ridin' low with my team now / livin' all of my dreams / I'm livin' all of my dreams now / the ghost inside / read between the lines / sippin' potions and elixirs / every fuckin’ night / get your mana up, kid / if you wanna fight / i won't ever let the darkness / take over my life
Fi is a pretty bitch and Lala knows it (◔◡◔✿)
AU in which the Nulls use 69s as a front to launder their shitty father’s credits, pay Laa’let a king’s ransom for the fucking privilege, and Fifi finally gets a place to run amok ashore.
For @celebrate-the-clone-wars’ Writing Wednesday Prompt “Your Reputation Precedes You”
Rating: M
Words: 2414
Inspired by The Adventures of Doll Rex.
(If there isn’t a 69′s in a universe with a 79′s, I’m calling bs)
Having spent themselves silly, the boys in blue who’d brought the house down were long gone, and 69’s grew dull again. The exhibitionism continued, sure, the dancing was always pleasing in a kind of mindless way, and when things got really boring, the massage droid in the break room had a lekku setting that induced comas—it was almost enough to make a showgirl consider marriage.
But the circus this wasn’t. There used to be wardrobe brawls and stampeding reeks and everything. The only adrenaline high to be had here was shaking up assholes who tried to stiff her colleagues until their credits and their shame fell out. A civilian crime, and a dwindling one. The soldiers never did that. Ursula fleeced them for admittance—the bigot—then got mad when the staff stretched the poor sods’ pocket change by giving them free drinks because they were polite and very, very pretty. Oh they made noise. Lots of it. But they viciously policed their own and didn’t put their hands where they shouldn’t. And not just because they thought they might get charged.
They were … “shiny.” And two meters of broad, blood-red Twi might scare the shit out of anybody whose first experience with boobs was two hours ago and three levels up, when they got squished against someone on the dance floor or got flashed by a waitress.
Hence the boredom of a somewhat self-conscious girl who doesn’t like working a room for tips.
“Lala, that’s for you,” chirps Diohn when Laa’let returns from the freshers.
She stops fidgeting with her bra and rebuilding circuses in the sky and glances at the Zabrak bartender. Diohn points at the counter, then returns to digging through the mixer chiller.
A doll is sitting on the end of the bar.
It’s propped up around a bright red cocktail, looking stupidly drunk, resting its chin on the rim of a glass about as wide as its comical face. Laa’let narrows her eyes at the arrangement. A clone. She recognizes the little flared skirt and shoulder decoration—and the golden top of one of those boys in blue. She scans the club for any that fit the description, but it’s just a throbbing sea of maroon sweats and crumpled greys, with a shrinking handful of businessmen pressed against the edges of the room; the only troopers in plates are the wrong color, and most of them are sitting along the rack, where they’ve figured out that two shoulder wings promise some seriously advanced recon—a much more exciting and personal show than anything happening at the bar.
“Who?” asks Laa’let.
“Didn’t see,” Diohn shrugs from inside the chiller, “they just left credits. And a note.”
Laa’let slides up towards the drink, ignoring the vulgar garnish—a cherry shoved in between a split taffy stem. The script is very regular, but the napkin is torn on the angles, like they couldn’t get the pressure right:
For the Ruby Rancor ♥
She grates the sharp tips of her teeth together. “You said you wouldn’t make it a drink.”
“I didn’t! I swear!” Diohn takes her own dulled molars to the cap of a bottle and spits it in the trash. “But you should stop fighting it. It’s definitely caught on.”
“Then what’s with this,” Laa’let says. It’s not just the garnish that’s offensive. Diohn’s clearly chosen her most bulbous glass, and she must have some campari, premixed to the perfect shade, chilling in a jug somewhere.
“That’s just me doing my fucking job. Now you should do yours.”
Diohn won’t share her tips forever, but Laa’let has her limits. Maybe too many of them for this career. “It’s not my job to talk to dolls.”
“Talking to cute faces with nothing but stuffing between their ears? I’d say that’s definitely in your contract. Roll out some carnival tricks.”
Laa’let’s lekku stiffen. “Circus. And I was a fucking acrobat.”
“Whatever. There’s still an audience—and maybe they’ll tip.”
It’s not an audience if you didn’t invite it, she refrains from saying, it’s an embarrassment. Too much like real life. With a frown, Laa’let swipes the drink, and the doll flops face down onto the chromium counter. Pathetic.
“Hand me that,” she says, snapping her fingers at an open bubblezap bottle.
Diohn giggles and swiggs the dregs. “Awww, someone’s had one too many!”
Laa’let maneuvers the doll into a seated position against the bottle, mindful of the oversized head. Its eyes are fixed off to the side, as if deliberately avoiding her boobs. “I need to get on his level. Is this a double?” she asks, stirring the drink once with the garnish.
One of Diohn’s liberal shots cascades over her peach fingers as she preps a line of Fuzzy Yodas—frothy, green, and strong enough to make you talk backwards. “You’ll have a nice time. I promise.”
Laa’let pulls out one of the lethris barstools and drops onto it. She hates sitting on these chairs. They’re sticky and undersized, like everything else here—even the ceiling is too low to accommodate her best tricks on stage. It’s maddening to be reduced to pantomime, the feeling of holding herself by halves, but Diohn’s right. She’s still a consummate performer, she’s still on the clock, and she’s still fucking broke.
“So,” Laa’let begins, taking a long sip that melts her sinuses and makes her damn nipples hard, “I’m new to this job and don’t have a lot of conversation up my sleeve, so do you want tragic backstory or tragic backstory?”
The little soldier makes big eyes at the turquoise Togruta on stage, but doesn’t indicate a preference.
“Tragic backstory it is. You might think it all started when my parents sold me to some charlatan in a travelling circus. Or when my growth spurt went on two years too long and I couldn’t get health insurance—did you know organs over a meter long are considered a pre-existing condition?”
She’s got her lekku draped over her shoulders and she shakes the tip of one in the little soldier’s face.
“Speciesist, I know. Free Porn Taa is laughably small in every department, so it’s not a priority for him. And the Togs aren’t represented in the Senate—not that healthcare is a priority there either.”
“Ugh, Lala,” groans Diohn, loudly dumping an armful of bottles into the bin as she passes by. “Politics? At my bar? No wonder he’s bored.”
Laa’let makes a rude gesture at Diohn’s back. “Anyway,” she says to the disinterested doll, “things really didn’t go downhill for me until the fucking Zillo Beast.”
The rack around Tosha’s stage erupts in applause when she finishes her routine. Another charming clone thing. It’d never occurred to them not to clap.
“Did I see it? You bet your plastic ass I did. Three of its gnarly legs came crashing through the roof during my act.”
Just for something to do, Laa’let takes the garnish from her drink and starts to trace a wet rendering of the monster that ruined her life on the counter.
“Squashed half the audience. I fell into the netting, along with all the buttresses, and was buried with broken ribs for three damn days. And this is where having no health insurance, no transferable skills, and no tolerance for animal abuse lands you,” she says, gesturing at the room, humid and a hazy red in the house lights, like an oversized womb.
Laa’let follows the little soldier’s gaze again. Tosha’s now working the rack for tolls. She’s got her knees on either side of one trooper’s ears, gripping him by his red shoulder wings as he gently tucks some funny money into her panties, ruffled and pink like cotton candy.
“Look, I know she’s topless and I’m not, but you could at least pretend to pay attention.”
A trooper in purple plates, very much paying attention, suddenly materalizes next to the doll. Laa’let takes in his double wings and his skirt—has she been performing for a fancy ARC?—and then moves onto his hair. It’s shaved into a landing strip across his skull and down his chin, and she can’t help wonder if the landscaping extends below the belt, too.
“There you are, Rex!” he declares, smiling broadly like he’d be very happy to enlighten her. “Who’s your pretty friend?” He gives a wave with one of the doll’s stubby arms.
This part always makes Laa’let nervous. What seemed like a good idea when she was eighteen and angry now made her job—wooing credits out of beings already much smaller than herself—very difficult.
“Doesn’t your friend know it’s rude not to stare?” she says, as softly as she can over the synth-glimmik pumping from the speakers, shielding her fangs with full lips—the only gift her mother gave her.
“My apologies, ma’am,” answers the trooper while ogling her tits for both of them. “He said he knew you, but he was probably talking out of his shebs.”
“Nah, he’s just shy. He doesn’t know how to ask,” comes a rumble in her cone. Another trooper pokes his head over her shoulder and starts taking mental soundings down her cleavage.
Mindful of the bulk of her lek, she turns to glance at his plates—also purple, also winged. “Ask what?”
The second one tilts his pretty face up. His hair curls in a way Laa’let recognizes as attractive to humans, and thick black stripes on his cheeks somehow brighten his green eyes, which sparkle at her with all the optimism of someone about two drinks in. “How much to blow bubbles?”
Laa’let takes a moment to parse this phrasing. The soldiers have a funny way of talking, but blowing bubbles is a far cry from their usual slang, crude and derived from military words she doesn’t understand. But eyes speak a pretty universal language, and theirs are glued to her red rack. If anyone’s going to introduce face fapping to the clone lexicon, it won’t be her.
But Green is far too cute to be allowed to bury those sweet cheeks so soon. The cheroot smoking on his breath is making her heart flutter, and she downs the rest of her drink.
“What’s your name, soldier?”
“Jock, ma’am. And that fastidious fucker’s Muse.”
She struts her long fingers atop the bar towards the doll and starts to toy suggestively with his little skirt. “Well, Jock, boys in blue get things on the house,” Laa’let teases with a smile, not bothering about the fangs. If these two are going to spook, better get the disappointment over with.
Muse sits his ass straight down for the long haul, and Jock hovers even closer.
“And boys in other colors?” he mumbles, brushing the back of a finger down her shoulder, evidently still full of hope. That he doesn’t go straight for her plushy lek says he’s got manners, and Laa’let feels her bum go warm on the barstool.
“What makes purple boys special?” she asks, genuinely curious. She’s not encountered any troopers in this soft shade before, and 69’s does a good trade in color—every dancer’s got their favorites, but it’s considered good luck to get crisp tips off a new one. They think it means you’re a trooper’s first; Laa’let just suspects a counterfeit operation somewhere.
“We’ve got walkers and big, fuck-off tanks with psycho warfare tech” and “we’re an elite, hypermobile, armored reconnaissance unit” are the simultaneous answers.
Muse makes a disapproving face at his comrade and straightens up a little when he clarifies. “We’re the 113th Armored Infantry Battalion, ma’am.”
“And the color?” she asks, fingering the lining of Jock’s skirt. Maybe she could get him down to nothing but this, then bribe it off him? The lethris on these things is pretty lush, given it’s army issue.
“Who’s your Jedi?” Laa’let prods, wondering how much two elite soldiers will leak over big tits.
Jock squints at Muse. “I think that’s classified?”
“Definitely classified.”
“He’s sealed tight but … I’m working on it,” Jock assures her with a wink, mischievous and loaded. She can’t tell if he means his Jedi, Muse, or both, but his playfulness is certainly working on her. Even if Diohn hasn’t just made herself conspicuous, inquiring with gestures about the status of flimsi in fingers.
Laa’let smiles, plucks the doll from the counter, and dumps him headfirst into her cleavage.
“Steady on, Rex,” gasps Muse, wide-eyed, grinning stupidly between the doll and slack-jawed Jock.
“For you two,” she begins, giving the little head a very illustrative shake, “this is ten…”
Using the nubbed arms, Laa’let pushes the golden top of her dress down, popping out one ivory nipple, then the other, conscious that she’s already given away about fifteen credits. “Handsies is twenty...”
Flipping the little doll over by the arms, she lets him come to rest where creamy fabric melts into the divot between her hips. Her senses are alight with human! now that Jock’s knees have failed him and his head’s propped up on her shoulder. Her right lek tingles against his balmy cheek. She returns Muse’s puppet wave. “And anything more is subject to performance review.”
“We…” Muse begins, opening and closing his mouth like a blurrg on spice, “we’ve only got twenty between us.”
Laa’let bites her lip and bounces the doll in her broad lap, like she isn’t preparing to inflate more than just their manual scores. She’s flipped her glass and her tits are out. Diohn better be getting her a fucking room.
“Tell you what. Twenty plus this little trooper and you might find I’m big enough to share.”
.
.
.
.
.
[CT-61-6898]
Are you seated
[CT-27-5555]
in briefing w some top squares
knock me down my ombre hombre
[CT-61-6898]
…
RIP Cpt Rex
[CT-27-5555]
!
what did those dumbfucks do
[CT-27-5555]
its only been 12 hrs
we r still in the system ffs
[CT-27-5555]
facts tho he was ltd edition
not even rex actual has one
[CT-61-6898]
unnamed.holo
[CT-27-5555]
!
u perv
what did u fucking do to him
[CT-61-6898]
Shit
That wasn’t for you
Wrong holo
[CT-27-5555]
too late
...rip smokecheck
[CT-27-5555]
commdr tano likes ur paintjob
[CT-61-6898]
You fucking wish
(...but I’ll pass on the compliment)
[CT-27-5555]
so he didn’t get creampied
good 2 know
what happened
[CT-61-6898]
rexnruby.holo
[CT-27-5555]
!
[CT-61-6898]
Is he scuba qualified
[CT-27-5555]
!
[CT-61-6898]
Muse is sorry not sorry
Rex was sacrificed for the mission
He did give me a datachip instead
[CT-27-5555]
WORTH IT
Smokecheck belongs to tiend. The 113th bros and Miss Laa’let are mine.
Laa’let and Dogma by @hfbeasty
- - - - - - -
They’d rolled into 69’s with all the gusto of kicked shit and vacant expressions that said their credits were already wasted on a place like this.
… and he isn’t with them.
If prolonged ogling is rude—cover bar or no—deliberate neglect is worse.
“Hey,” she says, striding up to the table where they sat absently tumbling empty shot glasses in their big hands. When Blonde Boy still refuses to look her in the eye, she pops up his chin, demanding his attention. “Where is he?”
His evasiveness doesn’t stop there and he just stares parsecs beyond her left shoulder as he mumbles out, “Which one?”
Fuck. The barvy bald one’s missing too.
(“Decent pay, easy clientele, and the best bartender on this level. What’s the catch?”
“Showgirl like you might not mind so much, but we’ve got a problem with the turnover here. Not staff. Patrons. You see a fresh face once and never again—and not because they don't fancy your tits.”)
She spreads two of her long red fingers and draws the open triangle down over her eyes and on either side of her nose, imitating the crude marking that had distinguished Dogma from the rest.
“Prison,” Blonde spits out, with disgusted finality that probably means “dead”—or “decommissioned,” which she knows to be much the same thing.
- - - - - - -
Laa’let first appeared in Yes Man, Yes Ma’am, a sort of Clones Gone Wild crack fic written for the Star Wars Rares Exchange last year. But she grew a personality and backstory all her own and for those who enjoyed that bonkers thing (thank you, each and every comment forms a daisy chain around my heart), there will be more of Laa’let in time. And I cannot thank the brilliant Beasty enough for taking such care with her!! This artwork is everything to me ♥
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Dogma (Star Wars)/some Twi'lek goddess idek
Characters: Dogma (Star Wars), CT-27-5555 | Fives | ARC-5555, CT-21-0408 | Echo, Unnamed Twi'lek Dancer, CT-7567 | Rex, CT-5597 | Jesse, CT-5385 | Tup, Hardcase (Star Wars)
Additional Tags: Fives's favorite story, he's dined out on this for years, Public Sex, PWP, Age Appropriate Clone Shenanigans, Verbal Abuse, stupid rhymes, Voyeurism, Strippers & Strip Clubs, just bad behavior all around, wtf even are dialogue tags, everyone's a little shit, this gets weird y'all
Summary:
The story behind an enigmatic tattoo and Torrent Company’s most infamous dare, as partially told by Fives.
I have a comment for your fic. That one about how Dogma got his tattoo is one of the funniest tcw fics I’ve ever read. It’s so entertaining. I reread it periodically. It’s one of my favorites. I saw art of somebody’s OC a little while ago and went “Ruby?!” and it wasn’t her but I went back to read it again
hahaha, sometimes it's the fics you least expect :D glad Laa'let, alias Ruby left a mark that brings her clients coming back for more :3 thank you!
