No one in 141 has a wife. Marriage equals grief in their line of work. Imagine waking up one day to realize your world has ended inside some abandoned warehouse—fighting with arms until they can’t anymore. And the last thing they see is rusted pipes, blood, and guts.
“Love is for the meanest ones, Simon… spare the grief, son,” Price says. Not unkindly. Just honest. Soap learns that lesson years ago when he dates a spy and has to stand in her ruined house afterward, staring at the wreckage of what he thought was real.
Luckily for Ghost, love is an alien emotion he is never meant to experience. Sure, he is a man with needs and often sleeps with flings and civilians he finds at clubs, but the moment a flicker of connection appears - he runs. Ghost doesn’t need the lesson. All the faces are just a blur in his memory, all merging together to make a distant cloud. It’s easy when nothing is expected of him.
Thanks to the childhood his dad gave him, he is scarred from having anything permanent. The only thing that belongs solely to him is his mind and body… everything else is rented. Even affection.
“It was just one night. Get over it.” He doesn’t break hearts. He doesn’t sever lives. His childhood already taught him what permanence costs. Face of his mother smiling at him with a bleeding lip as he showed her his new superhero shirt. She paid the cost of love.
But everyone sees how Ghost starts acting differently when the new Medic!Reader joins the base.
The way he looks at her as she aimlessly navigates the hallways ending up in front of his room - a dead end.
“Not that way, ma’am,” he says, voice flat. “That one’s mine.”
How he calls her “directionally challenged like a baby penguin,” and it sounds dismissive until you realize he never sounds annoyed. He never raises his voice. Soap notices the door later - no initials. He’s sure they used to be there. Maybe Ghost wanted nothing to mark it as off-limits. Who knows she ends up getting inside someday..accidentally of course.
Ghost is not a patient man. He prefers efficiency, precision. She’s still in combat medic training. Her hands shake when the instructor yells at her. Soap chokes on air when Ghost volunteers as her practice dummy. Everyone in base knows their Lt. liked to make his free-time hell for rookies. Good luck catching him on his break, making rooks run laps for so much as breathing wrong.
“Got a day off,” Ghost says. “Nothing else to do.”
The room quiets as he lies down on the cold floor, motionless, letting her kneel beside him. She repeats the head officer’s instructions softly, Ghost stays still. He doesn’t correct her. Doesn’t rush her.
When other medic trainees touch him, he bristles. Sharp words. Clear boundaries. With her - nothing.
He adjusts himself slightly so she doesn’t have to strain. Lifts his leg without a comment so she can secure the tourniquet properly. Her small hands pressing his thigh to get it right. And when her hands hesitate, he waits. When she tightens it too slowly, he doesn’t snap.
Soap catches it then. Not a smile. Nothing that obvious. Just the way Ghost’s shoulders stay relaxed.
The big bastard looks…calm. He was never quiet with the rookies, the trainees..the newbies. Even their existence would annoy him to a level he would strangle one every week just "to teach em how it's done right". Soap would have to save the poor newbie before they die.
Ghost doesn’t smile behind the mask. But for the first time, he doesn’t run either. He stays patient and leaves the moment her work was finished. No remarks nothing..he just storms out of the hall. While she stands there wondering what happened to piss her Lt. off.
There is not enough time in the world to have prepared you for the chaos of your first official Task Force 141 mission. Things started off relatively simple, a routine you’ve been through countless times before: getting dropped off at the exfil location, going on the plan one last time before the team splits off into two separate groups. You’re on team A with Price and Gaz.
Something about the whole situation seemed off. The hairs on the back of your neck standing up as every second passes, quietly making your way through the compound.
“Something’s wrong,” you mutter into the comms.
As soon as you let go of your mic, the east wing - where Soap and Ghost went - explodes, the whole building shaking. The lights above you flicker, and you don’t even have time to register what happened before there’s open gunfire and you’re ducking into the closest room to avoid it.
You’re pretty sure you hear Price shouting over the walkie, but you can’t make it out. Not when electrical interference screeches in your ear, and the lights in the building all pop, plummeting you into darkness.
There’s no time to adjust to the darkness. Fire fills the hallway, followed by the loud crack of lightning.
You’re out of your element, maybe in over your head, and you shriek when a hand grabs your arm, yanking you back into the hallway. Only to be met with Gaz’s amber eyes and pretty smile.
“Medic’s alive, Cap,” he reports, dragging you down the hallway.
---
It was a set up. An ambush hoping to take out the team. A failed attempt, given the way Soap and Price set the entire building ablaze.
There’s a small part of you that’s disappointed you didn’t get to see anyone transform. Your first mission with dragons, and you didn’t even get to see any!
But all the chaos turned into background noise as soon as you saw Ghost, blood seeping out of a wound on his side. All the switches in your brain finally click on, thoughts fading as your feet carry you over to him, ignoring the way he stares at you.
“‘M fine,” he huffs.
“You’re bleeding,” you shoot back immediately, already digging through your kit. “What happened?”
“Took a knife.”
Soap and Gaz snicker quietly as the way you freeze, carefully dragging your gaze up to Ghost. While he looks impassive, unbothered, there is a fire brewing in your eyes, a flame just looking for release. If you were one of them, there’d probably be smoke coming out of your nose.
“And where is the knife?”
Because it’s not in Ghost’s side anymore.
He pulls it out of his tac vest, still covered in his blood. Serrated, probably did more damage coming out than going in.
“Steamin’ Jesus! Are you fucking stupid?!” you snap at him, and there’s no covering the way Soap and Gaz start cackling as you rip into Ghost. You’re on your own warpath, chewing him out, even as your hands work to pack the wound, temporarily fixing it until you can get back to base and properly take care of it.
It’s at this moment that Price decides you’re staying. The team needs a medic who isn’t afraid of them, and you’re actively chewing Ghost out like he’s a child.
NECK NUZZLES… idk maybe im touch deprived but i love the idea of just hiding from the world in someone’s neck.
You learned the rules fast. They kept you alive. They kept everyone sane. Which meant neck-nuzzling had a strict roster.
Ghost:
Ghost’s rule was absolute: never in front of others. Private, always private. You only saw that side of him when the mask came off and the world felt like it’d been turned down a notch. In his bunkroom, late and only when the house was a hush, you’d edge in, careful as a cat. He’d let you hide in the crook of his neck a small, fierce permission. He didn’t speak much; his hand at the back of your head was the whole language. When anyone asked later, he’d shrug like it was nothing. You knew better. It was everything.
Price:
Price’s concessions were measured and official. He’d sign off on neck-naps only when the operational calendar read no mission today and the paperwork was done. You could find him in his office, lamp low, maps rolled away, poring over reports with a cup of tea gone cold. If you came in quiet and tipped into his shoulder, he would pause, close the folder, and let you fold into him like a bookmark. He’d pat your head once…two times if you’d been particularly useful that day, and then go back to the ledger. No fuss. The gesture was a promise: I will hold you while the world is stupid.
Gaz:
Gaz was the slow, solid kind. He didn’t make a big show; he made room. If you were touch-starved and needed to hide, he was the man who’d let you tuck in without flinching. On watch, he was all focus; off-watch, his default was inadvertently domestic. He’d let you curl against his neck while he cleaned kit or scrolled through a battered phone. He’d talk about nothing; football scores, a stupid pub he remembered once, while his hand kept a steady rhythm along your spine. He wasn’t flashy about affection but he was reliable like gravity.
Soap:
Soap would make it theatre if you let him. He’d scoop you up in a grin, announce your “neck privileges” to anyone within earshot(lol), and then proceed to be loud and ridiculous while you burrowed in. But it was the little things; how he’d squeeze you a fraction tighter if you trembled, or how he’d braid a stray lock of hair behind your ear without making a point of it, that proved he meant it. He gave warmth with the volume turned up
Guilty By Association
Commission from the very sweet and patient @soleilak
You (Callsign: Giggles, Gigs for short) are a medic on temporary assignment with the 141. The only problem? You're a former member of Graves' Shadow Company.
Content:
Injury, angst, power imbalance, fingering and oral (reader receiving)
“Get your arse in gear, Gigs!”
Already exhausted and aching, the rough bark of your temporary captain urges your heavy feet faster. Gunfire sprays all around – you’re so addled you can’t tell if it’s enemy or friendly. All you know are your orders, a cry of survival in the uneven pounding of your heart. A bullet plows into the ground dangerously close to your foot.
Just a few meters ahead, Gaz curses and tumbles to the ground, hat lost. It’s not even a decision to alter your course. You can’t tell instantly what the damage is; if he’s been hit or just tripped. So you tuck and dive, grabbing an arm and leg as your back rolls across his chest. The momentum gets the two of you up and moving again, adrenaline taking the edge off his weight.
“Get us to the trees and I can run again!” he shouts in your ear.
You settle your blurry vision on the forest line ahead. Blessed cover – and your extraction point just a mile further. Goal set, you push through the pain of bruised ribs, a wrenched arm, and the ricochet of a bullet across your thigh. You wheeze your way well past the tree line, weaving between trunks until Kyle’s palm smacks at your side.
“We’re good, we’re good,” he says.
You grunt as you set him down, give him the quickest onceover in the history of medics. His calf is bleeding, just above the tops of his boots. It’s an ugly wound; it’ll need packing – but he can survive until exfil.
“Where the fuck are you two?!” Price growls through your headset.
Kyle pats your shoulder and takes off again, only the slightest limp indicating his injury. You grit your teeth and try to follow his example.
No one helps you into the chopper when you’re the last on the ladder. You’re not surprised, but it still stings. Salt on the day’s wounds.
Once the heli is up in the air, you scoot over to help Kyle with the wound on his calf. It’s almost hypnotic, the press-wind-press-wind of packing the deep gouge. Almost like unspooling your own tension through the care of a teammate. Every inch of bandage seems to amplify your own pains, though, as the mission high ebbs.
You hurt.
When Kyle’s done, you sit back a bit to assess him for any other wounds. The twitch of his mouth and slight bob of his head tells you he’s sorted, though – and it’s more thanks than you usually get.
“Where the hell were you?” Price demands.
“I got held up, sir,” you admit. Had been ambushed by two men you thought were on another floor. Bad luck, that. Or just poor preparation on your part. Your side twinges as you ease yourself into a seat. “Won’t happen again.”
Price grunts, mollified. “See that it doesn’t.”
You get maybe thirty seconds of peace before Soap’s voice cuts through the tentative peace.
“Gonnae take care o’ that or keep bleedin’ all over Nik’s seat?” he teases. Or at least it would be, if not for the sharp glint in his eyes.
What’s that saying about sins of the father? Well, Phillip Graves was definitely not your father, nor was General Shepherd – though he was old enough to be. In their absence, it seems you’re paying for their crimes regardless.
“Right,” you sigh, tearing off the bottom of your shirt, “sorry, Nik.”
“Just stay alive to clean it up, eh?” he replies jovially.
It’s not much of a joke, but you laugh anyway. You don’t live up to your callsign much nowadays, so you’ll take the levity when you can.
You tie off the makeshift bandage with a grunt and lean your head back, too uncomfortable to doze off.
At least the infirmary is a friendly sight. The staff are always grateful for an extra set of hands – even if they once belonged to a Shadow. And you have a lot of time to help since you’re not encouraged (never mind invited) to any non-professional activities with the 141. Working with the nurses during all that extra time has gained you some friends at least.
Dana is on call when you limp in. She fusses about you looking like the walking dead – then goes on to tell regale you with details from her current first-time watch of the show. The stream of words soothes you in the quiet little treatment room.
“Think we need an x-ray, dove?” she asks, prodding at your already discolored ribs.
“Wouldn’t help,” you sigh, “we can just wrap ‘em and call it.”
“Alright, dear, but you know what to do if it gets worse.”
“’Course,” you answer, summoning a grin, “can’t be keelin’ over before your nephew leaves that tart.”
“Oh, don’t even get me started – you know what she said at Sunday dinner?”
You giggle through her undoubtedly embellished story until she gets to your thigh – and the terrible bandaging.
“A piece of your shirt,” she scolds.
“My bag was too far, and my ribs hurt,” you complain.
“And what are all those big burly men for then, eh?” she huffs.
You shake your head. “I can’t ask them to help.”
Dana scowls past your hip. “Just because you’re the medic—”
“Pardon.”
You jolt in surprise at Captain Price in the doorway. Christ, he takes up the breadth of it too, shoulders brushing the jamb on either side. Even mission-dirty and stern-looking, he’s a hell of a welcome sight – though an unexpected one.
You try to sit up at some semblance of attention, but he waves you off. Can’t say you’re not grateful, unable to help wincing as you lie back.
You don’t notice him pause as Dana washes the wound, too busy sucking air through your nose.
“What’s… the damage?” he asks carefully.
You open your mouth to answer, but Dana beats you to it.
“Contused ribs, sprained shoulder, and a bullet wound to the thigh,” she rattles off. You’re always impressed by the undercurrent of disapproval and accusation she manages to weave into each word. “Not to mention dehydration and sleep deprivation. You’ve been staying up again, haven’t you?”
You clear your throat and turn your eyes skywards. “Oh, look at the ceiling. What a lovely ceiling.”
She clicks her tongue and begins packing the wound as you had for Gaz.
“Bullet wound?” Price asks sharply. Your eyes flick guiltily to him. “Why the hell am I hearing about this now?”
“It’s just a graze, sir,” you reply. “Sergeant Garrick’s was worse.”
His jaw does that thing you secretly (ashamedly) drool over, where it tightens and jumps. You know it’s not good but hey, silver linings right?
He doesn’t ream you out though. Just crosses his burly arms and lets out a long, heavy breath. You’re… not really sure what that means.
“Debrief at 0700 tomorrow, Gigs,” he says, voice unusually subdued.
“Yessir,” you reply dutifully.
As always, a strange mix of relief and disappointment twists in your chest as he walks away. Talking to him is a bit like being under a microscope – if that microscope was ready to brand you a low-down, no-good, dirty, rotten traitor at the first hint of suspicious activity.
You get it, you do. Graves and Shadow Company tried to kill Soap and Ghost, Los Vaqueros, and committed unspeakable atrocities. As much history as you had with him, he deserved what came to him, and Shepherd will deserve the same when he’s found.
Not that your hands were clean before Las Almas, but you drew the line when the orders came. Couldn’t bear to detain or shoot the friends you’d made in Los Vaqueros, or join the hunting party for Soap and Ghost. You’d been labelled a turncoat by your own teammates, thrown into a cell to be “court-martialed.”
Kate Laswell coming to your rescue was a second chance, a small-time miracle that you’ve been determined to earn ever since. In your more pathetic moments, usually in the small, dark, lonely hours of sleepless nights, you wonder how much it will take. How long you’ll be guilty by association.
At least this isn’t shaping up to be one of those nights. You’re half asleep by the time Dana sends you off, arm chilly from the IV fluids she bullied you into. For once, you might get a few decent hours.
Your second surprise of the night comes just outside your barracks door. Soap is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, head back and eyes closed. Awake, though. His index finger is tapping a steady but rapid pace on his bicep.
“Soap?” you say, alerting him. “Did you… need me for something? You’re not injured, are you?”
He straightens up, drops his arms to his side. You pause a noticeable distance away, uncertainty leashing you to the safety of space. Not that you feel threatened. His posture is the loosest it’s been around you since… well, since before Las Almas went to hell.
“’Course no’, I woulda – tha’s not why I’m here.”
“Oh…” You process the strange wording. “Why are you here, then?”
He shifts his weight, a little line appearing between his brows as he seems to gather himself.
“I’m here to apologize.”
You blink. “Huh?”
“Look, what I said during exfil – it was bang outta order. You’ve been nothin’ but good to us ‘n I’m still holdin’ on to old shite.”
You shift, adjust the stupid flimsy sling for your sore shoulder. “It’s… not that old,” you reason, “and I don’t blame you, either. Not after everything.”
“Still, ya did the right thing back then – and ya’ve proven yourself half a dozen times over, besides. I’ve got no reason to treat you like an enemy.”
You swallow past the lump in your throat. It feels like you’ve swallowed a grenade; any moment the pin is going to come out and an explosion of gory emotion will splatter the walls.
“Thanks, Soap.”
He grunts something about “not thanking him” and ducks his head, shuffling past you.
“Seriously,” you say, voice strained from keeping it even. “I really appreciate it.”
He pauses, gives you a genuinely kind look. “Rest up, lass.”
It’s the best you’ve slept in a long while – after you cry into your pillow, that is.
At 0700 the next day, you’re in Price’s office, sore but in high spirits. Gaz sat next to you and Soap said good morning at breakfast. Even Ghost seemed less frosty than usual, grunting at you in acknowledgement when you’d sat down.
Of course, the good luck couldn’t last.
The debrief itself is fine. You speak when it’s your turn, listen when it isn’t. About as normal as it gets for a special ops squad.
It’s as the rest of the task force is filing out the door that the other shoe drops.
“Gigs, a word,” Price calls.
You freeze mid-step, shoot Gaz a panicky glance. He glances over your shoulder, snorts, and pats your arm in solidarity. Not as helpful as he thinks.
With a deep breath, you pivot back around. The door closes behind you with a damning click. You can’t even hide your hands behind your back to fidget at parade rest – your arm needs to stay in the sling for the rest of the day.
“We need to discuss yesterday,” Price says, palms flat on his desk.
You tilt your head. Wasn’t that what the debrief was for?
“Sir?” you ask. “If I – did I do something wrong?”
He deflates a bit, big shoulders dropping before he pushes himself up and rounds the desk.
“No, you’re not in trouble,” he explains, “but I have concerns.”
When he gestures for you to take one of the visitor seats, you do. You’re a bit surprised when he takes the other – though you can’t help an appreciative glance while his attention is elsewhere. He practically dwarfs the stupid little chair, and the way he spreads his thighs trying to get comfortable…
“Concerns, sir?” you parrot, trying to corral your scrambled braincells.
“What you said in the infirmary,” he begins, expression solemn, “is that really how you feel?”
“What I said…?” You try to recall anything of note from last night, but most of what came out of your mouth is a blur at best. “What did I say?”
He leans forward, lacing his scarred fingers together. You try not to stare, though the way he rubs at the knuckle of one thumb with the other is distracting. It’s an unusual gesture for the disciplined, determined man you’ve been honored to call captain for months now.
“That you can’t ask us to help you.”
A block of ice drops into your stomach.
“That’s not – I know you guys would help me if I needed it,” you hurry to say.
He gives you a long look. “Then why don’t you ever ask? You were shot and didn’t say a bloody thing.”
You shift, unable to meet his eyes. Can’t find the words to answer. It’s not that you didn’t think you could ask. It just didn’t feel right with the bad blood between you, Soap, and Ghost. Besides, you’re the medic, you’re supposed to be the one fixing everyone else – not the other way around. What use are you otherwise?
You try to explain this to Price, but you sense (from the grim set to his handsome features) that it’s not helping.
“I’ve been a shite captain to you, haven’t I?” he sighs.
You jump. “No, sir! You’re a great captain. I trust you with my life.”
He chuckles, but it’s devoid of humor. Sounds almost self-deprecating.
“I’ve not done a bloody thing to earn it.”
You shake your head. “Sir, you’ve kept me alive for months now. That’s plenty.”
Beyond that, he’s always been fair with you. Doesn’t give you shit assignments or the most dangerous roles in missions. Always makes sure you’re alive and accounted for. Calls you out for mistakes and faults, sure, but it’s for the sake of you and everyone else. He’s been just as ready to pat your shoulder for a clever maneuver or praise a good shot.
“You know damn well it’s not,” he scolds.
You huff, almost amused. “Sir, with all due respect, get off the cross we need the wood.”
His eyebrows jump up nearly to his hairline. Normally, you wouldn’t dream of being so cavalier with Price of all people. Soap’s truce last night gives you the confidence to continue.
“I know you didn’t trust me as a former Shadow at first,” you say, “but you looked out for me anyway. After the first few missions… it seemed like things evened out.”
He sighs and sits back, running a hand down his face.
“Laswell vouched for you – it’s the only reason I didn’t send you right back on that plane,” he admits. A small but genuine smile curls his mouth. “And then you put your life on the line for my boys time and time again.”
You mirror him, the tension in your shoulders easing away with each word.
“I knew things weren’t great with the others, but I thought it was best if I kept out of it. Let you lot sort it out so long as you all cooperated when it mattered,” he continues. “I didn’t realize how bad it got, and that’s on me. I’m sorry.”
You shake your head and lightly tap your boot against his. “It wasn’t the wrong call, sir. I think things are going to get better from here on out.”
He hums, eyes searching your gentle smile for any hint of insincerity. But you believe it, and it must show, because his eyes crinkle as he smiles back.
“Speaking of better,” he says, clearing his throat. “Mind if I take a look at those ribs? Dana had some choice words for me this morning.”
You giggle and tug your shirt from your waistband, hiking the hem up high to show the reddish-purple mottling all over your left side. Price makes a noise of sympathy, easing out of his chair to the carpeted floor. On his knees, he inches closer, leaning in to inspect the damage.
“How’d this happen?” he asks, voice lowering.
His fingertips skim over the edges of the bruises, featherlight. Your voice gets strangled in your throat as tingles race across your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
“Um, hostile kicked me. A lot.”
His eyes flick up to yours, hard as ice. “Dead?”
“Yessir.”
His gaze softens, a proud, smug quirk to his lips. “Atta girl.”
You can’t fully suppress a shiver. It’s not just the gentle, considerate touches. It’s the purring praise from a man you’ve admired and harbored a sizeable crush on.
“Cold?” he asks.
This is your chance to wave it off. To pretend you are not so inappropriately infatuated with a man you thought only tolerated you until a minute ago. A little white lie, you could smooth your shirt back down, and be on your way.
But you don’t want to do that. Not really.
And from the way his pupils are slowly, steadily subsuming his irises, neither does he.
“No, sir,” you whisper.
His slow exhale caresses across your tender ribs.
“Then would you be comfortable if I checked on your ‘little graze’ as well?” It’s a tease, but also a genuine check of your boundaries. Another out, freely and openly given, that only solidifies your resolve to see where he’s going with this.
“Yessir,” you answer, shifting to get at your belt.
Price tsks, though, big hands spreading across each thigh and urging you down again.
“Now, now, don’t aggravate that shoulder,” he murmurs. “Let me help like a good captain.”
You swallow back an embarrassing noise as deft hands unbuckle your belt, thumb the button of your pants open, and drag the zipper down tooth by tooth. His thick, warm forearms rest on your thighs the entire time, keep them spread to accommodate his wide shoulders. He’s in no rush to continue his “checkup,” toying along the length of your waistband before easing it down.
“Lift up for me, darling, there we are,” he murmurs. You gasp softly as his palms brush your ass while sliding your pants down. Then outright squeak as he squeezes a cheek in each hand, a low noise of admiration rumbling in his throat.
“Gorgeous girl,” he chuckles. “Gorgeous arse.”
Your face feels hot as he tugs your pants down to your ankles, though the square of gauze and tape on the back of your thigh is long revealed. It takes conscious effort not to squirm under his hot gaze, praying a wet spot isn’t already visible on your panties.
“Let’s just get this one free…” He works the pantleg over your boot, leaving the other pooled around the laces. “Now then.”
You bite into your lip as he hauls your calf up into his shoulder, propping your leg up to get a clear view of your thigh.
“Not bled through,” he notes, tracing the neat edges of the medical tape. “You’ve been taking good care of it. Well done.”
You can’t help the little twitch that evokes, your whole body reacting to the deep timbre of his voice. He’s not oblivious to his effect on you, a glint in his eye as his bristly jaw brushes the inside of your knee.
“T-told you, it wasn’t too bad,” you manage weakly.
He hums and your pussy clenches helplessly around nothing. His eyes flick down and you know it’s all over.
“And what about this, hm?” he asks. You whimper as his thumb skims the lace edge of your panties. “Have you been taking care of this?”
Flustered and yet so, so turned on, you can only shake your head. He coos in mock disappointment, rubbing slow circles across your labia, closer and closer to where you’re aching and needy.
“It’s alright sergeant,” he soothes, “your captain will take care of you.”
Except he only rubs you through your panties A maddening pressure back and forth along the wet seam of your cunt, never delving deeper. You break down in hardly any time at all.
“Sir, please,” you whine, wriggling. He’s quick to brace you still again, leisurely movements never faltering.
“Please what, darling?” he teases.
“I-I need…” You whimper with embarrassment, squeezing your eyes shut. “I need you to take care of me, please, captain.”
He practically growls as he tears through the hip of your panties, tossing them aside in a sodden heap on the ground. With two fingers, he parts your labia, eyes hungrily drinking in the cream shimmering between them.
“All this and I’ve barely touched you,” he rasps, awed.
You nearly sob with desperation for something, anything. He shushes your fussy little noises with his thumb, dipping into the pool of slick at your entrance. Gets the pad soaked before drawing a line up to your swollen, sensitive clit. Your mouth falls open as he starts drawing tight, firm circles over that bundle of nerves.
He treats your body and your pleasure with all the confidence and competence you’ve come to expect of John Price. It takes shockingly little time for him to learn just how to press, how fast to rub, the patterns and circuits that get your legs shaking. And that’s before he twists his wrist and sinks a finger inside you.
“Practically sucking me in, love,” he murmurs, petting at your walls. You shudder and wordlessly beg for more, rocking your hips. “Need another already, greedy girl?”
He doesn’t even wait for your nod before stuffing you with another, curling and scissoring, exploring. You keen as he finds a sweet, sensitive spot inside you and begins toying with it, his thumb still swiping relentlessly at your clit.
He settles into a rhythm that has you moaning and keening, the heel of your boot digging into his shoulder blade. All the while he showers you in praise and encouragement, the dirtiest compliments that make you clench down tightly on his hand. Your body feels like it’s on fire, every nerve ending lit up with pleasure.
It’s builds and builds and builds, never quite cresting. You’re near tears when you moan his name, trying to find some leverage or angle to finally tip you over the edge.
“Do you need to cum, doll?”
“Yes, yes,” you cry, “please, sir, I wanna cum for you. Please, I’m s-so close.”
He hums, bracing your thigh with his free hand as he leans in. Your foggy brain doesn’t have enough time to process before he latches onto your clit and a third finger bullies into you. You wail. Your thigh twinges from the dull pressure of his shoulder, but the slight pain only adds a delicious edge to the pleasure.
His tongue swipes across your puffy clit once, twice, three times and you’re gone. You gush all over his hand, his beard, onto the chair. Your hips jerk as he works you over, fingers abusing your g-spot relentlessly despite how tightly you clamp down. Your body feels nuclear, nerves popping like firecrackers.
He only relents when the waves of ecstasy threaten to drown you in overstimulation. He eases his fingers from your twitchy hole, making room for him to lick you clean. It’s loud and obscene, yet there’s no room left for embarrassment anymore. You shiver and pant in the aftermath, your body unravelling into a puddle.
“Wh-what about you?” you ask as he begins straightening out your clothes. There’s an absolutely delectable-looking bulge in his fatigues that you’re dying to get your tongue on.
He chuckles and shakes his head. “If you want more –” (“I do.”) “- then you’ll have to wait until you’re healed up. Non-negotiable.”
You try to pout, but the effort is thwarted when he chucks you gently under the chin.
“C’mon, let’s have a lie down.”
He steadies you as you wobble to the couch off to the side, lying down first and letting you cuddle up between his legs. It’s a comfort more than you would have expected from a clandestine little triste, but you should know better than to doubt your captain. Head resting on his chest, you let yourself drift for a while, lulled by his fingers carding through your hair.
“Price…?” you ask after a while.
“Hm?”
“You didn’t do this just to… I dunno, make up for something, right?”
He huffs. “No, sweetheart. I’ve been arse over teakettle for a while. Staring like a complete muppet when you train.”
You hide a grin against his collarbone. “Good. I thought I’d have to start making things up for you to owe me.”
His chuckle rocks through you, and for the first time in a while, it feels a bit like home.
Please god captain Rex + reader MAYHAPS FAKE DATING TROPE? I am grasping for straws 😛😛😛😛 honestly just ANYTHINGG fluffy maybe a little sexy nothing too smutty is all I yearn for 😢😢😢 I am a #realyearner
Let's start another round of requests with this one! I agree Rex is a god and we only have so little to read of him 🥹(remember I've got some other rex oneshots in my profile under the 100celeb list and the omegaverse list).
This request is a classic idea but also fun to write, so here we go! Don't ask me how tf did I get this weird idea, it just popped in my little head. Also, I went for female reader as you didn't specify. I hope you weren't going for male! Remember to always specify that on the requests or I'll probably go for female as default (it's easier for me to write, but I don't mind).
This took me a few days and I've been working on it as an addict. Hope you like it darling. Xx, Blue.
PS. Still taking clone requests.
"MATING SEASON" - CAPTAIN REX/F READER
WARNINGS: DARK BIOLOGY FROM ANOTHER SPECIES THAT THREATHENS WOMAN'S SEXUAL SAFETY (no explicit or implied scene of it itself, but the threat is always layered in the background). This fic is purely fluffly but I thought I should put the warning there in case someone could be triggered by it xx.
NEW MISSION
The harsh winds of the Outer Rim planet howl as you step off the ship, your boots sinking into the soft, damp earth. The air is thick with humidity, and the sky is a bruised shade of purple, lit by two distant suns that seem to burn the horizon in a way that makes your skin feel constantly warm. Around you, a dense jungle grows; trees with twisting, silver branches that curl in strange shapes, leaves that shimmer with an eerie, bioluminescent glow. The ground feels almost sponge-like; as if with every step you’re pushing through a dream.
Though the landscape in Erus is pretty, you’re not here for sightseeing. The GAR has sent you in replacement of Kix -who had been gravely injured in a prior mision and was still under recovery-, following Torrent Company on a mission to the planet. The objective seems simple enough: recover an ancient Jedi artifact -something tied to the history of the Force- believed to be hidden in Erus's deep jungles. The Jedi once had a strong presence here, and with the war raging, it's essential that the Republic secures anything that could tip the balance to their side. You're not quite used to this kind of field trips -you usually stay in the GAR's medical station in Coruscant- but it's not your first either, so you have little problem following the squad deeper into the jungle.
As you advance, the eerie quiet of the world around you grows. The sound of the wind, the soft rustle of the glowing leaves... and the feeling that the very earth is watching. The planet is not just strange—it's alive in a way that feels unnatural. Perhaps that's why the old Jedi stationed here; everything around you feels charged with energy.
Captain Rex leads ahead with his usual commanding presence. His armor gleams slightly in the dull light, and though his helmet hides his face, you know how focused he is. Rex is a warrior; and one of the best. He’s been on countless missions, fought in the thick of battle, and led his men through hell and back. You have only had the chance to share a few misions with Torrent -and personally tended to him back in Coruscant once-; but you don't need to have a close relationship with him to admire him. Everyone does. It's his quiet confidence. The way he makes decisions without hesitation, his calmness even in the face of danger. Loyalty, moral. Courage. There's something magnetic about him, something that makes you feel like everything will be okay as long as you're by his side.
Captain Rex holds a fist up; halting the line of clones following him, everyone growing instantly alert at the signal. The first humanoid aliens has stepped into view. You had studied as much as you had found about them before departure; though there was not much information about Erus's species -too far into the Outer Rim to hold much research- and even that would'nt have prepared you for seeing them in real life.
The aliens are tall—far taller than humans, half towering over you—covered in smooth, shimmering scales that reflect the ambient light in soft blues and greens. Their skin seems to pulse with a life of its own, glowing faintly as though some hidden power is radiating from beneath. Their faces are sharp and angular; their eyes narrow and focused with an unsettlingling look in them. Their clothes, if they can even be called that, are minimal; bands of rough, natural materials crisscrossing their bodies like a form of living armor.
At first, they appear to be watching from a distance. Curious, hidden among the trees and undergrowth. Then one of them steps forward. His movements are slow, deliberate, and every step seems to reverberate with some primal energy. It resonates with how alive the jungle feels. As he gets closer, you can smell him as well; a strange, musky scent, like the earth after a storm, mixed with something more... feral. His eyes scan the group of clones and suddenly lock onto yours. Something in his gaze makes your stomach drop. His stare isn’t just curious... It’s predatory.
The rest of the humanoid group moves in after the first alien; their eyes eventually falling in your figure, scanning you, lingering far too long. You tense, feeling a chill run through your veins as you realize just how much they're studying you. Everything inside you screams for you to run.
A voice breaks through the delicate, fragile silence.
“You... are not marked,” the first of the humanoids to approach says, his words dripping with something you can’t quite place—something that makes your heart speed up at the threath of unkown danger.
Muscles tense, your thoughts race. What does he mean? Marked? Why are Erus's strange habitants particularly focused on you and not the rest? You inevitably think of the obvious difference, and then it hits you: the mating season. You'd read about it, about how this creatures had a different cycle than what ovulation is for humans; theirs lasting a whole three months at a time. From the little information you had managed to find you had thought it to be a simple anatomical difference... But now you fear it’s not just that. It’s something you hadn’t considered at all.
Before you can react, one of the others takes a step closer. They seem taller and lankier now that they're this close to you; and you have to actually tilt your chin slightly up. The alien's eyes flash with a dangerous, hungry gleam.
“You are unmarked,” he echoes the first of them to interact, louder this time. “You belong to no one.”
His words are thick with meaning, and it dawns on you -horrifyingly-that they view you as prey. Not just a foreigner, not just a woman; but something to claim, to take during this time. That somehow, they're allowed to.
His voice doesn't hold the slight surprise of realisation of the first creature; but a grinning, victorious tone to it. The rest of the aliens seem to grow restless at this.
You can feel your heart racing in your chest, terror bubbling up in your throat. Panic seizes you, making it hard to breathe. This wasn’t part of the mission. You weren’t briefed on this. No one warned you about the danger.
Goosebumps rise all over your skin. You want -need- to get out of here.
Just as you're about to take a step back, you feel a powerful presence at your side; Rex. He moves in front of you, his posture rigid, protective. His voice cuts through the tension like a blade.
"Step back" the Captain commands, his voice low and cold.
His hand hover near his blaster, and every clone around you falls into a defensive stance; their weapons ready, but no shots fired yet.
The aliens hesitate. Based on how they're dressed and the lack of modern civilization the planet seems to hold, you'd bet they know nothing about blasters and military weapons. Perhaps they're just momentarily taken aback by Rex’s sheer force of presence and the obvious ready-to-fight position of the others.
“She...” the male alien sneers, sniffing the air in your direction with an almost invasive intensity. “Smell nothing like you. She is unmarked. She is ours to take now.”
The air grows thick with discomfort, but the Captain doesn’t falter. His voice, though calm, is filled with a deadly certainty.
“She’s with me,” he growls. “And no one is going to touch her.”
The alien looks from Rex to you and then laughs; a low, guttural sound that seems to shake the very air around you.
In other circumstances -if you were back in Coruscant-, you'd have faced without hesitation anyone who would have dared talked you that way; but here, in Erus, all the way out of the safety of the Core Worlds, the only thing separating you from these creatures is Torrent. You're forced to swallow your fears down and left watching.
“Now you're trying to claim her?” the creature scoffs. “Mating season will start in a few days. What do you expect, walking around with her like that, unmarked? You’re begging for trouble.”
The fear that grips you makes it hard to focus, hard to think. But Rex stands tall, unshaken, stepping closer to you as though to shield you from them all. You can see the anger and frustration building in his posture. He’s furious, and it’s almost as if he’s taking it personally.
He glances back at you briefly, his expression grim.
“We’re promised,” Rex tells the humanoid, his voice edged with tension. “We’re waiting to get married.”
The aliens break into laughter, mocking him.
“Humans” one of them chuckles, “and their strange customs.”
Thankfully, that does it. They back off, still smirking, still hungry, still watching; but the tension doesn’t fully leave. You feel your pulse still racing, your chest tight with the lingering aftershocks of the confrontation.
Rex stays close, his presence grounding, but there's something dooming in the air. You have the feeling it's not over yet.
2. TEMPORARY SOLUTION
The jungle sinks into a heavy silence as night unfurls above you, thick with stars that shimmer through gaps in the canopy like distant eyes watching from beyond. The air is damp, and somewhere in the darkness, undiscovered insects sing in eerie harmony. The squad sets up camp beneath enormous, vine-draped trees; the blue glow of the portable lamps casting soft halos across the clearing.
You're still rattled. The events of the day cling to your skin like sweat; every word, every stare from those aliens etched into your nerves. You try to focus on setting your medkit in order, organizing supplies, checking gear -anything to quiet the rising panic- but your hands tremble too easily.
Eventually, when the others are distracted -cooking rations, calibrating gear, checking patrol shifts- Captain Rex approaches.
You feel his presence before you see him. There’s something solid about him, like the calm eye in the center of a storm. He nods once, and you follow him without a word. You'd guessed he would want to talk to you at one point or another.
You walk a few meters away, the jungle swallowing up the rest of the world until it’s just the two of you beneath a towering, silver-leafed tree that sways gently in the night breeze. The dim bioluminescence from the leaves reflects faintly off his armor, painting him in ghostly hues of green and violet.
You take notice then that the glow of Erus's plants are similar to the colours of the humanoids skin; which means they would mimetize well in the rich landscape of the jungle. It only unsettles you further.
Rex stands rigid, arms folded across his chest, his jaw tight enough to crack durasteel. The expression on his face is unreadable, but his silence speaks volumes.
“That... was not okay,” he mutters eventually, his voice barely above the whisper of the wind. It’s raw. Honest. Uncomfortable, like he can't even start to talk about it but he knows he have to. “We should’ve been informed about this before we arrived. Someone should’ve warned us.”
You stare at the ground, your throat thick. You’re still trying to piece everything together; what the alien said, how close it came to escalating, how different everything feels now.
“I believe no one knew about this” you finally answer, quietly. “I researched all I could before departure, and though a mating season was mentioned in those articles, there was nothing of the... Nature of it. It has been a surprise for all”.
He looks at you, and you fight to hold his piercing gaze now that his eyes aren't hidden under his helmet.
“We can’t go back to Coruscant now,” he states, low and firm. “We need that artifact. We need to finish this mission. And Erus is too far away from everything to take you somewhere safer. But we can’t risk not taking precautions either. We'll be here for a while until we find the Jedi artifact. I don't want you being hurt because of their... traditions.”
The words land heavy in your chest. No returning home anytime soon. You nod slowly, the reality settling in. You get it. There's a mission at stake. Still, you're warmed at his last words, at how his voice turned worried and gentle.
You don't want to ask, but you have to.
“What can we do, then?” Your voice fills with determination, trying to find your courage.
You had sewed fatal wounds in the middle of oppen battlefields. You're not alone. You can push yourself through this.
Captain Rex drags a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. For a moment, the mask slips; just enough for you to see the frustration, the worry.
“I think the best option is to keep making them believe we’re together,” he says, clearly uncomfortable with the akwardness and necessity of the idea. “It seemed to work before. If they think you belong to me, they’ll back off.”
You blink at him, trying to push through the shock.
“A couple,” you repeat numbly.
The absurdity rings in your ears, and yet... there’s logic to it. A terrifying, necessary logic.
He nods, slower this time. More serious.
“We hold hands. Stay close. Act like we’re...” He hesitates. “Involved.”
You swallow hard, heat creeping up your neck inevitably.
“Kiss?” you manage to ask, voice breathless.
His eyes flick to yours, and for the first time, there’s a flicker of something behind them—uncertainty? Guilt? Something unspoken. “If we have to.”
The thought makes your pulse trip. Not only because of the danger, or the lies you’ll have to tell, but because you'll have to pull off this theatre with him. Rex. The clone you've watched from a distance with quiet admiration. The galaxy-wide famous Captain. And now you have to pretend to be -with him- something more.
You search his face, trying to find any hint of doubt. It must be hard for him; having to pull this ruse after doing the contrary and hiding any aspect of a personal life through all his years alive. Clones are soldiers. Clones are Republic property. It's terribly injust, but no one allows them to have much of a personal life and it must be weird to fake suddenly having one.
But Rex has already made up his mind.
“Alright” you whisper, nodding. “We can do that.”
Something in his expression softens. Just slightly. A glimpse of warmth beneath the captain's steel exterior.
“Good” he says. His voice lowers. “I know this must be scary for you, Doc, but I promise I'll keep you safe.”
The words settle in your chest like a vow. You nod again, too full of thoughts to speak. As the two of you return to camp, you walk just a little closer than before. And still, your mind spins. The brush of his hand. The weight of his words. You’ve barely shared more than a few missions together, but somehow, his presence already feels... significant.
You only hope it's significant for the aliens too.
3. PLAYING THE PART
Days pass in a haze of uneasy routine. The jungle remains wild and watching, and the tall, scaled creatures still hover at the edge of sight, always near, always aware. Whenever they approach, you and Rex play the part. You feel his hand curl around yours with practiced ease, warm and steady. You smile on cue, lean toward him when they’re looking, laugh softly at nothing just to sell the act.
At night, his tent becomes a fragile sanctuary. The two of you lie close beneath the hum of portable heaters -this jungle is surprisingly cold at night, you're not sure how that works-, wrapped in silence. You can hear the rustle of leaves above and the distant chirps of life, but none of it matters when you’re tucked into safety. Rex's body is warm beside yours, the faint scent of his skin mixing with the earthy smell of the jungle.
He never wavers. He’s protective, careful, utterly convincing. And you're more than gratefull; because the world outside this tent sees you as prey. Inside, though, the world feels smaller. A sliver of soft light filters in from the lamp just outside the entrance. You’re both stretched out on the floor mats, armor and gear stripped away, wrapped in the quiet exhaustion of a long day. You’re lying close, not touching; just near enough to feel his presence.
Your muscles ache from hours of climbing, crouching, and pushing through thick brush and collapsed ruins. The artifact still hasn’t been found, though Rex swears they’re getting close.
You’d believe anything he says in that calm, unshakable tone.
He shifts beside you, just enough that you can hear the faint rustle of fabric.
“Can I ask you something?”
His voice is quiet, low enough that you might’ve missed it if you weren’t already listening for him.
You turn your head slightly, resting your cheek against your arm.
“Yeah. Go ahead.”
A pause.
“Nova” he says. “Why that nickname?”
You blink, a little surprised. You hadn’t expected him to ask something so... personal. No matter how you act in front of those creatures, you haven't really delved into personal conversations with Rex.
You glance over, but he’s still staring up at the tent ceiling, his profile carved softly by the outside light. There’s no teasing in his tone, just curiosity. He just wants to know.
You exhale slowly, thinking back.
“It started during the Ryloth campaign” you begin, voice quiet, almost carried off by the wind outside. “I was assigned to the Wolfpack then; first deployment fresh out of medical training. I was terrified. They were a close-knit unit, hardened, half of them carrying more scars than I’d ever seen.”
A smile flickers at the edge of your mouth, the memory unfolding like old paper.
“One of them, Boost, got shot clean through the side. Shouldn’t have made it, but I swallowed the nerves down, and he did. A few days later, same thing. They started calling me with that nickname, then, saying I was... Light in the worst moment, a second chance of living after a big boom”.
You pause, smiling fondly at the memory.
“I called them cheesy, but Nova stuck. I've grown to quite like it.”
Rex lets out a low chuckle. The kind that stays in his chest, that echoes in the comfort of friendly silence.
“That sounds about right,” he murmurs. "It's a good nickname. You're a great doc, you know. You have saved more than one of us more than once".
The compliment warms you, quiet and unexpected. You let it settle.
You lie like that for a little while, listening to the wind thread its way through the trees. You can almost forget where you are; the danger, the mission, the forced closeness of your arrangement.
But you’re not pretending now. And he isn't either. This isn’t a performance. This is just... him. And you. Bonding friends over personal stories.
“What about you?” you ask softly, your voice barely above the hum of the jungle. “If you could be anyone... do anything... what would you want?”
Another pause. This one longer.
You hear him exhale through his nose, a slow release of air. His voice, when it comes, is quieter than before.
“Being a father sounds good enough.”
You blink. The words land softly, but with surprising weight.
He doesn’t look at you. He just keeps staring upward, his features unreadable in the low light.
You hadn’t expected that. Not from him. Not from any of them. Not from someone bred for battle, raised in the barracks, trained to follow orders until the end.
But there it is. The truth of it. Raw and aching and real.
Your chest tightens. You want to say something, but you don’t know how to answer something so honest. So... human.
Rex shifts slightly, as if realizing how much he’s revealed. “It’s stupid,” he adds after a moment, voice rougher now. “Doesn’t make sense. I wasn’t made for that. Wasn’t made to raise anyone. Just fight. Protect.”
His words fade into the space between you like mist.
You swallow against the lump in your throat, heart twisting with something you can’t quite name.
“It’s not stupid,” you whisper. “It’s... beautiful.”
He doesn’t respond, but the silence that follows feels softer now. Warmer.
“I think you’d be a great dad, Rex,” you say, barely breathing the words.
His hand, resting on the mat beside yours, shifts just slightly. Not touching, but close. You can feel the heat of his skin, the strength in his stillness.
Outside, the jungle keeps singing. Inside, the space between you has never felt so alive.
4. IN NEED OF A HUG
The distant calls of unseen creatures echo through the thick canopy, but even they seem muted compared to the tense silence surrounding your camp. The aliens haven’t spoken to you since the first encounter, but their eyes speak enough. You feel them. Watching. Waiting. The way their gazes linger too long, too focused—predatory and assessing. Hoping they'll catch you alone sometime.
You shift uncomfortably on your feet as you glance around. The humidity clings to your skin, thick and suffocating.
Rex stands just a few feet away, deep in discussion with Jesse, both of them scanning a datapad, pointing toward the glowing topographic map of the jungle.
"If we circle around sector 9 and sweep back through the ridge, we'll cover more ground without backtracking—"
You barely register the rest of his sentence.
You move closer, your steps quiet against the spongey earth, until you’re beside him. He hasn’t noticed you yet. His attention is all strategy and terrain and logistics. But you feel uncomfortable, like you want to scratch their dark hungry stares off of your skin.
Wordlessly, you lean in. The gesture is slow, uncertain. You press your side against his; your arm slipping behind his back in a loose, hesitant hug. Just enough to show a physical sign. A warning. You're with him and no one else.
Rex had told you to look after him and do whatever was necessary to feel comfortable, so here it is.
The Captain's eyes shift toward you, and in that small, shared glance, everything makes sense. The unspoken request in the way you lean against him.
Without hesitation, his arm comes around you, steady and warm. His hand lands gently on your shoulder at first, then slides in a slow, protective motion across your back, drawing you a little closer. He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t flinch.
Instead, he picks up the conversation again with Jesse like nothing happened, as if this closeness has always been natural.
“ —If we time the recon right before sundown, we might avoid crossing into those unstable riverbeds. I'd prefer not to get near those at night”
You stay pressed to his side, the heat of his armor warming your skin. His touch doesn’t just ward off the aliens; it grounds you. Anchors you. His thumb makes slow, almost absent circles as he speaks, and though the conversation moves on, your mind is caught in the quiet storm of his touch.
Rex holds you like you belong there. Could you?
5. WORK TIME
Later that day, the sky turns an inky shade of violet, streaked with copper from the setting suns. A few clones are gathered near the campfire, resting after a long day of slicing through jungle brush and dealing with the oppressive humidity.
A murmur cuts through the ambient sound.
“Nova,” Hardcase calls from a few meters away, limping toward the med tent, grimacing. “I think I twisted something.”
You’re already moving before he finishes the sentence, the medic in you slipping into place like muscle memory.
Your voice is calm, practiced.
"Alright. Sit down, let me see".
Hardcase lowers himself onto the crate you drag over, pulling off his boot with a hiss of pain. His ankle is swollen, flushed with heat. Not broken, but it needs care.
You clean, assess, wrap, and brace with efficient hands, murmuring quietly to keep him calm.
“It’s just a sprain. You’ll be limping for a couple of days, but it’ll hold. Try not to put your weight on it. We still have plenty of jungle to explore, so perhaps we can make you some improvised crutches so you don't aggravate the injury while we do that”
Rex watches from a short distance away, leaning against the trunk of a bioluminescent tree. He says nothing, but he sees everything.
The way you kneel before the injured clone, brows furrowed in focus. The careful way you tie off the bandage, checking it twice. The faint frown of concentration, the softness in your voice. How gently your hands move, like this is sacred work. Like they are sacred. Like they matter.
He watches the way Hardcase nods and relaxes under your touch. The way you make pain seem like less of a burden just by being near.
You finish wrapping the ankle, giving Hardcase a pat on the knee and an encouraging smile. “I'll give you some bacta cream for that, use it three times a day until the inflamation goes down. I’ll check how you’re doing tomorrow. You should go get some rest.”
Hardcase grins.
“Thanks, Doc. Good to know you're not just pretty."
You chuckle softly, brushing hair from your face as you stand. You joke with him, finally sending him on his way.
Across the fire, Rex’s eyes haven’t left you. There’s something unreadable in his gaze—soft, but intense. Like he’s seeing something he’s been trying not to let himself feel. Something that scares him a little with how much he wants it. Because this is all pretend, right? He can't even think on wish for this.
You glance over your shoulder and meet his eyes. He doesn’t look away.
You smile inmediately, bright like the sun, and wave a hand at him, ignorant to the mess of contradicting thoughts and feelings swirling in his mind.
6. KISS THE DANGER AWAY
The mission has been advancing steadily despite the rising tension. Each day, Torrent Company pushes deeper into the dense jungle, using old Jedi maps, fragmented temple records, and scanning equipment calibrated to pick up residual Force signatures. The artifact they're searching for is hidden somewhere in the heart of the planet, where the foliage grows so thick it blocks most aerial recon.
The clones mark each cleared area on holomaps with precise efficiency. Now, after nearly a week of searching, only a few sectors remain unexplored; narrow canyons tangled with silver vines and strange energy readings. The sense that they're close is palpable, and so is the pressure. Whatever lies buried here, it’s old, powerful, and almost calling, wanting to be found.
Where the jungle once was eerily silent, it has now grown louder. You see some big colourful felines here and there; adding to the eyes of the creatures who study you. Each day closer to the peak of the mating season feels heavier; like the air around you is brimming with unspoken hunger. The humanoids move differently now. Less guarded. Bolder. Their bodies seem to pulse with a kind of feral energy that makes your skin crawl.
You've seen it; what they do when they think no one's watching. A silhouette against the glow of dusk, a rhythmic movement behind a tree, low moans muffled by the chirping birds and the buzzing of insects. It's not romantic. Somehow, you think the females of their species seem to enjoy it -perhaps the hormones that induce desire peaks at the same time as the males too, you're not sure- but still... It's primal. You haven't got that biological -sort of coping- system. And it's terrifying.
You're walking back from the edge of the temporary camp when a second encounter happens. The squad is gathered loosely, some talking, others packing gear; but Rex is in the middle of a terse discussion with one of the humanoid creatures. The alien male towers over him, his voice low but growing more aggressive with each word. Rex clenches his jaw, tense.
Your steps falter, instinct pushing you toward Rex. You don’t need translation to know this one doesn’t care about diplomatic arrangements or fake bonds. Rex's scent is not enough layered on you, and his gaze on you is dark, invasive. Hungry.
The Captain’s body shifts subtly, placing himself in front of you without even turning his head. His voice is sharp now, warning. But alien sneers, his eyes still locked on yours, and takes a half-step forward.
Rex doesn’t give him the chance to do anything else.
Without warning, without hesitation, he turns, one arm curling around your waist as he pulls you to him. And then...
His mouth is on yours. Not a brush. Not a fake peck for show. A kiss. Full and sure and utterly grounding.
You freeze.
For a heartbeat, your mind goes blank. His lips are warm and firm against yours, the stubble of his jaw brushing your skin. His hand, large and calloused, cradles the back of your head as if he’s done this a hundred times before.
The way he kisses you holds so many emotions, such passion, that you wonder for a sliver of a second if he's possesed by that same need to mark and claim like the rest. Only... Only you'd let him; and it makes goosebumps of nervous pleassure to erupt, not of disgust or fear.
You melt against him. Your fingers grip the front of his armor, clutching instinctively, grounding yourself in him. The heat of his chest seeps through the fabric between you, and you lean in, letting the kiss deepen. His other hand slides lower, resting against the small of your back. He’s solid, real, and for a second, everything else vanishes.
There are no hungry stares. No missions. No fear. Just the press of Rex’s lips, the way he exhales softly through his nose like he’s been holding that breath for too long. The way your heartbeat stumbles, and then races.
He pulls away slowly, almost reluctantly, his lips brushing yours one last time before he looks at you.
His expression is unreadable at first—stoic, intense—but his eyes flicker with something deeper. Something softer. As if even he didn’t expect it to feel like it has.
You blink up at him, lips still parted, still tasting the ghost of him on your mouth.
The humanoid growls low in his throat.
The message is clear. She is not yours.
“That'll save you for now... But if you think just a little kiss will stop our advances in full mating season, you're very wrong.”
Threat thrown, the alien backs off, retreating without another word.
Your fingers are still clutching the Captain's armor. His hand remains on your lower back, thumb tracing small, unconscious comforting circles.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Didn’t mean to surprise you like that...”
“It's okay. I'm glad you did” you whisper, before you can stop yourself.
A flicker of surprise crosses his face. Then… something else. Pensive. Warm.
Neither of you move for a long moment. The noise of the jungle fades back in slowly, like the world is returning to motion. But you don’t really care.
7. ONE STEP CLOSER
The squad moves cautiously through the dense undergrowth, scanners in hand, their soft beeps and pulses the only sounds beyond the chirps and distant calls of unseen creatures. You glance down at the holo-map flickering on your wrist; only five more sectors left to cover before the mission might finally be complete.
Two hours later -your leg muscles starting to ache-, the scanner emits a sharper ping, more insistent. Rex signals a halt. Everyone freezes, eyes darting expectantly through the shadows. By now, the trip has been enough and everyone wants to go back to Coruscant.
“Signal’s stronger here” Rex murmurs, his voice low but steady. “Could be the artifact.”
You swallow hard, heart pounding with a mix of hope and aprehension. Torrent fans out, moving carefully toward the source of the signal, leaves crunching softly under their boots.
Then, from the thick brush ahead, a sudden rustle. Several humanoid figures emerge, their eyes wide and wild, faces flushed with agitation. One of them snarls, stepping forward, teeth bared in a threatening grin.
“Unmarked. Ours.”
Your pulse races, but not like before. Tragical, but you've kind of grown used to this. Instinctively, you press closer to the Captain's side; but you tilt your chin up, eyes not wavering under the agresive stare of the creatures.
Blasters hum to life. Rex steps forward, calm and commanding.
“Back off.”
But the creatures don’t yield easily. Mating season starts in three days, and they're more out of control than ever. The jungle erupts in chaos. Blaster fire lights the dim forest, shadows flickering wildly across twisted roots and hanging moss.
At Rex's command, Torrent moves. It's a defensive formation, keeping every attacker away. The objective is clear; you're too exposed here, and probably outnumbered. You might manage to kill some, but it's only a matter of time until they show payback. And Rex won't lose any brother unnecessarily when they can just move forward and change of sector if they run fast enough.
They make it. They cross a river to one of the four last sectors left to explore; and the humanoids that chase them finally give up. There's more females around, and you're not that much of a price.
At night, everyone is exhausted after setting camp. You skirt the makeshift perimeter quietly, slipping through the shadows to find a spot to relieve yourself. The air still warms your lungs; but it starts to feel colder on your skin.
As you move, eyes adjusting to the dim light, something caughts your attention not far ahead; a small figure, crouched low near a silvery tree. The shape is smaller than the other humanoids you’d seen until now; and there is a sort of fragility in its posture, as if wounded, and that makes you pause.
You should be careful. Being alone out here isn't completely safe, no matter how close to the tents you are. This creatures are fast. They'd out-runned you if you tried. Still, you trust your gut. He doesn't feel threatening or agressive. And you're a doctor; you know it will weight on your consciense to walk away. Thankfully, you still keep your blaster strapped to your thigh.
Tentatively, you raised your voice, friendly but clear.
“Hey… Do you need some help?”
The alien gets startled, its large eyes widening with fear. A faint whimper escapes him, as if he wanted to say yes but didn’t know wether to actually accept.
This could be a trap, but you still have your blaster with you, so slowly, cautiously, you step closer. Well, at least the wound is not fake...
“That must hurt,” you whisper, examining it from your standing position just two meters away.
The alien nods, eyes filled with pain. He seems to relax upon seing you, at least at first sight, don't pose much of a threat.
“Yes… I was just trying to find myself some dinner when I got caught in the fight before. The light…" he whispers, confused. "It got me. I’ve never seen a wound like this. I don’t know what to do.”
You nod.
“It’s a blaster wound" you explain, remaining calm. "The good thing is that you don't lose much blood, it cauterizes almost inmediately. I'm a medic. I can help you, but you’ll have to come back to camp with me.”
The creature flinches, fear evident in its gaze. It's so vastly different than the hungry, dark stares from before that you start to wonder... Is this alien really a male?
“If you’re not aggressive, it’ll be okay" you assure softly.
After a long moment, the humanoid nods again and struggles to stand. You still don't trust him enough to walk side by side, but you take your time going back towards the center of the camp, pausing when he needs it.
“You’re a female, right?” you ask her as you're approaching the first tents.
The alien nods slowly. You hum thoughtfully. She doesn't seem emotionally unstable like her counterparts. You wonder if her hormones will peak up in exactly three days instead of being a progressive escalate.
Rex suddenly appears blaster raised and ready. He looks determined, jaw clenched in controlled anger, fear and something else hidden in his eyes.
The female alien lets out a scared whine, shrinking back.
Quickly, you raise a hand.
“She’s hurt." you explain to him, voice calm, face serene. "I’m helping her. Please, trust me.”
Rex’s eyes narrow, studying the scene carefully. After a tense pause, he lowers his blasters slightly, though his gaze remains sharp and cautious. You shoot a reassuring smile at him.
You ask another clone to bring your medkit, knowing Rex wouldn't want to leave your side until the creature was far gone. You then kneel down, opening your medkit and working efficiently to clean and dress the blaster wound. The other clones watch silently, their expressions unreadable but tense.
When you finish, the alien gives you a small, grateful nod and whispers a warm thank you, slipping quietly away into the shadows, disappearing as silently as she had arrived.
Rex watches the alien leave, instructs the clones to keep a longer watch for tonight, and then turns to you with contradiction clear on his face. Mosty, though, he looks relieved.
A few minutes later, when you're both inside your shared tent, Rex rolling out the mat on the floor, he makes a humming comment, eyes reflecting the flickering of the lantern light.
“Not everyone would have helped those trying to hurt us.”
Cleaning as much as possible of the sweat and the dirt of the day away with a wet cloth, you meet his gaze, feeling the weight of his words.
“This one wasn't trying to hurt us. Anyhow... I can’t ignore someone in pain. No matter who it belongs to” you reply softly, the compassion of a medic threading through your voice. “If I can, if it's in my hand to help, I'll always step forward. This galaxy has too much hate already. We need people that favor peace.”
Rex nods slowly, a rare vulnerability breaking through his usual stoic posture, now revealed without his armour to hide it. You can't help but think on how homey, how normal, Rex looks in normal clothes.
“It was scary” he says, voice low, focusing on laying out his bed roll on top of the mat. “Seing one of them right next to you after the encounter we had today.”
You study the sliver of emotions you can see in his face. A tiny smile makes it's way on your face; he looks almost like a kid who is confesing something he's not proud to admit.
“I'm sorry. I'll try to give you a heads up next time.”
Rex sits down on his bed roll and tilts his head.
“Should I be worried with you already stating there will be a next one?”
You laugh quietly. Rex smiles. It's a rare thing. You're used to seeing his face morph in all kinds of worries and decissiveness, perhaps even a few smirks; but not like this, not a simple, tiny, real, and beautiful smile.
You throw your now dirty cloth in the bag of your to-wash clothes and put it back in your backpack, abandoning it in the corner of the tent, next to the entrance. Then, facing him, you sit down on your own bedroll too.
“Mating season starts in two days.” he points out, after a few moments of silence. “Are you scared?”
You hesitate, then admit.
“A little. They've been backing off with what we have been doing until now, but they still repeat that I'm not claimed yet and I don't know how much of a rational mind they'll have then. I know you guys will protect me but... Things could go south. I don't like it. And I don't know what else we can do to make them think otherwise.”
Rex’s expression tightens. He knows you are all at risk as well.
“Maybe...” he hesitates, but upon seeing you looking at him, at your encouraging nod, he clears his throat and continues. “Maybe we shoud start sleeping together in the same cot. Same sleeping bag. I'm sure you'll smell more like me that way… It might keep them off.”
A flush warms your cheeks at the suggestion, heart thudding hard. The idea feels intimate, and theater appart, it sends butterflies to your stomach. But he doesn't need to know that.
“I think that’s a good idea,” you whisper, voice barely audible.
Because feelings aside, it is. It's impossible for the creatures not to smell the captain's scent on you if you're sleeping pressed together for hours. If anything, you should have thought of it earlier, no matter how akward.
Rex hums and opens his bedroll, laying down on it and keeping it open for you, gesturing for you to join him with a move of his head. You follow his offer, carefully taking a place beside him and trying to ignore how warm his body feels pressed side by side to yours.
He reaches out, fingers brushing lightly along your arm. The contact sends an electric current through you. Your eyes meet. This close, you can't help but remember the kiss. You want to experience it again; but it might be too dangerous, to delve into this when no one is looking, when there's no act to play.
You conform with shifting closer, laying on your side. His arm slowly curves around your shoulders in the same temptative way, threadding the line; a steady weight, a promise of protection.
Your bodies slowly fit together in the small space of the Captain's bedroll.
You can feel his breathing gently fanning over the top of your head; smell the scent of his skin mingling with the damp earth outside. Every heartbeat feels louder, every touch divided between accidental and intentional. Wrapped in his embrace, the world outside fades away; replaced by the simple, undeniable truth of being held safe.
8. MORNING AFTER
The jungle is still draped in a bluish haze when you stir.
At first, you’re not sure where you are; your head tucked beneath a firm chin, legs tangled, an arm draped around your waist like it’s its natural place. Then you smell him; warm skin, faint metal, and the underlying scent of sweat and the jungle. And you remember. Rex. The bedroll. His arms around you all night, and not letting you go once.
You don’t move right away. Neither does he. His breathing is slow, even. One of your hands rests against his chest, and you can feel the steady thump of his heart beneath it. Calm. Steady. Comforting.
Eventually, you shift slightly, just enough to tilt your head back and glance up at him. His eyes are already open. He’s watching you quietly, sleepy but alert. You wonder how long he’s been awake.
“Morning,” you murmur, kind of groggy.
A small smile touches the edge of his mouth.
“Hey” his voice is still deliciously raspy from sleep.
You both lie there in silence for a moment longer, neither one quite ready to let go of the quiet bubble you’ve found. Outside the tent, the camp is beginning to stir; distant voices, the shuffle of boots, the crackle of someone prepping rations over a heat plate.
You sigh, reluctantly pulling back.
Rex lets you go slowly, his hand brushing down your back before releasing you fully, as if comitting to memory.
As you sit up and begin reaching for a new shirt, he catches your wrist gently.
“Wait.”
You glance back, brows raised.
He leans up on one elbow and then reaches to his own pack, rummaging through it for a second before pulling out one of his undershirts. It’s soft and worn, the fabric thinned in places. He holds it out to you.
“Another idea... For the scent thing.” he akwardly states.
You stare at the shirt in his hand, then at him.
“You want me to wear your clothes” you say, lips twitching with the start of a smile. It's just too fun to tease him, you can't let the oportunity pass.
“It’s for strategy,” he reminds you, too quickly, though the flush in his cheeks gives something else away. It's sweet, to see him flustered like a boy and not the soldier he is.
Your smile deepens, warm and slow. You take the shirt from him, letting your fingers graze his on purpose.
“Okay,” you say softly. “I'll wear it then. For strategy.”
You turn slightly to slip out of your top, carefully avoiding the open tent flap, ignoring the weight of his eyes fixed on your naked back for the few seconds you take to pull the worn fabric of his shirt over your head. It falls to your thighs -hiding the shorts you've got underneath- like a small dress, the sleeves practically swallowing your hands. It does smell like him.
You glance back to find him watching you. His gaze lingers on your legs, your arms, the way the fabric drapes against your skin. He swallows, as if you're an ethereal thing to watch, and you try to ignore the way your stomach flips.
“How do I look?” you ask playfully, but your voice is quieter than intended.
His eyes lift to meet yours.
“You pull it off better than me” he says, changing to a light tone as well, and you chuckle and turn around to search for proper trecking pants and your boots to wear.
“We should eat before the squad thinks we’re off doing something scandalous.” you joke, quickly changing into your new clothes and lacing up your boots as tight as you can without them hurting you.
“We kind of are,” he mutters, sitting up and reaching for a new set of clothes before he slips into his armour as well.
You smile to yourself. You forgot how just this, sleeping with a woman in the same bedroll, in a GAR mission no less, could be considered scandalous for someone like him.
You both step out into the waking camp. You're chirper than usual; but a nagging thought swirls in the back of your brain. This closeness will end in less than a week, when you've found the artifact and return to Coruscant. It dampens your mood a bit for the rest of the morning, though you distract yourself joking around with the boys from Torrent. Everthing will turn out okay.
9. SCARS AND RUINS
The jungle is quieter today, as if holding its breath. The usual clicks and calls of wildlife still echoes through the canopy, but they feel distant; muffled somehow, by the ancient stillness of the place.
You’ve been hiking for hours already, weaving through tangled undergrowth and climbing over slippery stones. Your boots are soaked, your lower back and shoulders aches, and you are absolutely certain that at least three bugs have made a new home in your clothes. And for the record, you absolutely hate bugs. But oh well, life is hard sometimes.
Rex comes to a stop by the half-collapsed remnants of a stone archway, some forgotten monument swallowed by vines and time. He glances back at you and the others, reading the exhaustion in your faces. Somehow, he only looks slightly out of breath, which is highly unfair.
“Ten-minute break,” he calls. “Hydrate. And no wandering.”
You drop your pack with a theatrical groan and flop down onto a dry-ish rock beside him. You set down your backpack between your feet on the floor.
“If I get one more vine wrapped around my leg, I’m going to actually scream.”
Rex chuckles, low and warm. He sits down to rest as well, eyes wandering around Torrent.
“You did sign up for an Outer Rim mission” he points out, as if that doesn't give you an excuse to complain.
“I signed up to keep you lot alive” you correct him, getting rid of the sweat on your forehead and chin. “I didn’t know there’d be so much mud and… weird pollen in my mouth.”
He smirks.
“You did get hit in the face with that gigantic flower.”
You narrow your eyes.
“It exploded into my face, thank you.”
“You looked like a rainbow sneezed on you” he says, laughing now.
You lean back on your hands, grinning.
“Glad I could entertain the troops.”
As the laughter settles, your gaze driftes down to his shoulder, where his armor gaps slightly at the seam of his blacks. There, peeking just above the fabric and crawling up towards his neck, you find the jagged edge of a scar. Pale and deep. You hum quietly.
“That one looks like it hurt” you say gently.
He follows your gaze and rolls his shoulder a little.
“Yeah. Christophis. Shrapnel. I was lucky.”
You raise your eyebrows.
“That's lucky?”
Rex shruggs.
“Still alive, aren't I?”
You lean a little closer, tilting your head.
“You ever count how many scars you’ve got?”
“No... I would have to be pretty bored.” He paused. “Or drunk.”
You roll up your sleeve, revealing the thin white scar along your forearm.
“This one is probably my favorite. Plasma burn. Commander Wolffe got trapped in an engine fire. Sinker and I grabbed him just in time, but my glove lit up like fireworks.”
He whistles low, examining the puckered skin.
“That’s a nasty one.”
“I cried for a solid hour after” you admit, mock-proud. “Kix had to bribe me back in medbay with chocolate.”
Rex gently brushes his fingers along its edge.
“Well, at least it looks like it healed fine.”
Your heart skips with the featherlight touch.
“Not like I like the pain in that moment, obviously, but I like how most scars reminds me I did something right.”
The Captain's expression turns serious, softer than you’ve ever seen it.
“You’ve probably saved more brothers than I’ll ever know. Thank you.”
“Least I can do” you sigh. “Considering you clones are fighting this war for us”.
There is a beat of silence. Just long enough to feel heavy, but not uncomfortable. Then you grin, leaning into the banter again.
“So what you’re saying is… I’m basically a medical legend.”
He rolls his eyes with a tiny, tiny smile that feels like a victory.
“A legend that gets slapped by a plant every ten minutes and snorts pollen like cocaine.”
You shove him lightly, mockinly offended, and he chuckles, catching himself before falling off the rock you're both resting on. When he looks at you again, there's a light in his eyes, something easy and warm.
Eventually, he stands up and offers you a hand.
“Come on” he tugs on his backpack. “Let’s finish up this sector before lunch.”
You let him pull you to your feet, ignoring the electricity you feel when your fingers brush.
By afternoon, the jungle is heavy with mist and buzzing life, every leaf dripping with condensation and the low, rhythmic calls of birds echoing through the canopy. You and the rest of the squad are trudging through the last mapped sector; after this, the mission will be considered complete.
Rex walks beside you, his steps steady but relaxed. His gloved fingers brush yours every now and then as you walk, and you wonder if he does it on purpose. If the others notice. Maybe you’re both too used now to staying close. Maybe neither of you wants to stop.
“Hard to believe we’re almost done” you comment, swiping at the sweat on your brow.
“Yeah” he agrees. “Just this sector and we can stop pretending we like camping.”
You laugh quietly.
“Speak for yourself. I’ve grown very attached to sharing a bedroll with someone who hogs all the warmth.”
Rex glances at you sideways, his expression unreadable under the helmet, but you can tell by the way his shoulders shake that he’s stifling a laugh. At the start of this mission, you'd have never believed you could make Captain Rex laugh. More than once.
“You’re the one who practically body slammed me last night when the temperature dropped” he repplies. “I think I’ve got bruises.”
“Not my fault your chest makes a very good pillow” you shrugg uncomitedly.
He huffs out a chuckle.
“Next time we’re on a jungle mission together I’m requesting individual cots.”
“You’ll miss me.”
“Yeah” he admits, deadpan. “I’ll miss getting elbowed in the ribs every two and a half hours.”
You are half-tempted to stick your tongue out of him. You end up controlling yourself because you're not a kid, but a professional.
“At least I don't talk in my sleep” you reply, shooting him a grin.
Rex raises an eyebrow.
“I did?” he sounds more surprised than anything.
“Oh yeah” you nod emphatically. “Lots of ‘flank left’ and ‘cover me, Jesse.’ Some ‘Drop it, Fives’. Really romantic stuff.”
He chuckles, shaking his head.
“Remind me to never fall asleep first again.”
The banter fades into companionable silence as you both step carefully around a patch of glowing fungus. Up ahead, Echo and Jesse are scanning the terrain with a portable holomap, the flickering blue projection glowing softly in the shade.
“It should be somewhere around here” Jesse calls out. “If the historical topography is accurate, there should be a cave system just beyond that ridge.”
“Let’s get this done with” Rex says, his voice slipping back into command with natural ease. “I can't wait to enjoy a proper shower.”
The climb is short but steep, and by the time you reach the ridge, the sun is peeking through the trees just enough to light the entrance to a half-collapsed cave, hidden behind a thick curtain of vines and moss. It doesn’t look like much, just another forgotten crevice in the alien jungle, but the second you step inside, the air shifts, colder and heavier.
The others fan out, helmets on, blasters ready. Rex stays close to your side.
At the center of the cave lies a stone pedestal, ancient and cracked, but still upright. Nestled on it, surrounded by an eerie pale glow, is a small crystalline object, pulsing faintly like it has a heartbeat of it's own.
“That’s it,” Rex murmurs, staring at it with a mix of awe and caution.
You nod, heart thudding. “The artifact indeed.”
10. END OF ACT
The transport hums steadily beneath you, a low vibration that carries through the floor into your boots and bones. The jungle is long behind, reduced now to memory and the occasional smear of mud still clinging to the soles of armor. Inside the ship, the clone troopers are sprawled in different states of exhaustion and relief; helmets off, banter low and easy, the heavy burden of the mission finally lifted from their shoulders. Another victory for the 501st. For Torrent. For Rex.
The Jedi artifact rests in a sealed crate at the back, guarded but dormant. One more relic saved from slipping into darkness. One more needed help to the war against the Separatists.
You’re strapped into the seat beside the Captain, both of you tucked into the shadows near the viewport. Stars stretch into long, elegant trails outside as the ship speeds toward Coruscant. The journey back home has begun, and you can't help but think on how this closeness to Rex is probably about to end. Well, maybe after this you can manage to at least be friends.
He exhales beside you, arms crossed loosely over his chest. His armor is scuffed and scratched, and his buzzed hair has actually grown quite a bit in this month, creating a tiny gradient from darker roots to bright tips. He glances your way, catching your eye with the smallest curve of his lips.
“So” he starts, voice low enough not to carry beyond your row of seats. “Do I get my bedroll back now, or have we reached joint custody?”
You laugh, quiet but genuine.
“Hmm, that depends. Are you going to miss it?”
Rex smirks, looking forward again. You fall into comfortable silence for a moment. Around you, the others are laughing at something Fives said, but it all feels distant; like you and Rex are in your own little space between the stars.
Then, a little quieter, more serious he calls.
“Nova” he starts, your nickname falling from his lips with unusual care. “Back on Erus... There was some things I did for necessity...”
You look at him, the flickering starlight catching in his bright eyes. There’s a vulnerability there, and your heart speeds up at the possible endings and implications of that phrase.
“But not everything. Not all of it.”
Your breath trembles with expectations and nerves. The truth has been lingering between you for days, maybe somewhere between the first side-hug under alien eyes and the first kiss. In the soft, temptative brushes of each others hands. On the hesitant cuddles at night.
“That's good to know” you whisper, smiling vulnerably too. “I'm not a good actor either.”
Rex shows you a tiny hopefull and relieved smile. He shifts slightly, his arm brushing yours, and when your hands rest on the seat between you, tentative, hesitant, his fingers find yours. He doesn’t grip, not right away, just lets the contact exist. Like a question he wants you to answer.
And you do, lacing your fingers together and accepting it with a soft squeeze.
The hum of the ship continues around you, the laughter of the others blending with the engine’s steady rhythm. But it’s quiet between you and Rex now, a different kind of quiet than before. One filled with unsaid things that don’t need words yet. You’ve both come through something strange, something dangerous and… something unexpectedly human.
Outside the viewport, the stars rush by, drawing you both home. For the first time in a long time, it feels like you're heading towards a beggining, not just an ending. A future unwritten. Glancing up at Rex's face, that knowledge sends an exciting warmth throw your veins.
Simon Riley and his pathetic efforts to get close to the new medic will earn him a scar or two
or
Simon Riley is crushing on an uninterested, tired medic.
''I don't mean to be rude, but I'm getting tired of seeing you here.'' Your blunt words are met with a quiet chuckle, the masked man looking up at you with pure amusement in his eyes.
'' 'M trying not to get injured, bird.'' Oh, but he isn't. He's actively getting injured just so he can drop by and get your help. It's stupid, really, how his obsession with you began. He thinks about the first time he saw you, standing right next to Price, an unamused expression as he went on and on about his team, telling you stories of their missions and time together and despite how bored you looked, your attention was solely on him.
He took that chance to look at you, to truly admire you, noticing the way you pull up your glasses every few minutes even when they're not sliding down your nose, the way your eyes were focused only on Price, paying attention to no one but him, legs crossed while sitting next to Price, your face resting on your hand.
''Clearly not trying hard enough.'' He can't help the way his cock twitches at your bored tone, the small frown on your lips just making him think how pretty you'd look with his cum all over your face— he shakes his head softly, trying to get his mind out of the gutter, focusing on the fast and professional work you're doing on his injured arm, pulling the skin back together with a beautifully done stitchwork.
''It's hard being out there.'' He tries to make conversation and all you can do is hum in acknowledgement, gaze focused on the way the needle digs into his skin, coming out of the other side just to be pulled back together with the thin, transparent thread.
''Y'know Gaz was hanging from a chopper by a bloody rope?'' He knows you're close to Gaz, he has seen you talk to him often, and so he tries to desperately make conversation again.
''Scared the shit out o' the old man.'' His efforts work as a small snicker escapes your lips, stopping working on his stitches as you collected yourself. You look up at him with an amused glint in your eyes, nodding your head. God, he has never seen something quite as beautiful.
''Cap told me about it. Poor guy had his whole waist bruised.'' You let out another small laugh before turning your attention back to the deep cut in his arm.
''If I didn't know any better, I'd think you're getting injured on purpose.'' His heart almost stops as your cold eyes look back up at his, an eyebrow raised, yet there's a smirk tugging at the corners of your lips as you notice his lack of response.
'' 'M not.'' Is all he can say, the knowing look you give him enough to make his blood boil, traveling all the way down to his throbbing cock, thankful for the black hoodie sprawled across his lap to prevent the blood from leaking into his jeans. You ignore all the... beige flags, knowing he's not stupid enough to actually get injured on purpose. You finish stitching him up, throwing away the tools used and the bloodied gloves.
''Keep the wound dry for 24 hours, if any of the stitches come off or the wound opens, come to me.'' You softly pat his shoulders, a small yawn escaping your lips as you look up at the clock on the wall; 0200.
''Tired?'' He asks sarcastically, earning him a way-too-hard pat on the shoulder. Simon woke you up at 2 in the morning, claiming his wound couldn't wait. It wasn't even as bad as he made it seem, though you appreciate your work with the TF141 more than you let on, so you decided to help him. It isn't the first time he wakes you up at outrageous hours, claiming to need help for things ranging from a pathetic paper cut to a gunshot wound. This time, his arm was the only thing affected, a cut big enough to need stitches.
''Very. Now get out.'' Your hand sneaks into the back of his uniform, tugging softly and he gets the message, standing up and allowing you to guide him out of your office like he's a child. He doesn't care if it's you.
''Goodnight, Simon.'' You can barely keep your eyes open and he feels a slight sense of guilt at keeping you up, knowing you'll have to be awake again in less than 3 hours.
Word count: this is exactly 5555 words!! so proud of myself for that ngl
Tags/Warnings: NSFW 18+ ; pinv sex; unprotected sex; public sex; oral; cum eating; shoutout to Rex for being a real one; Fives is a whore (affectionately) I am a firm believer in that headcanon; teasing; a smidge of soft dom!Fives; reader has hair long enough to be pulled
The mess hall aboard the Tribunal is buzzing with excitement and chatter as the clones prepare for their first leave in over a month. The boys are making plans, sending comms to partners, placing bets on how much they'll be able to drink. It's beautifully chaotic and full of life.
You get some food and head to your usual table, already spotting that, as always, there's an empty space waiting for you between Fives and Tup. It used to be between Fives and Echo, but you quickly push that thought out of your head. You don't want Fives to somehow pick up on it, not after it feels like he's finally moving on, maybe even getting closer to the shiny who only recently joined the group.
Fives flashes you his lopsided grin as you sit, before returning to whatever argument he and the others are having.
“There is a difference! Anyone can see it!” he exclaims.
“Vod, you're losing it,” Kix shakes his head, chuckling.
“Yeah,” Jesse echoes. “We all have the exact same face.”
“Oh, really,” Fives challenges, gesturing to Jesse’s face tattoo. “The exact same?”
“What's going on?” you ask.
“Fives is trying to explain that we actually have different faces,” Tup tells you.
“Because we do!” the clone in question shouts.
“I mean, he's sort of right,” you agree with a shrug. “All male faces fall into three distinct categories – cute, handsome and hot. And even you guys are in different ones.”
The table falls silent, as the clones look at you, confused and intrigued.
“It’s just a… a theory I read somewhere on the HoloNet,” you mutter.
“And it applies to us?” Jesse asks.
You shrug, trying to turn your attention to the food on your plate as you feel your heart rate quicken. Why did you open your mouth?
“Well, don’t be shy, mesh’la,” Fives urges with a laugh. “Go on. Explain what you mean.”
“It’s not much to it,” you deflect.
“There is,” the ARC insists. “You can see the difference. What categories do we fall into?”
“Well I… I don’t really know,” you say, voice small. “It’s not like… science.”
“Oh, I think you do know,” he argues teasingly. “Come on, help a guy win an argument.”
“Fives…”
“We’re just gonna assume things if you don’t explain,” he states.
“Okay, fine!” you sigh, rolling your eyes. “Tup is in the cute category. Rex and Kix are in the handsome category. Jesse’s in the hot category.”
“No. Your face is in the hot category,” you rebuke. “There’s a difference.”
“What about me?” Fives asks, wiggling his eyebrows.
You sigh, fully regretting every life decision that has led you to this moment. “You're really gonna make me say it?”
“Absolutely!” he grins.
“Fine,” you scoff. “Hot. Happy?”
“Very much,” Fives replies, drawing out the words. “So if you had to pick one of us to be with, who'd you pick? “
You blink at him. For a second, your brain refuses to even register the question.
“I'm not answering that!”
“Come on,” he pushes, leaning closer to stage whisper. “It'd be me right? You'd go with the hot category.”
The proximity causes your cheeks to heat up, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction. “Jesse’s also in the hot category,” you remind. “Maybe I'd choose the face tattoo.”
“I also have a face tattoo,” Fives counters.
You cannot pass this opportunity. “Yeah, but yours is so small,” you say, head tilted and voice tinged with mocking innocence.
The table erupts in laughter. Tup and Rex are only chuckling, but Jesse and Kix are downright howling and banging their fists on the table.
“Okay, come on,” the ARC continues, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling coiling in his gut. “Gun to your head – pick one of us.”
“Gun to my head? The gun would go off. I'm not choosing which one of my friends I'd hypothetically sleep with,” you retort.
“Come on, mesh’la,” he insists, pointing a finger right into your chest. “You have a pick. I know you do.”
You know he’s not going to back down – and you also know you cannot admit that it’s him you want.
It’s him you always search for first at the end of every battle, as you and the other medics begin triage. It’s him who holds your attention every moment you’re at the 79s, hoping that for once he would look your way, give you a chance. It’s him that carves a cold pit into your stomach when he ultimately leaves with some man or woman, way more beautiful than you.
It’s always been him.
“Fine,” you say, face surprisingly straight considering the turmoil in your heart. “Rex.”
The Captain chokes on his caf. “W-What?”
“What?!” Fives asks at the same time.
You shrug. “I'd go with handsome, respectful, and someone I wouldn't have to worry he’d go boasting to the whole battalion after.”
The men around the table chuckle as Rex’s face goes red. You feel bad, and really hope he’s not going to read too much into it. Fives, however, goes quiet, and for some reason he looks like a kicked tooka kitten.
“Hypothetically,” you remind, for good measure.
Mercifully for you – and also for him most likely – Rex changes the subject, bringing up the debrief and what duties the men need to take care of before they can go to the 79s.
The Tribunal is only a few hours away from Coruscant’s orbit, and usually, Fives would join you in your cabin to watch a holofilm for the rest of the flight. But this time, he quickly leaves the mess after he finishes his food, and you don’t see him until later, once you board the shuttles taking you down to the planet.
Fives only mumbles a “see you” when the transport lands in the hangar, and jumps off as soon as the doors slide open. You watch him go, frowning at his behaviour. Is his damn ego really that fragile that he can’t stand not being your hypothetical pick of who you’d sleep with? And why does he even care that much? It’s not as if he’s interested in you.
Sure, he flirts with you every day – but that’s like breathing for him. You’ve seen him flirt with every single nat-born medic that joined the 501st. The only difference between you and your colleagues is that Fives also sees you as a friend, and spent time getting to know you. But even that only happened because you and Echo became really close friends, and where Echo went, Fives always followed.
That’s why he needed your company after he died. The two of you shared a common grief, and leaned on the other for support. You became close – really close. He’s even spent quite a few night crashing on your couch.
But he's never made a move. Never implied he wants more than the casual flirty banter you two indulge in from time to time.
And you're fine with that. You are. Really.
Alright, you always leave 79s after he and his latest conquest disappear for the night, but it's not like you cry yourself to sleep... unless you've had a lot to drink.
But it's fine. You've accepted he'll never see you as more than a friend.
Because even if you were to sleep with him, what would that solve? You know he does find you attractive, but that doesn't change the fact that he doesn't do serious. He's a playboy. Never hooks up with the same person twice.
That's just who he is.
So staying friends is enough.
It has to be enough.
But as you watch him disappear through the chaos of the hangar, no mention of grabbing street food together before you join the others at the 79s like you usually do – you can’t help but wonder if your friendship was even real to begin with.
Was he keeping you around just to stroke his ego? Does he think of you as just a cute girl he can flirt with when bored, who also happens to have a crush on him, which, let’s be honest, is probably obvious?
You shake your head and say goodbye to the others, ignoring the pitiful looks they’re giving you.
“We'll still see you tonight, right?” Jesse asks.
“Of course,” you reply, forcing a smile. “It's tradition.”
When you walk into the 79s later, you're honestly upset. You messaged Fives two hours ago, deciding to be the one to make the first step – and he ignored you. He couldn't even bother lying about being busy, leaving you on seen. You swore your heart cracked inside your chest.
You just can't understand it. It feels like he cast you aside simply because you implied you wouldn't want to sleep with him. Is this all your friendship meant for him?
You tried really hard not to let your mind go there, but eventually the nauseating thought clawed its way out of the depths of your subconscious: was he only hanging out with you just so he could one day get in your pants?
That possibility hurts so much, you genuinely considered staying home. Because you trusted him, you really did – and the thought of him only seeing you as a challenge… it feels like a betrayal.
But you have other friends, so you came anyway. You have Jesse and Kix and Tup and even Rex. And you know you can count of them for a nice time.
And you also know Fives. He'll hang around the table for about two hours as he surveys the cantina for the next person to tickle his fancy. Then he'll leave to sweet talk said person, and disappear for the rest of the night.
You can do it. You can survive two hours.
And if you really can't, you'll just say you have a headache and go home.
The cantina is packed, filled with blue-painted plastoid, grey uniforms and the occasional shock trooper. You weave through the crowd until you reach the consecrated Torrent Company booth. Fives is there, as you expected, but not in his usual seat. Well, usually you arrive together and he lets you slide in the booth next to Jesse or Kix first, before sitting down next to you on the outer side of the bench. Now he's sitting between Tup and Rex, and barely lifts his eyes to glance at you when you plop down next to your fellow medic.
You hate this. There's never been this much silence between you, not even when you first met. He actually talked your ear off when he first ended up on your examination table – so much so that you genuinely considered sedating him, even though all you were doing was a routine check-up.
To his credit, Fives does appear his normal loud self. He’s talking and laughing. Only… not with you. You try not to let it show, but it is slowly getting to you. The small smile on your face keeps faltering, and every time you glance his way and see that he’s actively avoiding meeting your gaze, the pit in your stomach grows deeper.
After about an hour, you can’t take it anymore. Not even all the drinks you’ve thrown back can help you ignore the uncomfortable ache festering in your chest. You let your eyes scan the crowd, checking for any familiar faces – and exhale relieved when you spot Heva, a Mirialan medic you’ve befriended during your specialized GAR training. Last you heard, she was assigned to the 104th, but the war has kept you busy enough to make you lose touch.
It looks like she’s on a date with her girlfriend, and obviously you’re not gonna interrupt them. But it is the perfect excuse to slip away from the table.
“Sorry, guys,” you say, standing. “Just saw a friend I haven’t caught up with in a long time. I’ll be right back.”
You make your escape through the bustling crowd, but halfway to the exit, you decide to say hello to Heva after all. It’s been a while, and though you were not particularly close, you have missed her. And you can also feel a burning gaze on you that maybe you’re imagining – but you’re almost certain it belongs to Fives.
He can’t see that you’re affected.
Much to your surprise, Heva is genuinely happy to see you. She introduces you to her girlfriend and insists you join them for a drink so you can catch up. You’re glad to take her up on that offer, and spend the next forty-something minutes comparing stories from your respective battalions.
You keep stealing glances at your table throughout your conversation, and once you notice Fives getting up, you know it’s time for you to leave. Tonight, you just don’t feel like hanging around to see who he’s gonna use all his charm on. You make sure Heva has your frequency, and she promises to comm you tomorrow so the two of you can hang out again before the 104th ships back out.
The energetic techno blaring from the speakers in the cantina fades into more intimate songs, as it usually does at this time of night. You’ve only just said goodbye to Heva, and took maybe three steps toward the exit, when Rex blocks your path.
“Come dance with me,” he says, an undecipherable spark glimmering in his eyes.
You’re too stunned to respond – or even blink – so Rex takes your hand and pulls you after him to the dancefloor.
This isn’t happening. Captain Rex never dances, not that you’ve ever seen him do in all the times you’ve joined the men at the 79s. But now he wants to dance with you?
He guides you through the dancing bodies, seeming to want to get to a specific part of the floor. Once he stops, he turns to face you, and seeing that you’re still a bit unresponsive, he takes your hands and places them on his shoulders, before resting his on your waist.
Alarms start ringing in your head immediately.
Oh, Maker. Oh, no.
He did get the wrong idea.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Does he think you’re interested in him now? Is he gonna make a move? How do you reject him without hurting his feelings?
You need to say something. You need to apologise, let him down gently. Before, Maker forbid, he tries to kiss you or something along those lines.
“Captain,” you start, spewing the words out a little too fast. “I-I’m flattered, and-and I respect you – a lot, I really do – but I don’t– you see I’m not–”
“Fives is watching,” Rex cuts you off, leaning to talk right into your ear as he stars swaying the both of you. “Smile and try to pretend you’re having fun.”
“What?”
“We think he’s finally close to breaking,” he says – as if that makes any sense. “He just needs a little push.”
“W-We? I don’t understand,” you mutter.
“Everyone knows Fives has feelings for you,” he explains. “Well, expect for Fives. But we think he finally realised earlier, during lunch.”
You pull back a little, staring at him fully shocked.
“He… he has feelings for me?” you repeat.
There’s a mischievous smile on the Captain’s face, one you can’t remember ever seeing before. His eyes briefly flicker behind you, then he lowers his lips close to your ear once more.
“See for yourself,” he says, voice tinged with mirth. “Left side of the bar. I’m gonna spin you.”
Rex grabs your hand from his shoulder and takes a step back, then uses the momentum to twirl you. And sure enough, Fives is right where Rex said he would be, leaning on the bar – and staring daggers your way. From the little you can make out as the world twists around you, the glaring appears to be directed at his brother.
The Captain brings you back into his arms. “He’s been giving me dirty looks ever since the conversation in the mess.”
Hope starts bubbling in your chest, warm and dangerous.
“So you’re not… making a pass?” you ask.
“What? Oh. No, sorry!” Rex blurts. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re a very pretty girl. I just don’t think of you that way.”
“Thank the Maker,” you breathe. “No offence.”
“None taken,” Rex laughs. “So here’s the plan: we dance the next two songs. I’m gonna need you to stay as close to me as you’re comfortable. Then, I’m gonna jerk my head to the exit and leave. You’ll follow after a couple minutes. If my intuition’s right, Fives won’t let you make it to the door. Sound good?”
You wrap your arms around his neck and pretty much press your body into his armor. “Yes, Captain.”
Rex takes the lead, as much as he can. You can definitely tell he’s not a dancer by how he’s completely off-rhythm the entire time. But, well, you don’t need to look good. You need to look close. And that, you succeed.
Truthfully, you’re not entirely sure why you’re going along with this. Sure, Fives is glaring your way the entire time – and at one point you actually spot him turning down a gorgeous woman that comes to talk to him – but you’re still not convinced Rex’s theory that he has feelings for you is correct. He’s definitely annoyed for some reason though and, at least, you can get back at him for ignoring you the entire night.
The second song comes to an end, and Rex initiates phase two of his plan. You nod when he gives you the signal for the exit, and watch as he leaves. He’s barely reached he door before a hand closes around your bicep, and you’re suddenly being dragged through the crowd towards the ‘freshers.
You recognise the armor instantly, and your heart begins thundering against your ribcage. Fives moves through the mass of clones and nat-borns with quick, determined steps, and all you can do it follow along as you stare at the back of his head, occasionally catching glimpses of his goatee or the tattoo on his temple.
“Out!” he barks at the two shinnies washing their hands as soon as he hauls you inside one of the ‘freshers.
The two troopers share a confused look before hurrying out of the room. Fives slams his hand on the control panel, closing and locking the door. His other hand doesn’t loosen its tight grip on your arm at all.
Then, he finally faces you. But his expression is not what you expected.
Fives looks… almost gutted. His brows are pinched, and his breathing is just a little faster than normal. He looks like a man about to lose everything.
“Don’t leave with Rex,” he pleads.
“Fives–”
“No, just– just let me speak,” he interrupts. “I’ve been a di’kut. A massive one. Your friendship means everything to me and I-I was scared to ruin it.” He stops, running his free hand through his dark curls. “But I… I can’t let someone else have you. I need you, cyare. You’re… you’re everything to me.”
“Fives–” you try to cut in.
“I’m begging you,” he continues talking over you. “Mesh’la, I’m begging you – give me a chance to–”
“Fives!” you raise your voice, just enough to stop him. The nervous look in his eyes simply melts your heart. “I was only trying to make you jealous.”
He blinks, staring at you as if the words you spoke weren’t in Basic.
“You… you wanted me to be jealous?” he repeats.
“It was Rex’s idea really,” you mention. “He’s not interested. A-And I’m not interested! He just said you needed a push in the right direction.”
“But in the mess–”
“I couldn’t… I didn’t want to admit it’s you I want,” you confess, voice a little shaky.
Fives closes his eyes and exhales a long breath. He’s silent for a moment, long enough for you to start worrying.
But then his grip on your arm tightens – and when he opens his eyes, the look he gives you makes your knees weak.
It’s not only filled with hunger. No, his gaze is sharp, determined, heated… almost wild. He takes a step closer, trapping you against the door. And when he slams a hand right by your head, then leans in to rasp in your ear, your breath catches in your throat.
“You wanted me jealous, mesh’la?” The hand on your arm trails down to your hip, gripping you harshly enough to make you gasp. “I’ll show you jealous.”
Fives takes advantage of your parted lips and crashes his mouth into yours. The kiss is fast and ardent, while his hands possessively anchor themselves on your hips and on the back of your neck. You meet him with all the force of months of pent-up longing, opening your mouth to eagerly receive his slick, warm tongue. He fills you with the sharp taste of whiskey, intoxicating enough to scramble your brain.
But still, in the back of your mind, your fear pushes its way to the surface.
“Wait. Fives, wait,” you breathe, placing your palms to the centre of his chestplate so you can push him back and break the kiss.
He stares at you, eyes wide and full of worry. Maybe he did read this wrong.
Maybe he did just ruin everything.
“I… I don’t do one-night stands,” you say, voice so small it’s barely a whisper.
The concerned look in his eyes melts away, replaced by the earlier hunger. And by something else too. Something softer, sweeter, adoring. Something he’s never allowed himself to show until now.
“Good,” he purrs, planting kisses along your jaw. “I don’t want this to be a one-night stand.”
He pulls back to gaze into your eyes, cradling your cheek with a soft, gloved touch. He needs you to see he’s sincere. He needs you to believe him.
He needs you.
And you need him.
You surge forward, and Fives meets you halfway in another bruising kiss. It’s deep and a little desperate, as both of you finally stop fighting the desire coursing through your veins. Your fingers make their way into his hair, pulling on the dark curls. You sure are grateful the battalion’s been so busy lately – you wouldn’t have been able to grasp the usual short strands of his standard haircut. And you would’ve missed the low, filthy moan Fives releases into your mouth at the delicious pain.
It spurs him on, and his hands begin roaming your body with an urgency that makes your head spin. Thank the Maker you decided to wear a skirt, which Fives yanks up, bunching the fabric around your waist to expose your underwear.
Your cheeks instantly heat up. Getting any action wasn’t exactly something you were expecting tonight, so you’re not wearing anything sexy. Instead, you’ve gone for one of your most comfortable pairs – white cotton fabric with small blue hearts and a tiny blue bow on the upper hem.
Fives glances down at your panties and smirks, tugging lightly on the small bow.
“My little present,” he murmurs.
The small laugh falling from your lips turns into a gasp as Fives drags his fingers over your clothed core, making sure to apply more pressure on your aching clit. The touch is enough to rile you up – but not enough to build the delicious pleasure you’re craving. You try to roll your hips into his hand, seeking more friction, but Fives pulls it away.
“Ah ah,” he tuts. “That little stunt you pulled out there with Rex was very mean, cyar’ika.” He leans closer, his warm breath fanning over you lips. “Using my ori’vod to make me jealous? Why should I reward that?”
“Please,” you whisper.
“Didn’t quite catch that,” Fives smirks.
“Please, Fives,” you beg. “I need you.”
His eyes darken as his hands settle on your hips once more, gripping you possessively enough that you’re sure it’ll leave bruises.
“I need you,” you repeat, the words falling out of you in a breathless moan. “I want you. I've wanted you ever since we met.”
All of a sudden the room shifts as Fives spins you around. He molds his body to yours, pressing the rigid plastoid of his armor into your back. Fascinating how you've never really liked being manhandled until it was him doing it.
You welcome the cold durasteel of the door on your heated cheeks, taking a second to ground yourself and fully process what’s happening. Fives is behind you, greedily sliding his hands all over your body. When he reaches your chest, he kneads your breasts through the fabric of your top, all while attacking the side of your neck with hot, desperate kisses. You can feel the need pouring out if him, and it makes your dripping centre flutter in anticipation.
His armored boot slides between your feet, nudging them apart. Then, one of his hands abandons your body, and soon you hear the distinct clatter of plastoid falling on durasteel. Immediately, you push your ass into his pelvis – as you suspected, he’s ditched the codpiece, and his stiff cock is now standing at attention. All for you.
Fives grunts in your ear, and presses his hardened length firmer against your ass, grinding his hips a little. You can feel him throbbing through the thin material of your panties. Maker, he’s big. You can’t wait to have him inside of you.
“Please,” you moan.
He doesn’t even bother taking your underwear off. Instead, he shoves them to the side – just enough to drag the tip of his cock through your wet folds before sinking into of you. He’s had enough of waiting.
A sharp gasp tears from your throat, bouncing off the walls of the ‘fresher, while a low, strained groan rumbles in his chest. He is big and thick, stretching your walls almost painfully as he pushes in deeper and deeper.
“Kriff, mesh’la,” he hisses once he’s buried to the hilt. “Squeezing me so tight.”
“Fives,” you moan. “M-Move. Please, move.”
The ARC chuckles, self-satisfied and a little wicked, and pulls almost all the way out. You don’t even get a chance to whine at the loss before his length snaps up into you, pushing another gasp out of your mouth. Fives sets a quick, punishing pace, dragging his cock in and out of you while you scramble to brace your hands on the door – but the smooth durasteel surface doesn’t offer much purchase.
It’s good his body is so closely pressed into yours – without it, you doubt you’d be able to stand upright. The way he’s drilling into you is mind-numbing, and every feeling seems to be replaced by the heat pooling in your core.
All of a sudden, his fingers tangle in your hair, and you find your head sharply pulled back against his shoulder so that Fives can lean in and steal a deep, sloppy kiss.
His tongue licks the seam of your lips, slipping inside your mouth with an eagerness that almost makes you laugh. He is exactly how you imagined him during those sleepless nights, when you tried not to think about how he was bringing pleasure to another woman. You couldn't help it, you pictured how he would move, how he would taste, how he would feel. You pictured exactly this. But you’re the one experiencing it now, and the thought makes you feel almost proud. Especially when you feel his desperation.
He is desperate, but not to chase his own release. No – he’s desperate to bring you to yours.
Fives snaps his hips up into you relentlessly, revelling in every whimper of pleasure he forces out of you. And to make sure you’re feeling as incredible as possible, he praises you, talking you through your fast-approaching orgasm. Every velvet coated word he mutters goes straight to your pulsing cunt.
"So good, mesh'la. So, so good."
"You feel amazing, cyar'ika."
"Louder! I want to hear how good I'm making you feel."
“Are you close, cyare? I think you are.”
You are a mess. And fully at his mercy. The tip of his cock is hitting a place deep inside of you, one you’ve never been able to find yourself. Your vision blurs with tears of pleasure, and your throat feels scratchy from how loudly you’ve been moaning. You’re nearly there.
“Do you want to cum, mesh’la?” he rasps in your ear.
“Yes,” you say breathlessly.
Fives huff a dark laugh. “Ask nicely.”
“Please.”
“Please what?” he challenges.
If you weren’t teetering right on the edge of pleasure – and if it wasn’t Fives the one making this request – maybe you’d feel uneasy begging.
But things with him always did feel easier.
He always has a way of making you feel seen, making you comfortable opening up. And now he wants to hear you beg, and, honestly, you're happy to make him happy.
“Please make me cum, Fives,” you moan, pushing back against his sharp thrusts.
Fives leans in and places a kiss on your cheek, a much sweeter gesture compared to the current way he's fucking into you.
“Anything for you, cyar'ika,” he says, a smirk clear in his tone.
He moves his hand from your hip to your centre, slipping his fingers in your underwear to finally play with your neglected clit. His other hand finds the one you’re holding flat against the wall, and he interlaces your fingers together.
His digits draw quick, tight circles over your sensitive bud, applying a little too much pressure at first – but once he hears you hiss, he adjusts it until everything feels just right.
More than right, actually. The bright heat that was steadily growing in your core quickly overtakes you, pulsating like electricity through every nerve ending. You come with a cry of his name, barely aware of the faltering rhythm of his thrusts, or the way he sharply slams into you one last time, stiffening as he coats your walls with his release.
Everything stills as the two of your come down from your highs, the only sounds you can hear being both of your heavy panting. As you come back to your sensing, you become aware of the muffled music sounding through the door you’re still pressed against, and the realisation that Fives just fucked you senseless in the ‘fresher crashes over you so suddenly, you can’t help but chuckle.
“Something funny?” Fives asks from behind you.
“I get it now,” you say, still feeling a little dazed.
He presses a kiss to the crown of your head, before slowly pulling out of you. “What do you get?”
“Why you're so popular,” you explain, turning to face him. “You sure you're ready to give up your playboy ways?”
Fives quirks an eyebrow. “Playboy ways?”
You cross your arms, meeting his gaze. “You heard me.”
“For you, mesh'la?” he says with a beautiful, genuine smile. “I'd give my life.”
You don’t even get to process his words before your brain short-circuits as Fives sinks down to one knee, keeping the eye contact until his face is level with your core. He groans as he spots his release leaking out of you, before surging forward and closing his mouth around your lower lips.
“F-Fuck,” you curse, leaning back against the door.
He sucks on your swollen clit, tossing you into the waves of overstimulation. You brace your hands on the doorframe, praying to the Maker you won’t collapse. As if sensing your distress, Fives grabs your thighs in a bruising grip, and drapes one of your legs over his pauldron before burying his face back into your crotch.
His greedy tongue slides between your folds, cleaning up the evidence of your combined pleasure like a man starved. The sounds he’s making – the slurping, the muffled moans – are downright obscene, and it doesn’t take long before a second orgasm explodes out of you.
Fives keeps sucking on your clit until he hears your breathless plea to stop. He then looks up at you, mouth glistening with your slick and smiling proudly. He knows you’re all his now.
Slowly, he sets your leg back on the ground, and raises to his feet to kiss you. It’s slow, deep and reverent, and your own taste on his lips almost gets you going again. However, you are exhausted. Thoroughly fucked out. And if you’re honest, all you want is to take Fives back to your place and fall asleep in his arms.
You can see the adoration in his eyes as you voice that wish.
“I’d love that,” he murmurs between kisses. “But I should probably buy Rex a drink before we leave.”
“I think I’m gonna buy all his drinks for the entire leave,” you laugh. “We owe him a lot.”
Fives presses one last peck to your lips before retrieving and securing his codpiece back in place, while you smooth down your skirt and ruffled hair.
“Come one,” he says, taking your hand. “Let’s quickly offer our thanks and get out of here.” His eyes slowly drag over your body, lingering on your still-heaving chest. “I have a lot more planned for you tonight.”
There’s no hiding the bright smile on your face as you follow him out of the ‘fresher.
I just learned that you can do CPR to michael in the bathroom and now i'm imagining a medic reader singing that on the field.
Like, idk what happened but Gaz or Soap or somebody needs CPR and you're on top of him, doing compressions and muttering "Wish I'd stayed at home watching cable porn, or wish I'd offed myself instead, wish I was never born" and your mic is still on, so everybody is just like horrified listening to you sing this over their com units as you're giving their teammate chest compressions.
Idk. Just. Theater kid turned medic reader who saves lives to the tune of Hamilton(schyler sisters) and six(no way)
