video call in spite of that.
He’s midway through an animated retelling of a prior operation when the sound of someone yawning as they shuffle closer gets picked up by the audio transceiver. Wrecker’s brother stops just out of frame, voice full of unmistakable fatigue.
“Wrecker. Move already…” he orders tersely, “You’re in my bunk.”
Asking you to give him a second, Wrecker obliges. “Sorry. I’ll move to the hold. Won’t be much longer.”
“Apologies if my desire to sleep is getting in the way of your little virtual dates… Only, it’s not much of a date if your cyber crush has never seen your face, now is it?”
He had already gotten up from his brother’s bunk by that point, intending to do exactly as he said. But something about his brother’s words provokes Wrecker to stop and protest. “Hey. We all came up with the idea about our helmets. I was-” Perhaps thinking better of whatever he had been about to say, Wrecker stops abruptly. “Forget it,” he says, “we’ll talk about this in the morning.” He bids his brother goodnight before disappearing into the hold.
A quiet unease sits on Wrecker’s shoulders once he’s alone again. Settled on the floor of their shuttle’s tiny, tiny hold, back propped by a stack of secured crates, he lets out a tense sigh.
“Sorry ‘bout that, mesh’la…”
Frowning, you ask if he’s alright. You understand Wrecker couldn’t have anticipated one of his brothers saying something like that, so the thing he’s likely sorry about is you overhearing it. But your more immediate concern is whether or not he’s upset. This is not a candid or thoughtful kind of silence.
“Wrecker? I’ll understand if you want to cut tonight shor-”
Please, wait, Wrecker insists. Before you say anything else, there is something he should say. His brother is right. That isn’t what upsets him. He should have been the one to bring it up. This was his conversation to have with you, when he was ready. And it would’ve been the next time the two of you talked – would swear to that on his blaster, if you wanted him to.
Now Wrecker feels like it should be tonight instead. Because, truthfully, he has some really strong feelings for you. Had for some time now, as a matter of fact… Thinking of getting a little more serious, Wrecker might argue you’ve had a few long-distance dates at this point. (Without necessarily calling them that.) Something he would certainly like to continue, but not without taking care of a couple things, first.
“You’re a nice lady. Real nice, even. Been real understandin’ of my anonymity this entire time,” Wrecker explains. His dexterous fingers nervously fiddle with a short length of spare wire, tying and then untying it. Each loop is roughly the size of his wrist. “I think it’s only fair I show ya what I look like before askin’ ya what you think of… Movin’ to the next step or somethin’.”
After haphazardly stuffing the wire into a pocket, Wrecker adjusts the datapad he’s propped on the crate opposite from him to make sure he’s in focus and in frame.
“Welp. Here goes nothing.”
Wrecker wastes no time after his declaration. Reaching up, the helmet is unsealed before then carefully removed from his head. Wrecker offers you a boyish, charming smile before his helmet is even so much as level with his chest. He grips it tightly in his hands, giving himself something to direct all of his nervous energy into so he has an easier time maintaining eye contact.
And it would be dishonest to say one could overlook the obvious. His left eye is a pale, blueish white; a stark contrast to the brown eye opposite it. A noticeable smattering of scar tissue sits on the left side of his face. It is a firework frozen in time - wrapping over his ear, spread across his temple and a portion of his hairless head. Several trails cut across his left cheek, even slashing through a healthy five o’ clock shadow. One disconnected band sits over the sloped bridge of his nose. It appears to be an older injury based on the color. An aged souvenir of battle, maybe a crash.
With a palpable undercurrent of anxiety, Wrecker bravely breaks the silence once he figures you’ve had a good look at him.
“S-sorry,” he says with a lopsided grin, “I, uh… I haven’t had time to shave this week! Hopefully my beard doesn’t look terrible.”
You shake your head, telling Wrecker it looks just fine. He sighs in relief.
“Whew! Was honestly pretty worried about that, haha!”
“Really? I’m… surprised.” you admit carefully.
There are implications obvious enough here to avoid putting both feet in your mouth and bring up those features more indirectly without being incredibly insensitive, even by accident. That certainly might sour… whatever it was you wanted to call these little video chats you’ve been having with Wrecker lately. Dates?
Pre-dates?
They were happening pretty frequently, to be perfectly honest, with more than a few being less, shall we say, “cadet-friendly”.
“Sorry,” Wrecker apologizes again. “I thought about telling you sooner. Honest. Even asked my brothers how I should do it, but, uh… I-I couldn't figure out how to make it sound like me, heh.”
He knew showing you his face would be a big step. Huge, even. But… there was always a dash of worry that it wouldn’t go well. A blind eye and a large scar aren’t exactly “little” features he can hide all the time, so Wrecker has developed a strong sense of self-confidence and self-assurance in the time following what he only refers to as “the incident”. And if he wanted to ask you to meet him at 79’s next week or the week following, then…
“T-that’s if you want to, that is!”
Great galaxies.
How could you refuse? Wrecker had yet to fail to deliver on his punny promise advertised on the CDS; he truly was an expert not just in explosive ordnance, but in having a great time, all the time. His knack for seeing the silver lining in everything, perhaps with exception regarding his “problem with gravity” (as he liked to explain his fear of heights), had been a great comfort on several occasions when you might’ve otherwise felt glum. He was not shy about being excitable, or sweet, or even vulnerable with you.
You had been shown Lula, a black-and-red tooka doll he occasionally brought aboard the Havoc Marauder (typically when their assignments were shorter, as he preferred to keep her safe on Kamino), on your very first video call together. And she was a well-loved doll, too. Lula’s fabric was clean and her belly plump with stuffing for “more effective cuddles”, but you could see it was just beginning to thin from constant use.
Seeing how Wrecker clearly cared for little Lula only further endeared you to him. So no: his eye, his scar, were not going to be a dealbreaker for you. You would love to meet up at 79’s.
Setting down your own device, you rifle around in search of where you’ve written down important deadlines and appointments for the upcoming weeks.
“Sounds like fun, Wrecker. Count me in! Did you have a day in mind?”
“Next Taungsday? At, say, twenty-hundred hours?”
Middle of the week three hours after a majority of Coruscant has completed their nine-to-fives.
It’s a date!
You hitch a ride to the Entertainment District via speedercab forty-five minutes ahead of the agreed-upon time, knowing after years of living on Coruscant that there is no such thing as a “lull in traffic” here.
Not even in the middle of the week. Not with many establishments offering discounts and buy-one-get-one-s on their services. Something to entice people to abandon the hustle and bustle of the megacity and lighten their pockets of a few credits. Indulge themselves in the spoken and unspoken ‘District Dorns’.
Dining. Drinking. Dancing. Drugs. Den-fights. Dating.
Wrecker had thoughtfully informed you that 79’s—which already ran a little warm as an establishment—had reported a shift in temperature ever since the Clone Dating Service hit the Holonet.
“Should see the way this place GLOWS on the heat sensors, cyar’ika!”
You chose something to wear accordingly, wanting to keep comfortable as much as possible to enjoy as much of your date as possible. An outfit you believed was equal parts flattering, cute, and stylish without sacrificing anything that wasn’t unapologetically you. A suitable bag was also taken with a few small necessities for personal grooming and styling, including a decent fistful of credits, just in case. Fresh packs of breath mints and bubble-chew were tossed in as well. For the hell of it. But also just in case.
The cabbie pulls up to the platform in front of 79’s ten minutes early, hesitating to throw the air taxi door’s release because they’re too busy staring at the main entrance in bewilderment. “Huh! Thought this place was just a Clone bar… but I’m seeing more than just soldiers…” they murmur to themselves, a free appendage scratching one of two heads in thought. “Did I take you to the right joint, ma’am?”
“Yes, I’m meeting a date here,” you answer with a smile.
Your heart flutters just hearing yourself say it. A date. With a man you had first connected with on the Holonet through a curious dating service. You haven't been able to think of much else all week. Only willing time to move faster. To please hurry up and be Taungsday, already! And now tonight was the night.
Paying via surface pass, you bid the cabbie goodbye and hurry into the bar.
It’s already a packed house. Clones and civilians alike are bustin’ it down on the electronic dance floor to energetic remixes of popular jizz-wailers at the moment. A static viewscreen over the long oval bar advises patrons there will be genre changes at every half-hour.
Special requests can be made for two credits per song. The special tonight is something called the “buddy bucket”; five credits for the bucket, seven with the inclusion of two (non-alcoholic) drinks.
You look around, hoping Wrecker is already here or not far behind. You consider asking the soldier wearing a volunteer’s name sticker on his chestplate and manning the CDS event booth. While briefly wondering what the story behind his ‘Squeaky Clean’ moniker is, you pay more attention to the scrap of flimsiplast taped below the badge. “Check-in assistant”, it reads.
Oh good. Less need for guessing games. Presenting your name and profile code, you inform Squeaky who you’re here to meet. Information he’ll likely need to cross-reference any lists of RSVPs, meet-ups and the like.
“Is Wreck- er, Gentle Giant here tonight?”
Squeaky sets down the datapad in his hand in order to rifle through a small file box of reservations. Before he can locate it, a boisterous voice calls out your name across the bar. You were early, but it sounds like Wrecker beat you here.
“Is that you?!”
He calls your name again. You turn to look in his direction.
And you make eye contact.
And you know. You know that face. The face that’s not a typical COMPOR poster boy’s. That smile. The gleeful and boyish—yet so charming—smile that drives your stomach wild with butterflies. And finally that laugh. That exuberant, resounding laugh as he carefully makes his way through a sea of partying patrons to greet you.
In the flesh, at last.
Your greetings overlap once Wrecker has safely made it through the crowd, finding yourself wrapped up in a friendly hug. One long enough for him to say “It is you!” before promptly letting you go. He steps an arm’s length away to stand back and admire your attire, grin never dropping.
“You look great!”
You return the flattery. “So do you, Wrecker. Blast, you look good in civvie clothes!”
He had cleaned himself up rather nicely for tonight. His facial hair had been trimmed, to start. A rather woodsy sort of aftershave was a nice touch too; complimenting the simple, heathered gray button-down and black slacks bought just for the occasion, judging by the slight stiffness of the fabric. Care had been taken to steam out the most egregious of the wrinkles. The manner in which the long sleeves had been tucked and rolled perfectly level with each other suggested assistance.
The name on the reservation Squeaky Clean locates at long last confirms it.
“I have a… corner booth set aside for Gentle Giant and the lovely lady; the request was made by Bookish Spectacles. That sound right to you, vod?”
“Oh, yeah,” Wrecker replies, taking the small square of flimsiplast with the corresponding number, “he’s one of my squad mates.”
“You’re all set then. Hope you both enjoy your evening!”
The booth is found in no time at all.
Being slightly more removed from the dancefloor, there’s less need to talk quite as loud as you had near the entrance. A very thoughtful bit of placement on Spectacles’ part. Wrecker explains this where he and his brothers like to sit whenever they have leave close to Coruscant and crave whatever’s greasiest from 79’s. He kindly offers to hold your bag for you while you slide into the booth, being extra careful not to drop it on the sticky floor when handing it back.
Scarcely a moment after Wrecker has gotten in the opposite side of the booth, an unhelmeted soldier steps up to the table with a wry smile. He sports a neural brace, his right arm is held behind his back at an unusual angle. Obviously trying to hide something.
“You kids behaving yourselves?” he asks somewhat playfully, not quite sarcastic.
You recognize the voice from various bits of brotherly background chatter over all the different calls you’ve had with Wrecker, but you’re not sure of his name.
“We haven’t even gotten started, Ec- Domino.” Wrecker pointedly informs him. He almost slips up. Until it was safe to say that you and Wrecker were looking like a confirmed item, sticking to calling his brothers by their CDS aliases was a more neutral course of action. “You guys promised you’d leave us alone.”
“I’m only messing with you, Wreck,” his brother chuckles. Moving his right arm—which is mostly cybernetic, to a small amount of surprise—from behind his back, Domino puts a red foil gift bag down on the table. “We fully intend to keep that promise. Just came to give you this like you asked.”
Wrecker grins sheepishly.
“Oh, right. I did ask that. Uh… thanks, Domino.”
Limiting his reply to “Anytime, Wrecker,” and some encouragement to have fun, Domino takes his leave.
Now you know what one of his brothers looked like under the helmet. You watch him for a moment, thinking Domino might go back to the others who made up Clone Force 99. No luck. He finds a group of troopers sporting cobalt blue paint and decides to brush his shoulders with them for a while. Wrecker mentioned once upon a time that even after joining CF99, Domino has good rapport with his previous detachment, still.
A legion. Five-oh-something. It’ll come to you in a moment.
You’re distracted by the butterflies now that you and Wrecker have the booth to yourselves. There are matching, giddy smiles as he briefly pulls the bag to his side of the table. Just to make a quick check of the contents. “Sorry ‘bout that, cyar’ika,” is all Wrecker will say about the interaction with Domino. No sense dedicating further thought to it when you’re here for a date tonight.
Your first in-person date.
So once he’s satisfied there’s no damage and everything is accounted for, Wrecker carefully slides the gift bag back across the table. This is for you, he explains. And you can open it whenever. Now. After something to eat and a few drinks. When it’s time to leave. It’s entirely up to you.
Curiosity gets the better of you once again.
And it gives you a tooka.
A tooka doll, to be exact.
Carefully swaddled in a bundle of gift-paper, you find yourself face-to-felt with your very own “Lula” doll. The gifted plush looks just like Wrecker’s – key difference being it was made using your favorite colors. All the way down to the thread used to stitch the toy together.
“Oh, I love them…!” you coo, squeezing the cloth tooka to your chest. “It was really sweet of you to find one in my favorite color.” Oh, you can’t wait to take them home, you add.
Wrecker is soon wearing another of his boyish grins, saying he’s glad you like it. But… would you believe him if he said he didn’t find the doll? (And before you ask: no, it wasn’t one of his brothers who found it, either.) He had made it. Often spent a large amount of time while his squad had been in hyperspace working on it, lately.
You’re honestly blown away. “By hand? That’s incredible!” How long did it take him to make the doll? And when did he start?
That’s easy.
Wrecker started working on them when he realized he had a crush on you. Luckily, he already had all the material he needed on the Marauder. A lot of soldiers in the GAR had learned basic sewing skills that might come in handy in the event of an emergency, so, if he had to guess how long…? It’d probably taken him three weeks, at most, to finish the toy.
He sews a lot. It keeps his fine motor skills sharp. Something he needs when it comes to dismantling (or building) bombs. Or, say…
Adding a little message to a tag on the doll’s back following the night he had shown you his face.
A heartfelt dedication, of sorts.
'For: My cyber crush
Love: Wrecker'
A huge thank you to Maniacalbooper for making such an entertaining request and being a part of my 200 follower event, as well as having incredible patience with me in order to complete this story! I hope you and everyone else enjoyed this Wrecker fic. 🩷
Taglist: @callsign-denmark @dukeoftheblackstar @dreamie411 @dystopicjumpsuit @msmeredithrose + @returnofthepineapple @lonely-day3636
[FFF Masterlist] [TBB Masterlist] [NEW Taglist] [Requests: CLOSED]