Honestly, I think the Coruscant Guard was vastly underrated in the series. For example, Thire and Stone were shown once in an episode and then never seen again. Meanwhile, Thorn was shown once and then killed off. And Fox? Well, they showed him a few times, but we never saw his face.
⚠️ pure fluff and that's all
❗IMPORTANT INFO❗
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❤ 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨:
Our Coruscant Guard members have been working long hours since morning. But don't worry, their S/Os are coming to them with food, coffee, and a small dessert. They deserve it ❤.
❤ 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐱
❤ Fox is swamped with work, especially reporting.
❤ He's been working for several hours. He hasn't eaten or slept much in those several hours, and he doesn't even know what time it is.
❤ Then you come to his office with food, coffee with milk and something sweet. At the sight of you, his gaze softens and all the stress disappears from him.
❤ He says you didn't have to do it, but he sincerely loves what you did for him.
❤ He pulls you close before touching the food.
❤ He makes you sit beside him.
❤ He refuses to let you leave immediately and secretly feels cared for in a way he rarely experiences.
❤ If you sit on the edge of his desk while he eats? His concentration is gone.
❤ One hand stays on your waist almost the entire time.
❤ And he kissed your hand before returning to work.
❤ 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧
❤ Thorn is in the middle of Guard business when his S/O arrives carrying food. The second he sees you, big smile.
"Well, aren't you the best thing I've seen all day?"
❤ He immediately stands up and hugs you. You almost dropped the food and coffee.
❤ He wants to share everything with you. He tries feeding you bites of dessert. He keeps complimenting you. And brags to nearby guards.
"See? This is why I've got the best partner on Coruscant."
❤ He kisses your cheek every few minutes.
❤ His arm constantly around your waist.
❤ He uses any excuse to pull you closer.
❤ And the poor troopers nearby are suffering.
❤ 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐞
❤ Thire is actually working. Unlike Fox, he remembered food existed. But then you show up anyway.
❤ He is genuinely surprised to see you, but smiles warmly.
"You brought all this for me?"
❤ He will thanks you repeatedly. Makes sure you've eaten too.
❤ Shares his dessert automatically.
❤ Wants you to stay while he takes a break.
❤ Thire loves quiet moments together.
❤ He gently takes your hand while talking, kisses your knuckles absentmindedly and keeps finding excuses not to let go.
❤ The longer you're there, the less work gets done.
❤ 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞
❤ Stone sees food, a cup of coffee, dessert, and his beautiful S/O. His day is instantly improved.
❤ His reaction?
"Marry me."
❤ Every time.
❤ He smiles the whole time and teases you a little, looking super pleased with himself.
❤ He gives you the first bite of the dessert you brought him.
❤ He pulls you onto his lap, not caring if anyone is nearby to see. He explains that it's better than having to find another chair.
❤ Keeps stealing kisses between bites.
❤ 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝
❤ Hound has been on patrol for several hours. He has to deal with civilians, accident incidents, the chaos of Coruscant and its massif which sometimes causes him problems.
❤ So when he sees his S/O walking towards him holding a bag of food and dessert and a cup of coffee, his face lights up.
"Is that for me?"
❤ The answer could be obvious. But he still asks.
❤ Takes the caf immediately and he thanks you three times.
❤ He makes sure you sit down beside him while he eats.
❤ Of course, when Grizzer sees you, he runs to you and cheers like a puppy. You pet him and offer him the treats you brought.
❤ Hound is naturally affectionate. The moment he gets a break, his arm is around your waist. If you're standing beside him while he eats, he'll pull you closer automatically and kisses your cheek as a thank-you.
Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! fluff, hurt/comfort, coworkers/friends to lovers, black cat/golden retriever dynamic, reader is a medical examiner so there's some gore/corpse talk, anxious/insecure reader, we love men who respect boundaries, smut, unprotected sex, oral (f recieving), biting/marking
Summary: On a bustling planet like Coruscant, you enjoy the comfort and solitude of your profession, even though it can be lonely. The only one who can't seem to let you be alone is Hound.
A/N: First fic back after my little break from one-shots! I've been kind of trapped in a rut with life stuff and struggling to adopt the "write for yourself and not for others" mindset, and this is the first fic in a while I wrote truly just bc I wanted to and it felt good. Hope you enjoy!
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Coruscant has never been your favorite place. It's not the people, though they are numerous and can be rather rude, or the architecture, though it is both imposing and suffocating. No, you’ve decided, the reason that you hate Coruscant is the fact that it is so damn bright all the time.
A hundred sunrises are reflected by a hundred different buildings, a hundred sunsets by a hundred more, and even when the clouds are thick enough to obscure the sky, the city still glows with an unnatural, garish light that’s almost impossible to adjust to.
It's why you prefer to spend your time in the lower levels of the planet-wide metropolis, where the shadows are as thick and comforting as the air is stale and the smells are unpleasant. You don't care. The neon signs, the advertisements, and the glow of the holonet broadcasts keep the streets and walkways lit well enough for you to see what's in front of you. The dimness suits your mood better than the glaring brightness of the upper levels.
It's also why you found yourself in perhaps the most undesirable profession on the entire planet, despite the fact that your talents could have seen you gain a much better one. When the only place you're comfortable is in the quiet dark, why not work there, too?
Being a medical examiner might not seem like a glamorous job, but there are days when it's better than having to deal with living patients or, Force forbid, their family members. In the end, the dead don't judge. They also can't complain. It's a win-win situation.
It's nice. On a planet where you have no space, no quiet, no solitude, you're grateful for the morgue and its constant stream of silence and stillness. You don't need to be around others when they're alive, anyway. They just make things complicated.
Most of the time, you're left alone to your own devices. No one's eager to hang out with the corpse doctor in the basement of Coruscant Guard precinct. That's fine. You like your solitude, your peace and quiet, your personal space.
And the only problem, the only disruption, is Hound, who also happens to enjoy your personal space.
The clone is... odd. He's tall and broad, his skin a rich, earthy brown and his hair a dark, curly mass that always looks unruly. It's hard to believe that he's a member of the Republic's military, what with his lopsided smile and easygoing manner, but you've seen him in action. He's fast and deadly, with a calm, steady gaze that is belied by the manic gleam in his eyes.
And he likes you.
You aren't sure why. It's not as if you're particularly friendly, or that you've gone out of your way to befriend him. In fact, you're pretty sure that your attitude toward him has been less than warm. You aren't sure how it happened, but you're fairly certain it started the first time he'd visited the morgue.
There's a door at the top of the stairs that leads directly into the lab, a metal slab that swings open with the slightest touch, and he'd stepped inside, glanced around, and flashed a crooked smile that made your stomach flip-flop. It had taken him less than a minute to locate you, and the next thing you knew, he was standing beside you, watching you work.
At the time, you'd barely spared him a glance. He was a new face, and not one you were interested in looking at. There were things that needed doing. Reports that needed writing. A body on the table that needed cutting open and dissecting. All of those were more important than a stranger, and so you'd ignored him until he spoke.
"What are you doing?"
You'd answered without looking at him, your hands deep in the cadaver's abdominal cavity, your fingers wrapped around a lung. "My job."
"You're the new M.E.?"
"No, I'm a serial killer who's pretending to be a medical examiner so that I can have access to the morgue."
He’d laughed. You didn't. It had been a long day, and you weren't in the mood to deal with some joker who didn't have the sense not to interrupt a forensic pathologist while she's in the middle of an autopsy.
Your answer had apparently been the right one, though, because he'd nodded and said, "Good. The last one was an idiot."
You'd blinked at that, your head slowly turning to look at him. It wasn't a joke. He was serious. You'd had to swallow the smile that threatened to surface, and instead gave him a cool, polite nod.
"That's good to know."
You'd returned to the autopsy then, but not before seeing the way his eyes had lit up. Not before seeing the spark of interest, the challenge. It wasn't the kind of attention you wanted, and it certainly wasn't the kind of attention you expected to keep. But as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, he kept coming back, and somehow, you'd found yourself looking forward to his visits.
That had been a year ago. A year, and every few days, he was back.
You're in the middle of the autopsy of a man who was found dead in an alley when you hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs behind you. You don't have to look up to know that it's Hound, because his gait is unique to him. He walks heavy and fast, not because he's in a hurry, but because he's too large and too solid to do anything else.
Biting back a sigh, you look up.
"I thought I told you I'm busy today."
"Hello to you too," Hound laughs. He's still peeking around the doorway, watching you, his head tilted to the side. He looks like an excited puppy. Fitting for his namesake, and, unfortunately, quite endearing. "Can I come down?"
You set your scalpel down and give him an exasperated look. "Since when have you ever asked?"
"Since you told me to," he replies as he pulls off his helmet and fixes you with a grin so blinding, you nearly flinch. Against your will, a flutter of butterflies rises up in a wave in your stomach, and you look away from him to try and hide your blush.
"I did?" you ask. You think back to your conversations with him. Had you asked him not to barge into your workplace and distract you with his... Hound-ness? You honestly can't remember. "Huh."
"So can I come down or not?"
He's still grinning, and he's still standing half-in, half-out of the doorway. His dark eyes are fixed on you, and there's no denying the excitement in them.
You pause, both to gather your thoughts and to make it seem like you're deliberating. You don't need another distraction right now. You really, really don't. But the longer you hold out, the more his eyes light up and the wider his smile gets, and, damn it, you can't help it.
"Where is she?" you ask instead, pulling off your gloves and crossing your arms in front of your chest.
Hound gives a dramatic sigh and steps aside, and Grizzer comes bounding down the stairs straight for you. Her nails scrape and clack against the floor as she skids to a stop at your feet, and before you can even kneel down, she's on her side with her legs kicking in the air, tongue lolling out of her mouth full of dagger-sharp teeth. She's begging you for belly rubs, and how are you supposed to deny that?
"What am I, chopped liver?" Hound asks, sounding put out.
You look up at him, one hand scratching the spot under Grizzer's chin that makes her leg twitch, and raise a brow. His arms are crossed over his broad chest, his helmet dangling from his fingertips, and his hair is wild and curling from being confined for so long.
"You aren't here for a belly rub," you reply, and a flush rises up on his cheeks. You bite back a smile. "Or are you?"
"No, but I wouldn't mind one."
His grin is back, and you roll your eyes.
"Get out of my lab," you order, pushing Grizzer's shoulder gently until she rolls over onto her feet and stands, panting happily.
"But I brought you lunch!" Hound protests.
"You did?"
Your eyebrows raise in surprise as you glance up at him, then at the paper bag in his hand. You hadn't expected that, and it throws you off a bit. You'd assumed he'd come down here because he was bored. And you weren't entirely sure how he'd managed to afford food for the two of you on the Guard's budget, either.
Your confusion must show on your face, because he laughs.
"Grizzer and I saved a tooka from a high-rise balcony today," he explains. "The guy owned a restaurant and gave us lunch in thanks. I thought you'd be hungry, so..."
His sentence trails off, and he looks suddenly unsure of himself, as if he's made a mistake. Your heart flutters and then does a double-take, and the warmth in your cheeks spreads down your neck. He'd bought lunch for you? How is this the same man who had been so obnoxious and annoying the first time you'd met him? How is it possible that he's still here, still trying, when you're convinced you haven't given him an inch of encouragement?
You quickly stand and reach out to take the bag from him. You don't miss the way his eyes widen slightly at the gesture, and his fingers brush against yours as you take the food.
"Thanks, Hound," you mutter. You muster a small smile for him, and you're rewarded by the sight of a blush creeping down his neck and the tips of his ears. "That was really thoughtful of you."
He shrugs and looks away, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. "Yeah, well, it's not a big deal or anything."
It is a big deal, though, and the realization settles over the two of you like a blanket. It's not often that someone goes out of their way to do something nice for you. You can count on one hand the number of people who've done so since you moved to Coruscant, and Hound is at the top of that list.
"Anyway, we've got the afternoon off, so I thought I'd swing by and see what you're doing," he continues. He's clearly eager to change the subject, and you can't blame him. This whole situation has suddenly become awkward.
"Well, right now, I'm in the middle of an autopsy," you say, gesturing vaguely at the dead man lying on the table between you. Hound leans over and takes a long look at him, then wrinkles his nose.
"He smells bad."
You roll your eyes.
"Dead people tend to," you point out, and he laughs.
"I noticed." He gives the cadaver a long, hard stare, and after a moment, says, "Stabbed in the back."
"I haven't started yet," you protest, and he shakes his head.
"Didn't need to," he replies. He points at the body. "Knife went in here, hit the kidneys. It's messy, and whoever did it was either in a hurry or didn't know what they were doing. My guess is the latter."
"What makes you say that?"
"No defensive wounds." He's pointing at the hands now, the fingers still curled as if they were grasping for something. "He was caught by surprise."
"You're right," you say, impressed. "Maybe I should get you to do this instead."
He grins at you, all cocky confidence and charm.
"If you wanted to spend more time with me, you could have just asked."
"Don't flatter yourself," you retort. You're fighting back a smile, though, and it's a losing battle. "Go sit over there and leave me alone."
"Fine, fine."
He raises his hands in surrender and goes to sit at the table in the small kitchenette, Grizzer at his heels. While you clean your hands and put away the equipment you'd been using, he pulls off his gloves, sets his helmet on the table, and pulls the food out of the bag.
"There's a lot of food here," you remark, and Hound nods.
"Yeah, the owner insisted. I think he felt guilty that his tooka almost fell."
"How did that happen, anyway?" you ask. Hound looks down at Grizzer, then back up at you, and smiles sheepishly.
"Grizzer may have chased it up the side of the building," he admits. You snort. Of course she did.
"Well, it's good to know the Guard is keeping the people safe," you tease, and he grins.
"We do our best."
"Mm."
You settle across the table from him and begin to unpack the food. You pull out the cartons and containers and spread them out on the table between you, and you can feel Hound's eyes on you the entire time.
"So, how's it going?" he asks, and you give him a flat look.
"What do you mean, how's it going?" You pick up a dumpling and bite into it, pointing at the other boxes of food with the remains. "Eat."
He picks up the container of noodles and fishes around for a piece of meat with his chopsticks, then shrugs.
"I dunno, you've just seemed kinda down lately."
"Down?" you echo. You raise an eyebrow at him. "I'm a forensic pathologist, Hound. How exactly am I supposed to be 'up'?"
"You know what I mean."
He's giving you a look, and you sigh. Yes, you know what he means. You know that he knows when you're upset or anxious, and you know that he can see right through the mask of cool indifference you wear when you're trying to hide it.
"It's just a little crowded up here," you say. You're not going to talk about this, not with him, not now. Maybe not ever. But you can tell him a little, just enough to ease his worry.
He nods. "It's loud."
"Loud," you agree, and take a sip of your water. It's loud, yes, and there are far too many people. Sometimes, you want to scream. The sheer amount of life pressing down on you can be overwhelming, and the silence and stillness of the morgue is a balm on the ragged edges of your psyche. "And bright."
"Too much light," he agrees, and you give him a wan smile.
"Right."
He's quiet for a few minutes while you eat, and you're grateful. It's nice, sometimes, to have someone to share the silence with. Nice, too, to not have to fill it with unnecessary words. Sometimes, just the presence of another person is enough.
After a while, though, the quiet becomes too much for him, and he speaks.
"Are you not happy here?"
The question catches you off guard, and you nearly drop the dumpling you're holding. "Happy?"
"Yeah." His brow furrows, and his frown deepens. "Do you not want to be here?"
"Of course not," you say automatically, and he winces. The look on his face sends a jolt through you, and you realize your mistake. I mean, I do! But..." You pause, thinking. How can you explain this? How can you put it into words? "I don't fit here, Hound."
"You fit fine."
His response is quick, almost desperate. You can see the worry in his eyes, the uncertainty, the fear. Does he think you're leaving? Do you want to leave?
That's a question you've been asking yourself for months now. You'd left Eadu, and the only place you'd known as home, in order to start a new life. You'd chosen a career, a city, a place to live, and a path that would make your parents proud. And you're here, but you're not. You're just floating through life, going through the motions and keeping yourself busy, but it doesn't mean anything. Nothing has purpose, and nothing is permanent. You don't even have any friends.
Except...
You look across the table at Hound, who is still frowning. He's worried about you. The realization makes your stomach flip-flop again, and the dumpling you'd just eaten suddenly feels like a stone.
He's actually, genuinely, truly worried about you. He's the first person to actually care about your wellbeing in a long time, and it's not just him. He brought you food. He's always trying to make you laugh. He brings Grizzer down every chance he gets. He wants you to be happy.
"I don't know," you finally say, and your voice is soft and uncertain. "I just... feel like something's missing."
"Do you want to go somewhere else?" he asks, his voice soft.
You don't have an answer. You've been here for a year now, and yet, you feel as if it's only been a few weeks. As if it's still the beginning. Maybe you've gotten a little further, but not enough.
You haven't settled in, but the thought of leaving Coruscant is a terrifying one. There's nothing left for you back home. Your family doesn't want you there. The planet is too cold, and it's too wet, and the skies are too dark. You prefer the artificial sunlight and the artificial warmth and the bright lights that never turn off.
The only problem is the people. They're everywhere, all the time. In your apartment building. In the precinct. In the cantinas. On the speeders. And you hate the crowds. You hate the noise. You hate the way everyone is always talking, and the way they walk with no regard for anyone else, and the way they never seem to shut up, and...
Hound is still watching you, his expression worried. You shake your head and manage a smile.
"No," you say, taking another bite of the dumpling. "I think I'll stick around a little longer."
"Good."
His relief is palpable, and a wave of guilt washes over you. How did he manage to wriggle his way into your life? Why does he care about what happens to you? How does he even know what's wrong?
You don't have any answers, and the more you try to figure it out, the more confused you become. It's just Hound. He's just a clone. He's a good guy, a kind man, a decent human being, but why is he different from the others?
You've met other clones. You've met other guards. They're all polite and courteous, but none of them have gone out of their way to befriend you. None of them have spent the time and energy Hound has, and none of them have ever given you a reason to trust them. Not like Hound has. Not like he continues to.
He's always around, always ready to lend a hand. He's a constant presence in your life, a constant source of comfort and support. You didn't ask for him, and yet, there he is, a bright light in the darkness that surrounds you.
"I mean, I don't have a reason to go anywhere," you say. You're trying to sound casual, but you're failing. His eyes are focused on your face, and he's not blinking. You're not sure what's happening, or why, but it's making you uncomfortable. "But if I did, it'd be too much trouble to uproot everything and move, right?"
"Right."
"Besides, I have a job. And an apartment. And my boss isn't a complete dick, which is more than most people can say." You smile at him, but his expression doesn't change. He's still looking at you, his dark eyes intense, and the feeling of unease grows. "And I like my work. Most of the time, anyway. Sometimes it's boring."
"I understand," he says, nodding. He doesn't smile. You swallow hard, then look down at your plate.
"And... I don't know, there are perks." You give a small shrug, trying to seem nonchalant, and hope that the sudden heat in your cheeks isn't noticeable.
"Perks?" he asks. His eyebrows rise, and the corner of his mouth quirks up. "Like what?"
"You know," you say, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "Things."
"What things?"
He's teasing you, now, and you're blushing.
"Just things." You shove the rest of the dumpling into your mouth and chew slowly, trying to buy yourself some time. "Grizzer. And, um..."
"And?"
Hound is smiling at you now, and it's hard not to return it. It's just so damn contagious. It's like looking at the sun, or standing next to a star. It's hard to look away.
"Don't make me say it."
"I wanna hear you say it."
"Hound..."
"Please?"
"Ugh, fine," you sigh. You roll your eyes and set the empty dumpling container aside, then lean back in your chair. "You, okay? Happy now?"
His smile widens, lighting up his entire face. It's impossible not to smile back. You can feel it spreading across your face, and there's nothing you can do about it.
"Yeah, actually. I'm pretty happy," he says, his voice soft. "Thanks."
"Good. Now shut up and eat."
You look down at the remaining food, but suddenly, you're no longer hungry. Instead, you find yourself glancing at him from beneath your lashes. He's digging back into the noodles, and Grizzer is sprawled out at his feet, chewing on a bone.
Maybe it's not so bad.
It becomes a routine after that.
Hound comes down almost every day after his shift to hang out and have lunch with you. Sometimes he brings Grizzer, sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes he has food, sometimes he doesn't. It's not much, but it's something. It's a bit of comfort, a bit of normality, a bit of light in the otherwise dull, colorless life you're living.
And once, when you're knee-deep in a complicated case and you forget to eat, he brings food down for you anyway. He doesn't stay. He just leaves it on the table and goes back upstairs, but not before making sure you know it's there. It's a simple gesture, and it's sweet, and it makes your heart flutter.
You aren't used to that. You aren't used to people going out of their way to make sure that you're taken care of. It's not something you've ever really experienced. But now that you've seen it, felt it, you aren't sure if you'll be able to live without it.
The next time he comes down, you're not surprised. You're expecting him. Hound still waits for permission to enter your space, and you're secretly pleased by that. You're grateful that he respects the boundaries you've set, especially since most people don't. They think they can intrude, can walk right into the lab, because they have clearance. Hound, however, does not, and so he always knocks. Always waits. Always gives you a moment to prepare.
You've also gotten used to his presence, and it's easy enough to keep working while he chats away.
Today, though, the conversation has died, and you've gone back to your paperwork. He's quiet, and there's an odd tension in the air that you can't quite pinpoint. You can feel it, and you're fairly certain that he can, too. You want to ask, but you don't. You know him well enough by now to know that he'll tell you if something's bothering him.
"Hey," he finally says, and you look up from your work. He's sitting across the room, still eating his food, but he's not looking at you. His attention is fixed on the table, his jaw clenched.
"What's up?" you ask, trying to sound casual. Trying not to show your concern. He's fidgeting with the lid of the empty food container, his hands moving faster than usual.
"Are you busy later tonight?"
"Probably," you say. "Why?"
"Just curious," he says with a shrug, and he turns his attention back to his meal.
He's lying. He's a terrible liar, and the fact that he's refusing to make eye contact only proves that something's wrong. You put down the stylus you'd been using and turn your chair to face him, crossing your arms over your chest.
"Why?"
He shrugs again and shoves a large bite of noodles into his mouth.
"Hound."
He chews and swallows, and the frown deepens. He doesn't answer.
"Hound," you repeat, a bit more forcefully. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"You're obviously upset about something," you point out. You lean forward in your chair and rest your elbows on your knees, watching him. "Did I do something? Did I piss off someone in the Guard again? I swear, they can't handle constructive criticism."
He shakes his head, a small smile playing across his lips. "No. It's nothing like that."
"Then what is it?"
He opens his mouth, closes it, then shakes his head again. His dark curls bounce around his face, and you're distracted for a moment. Then, before you can ask again, he stands. He gathers the garbage from the table and puts it into the recycler, then heads for the stairs.
"Hound."
He freezes in his tracks, his shoulders stiffening. He looks like he's debating whether or not to leave. Finally, he turns and gives you a sheepish smile, his face turning red.
"There's an officer's gala tonight," he says, and your brow furrows. What's so bad about that?
"Okay," you say slowly.
Hound stares at you, his jaw clenching and unclenching, as if he's waiting for a response. You have no idea what he wants you to say, or how you're supposed to respond, and so you wait. You sit and stare, and his discomfort grows.
"I'm invited," he says. He's starting to fidget again, and his voice is quieter. "They're supposed to have good food and decent booze. It'll be a nice night out."
"Sounds like fun," you hum, nodding. Not for you, but that's not the point. He's a social person, and you're not. It makes sense. "I'm glad you're going."
"So, are you coming with me?"
Your jaw drops, and you nearly fall out of your chair. It takes a second for the question to sink in, and even longer for it to register. Is he serious? Does he really expect you to go with him? To an event where there will be dozens, if not hundreds, of people? You're not sure if he's joking or not. If this is a trick, it's a cruel one.
"Wait, what?"
Hound looks like he wants to disappear, and the flush on his cheeks has darkened.
"I mean, you don't have to," he says, shaking his head. "It's fine. I know it's not really your scene, but I thought maybe—"
"You're serious?" you ask. Your heart is pounding. You can feel it in your throat, and in your chest, and in your ears.
"Well, I figured, y'know, since I have to go, I might as well make the most of it. So I was wondering if you'd like to come with me," he says, his voice a low rumble. He's practically mumbling, and you have to strain your ears to hear him. "As, y'know, a date. Maybe."
"Me?" you ask, barely able to find your voice.
"Yes, you," he laughs. It's a bit forced, and the nervousness in his voice is obvious. "No one else is down here. No one alive, anyway.”
"Right, but..."
"Look, if you don't want to, it's fine," he says. "I know this isn't your thing. I just thought, y'know, we could spend some time together, outside of this place."
You stare at him, unsure of what to say or do. He wants to take you out on a date? He wants you to be his date to the gala? He wants to spend time with you outside of the morgue, when there are other things that could easily catch his attention? He actually wants to spend time with you, of all people?
"Hound, I... I don't think..." Your voice trails off, and you clear your throat, trying to find the words. How do you tell him that it's not a good idea without hurting his feelings?
"Oh." His face falls, and he looks so disappointed that you immediately feel guilty.
"No, I didn't mean—"
"Nah, I get it," he interrupts, waving his hand. He forces a smile. It's fake, and it doesn't reach his eyes. "You're right, it's a dumb idea."
"That's not what I meant," you insist.
"It's cool, don't worry about it."
"Hound, I'm sorry—"
"No, it's fine. It's my fault for bringing it up."
"I don't—"
"It was a stupid idea. Just forget about it. We can—"
"I want to!”
You blurt the words before you can stop yourself, and the moment they're out of your mouth, you wish you could take them back. Your face is hot, and your hands are trembling, and the butterflies are beating their wings against your stomach, but the damage is done. You've already said it, and the shock on Hound's face only confirms it.
"You want to?" he asks, his brows raised.
"Yeah." You duck your head, staring intently at the floor. It's easier than looking at him. "I want to. I'm just... Not good with social stuff."
"You're better than you think," Hound says, his tone soft and warm.
You give a small shrug, and a heavy silence falls over the room. After a few seconds, he speaks again.
"Look, the gala is gonna be boring as hell," he says, and you peek up at him through your lashes. He's grinning, and the warmth in his gaze makes your heart skip a beat. "Everyone there is just gonna be kissing each other's asses, and it'll be the same people as always. The same stupid conversations, the same stupid stories, the same stupid shit. And it's not gonna be fun."
"Wow, sounds like a great date," you say sarcastically.
"But if you're there, then it'll be bearable," he finishes. "You'll make it fun. You're always funny, and interesting, and... And..."
His voice trails off, and his face is beet-red. You bite back a smile. He's never this flustered. It's adorable, and it's also a boost to your ego.
"Are you sure?" you ask. "I mean, I don't exactly have a pretty dress, or anything like that. I'm not exactly high-society material."
He laughs and shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. Wear whatever's comfortable."
"You're sure I'm not gonna be in the way?"
"I'm positive."
"And if I get bored or overwhelmed?"
"Then we can leave and do something else."
"Really?"
"Really."
You pause, thinking, then nod. "Okay. Yeah, sure. I'll come."
"You will?" He looks excited, and his smile widens. "You really will?"
"Yeah," you say, laughing.
"Alright!"
Hound pumps his fist in the air and gives a whoop of victory, then bounds over and wraps his arms around you. Before you can protest, he picks you up and swings you around.
"Hound, put me down!"
After one more swing, he does, and you nearly collapse into his chest. You're dizzy, but his grin is infectious, and soon, you're smiling back.
"Sorry," he laughs.
"You're ridiculous."
"You're amazing."
The compliment is given so easily, and it's so earnest, that your face heats up. You look away from him, not wanting him to see how much the words mean.
"Anyway," you mutter, pushing him away. "Go do something useful, and let me get back to work."
"Yes sir," he says.
He snaps a salute, his expression still bright, and then turns and runs up the stairs. Grizzer chuffs once, then follows him. He looks so excited that you can't help but smile, and the butterflies finally settle.
It's going to be fine.
It's not fine.
As soon as your shift ends, you race back to your hole-in-the-wall apartment and tear through your closet, looking for something, anything, that doesn't scream 'I'm socially awkward and I have no idea what I'm doing.'
But the clothes that you brought from Eadu are simple and functional. You hadn't been planning on attending any galas or balls or fancy parties. There's nothing here that screams classy or elegant or sophisticated. It's all cheap, practical, and serviceable, and you're quickly losing hope.
You're about to call the whole thing off when you see a dress tucked into the corner, hidden beneath a stack of towels. You frown, unsure how it got there, then snatch it up and hold it up in front of you.
It's a nice dress, one that your mother had forced you into for a cousin's wedding several years ago. It's a dark, deep blue that fades to black, and the sleeves are long and sheer. The fabric is soft, and it's still in good shape, which means you probably shouldn't have left it buried in the closet for so long.
Sighing, you carry the dress to the bathroom and change. The dress is a little loose, but it's not too bad, and you're able to tighten it enough so it fits. It's not as bad as you remember, and the longer you look at it, the better you feel. This is fine. You can pull this off. It'll be a lot better than the shapeless smock you wear every day, and at least Hound will appreciate the effort.
Your hair is a different story.
It's a mess, and your fingers aren't much help. You're tempted to cut it all off, but you'd promised yourself that you'd never go that route again, no matter how frustrating it is. You need help, and you've got half a mind to comm the office and ask the receptionist for some advice, but she's not much better off than you are. You're just going to have to improvise.
An hour later, you're ready. Or as ready as you're going to be.
The dress fits nicely, and the makeup is the same dark shade as the dress, so at least it goes well together. Your hair is still a bit messy, but you've managed to get it into a bun and pin it down so that most of it is out of your face. You've even found a pair of heels in the back of the closet, and though they pinch a little, they're not unbearable.
When you step outside, the first thing you notice is that the sun is setting. That's not a good sign, because it means that you've already wasted an hour and a half doing nothing.
The second thing you notice is that Hound is leaning against the wall opposite your door, wearing his formal uniform.
He looks gorgeous.
You've never seen him dressed up like this, and it takes a few moments for you to register the sight. The uniform is crisp and clean, with gold buttons and a high collar. There's a single stripe across his chest, signifying his rank, and he's got a medal pinned to his lapel. His hair is slicked back and tidy, and he's even taken the time to polish the mud and dirt from his boots. He looks professional and commanding and sexy.
"Wow."
The word slips out before you can stop it, and Hound's head snaps up. He blinks at you in surprise, then slowly smiles, his eyes roaming over you with blatant appreciation.
"Wow," he echoes, his voice a low rumble.
A flush rises up your neck, and you swallow hard. "Is this okay?"
"Are you kidding?" Hound laughs and crosses the distance between you in a few long strides. He towers over you, but he doesn't feel threatening. In fact, the closer he gets, the safer and more secure you feel. "You look amazing."
"I look like a mess," you say, brushing a strand of hair from your face.
"You look great." He reaches out and tucks the hair behind your ear, his fingers grazing your skin, and the blush spreads further. His touch is surprisingly gentle, and his fingertips are calloused and rough. "You always do."
"Thanks," you mutter.
He tilts his head to the side, and his smile widens. "You're beautiful."
"Stop,” you whine, ducking your head. You're used to Hound's teasing, but not this kind. Not the kind that makes your pulse quicken, or makes your heart stutter.
"No, really, you are."
"Hound..."
"So beautiful."
"I mean it. Stop."
"Gorgeous."
"Hound!"
He laughs and holds his hands up. "Sorry. Couldn't help myself."
"Uh huh." You give him a dubious look, then roll your eyes. "Let's go."
"Yes, ma'am," he says. He offers his arm, and you hesitate for a moment before taking it.
It's an odd sensation, touching him. Not bad, necessarily, just odd. You're used to his casual manner, the way he always brushes his shoulder against yours, or the way he nudges you when he wants your attention. But this is different. It's intentional. Intimate.
You're not sure how to feel.
"Shall we?" he asks.
"Yeah," you reply, and your voice comes out soft and breathless.
He leads you out of the building and down the street towards the main avenue. He's tall and solid and sturdy, and his stride is long and confident. The two of you look like an odd pair, and you feel a bit self-conscious. He, on the other hand, seems completely unfazed. Hound keeps up a steady stream of conversation, and you're grateful. It distracts you from the fact that his arm is pressed firmly against yours, and it's difficult not to lean against him.
By the time the two of you reach the venue, the sun has set and the city is lit up with artificial light. You can see the gala from blocks away, and Hound is quick to point out the various dignitaries and important officials who are milling about. He's not particularly interested in politics, and you suspect that the only reason he knows so many names is because it's required of his job. He does, however, enjoy making fun of them behind their backs, and his comments have you in stitches by the time the two of you are in line to enter the hall.
"Ready?" he asks, glancing down at you.
"No," you admit, but there's no point in stalling. It's not like you can turn back now. You'd agreed to come, and the least you can do is stick to it.
"Good," Hound laughs. "I'm not, either."
"Somehow, that's not reassuring," you mutter.
"C'mon, let's go."
He pulls his arm away from yours, and your skin immediately grows cold. Before you can protest, he places a hand on the small of your back and leads you inside. The warmth and security are immediate, and you lean into his touch without thinking. He stiffens for a moment, but he doesn't complain. Instead, he leans closer, and his thumb brushes against the fabric of your dress, stroking in slow circles.
As soon as the two of you step inside, the noise levels increase tenfold. People are shouting, talking, laughing, and dancing, and the band is playing a loud, boisterous song. Everything is bright and loud and colorful, and the smells and sounds and sights are overwhelming. The panic returns, and you freeze. Hound must notice, because he squeezes your waist.
"Breathe," he whispers.
You do as he says, and the tension eases. The noise fades to background static, and the colors stop spinning. Hound doesn't remove his hand, and it's a welcome weight, keeping you anchored to reality.
"I don't know about this," you say, your voice so small and so quiet that it's a wonder he hears you at all. But he does, and he gives you a reassuring smile.
"We don't have to stay," he promises. "If you get uncomfortable, we'll leave. It's not a big deal. We can do whatever you want."
"Really?"
"I mean it." He gives a small shrug, and a slight flush colors his cheeks. "If you wanna ditch, we can ditch. It's no big deal."
You stare at him, dumbfounded, and wonder how you'd ever gotten lucky enough to meet someone like him. Someone who is patient and understanding, who never judges or pries. Someone who just wants you to be happy.
"Thanks," you say.
"Don't mention it," he replies, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Wanna grab a drink?"
"Sure."
He guides you over to the bar, and the two of you order your drinks. He chooses something strong, while you opt for a glass of wine. As soon as the bartender sets the glass in front of you, Hound snatches it up and takes a sip.
"Hound!" you yelp, smacking him lightly on the arm. "What the hell?"
"Sorry, force of habit," he laughs.
"Why the hell are you so used to stealing other people's drinks?"
"Because my brothers are assholes," he says. He puts the glass down and raises his hands in surrender. "I promise, I'll let you drink the rest."
"Damn right, you will," you grumble. You pick up the glass and take a sip, eyeing him over the rim. "I'm watching you."
"I'd expect nothing less," he says, grinning. He reaches over and grabs his own drink, and the two of you clink glasses. "To... I dunno. To whatever the fuck this is."
"To us," you reply, and he laughs.
"Yeah. To us."
He downs the entire glass, then turns and watches the crowd. Couples are pairing off, and the band has started a slow waltz. You spot Commander Thorn with the Senator of Atrisia in the middle of the dance floor, looking rather pleased with himself, and your stomach does a nervous flip. How the hell is she able to wear those heels without tripping and falling? It looks exhausting. And painful.
"Do you wanna dance?"
The question startles you, and you whip your head around. Hound is looking down at you, his brows furrowed, and he seems hesitant.
"I'm sorry?"
"Do you want to dance?"
"Dance?"
"Yeah." He nods towards the floor, and the couples swaying back and forth. You let out a breath, shaking your head, and you take a long sip of your drink.
“Not really, no," you admit.
You watch his shoulders slump, but the look on his face is more relief than disappointment.
"Okay, good," he says, letting out a heavy sigh.
"Oh, thank the Force," you mutter, and he grins.
"Didn't think you'd say yes, honestly."
"And what if I had?" you ask. You arch an eyebrow at him, and the grin widens.
"Then I'd have made an ass of myself trying to impress you," he says. His dark eyes shine with amusement, and the corner of his mouth twitches. "Not that I don't normally do that, anyway."
"Mm," you hum. "You do alright."
"Yeah?" he asks. He cocks his head, and the smile disappears. "Really?"
"I mean, yeah." You take a sip of your wine and try not to think about how warm and safe and secure he makes you feel. Or how handsome and charming he is. Or how much he actually cares. "You're not too bad."
"High praise," he laughs, his tone dry. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it."
"I can't tell if you're serious or not," he says, giving you a wry smile.
"I'm very serious," you retort. You're smiling, though, and it's a struggle to keep a straight face. "Dead serious."
"You're awful," he snorts, shaking his head. "Absolutely awful."
"That's why you like me," you tease.
"Well, not the only reason," he murmurs. There's a faint blush on his cheeks, and the expression on his face is far too sweet for someone who is usually so gruff and unruly. "There's plenty of others."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," he says. He looks away, his eyes darting around the room, and a heavy silence settles over the two of you. He clears his throat, and his hand finds yours. "C'mon, let's go see what they've got for food."
"Sounds good," you reply. You let him lead the way, his fingers laced through yours, and his grip is strong and firm.
It's going to be a long night.
You end up staying for a couple hours.
The food is excellent, and the booze is decent, and Hound keeps his promise. You stay glued to his side, letting him lead the way and navigate the crowd. He introduces you to some of his friends, and it's not as awful as you'd feared.
You make polite small talk, and laugh at their terrible jokes, and they seem impressed. Thorn even goes as far as to say that you're good for him, and when Hound shoots him a warning look, he only grins.
It's not as awkward as you'd feared, but it's not exactly relaxing. Thankfully, Hound is good at picking up on your cues. When the chatter starts to die down, he knows to make an excuse and move on. When the crowd gets too thick, he pulls you away. When your anxiety starts to mount, he finds a place where the two of you can be alone.
At some point, the two of you find a quiet spot in the corner. He leans against the wall, and you lean against him. The two of you watch the people milling around, and the band strikes up another lively tune. He's still got an arm wrapped around your waist, and his hand is resting on your hip, his fingers tracing slow circles on the fabric of your dress.
"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice a low rumble.
"I'm fine," you say, and this time, it's the truth. "Thank you for this. I know I'm being difficult, and I'm sorry."
"You're not being difficult." He's smiling, and his fingers move from your hip to the curve of your spine, sliding down your back in a soothing motion. "You're perfect."
You snort, and the butterflies are fluttering madly, beating their wings against your stomach, rising higher and higher. You ignore them and roll your eyes. "Whatever you say, Hound."
"I mean it." He turns his attention away from the crowd and looks down at you, and the intensity in his eyes takes you by surprise. "You're incredible."
"Oh, come on."
"Seriously, you are."
"Hound, I've been a nervous wreck all night. If that's incredible, I hate to hear what you think of the other people here."
"Other people don't matter,” he says. His tone is soft and warm, and the way he's looking at you makes your heart skip a beat.
"Of course they do."
"Why?"
"Because... Well, because..." Your words trail off, and you frown.
That's a good question.
Why does it matter?
Who cares if someone else has a nicer dress or better manners or more friends or a more prestigious title? Why is it important? What does it matter, in the grand scheme of things? You're not even sure anymore, and you find yourself searching for an answer. A good, solid, valid reason that will make sense, but there's nothing. Nothing that isn't completely superficial or trivial.
"They don't," he says. His eyes are fixed on your face, and the intensity of his gaze is unsettling. He's so serious, and his expression is so tender, and it's so unlike him. But before you can respond, he smiles and shrugs. "I'm just sayin'. No one else matters."
"Maybe," you murmur, and your head falls to his shoulder.
"I'm not going anywhere," he promises.
You know he's right. He's never lied to you before. He's never been dishonest, or cruel, or uncaring. He's always been considerate and thoughtful and kind, and he's the first person who's cared about you since you left home. He's always there, waiting at the bottom of the stairs, with a smile and a joke and a friendly hello.
He's always there, and that's a good thing.
You take a deep breath and turn your attention away from the crowd and back towards him. He's still watching you, and his expression is soft and open and vulnerable. He's not trying to hide anything, and it makes your heart flutter.
"Good," you whisper, and he smiles.
And then his hand is on your cheek, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw, his thumb stroking the soft skin just beneath your eye.
"I've got you," he murmurs, his voice rough. "You know that, right?"
You swallow hard and nod, and he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. Your noses bump together, your lips inches apart, and your breath catches.
"Thank you," you whisper.
He's still watching you, and the intensity of his gaze is almost too much. There's a flush on his cheeks, his breath coming out in short, quick puffs. You can tell that he's hesitating. Waiting. Giving you time to react.
You can't speak. You can barely breathe. But your fingers curl around the lapel of his jacket, and you pull him closer. That's all the encouragement he needs, and his lips brush against yours in a featherlight kiss.
The kiss is slow, and soft, and sweet, and the butterflies explode in a whirlwind of emotion and sensation and excitement. Your skin is on fire, the heat spreading from your face down your neck and chest and lower, lower, lower. He's not pushing or demanding. He's gentle and patient and caring, and it's perfect.
When the kiss ends, Hound pulls back, but not far. He's still close enough to press his forehead against yours, and his hand is still on the nape of your neck, his fingers tangled in your hair.
"Okay?" he whispers.
You nod, and his smile widens. He leans down and kisses you again, and this time, the butterflies aren't fluttering. They're flying.
It's perfect.
The rest of the evening is a blur.
Hound is by your side the entire time, keeping you grounded and safe and secure. His hand is on the small of your back, his fingertips gently stroking the fabric of your dress. He keeps his pace slow, matching your steps, and his voice is a low, steady rumble in your ear, whispering little bits of information and gossip and stories. It's easy to tune out the other people, to ignore the music, to focus only on him.
By the time the two of you leave the gala, the moon is high and the streets are mostly empty. Hound walks you home, his hand never leaving your waist. You're both a bit tipsy, and the walk seems much shorter than usual. It's not long before the two of you are outside your door, and he's reluctant to let you go.
"Tonight was nice," you say. You're leaning against him, your face pressed into his chest. His arms are wrapped around your waist, his fingers splayed across your back. His hands are warm, and the heat from his touch is spreading across your skin, sending tingles down your spine.
"It was," he agrees, and his lips brush against the top of your head.
You sigh and relax further, resting your cheek against his chest. The steady beat of his heart is a comforting rhythm, and the scent of his cologne is a pleasant mixture of spice and leather. He smells amazing, and you can't resist pressing a quick kiss to the base of his neck. He shivers, his hands tightening on your waist.
"We should do this again," you murmur. "But maybe next time, without so many people."
"Yeah," he chuckles, the sound low and husky. His lips trail along the shell of your ear, and the butterflies are awake again, fluttering lazily. "I'd love to take you out again."
"I'd like that," you whisper.
You want to tell him that you had a great time, that he was a perfect date, that you don't want the night to end. You want to tell him that he's amazing and sweet and kind and generous. You want to tell him that he's the only person who's cared about you in a long time. You want to tell him how much it means to you, and that you'd be happy to do it again.
But the words are stuck in your throat, and the butterflies are blocking the way, so instead, you tilt your head back and meet his gaze. His eyes are dark and hooded, and his face is flushed, but his smile is warm and soft. He's looking at you like you're the only person in the world, like he's happy just to be near you.
"Do you want to come inside?" you ask.
It's a risky move, and a bold one. You're not usually so forward, and the alcohol is giving you courage. But you can't deny the desire coursing through your veins, and the thought of him leaving makes you feel empty.
Hound blinks, his eyes shifting from your door and back, and he swallows hard.
"If you want me to," he says. His voice is soft, but there's an edge of desire to it, and it's a struggle to keep your hands from trembling.
"I do," you whisper.
He stares at you for a moment longer, then nods.
"Alright," he murmurs, his voice rough. He presses a quick kiss to the tip of your nose, and a flush rises up your neck and into your cheeks. "Then I'll come inside.”
His hands are still on your waist, and you reach up and grab his shirt, pulling him closer. His breath hitches as his body comes flush against yours, and his grip tightens. The kiss is more passionate this time, less hesitant and timid, and it sets your nerves alight. The butterflies are in full force now, and they're flying so fast and hard that you're sure they're going to escape.
The two of you stumble into the apartment, barely managing to shut the door behind you. Your hands are buried in his hair, and his are wandering up and down your sides, tracing the curve of your hips and the swell of your breasts. You pull away for a moment, trying to catch your breath, and Hound immediately starts pressing a series of quick, sloppy kisses along the length of your jaw.
"I've wanted to do this for a while," he whispers, his voice hoarse.
"Me too," you admit, a bit breathless.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"I'm glad."
He captures your lips in another kiss, and his tongue slips into your mouth. The kiss is rough and wet and hot, and you moan into his mouth, gripping his shirt tighter.
Your legs hit the edge of the couch, and you fall backwards onto the cushions, dragging him down with you. He lands on top of you, and the sudden weight causes you to yelp in surprise. He catches himself at the last second, bracing himself with his arms, and he breaks the kiss.
"You okay?" he pants, his voice hoarse.
"Yeah, sorry," you mutter.
He grins and ducks his head, resuming his trail of kisses along your jawline and down the column of your throat. Your head falls back, and you moan, tugging at the hem of his shirt. His lips are searing, and the heat is spreading across your skin, setting every inch of you aflame.
He's intoxicating, and you want more.
You push him off, and the two of you scramble to your feet. He grabs the back of his shirt and tugs it over his head, tossing it to the side. You're not sure where it lands, and you don't care. Your attention is focused on him and him alone. You're staring, shamelessly drinking in the sight, and your mouth goes dry.
He's built like a mountain, broad and thick, and his skin is covered in a patchwork of scars and tattoos. You can't stop yourself from reaching out and running your hands along the smooth planes of his chest and the ridges of his abs. The muscles flex under your fingertips, and his eyes drift shut.
He's practically vibrating with anticipation, and when your fingers hook into the waistband of his trousers, he grabs your waist and pulls you close. He doesn't have to say anything, because his eyes are screaming. They're full of want, desire, need. You can feel it in the air between the two of you, heavy with anticipation, with promise.
You reach up and cup his cheek, running your thumb along his lower lip. He parts his lips, and his tongue flicks out, teasing the pad of your thumb. His teeth graze the sensitive skin, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body.
The two of you move together, and your lips crash against his in a bruising kiss. You're a tangle of limbs, your bodies pressed so tightly together that you can't tell where one ends and the other begins. His hands are wandering, sliding over the curve of your ass and up the length of your back. He grabs the zipper at the top of your dress and slowly pulls it down, his knuckles brushing against your bare skin.
The dress pools around your feet, and he lets out a low whistle.
"Goddamn," he breathes as his gaze roams over your body.
You bite your lip and look away, suddenly embarrassed. Your face is burning, and you wish the butterflies would go away. But they're relentless, and they're not going anywhere.
"Hey, look at me," he says, his voice low and soft.
He places a finger beneath your chin and gently tilts your head up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His expression is tender, and the smile he gives you is full of affection. He leans down and presses a feather-light kiss to the corner of your mouth, his hands sliding over your shoulders and down your arms.
"You're beautiful," he murmurs.
"You're not so bad yourself," you reply.
He chuckles and shakes his head. "You have no idea, do you?"
"What?"
"How gorgeous you are." He cups your cheek and traces the curve of your jaw, his touch sending shivers down your spine. "You're incredible."
"So are you."
"No, I'm not," he laughs, his hand sliding up your neck to tug gently at a loose strand of hair. "I'm just a guy who somehow managed to convince the most amazing woman in the galaxy to go on a date with him."
"Shut up," you scoff.
"It's true," he says, and there's a hint of vulnerability in his voice. "I'm lucky to have met you."
"Hound..."
"So, so lucky," he repeats. He leans down and brushes his lips against yours. It's a quick, fleeting kiss, but it's enough to make your heart stutter. "You're incredible."
"Hound, shut up," you groan.
He laughs, the sound rich and deep, and he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close.
"Make me."
You reach up and grab the back of his head, tangling your fingers in his hair, and you press your mouth against his. The kiss is hungry, desperate, demanding, your lips parting, tongues clashing, teeth biting, noses bumping. He growls, the sound rumbling through his chest, vibrating against your body.
When the kiss ends, he's still holding you, and his forehead is pressed against yours.
"Are you sure about this?" he asks, his breath hot against your cheek.
"Yes," you breathe.
"I don't want to rush—"
"Hound, if you stop now, I'll kick your ass."
He laughs and wraps his arms around your waist, lifting you easily. Your legs automatically wrap around his hips, and he carries you into the bedroom, his lips trailing along the column of your throat. The mattress hits the back of his legs, and he sits down, settling you in his lap. You straddle his thighs, your knees digging into the soft fabric of the bedspread, and you bury your hands in his hair.
He slides his palms over the curve of your ass, squeezing and massaging the supple flesh. His mouth finds yours, and his tongue slips past your lips, exploring and teasing. The taste of alcohol is still heavy on his breath, but beneath it is something else. Something stronger. Something darker.
You're vaguely aware of him reaching for the clasp of your bra, and it loosens, falling away. You break the kiss and pull back, and the expression on his face nearly undoes you. The raw, naked hunger in his eyes is enough to make the butterflies beat their wings wildly, and you can't help but grin.
"See something you like?" you tease, and he groans, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
"Fuck, yes," he growls.
He cups your breasts, his fingers teasing and pinching, and your breath catches in your throat. Your hips shift as his thumbs rub against your nipples, grinding down against him. The first brush of your clothed pussy against his erection is electric, and the noise he makes sends a fresh wave of heat washing over you.
He's hard and thick, his cock straining against the fabric of his trousers. You roll your hips again, and his hands tighten on your breasts, his nails digging into the sensitive skin. The pain is delicious, and you moan, rocking against him again. He groans, his hips jerking, and his lips find yours. The kiss is rough and demanding, and his tongue is practically fucking your mouth, licking and stroking in time with the movements of your hips.
He pulls away, his eyes wild, and his hands leave your breasts, sliding down your sides to settle on your waist. He holds you still as he thrusts up, grinding his cock against your pussy. You gasp and moan, your head falling back, and his mouth finds the exposed flesh of your throat. He latches onto the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, sucking and biting. He's leaving a mark, and the thought excites you more than you'd like to admit.
His hands move lower, gripping the backs of your thighs, and he lifts you up, rolling the two of you over. He looms over you, his body a solid wall of muscle, and he kisses you, slow and deep. Hound shifts, and his knee spreads your legs wide, pressing against the soaked fabric of your panties. You whimper into his mouth, bucking your hips, trying to find some relief from the building pressure against the hard muscle of his thigh.
Hound pulls away, and you groan, reaching for him, trying to drag him back. He's too far away, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath hot against your skin.
"Last chance," he whispers. The husky tone of his voice, coupled with the sight of his eyes, dark and hungry, sends a jolt of pleasure through your body, straight to your core. "Are you sure?"
You nod, unable to find the words.
"Tell me," he says, and his thumb slides under the thin strap of your panties. He teases the edge of the fabric, tracing lazy circles over the curve of your hip. "Tell me what you want."
"I want you," you breathe, the words coming out as a needy whine.
His eyes widen, and a grin spreads across his face. It's not the playful, easy smile that you're used to seeing. It's wolfish and predatory, and it sends a shiver down your spine.
He hooks a finger into the waistband of your panties and tugs them down, tossing the ruined fabric aside. He takes a moment to drink in the sight of you, both of you breathing hard, chests rising and falling in sync, before he descends with a low growl. He licks a slow, teasing line up the inside of your thigh, stopping just shy of your aching pussy. His lips ghost over your mound, the lightest of touches, before moving to the other thigh, repeating the torturous action.
The first swipe of his tongue against your clit makes you cry out, the sound echoing off the walls. He laps at the sensitive bud, swirling around it, then presses the flat of his tongue against the folds of your pussy, lapping at the wetness leaking from your core. You buck your hips, desperately grinding against his face, but he holds you still, keeping his movements steady.
"Fuck," you gasp, your hips jerking involuntarily.
His tongue plunges inside you, his fingers digging into your thighs, holding you open. His eyes are closed, and his expression is one of pure bliss. He's moaning, his tongue darting in and out, tasting every inch of you. You bury a hand in his hair, tugging at the short strands, urging him on.
He's relentless, devouring you, his tongue thrusting in and out of your cunt. His thumb brushes against your clit, sending shockwaves through your body, and you gasp, arching off the bed. You're close, the pressure building and building, and his tongue moves faster, curling and twisting inside you.
You're not going to last.
You're not sure if it's the alcohol, or his enthusiasm, or the sheer fact that it's Hound who's between your legs, but you're already close to the edge. The pleasure is overwhelming, flooding your body, washing over you like a wave.
"Please, Hound, I need to come," you plead. "Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop..."
His grip on your thighs tightens, his tongue thrusting faster, deeper, harder. He moans, the sound muffled by your cunt, his lips sucking at the sensitive bud of nerves. Your hips jerk, grinding against his face, the pressure building and building until it's almost too much. You can feel it, the orgasm just out of reach. It's just a matter of seconds. A matter of moments.
And then you're flying, your entire body trembling, shaking, pulsing. You're vaguely aware of the loud, ragged moan that escapes you, but you're too lost in the pleasure to care. The orgasm rips through you, crashing over you like a tidal wave, drowning out everything except the feeling of his tongue fucking your cunt.
You're panting, gasping, writhing on the sheets, every nerve ending on fire. Your body is shaking, your muscles twitching, and it takes several moments before the aftershocks finally subside. When the last one passes, you're left breathless and boneless, sprawled on the bed, struggling to catch your breath.
You feel a rush of cool air as Hound pulls away, the sound of his belt being unbuckled barely registering. Your head lolls to the side, eyes fluttering open. He's standing next to the bed, his pants hanging loose around his hips, his cock standing proud, flushed and achingly hard. He's looking down at you, his gaze hooded, his pupils blown wide.
"Do you have any idea how long I've wanted to do that?" he murmurs. His voice is low, husky, full of desire.
"Probably as long as I've wanted it," you say. You reach up, fingers wrapping around his wrist, pulling him towards you. He hurriedly kicks off his pants, nearly tripping over the fabric in his haste, then settles over you, his hands planted on either side of your head.
"How's that possible?" he asks, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"Because we're idiots," you laugh. You reach up and grab his neck, tugging him down, and he dips his head, capturing your lips in a kiss. His tongue slips past your lips, and you moan at the taste of yourself.
"Maybe," he agrees, the word a soft sigh against your mouth. "But I don't care."
"Me neither," you whisper, a slight smile curling the corners of your lips.
You shift, spreading your legs, welcoming him into the cradle of your thighs. His cock brushes against your folds, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your veins, and the two of you groan. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, his heart pounding against your chest, the scent of his cologne filling the air. He's everywhere, surrounding you, enveloping you, drowning you in his warmth.
Hound shifts, his hand wrapping around the base of his cock. Precum is leaking from the tip, and the head is flushed red, almost purple with need. He lines himself up, the head teasing your entrance, but he doesn't push inside. Instead, he slowly circles the swollen bundle of nerves, coating his cock with your slick as he leans forward and braces himself on his forearm.
His mouth finds yours, kissing you deep, his tongue plunging into your mouth, mimicking the slow, lazy movements of his hips. The kiss is intense, possessive, claiming. He's branding you with his touch, his taste, his scent. He's marking you as his, and it's perfect.
The head of his cock slips inside you, and he moans, his body shuddering.
"Tell me what you want," he whispers, his voice rough.
"I want you," you whimper.
He thrusts, sinking in another inch, and you cry out. He's stretching you open, and the feeling is incredible. Your walls flutter, your hips bucking, but he's holding you in place, pinning you to the mattress.
"Say it again," he growls, his teeth grazing your earlobe.
"I want you," you moan, the words coming out in a breathy, needy rush.
He pulls back, the head of his cock just barely stretching your entrance. The sudden loss of his warmth makes you whimper, but before you can protest, he surges forward, filling you completely.
Every inch of you is burning, every nerve ending screaming. You're full, stretched to the limit, molded perfectly to the shape of his cock. His body is flush against yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His hips rock, grinding his pelvis against your clit, setting off another round of sparks.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he groans. "So fucking good."
His words send a thrill through you, your cunt tightening around his cock. He curses, his hips jerking, and his hand finds your stomach, pressing down.
"Easy," he murmurs. "Don't want to hurt you."
"You're not," you gasp, and your walls ripple around him again. He moans, his head dropping to your shoulder.
"Fuck," he hisses. "Don't do that. Not yet."
You can't help but laugh, breathless and lightheaded. He's being so sweet and careful, and you can't resist the urge to push him a little further. You contract again, squeezing and releasing, feeling every inch of him buried deep inside you.
Hound's head snaps up, his eyes wild, his nostrils flaring. There's a moment where the two of you stare at each other, neither one of you moving. And then, in one smooth, powerful thrust, he drives his cock all the way inside you.
Your back arches, and his mouth latches onto the sensitive skin where your neck meets your shoulder, biting and sucking. His teeth graze the bruised flesh, and his hips snap, his cock slamming into you.
You cry out, nails digging into the hard planes of his shoulders. He sets a slow rhythm, each thrust deep and deliberate. He's not holding back anymore, and neither are you. His hands are on your waist, and he's slamming his cock into you, each thrust punctuated by a sharp slap of skin on skin. You're moaning and gasping, and his name falls from your lips, over and over.
You can feel another orgasm building as he picks up the pace, and the heat is spreading, coiling and twisting. His cock is hitting all the right spots, and you're so close, the edge just out of reach.
He leans back, his hands moving to your thighs, spreading you open. The new angle is deeper, and his cock is rubbing against the spongy patch of nerves. He's breathing hard, his chest heaving, and his eyes are dark and hungry.
"Come for me," he rasps. "I want to see you come on my cock."
You cry out, and your fingers twist in the sheets, gripping the fabric tightly. He's pounding into you, his hips slamming against yours, his cock driving you higher and higher. The heat is spreading, and the colors are blurring, and the only thing you can focus on is him, and the feel of him, and the taste of him, and the smell of him.
He's everywhere, and it's too much.
The coil snaps, and the orgasm rips through you, tearing a scream from your lips. Your back arches, and your cunt convulses, tightening around his cock like a vise. His breath hitches, and his hands grip your thighs tightly.
"Fuck," he grunts, his hips stuttering, his cock throbbing. "Where?"
It takes a moment for the question to register, but when it does, you manage to find your voice.
"Inside," you gasp. "Please, Hound—“
That's all the encouragement he needs. His cock pulses, and he moans, burying his face in the crook of your neck. The heat spreads into your core, his cum filling you, and the aftershocks wash over you, the waves crashing and rolling, leaving you boneless and spent.
His arms wrap around you, and he rolls the two of you over. He's still buried deep inside you, and the feeling of his cock pulsing and twitching is almost enough to make you come again. You're both shaking, and he's muttering something, his words jumbled and unintelligible.
You're not sure how long the two of you stay like that, his cock buried inside you, your bodies tangled together. But eventually, the pleasure subsides, and you can breathe again. You press a kiss to his collarbone, then his shoulder, and his grip tightens around you.
"I'm not sure if I'm dreaming," he says, and the admission is so earnest, so vulnerable, that it nearly breaks your heart. "You're real, right?"
"As real as it gets," you reply. You rest your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. "Promise."
He lets out a sigh, and his grip relaxes, his hands sliding over your sides, down your back, along the curve of your ass. You run a hand through his hair, smoothing the messy strands. He shifts to lean into your touch, and his softened cock slips free, leaving a trail of his seed across your thigh.
"You okay?" he asks, his breath warm against your ear.
"Mhm," you hum as you kiss his neck.
"I didn't hurt you, did I?" His tone is soft, and there's a note of concern in his voice.
"No," you whisper.
He lets out a sigh, and his lips press against your cheek, featherlight.
"Good," he murmurs.
The two of you lay there, your bodies entwined until eventually Hound moves, rolling you onto your side before sitting up and stretching. He runs a hand through his hair, and the muscles in his arms and shoulders ripple.
You watch, enjoying the view, but you can't help the way your heart sinks as he gets up. You know that he's going to leave, and the realization is a sharp stab of disappointment. You try not to let it show, and you do your best to keep your expression neutral.
But he must sense it, because he pauses and looks at you, his brow furrowed.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
"I'm fine," you reply, not wanting to admit the truth. You don't want him to think that you're clingy or needy or dependent. That's not who you are. At least, it's not who you want to be.
"You sure?" He studies you, and the look in his eyes is thoughtful. "You seem a bit...tense."
"I'm fine," you say, giving him a smile. "Just tired."
He snorts and shakes his head. "Yeah, I'm sure."
He moves to the bathroom, and you hear the sound of water running. He returns a moment later with a wet cloth, and he sits down beside you, cleaning up the mess that he left. He's gentle, careful, and you can't help but notice the way his fingers tremble slightly as they move over your skin.
"I didn't mean for this to happen," he says, his tone apologetic. "I wasn't planning on taking things this far."
"I wasn't either," you admit.
"Well, shit." He tosses the cloth to the side, and the grin that spreads across his face is lopsided and endearing. "Now what?"
"We can pretend this didn't happen," you suggest, even though the idea leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. Hound’s brow furrows, and his smile fades.
"Why would we do that?" he asks, his tone incredulous.
"Because..." Your words trail off, and your heart races.
Because you don't want him to think you're desperate. Because you don't want to scare him off. Because you don't want to ruin the friendship that the two of you have built. Because you don't want him to regret it.
He sighs and reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brush against your cheek, and the gesture is tender and gentle.
"Hey," he says, his voice low. "It's okay. You don't have to explain."
"But—"
"Listen." He takes a deep breath, and his hand falls to the bed, his fingers tangling with yours. "I like you. I really, really like you. And if you want to pretend this didn't happen, we can. But if you want to see where things go, I'd like that, too."
"Really?"
"Really," he says.
You swallow hard, trying to find the words. He's giving you an out, a way to save face, a chance to take a step back. But you don't want to do that. You don't want to lose him. You don't want to pretend that this didn't happen. You don't want to go back to the way things were.
You take a deep breath, and his fingers squeeze yours.
"Hound," you begin, then pause, collecting your thoughts.
"It's okay," he murmurs, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "I get it."
"I like you," you finally manage, the words tumbling out in a rush. "And I'm sorry. I know I'm bad at this. But I like you. And I want to see where things go."
"Oh, thank fuck," he breathes, and the relief in his voice is palpable.
"What?"
"I was worried you were going to say you regretted it." He grins, and the tension drains from his shoulders. "I was worried you were going to tell me to leave."
"Never," you reply, your heart leaping. "I'll never regret this."
"Good."
He leans down, capturing your lips in a soft, gentle kiss. It's different from the others. There's no urgency, no desperation. It's sweet, and tender, and full of promise.
"I'm not going anywhere," he whispers when the kiss ends. Then his mouth twists, and he looks away, his voice turning sheepish. “Well, I can leave if you want. If you need some time alone, or some space, or—"
"Stay," you interrupt.
His smile widens, and he squeezes your hand.
"Okay," he says.
He pulls the covers over the two of you and lies down beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist. He pulls you close, and you nestle against his chest, enjoying the warmth of his body.
"Thank you," you murmur, your voice thick with sleep.
"For what?"
"For tonight. For everything."
"Of course."
You're tired, and it's getting harder and harder to keep your eyes open. You can feel yourself starting to drift off, and the last thing you remember before sleep claims you is the feeling of his lips pressed against the top of your head, and the soft, steady rhythm of his heart.
You fall asleep with a smile on your face, the warmth of his body chasing away the last vestiges of loneliness.
And when you wake, he's still there, holding you tight.
Coruscant’s upper levels were all steel and structure, but down here—beneath the polished platforms and Senate façades—was the Coruscant Guard’s territory. Order in chaos. The pulse of the city was felt more than seen, vibrating faintly under your boots as you stepped into the Guard kennel compound for the first time.
You took a slow breath. It smelled of durasteel, sanitizing agents, and wet fur.
Perfect.
You’d worked with animals your whole life. Big ones. Aggressive ones. Ones people gave up on, called dangerous or impossible. That’s how you landed the job—new mastiff handler for the Coruscant Guard’s prized unit.
A few troopers passed you with curious looks—some respectful, some dismissive. It wasn’t common for civilians to be embedded here. It was rarer still for one to be given a job involving him.
Grizzer.
The massiff lay in the shadowed corner of the compound, head lifted, ears twitching. His yellow eyes locked on you immediately.
The massiff was a fixture in Guard circles. A creature bred for control, raised on structure, trained in pain response and patrol aggression. He wasn’t a pet. He wasn’t a soldier, either. He was something in between—lethal and loyal, the way a war dog should be.
And he didn’t like anyone but his handler. The clone in crimson-striped armor waiting for you outside the kennels stood with arms folded, helmet clipped to his belt, posture sharp as a vibroblade.
“[Y/N]?” he asked, voice clipped.
“Yes, sir. Reporting for assignment.”
“Sergeant Hound,” he introduced. No small talk, no smile. “You’ll be assisting with behavioral oversight and training reinforcement for the precinct’s massiffs. That doesn’t mean taking liberties. You observe. You follow orders. You stay out of the way.”
Not exactly a welcome mat.
You nodded. “Understood.”
He turned on his heel and led you inside.
The kennels were quiet—clean, organized. The soft shuffle of claws on durasteel echoed from a side corridor. Grizzer was massive—thick-muscled, scarred, and alert. His hackles rose the moment his yellow eyes landed on you. His lip twitched in a soundless growl.
You kept your posture loose but grounded. Not threatening. Not submissive.
“Don’t speak,” Hound said quietly. “Just kneel. Hands visible.”
You obeyed without hesitation.
Grizzer approached—slow, ears rotating slightly. You didn’t reach out. You simply held your ground, steady, and let him scent the air between you.
Then, to Hound’s quiet surprise, Grizzer sat. Not completely relaxed. But watching you, calm.
Hound blinked.
“He doesn’t do that,” he muttered.
You finally glanced up. “He does now.””
⸻
Grizzer had taken to you faster than anyone expected. It was subtle—he didn’t become affectionate or eager—but he tolerated your touch, followed your directions, even mirrored your body language during patrol drills. The clone officers noticed. Fox himself dropped a comment during one of the rotation briefings.
“Grizzer’s got a new favorite,” he muttered as he passed you.
You caught Hound watching you more often now—sometimes in silence during shift changes, sometimes while adjusting Grizzer’s gear. Not hostile. Just… thoughtful. Assessing.
That night, while off-duty, you found yourself sitting on the edge of a service stairwell overlooking the lower hangar levels. A small moment of quiet between patrols.
Boots echoed behind you.
“You’re off duty,” Hound said, approaching. “You could be sleeping.”
You smirked without looking back. “You could be too.”
He stood beside you for a moment, then sat—grudgingly, like it offended him to admit he needed rest.
Silence lingered. But not heavy this time. Companionable.
“I’ve seen Grizzer bite men for less than standing too close to me,” he said eventually.
You turned to him, arching a brow. “Should I be worried?”
“No.” He paused. “That’s what’s strange.”
A beat passed.
“He trusts you,” Hound continued. “That’s not something I trained into him. That’s something he chose.”
You studied him—his scarred knuckles, the stiffness in his shoulders that never fully eased. A soldier first. A handler second. A man… somewhere beneath all of that.
“Then I guess he’s smarter than both of us,” you said softly.
Hound looked at you.
Not sharply. Not critically.
Just looked. And for the first time, you saw something tired in him. Not weak. Just worn down from too many deployments, too many arrests, too many shifting rules in a galaxy that didn’t make sense anymore.
“Maybe,” he murmured. “Or maybe he just sees what I’m too used to ignoring.”
You tilted your head. “What’s that?”
“You care. And you don’t ask for anything in return.”
Another pause. A flicker of something in his gaze.
“That’s rare in this job,” he added.
Grizzer padded over from the shadows and laid his heavy head on your lap, letting out a slow sigh.
Hound stared at the massiff, then at you again.
“I was wrong about you,” he said simply. “You’re not here to handle the animals.”
You raised a brow.
“You’re here to remind us we’re more than just uniforms.”
You didn’t respond.
Grizzer’s weight was comforting. His head rested on your lap, massive chest rising and falling in sync with your breathing. You absently scratched behind his coarse ears, your fingers finding the notch from some old skirmish or riot bite. Hound had gone quiet beside you, his elbows resting on his knees, head slightly bowed.
He was still wearing half his armor—greaves, chestplate, the red markings catching the glow from the hangar lights below. He looked tired. But not worn down. Just quiet.
The kind of quiet soldiers earned, not feared.
“You always this silent off-duty?” you asked gently.
Hound exhaled a faint laugh—just enough breath to make it real. “Only when I’m trying not to ruin something.”
You turned toward him slightly. “Ruin what?”
He met your gaze. And something about it—about the lack of armor in his eyes—made the silence between you shift. He didn’t answer right away.
Instead, his hand lifted—callused and gloved—almost as if to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. But he stopped, fingers hovering just near your cheek.
“I’m not good at this,” he said quietly.
You swallowed. “You don’t have to be.”
A breath passed.
He leaned in—barely. The kind of lean that spoke of hesitation, of a soldier measuring risk, calculating damage, even here. Even now.
And you leaned in, too.
It wasn’t a kiss. Not yet. But the space between you narrowed to a thread, the kind you didn’t want to break. His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back up.
Then—
“Sergeant.”
The voice cracked the moment apart like a blaster round through glass.
Both of you jerked slightly apart, tension resetting in your shoulders. Grizzer lifted his head from your lap, a low rumble forming deep in his throat.
Commander Fox stood at the top of the stairwell, arms folded, expression unreadable. His helmet was clipped to his belt, and his voice was flat.
“We’re short a patrol on Sector C-14. I need you on rotation, now.”
Hound’s jaw clenched, but he nodded once, efficient and emotionless.
“Copy that.”
Fox’s gaze slid to you, then to Grizzer—who was now fully on his feet, hackles half-raised, eyes locked on the Commander like he was prey. A low growl echoed across the steel.
“Call off your mutt,” Fox said sharply.
“He’s not a mutt,” you said before thinking, standing slowly and resting a hand on Grizzer’s flank. “He just doesn’t like people who interrupt.”
Fox’s brow twitched. Hound gave you the faintest side-glance—half warning, half impressed.
“See that he’s leashed and off the hangar levels by 2200,” Fox added, then turned and walked off without another word.
Silence returned, but it wasn’t the same.
Hound rose to his feet beside you. Grizzer stayed close to your leg, still staring toward the stairwell.
You broke the quiet first. “Almost.”
He nodded, quiet.
“Yeah.”
Neither of you said it. You didn’t need to.
But as he stepped away, pausing just long enough for one last look, you caught the faintest flicker of something in his voice—something that sounded like hope.
“I’m on rotation ‘til 0300,” he said. “But I’ll be back.”
You nodded once, heart steady but loud. “I’ll wait.”
Grizzer huffed.
Hound gave the massiff a rare half-smile.
“Try not to bite Fox next time,” he muttered.
But even you could tell… he wasn’t entirely serious.
⸻
You were still awake.
The barracks were quiet. You’d been sitting on a folded crate just outside the kennel med bay, a stim-caf growing cold between your hands, eyes scanning the darkened corridor.
When the outer hatch hissed open, your breath caught.
Hound stepped through first—helmet on, armor dulled with soot and carbon scuffs. But it wasn’t him your eyes locked on.
It was Grizzer.
He limped in beside his handler, front right paw curled tight to avoid weight, blood drying in a jagged smear up his shoulder. His thick tail was low but not tucked—still alert, still proud, but hurting.
“Blaster graze,” Hound said as he approached, voice clipped, too calm.
You were already moving.
“I’m not a vet, but—bring him in. Now.”
Hound didn’t argue.
He followed you through the kennel’s side hall into the back medical stall—one of the few areas with proper light and clean storage drawers. You cleared the low bench, grabbing antiseptic, gauze, a med-spray from your locker.
Grizzer lay down without command, eyes tracking you but not fighting. You took that as trust.
You worked in silence. Gently shaving back the singed fur, dabbing the graze clean. It wasn’t deep, but it had burned skin—angry, red, raw.
You caught Hound’s hands twitching at his sides more than once.
“He’ll be okay,” you said softly. “No nerve damage. He’ll walk it off in two days.”
Hound crouched beside Grizzer, resting one hand on the massiff’s uninjured shoulder, his other brushing through the thick fur behind his ear.
The silence that settled wasn’t empty—it was full.
Full of the sound of breath evening out. Of blood pressure lowering. Of armor creaking as a soldier finally let go.
“You care about him like he’s more than a partner,” you said, not as a question.
“He’s the only constant I’ve had since Kamino.”
The way he said it—low, quiet, unsentimental—landed heavy.
“I get that,” you replied. “You lose enough people, the ones who stay matter more.”
Grizzer let out a tired huff and nudged your wrist with his nose.
You smiled. “And he’s got good taste in people.”
Hound looked up at you.
Not guarded this time. Not assessing. Just looking.
“You stayed up,” he said.
“I said I’d wait.”
He stood slowly, watching you as you finished wrapping the bandage. The space between you narrowed again—this time in quiet exhaustion, quiet care.
You didn’t flinch when he reached up—just brushed a hand over your cheek, gentle, almost reverent.
He exhaled.
Then you leaned into him.
And he kissed you.
It wasn’t desperate or sharp—just honest. The kind of kiss that says I trust you, the kind that follows after weeks of tension and hours of worry. You melted into it, letting your hand rest over the back of his neckplate, letting him feel that he wasn’t alone anymore.
Then—
Grizzer groaned and shifted between your legs, snout nudging the both of you apart. He pushed his head under your arm and leaned hard into your ribs, jealous and affectionate all at once.
You laughed, breathless. “You little saboteur.”
“He’s worse than Fox,” Hound muttered.
You and Hound both turned as the side hall door hissed open again.
“Oh for kriff’s—”
Commander Thorn stood in the doorway, a datapad in hand, brows raised.
He took one look at the scene—Grizzer crammed between the two of you like a possessive third wheel, Hound with his hand still at your waist, you flushed and tousled.
There was a long pause.
Thorn blinked once. Then he pivoted neatly on his heel.
“I don’t wanna know about it,” he said, walking off.
The door hissed shut again behind him.
Silence.
Then Hound let out a low chuckle—just a puff of breath, really, but it was genuine. He looked down at you, still holding your waist.
“At least it wasn’t Fox.”
You smiled. “I’ll take it.”
Grizzer gave one last grunt of satisfaction and nosed between you both again.
Hound shook his head, but his hand didn’t leave your side.
Story Summary: For a Nightsister, living in Coruscant's undercity provides certain, unexpected perks. If you're clever and resourceful, getting one's hands on spell ingredients is not as difficult as one might imagine. So what if you're technically breaking the law here and there? No one has ever been harmed by what you're doing! Until someone following you for several months has finally caught you unawares, that is… That "someone" is Sergeant Hound of the Coruscant Guard — with whom you have some fraught history. Things become more complicated when the (mis)use of a highly experimental spell and it's begrudging bond forces mutual your cooperation in order to reverse its effects. You may have started in the doghouse, but there could still be hope of letting sleeping dogs lie…
Story Warnings & Information: 2nd Person POV; undescribed Fem!Reader. Reader is a Nightsister. Magical mishaps/spell gone wrong. Uncontrolled transformations. Implied nudity. Enemies/Rivals to Friends to Lovers. Moderate language. Brief moment(s) of peril. Use of Mando'a. Heavy narrative and stylistic use of italics and bolding. No massiffs were harmed in the making of this fic. Some details about charhounds and massiffs are purely author speculation. Written for @pinascloneevents.
Event Tropes & Prompts: Witch and familiar; Hounds of the underworld
Word Count: 8,611
Rabid rancors… If the sisters ever discover what happened tonight, you'll be exiled from the clan for sure!
This wasn't meant to happen. The plan was to go material-gathering and avoid being caught. Like a hundred times before.
You swear — you only entered this out-of-the-way greenhouse to "acquire" a TINY branch from a mature Grave Thorn. The tiniest! From one of the trees way, WAY in the back. No one would ever realize it was missing given how crooked and gnarled they grew to begin with. And if by some miracle they did, your cutting would likely have grown into a proper sapling in that time! (Assuming those reference texts were as credible as they claimed.) In the city-planet that never sleeps, ordinarily it wouldn't raise much suspicion for a lone woman to enter a public-access greenhouse in the dead of night.
Not to a majority of the other shadow-slinking citizens, apart from one.
Hound: massiff-handler and Sergeant of the Coruscant Guard.
You've managed to evade him for three months. That's twenty-one standard weeks of successfully giving him and his massiff the slip. Throwing the duo off your trail. Foiling attempt after attempt to follow you — bring a stop to your "sampling" sprees and five-finger-discounts.
Tonight, however, you weren't careful enough. Had grown too cocksure. Too complacent.
Some clue you neglected to conceal had been caught by the sergeant's watchful eye. Set off his radar and a subsequent pursuit. Hound had long since proven he possessed a very particular set of skills. Had the means to follow you into the subterranean greenhouse undetected. The advantage of frightening you half to death by beseeching a belay of your botanical burglary.
"You there! Stop!"
Caught off guard, it was impossible to prepare yourself for what transpired next.
And there was no better way to describe the speed than by making use of a cliché — it all happened so fast. Too fast! With Sergeant Hound rushing forward, the grafting knife dropped from your hands. He was ducking under low-hanging boughs. Issuing further commands. Celebrating premature victory.
You will surrender!
You're not getting away this time!!
The foraging bag hanging off your shoulder up to that point dislodged, crashing into the dirt with a fragile crunch as you desperately backpedaled.
There was only one avenue of escape: past the sprinting sergeant. Who was almost certainly going to catch you.
Knowing there were only seconds left to act, words to an improvised incantation came tumbling out of your mouth.
A masterclass spell spoken with the sputtering confidence of a novice — well, you're quite lucky that it worked.
… in some regards.
It very well could have killed you.
A pity, really.
Because death-by-fiery-explosion would at least been quick and painless compared to the way you're likely going to die instead.
There were few things worse than a pissed-off Corrie.
If one were to take a poll, odds are the average, slightly-more-law-abiding Coruscanti citizen would reporting finding the following more frightening than an armed, 1.83 meter-tall Clone running after you in a full armor kit.
The carnivorous grin of a "re-homed" nexu skulking through damp back alleys the deeper one traversed Triple Zero.
An unchecked infestation of stone mites.
And a young dianoga crawling out of the toilets in a public refresher.
You were now face-to-face with the newest contender to that question. The only thing worse than a pissed-off Corrie was one inexplicably transformed into an animal. Not just any common and cuddly animal either. A roaring pillar of fire and thin clouds of sulfuric gas were your first sign things had gotten too hot to handle.
When the pillar vanished as suddenly as it appeared, Sergeant Hound's human form had been replaced for one that hailed from his namesake in a bitter twist of irony.
He had to be the largest charhound the galaxy has ever seen.
Angriest, too.
Hound's four-legged form was entirely wreathed in flame. Fire burst from the cranky canine's mouth with every frenzied, booming bark. Blazing yellow eyes fixed themselves upon your every shaky step.
Looks like you'd be cooked to a crisp after all — rapidly running out of room for a comfortable retreat. For every bit of your backpedaling, Hound took two steps forward. There had to be something you could come up with. Create a daring diversion and make an escape. A growth spell on the bony bramble sprouting along the trunk of a Grave Thorn to make a snare? That would work, but you'd have to douse Hound's blazing body with enough water first! The greenhouse's solitary hose is too far beyond the reach of your powers. And you see no irrigation lines. That leaves only the sprinklers!
A hopeful glance at the roof reveals a ridiculously inadequate fire suppression system. Explains why the pillar of fire never set anything off. Honestly it might as well not exist at all. Any hope of bending the water to your will with a clever spell finds itself dashed to pieces.
You never envisioned this game of cat and mouse coming to an end—if it ever would—with one of you becoming barbecued…
Your back makes abrupt contact with the greenhouse wall.
Should you bother bracing yourself? Or should you embrace your fate of being flambéed?
Winged goddess — this is it.
Hound had you right where he wanted you. Backed into an impossible corner at long last. And he'd done it without his loyal massiff to boot. Damn you! Out of all the Corries stationed on this planet, why did you have to taunt a karking massiff-handler all those months ago?!
He certainly wasn't the only military personnel who responded to the 'strange woman with sharp blade' report Coruscant Security Force had been too scared to handle on their own. (Hardly your fault a knife was often the most efficient tool to harvest much-needed botanical ingredients.) You could've picked one of the shivering shock troopers to taunt instead.
Had you known challenging an Advanced Recon Force trooper with a sing-song "Catch me if you can!" would lead to THIS, you would have!
The scorching, snarling sergeant was now so close, he could easily—
Wait a minute.
Aurek-Resh-Forn spelled—
Finding your voice with a bout of nervous laughter, you blurt, "Holy shit. You're an ARF trooper. Named Hound. And now you're a— I guess some jokes really do write themselves! Things can possibly get any more literal than… THIS."
That was, without a doubt, the dumbest possible thing that one could've said in this instance.
Yet in spite of their ridiculousness, it successfully stops the colossal charhound in his tracks. Sergeant Hound no longer growls. Or snarls. Or even barks. He falls silent for the first time since his doggone transformation. You have no idea whether he's puzzled or unimpressed by your observation. Focus has been given to something else entirely.
His enveloping flame rapidly sputters out.
For the first time, you have an unobstructed idea of what Hound looks like beneath the raging inferno.
While a typical charhound's coat is an imposing black, the sergeant's is more of a sooty gray. Slightly darker than that of the breast plating on his armor. And further unlike a normal charhound, some armor markings were able to translate themselves through the short fur. The red stripes adorning Hound's white kama appeared as isolated brindling along his hind legs. Same could be said for the helmet markings — though these were only slightly more approximate.
You'd have to be forgiven for not making estimates of his size. Staying clear of that pointed maw full of terror-inspiring teeth took a higher precedent. As would be finding a way to fix this fine mess…
No one, not even a Nightsister, wanted to stick around and find out how much worse an entire delegation's worth of pissed-off Corries would be compared to one.
Leaving would not be so easy — naturally.
Stepping forward, you're met with a low, warning growl from Sergeant Hound. Short, smoking, and sans singeing fire.
Another step. Another growl to match.
Step, growl, smoke.
Step, growl, smoke.
"Easy now…" you utter softly, eyes flicking to your bag slumped a little ways behind the Clone-turned-charhound.
Maybe, if you go slowly, Hound won't pounce. Won't bring down those massive (and likely hot) paws with the intention of knocking you off your feet. Who knows how easily the sergeant could scruff you by the back of your clothing in this form. The sheer strength of his bite-force. Or his strength in general! Perhaps Hound was capable of dragging you down to some detention center and mete out long-overdue punishments.
Again, it was better if you didn't find out.
Same way it was better that the Coruscant Guard remained none the wiser to this magical mishap until you could find a way to reverse things. Make no mistake; you were thoroughly wiping any memory of this night from Sergeant Hound's mind once the enchantment was erased.
Praise the sisters for teaching you that spell.
You continue stepping forward. Inching closer. Hound's growls peter out into soft, almost crackly chuffs.
"That's it. Not gonna hurt you. Just need to–"
Your eyes flick one too many times behind him. Hound notices. (Of course he notices.) Trotting to it, the sergeant's keen nose susses out the rough canvas sack of horticultural goodies you've gathered tonight in the semi-darkness. He positions his lithe body between you and your pilfered property.
Fuck.
"Be a nice doggy… Leave it," you beg.
One hind leg starts to lift — a warning. Charhound urine is hot enough to ignite the right material. Which would be damn near everything in that bag. A newly-gained sense of intuition is the only explanation you can think of to answer how Hound knows what kind of bargaining power he has over you. Dog-form be damned.
"W-wait. Look. Yes — stealing bad, I'm under arrest, blah, blah, blah! But if you pee on my bag, there's a chance you'll burn something I can make into a— a cure to a crisp! Then it'll take me even longer to turn you back to normal!"
Hound lets out a begrudging huff. While he wouldn't exactly call himself your biggest fan, especially right now, you had a point. The leg is lowered… But not before you see every bit of his absolute annoyance in a roll of his eyes.
Doesn't take much of an imagination to hear the unspoken word in your head with near-perfect clarity.
Fine.
You breathe a cautious sigh of relief. Even utter a short thank you—sincere and uncomplicated—as you skirt past the charhound Corrie. Carefully scooping up the bag, you apprehensively gauge the amount of damaged goods inside.
Its a total loss.
As you suspected, the bulbous jar full of granite slugs had shattered open. The jar specifically charmed to contain them. An hour or two's worth of digging, plucking and pruning arcane-applicable foliage… gone the way of corrosive goo. Fucking fuck! These silica parasites introduced generations ago by the Republic to undercity levels of Coruscant to act as a creepy-crawly clean-up crew don't even eat any of this stuff! And yet — it's ruined all the same. You can't even bring yourself to think of salvaging the bag.
Great.
Just great.
Having to start at square one will set things back by a Hutt's pace. But that's not all. To really top it off, it's occurred to you that you don't know what 'square one' for your first predicament is either. You hadn't yet gotten as far as learning the counter-spell. Or a reversal method.
Or— Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!!
You'll have to take Hound with you. Back to where you lived. So far as you were aware, he knew neither hide nor hair of your domestic dwelling's location. But what other choices did you have? You can't send the sergeant back to his brothers in this condition. At the same time you're not sure you can leave Hound out in the open.
If he was same size as a regular charhound, maybe. Maybe it would be possible. The average length for a charhound was something like 1.14 meters from the canine's snout to the end of their tail. Sergeant Hound's hellish form on the other hand? Far bigger. Roughly 2.10, if you had to guess. Nary a clue how many kilograms he weighed compared to the 39.9 average… Fat chance an overnight kennel would take him.
Assuming one would be properly equipped to handle a charhound in the first place.
"C'mon, trooper… You better come with me," you murmur.
Locating your grafting knife, the two of you exit the greenhouse. The remnants of your bag are pitched inside the nearest refuse bin with a murderous grumble. You'd always be able to collect more granite slugs, but good foraging bags are so hard to come by… As are sturdy jars. Next time, you're adding a shatterproof charm.
You dust off your hands. Then take a deep, calming breath. Mood affects magic, as the sisters say. The same goes for time.
"I don't like the idea any more than you do. But we don't have all night."
With Sergeant Hound hot on your heels, you start on the path back home.
This was going to be an incredibly long night… First of many, in fact.
But you're getting ahead of yourself.
You first tried leaving Sergeant Hound outside your apartment building with a mocking "Stay, boy," — thinking you could just nip inside and collect what you needed. Grab your next-best bag. Look at the spell. Scribble down a list of materials required to break it. Then nip out.
Only the sergeant followed you inside. And apparently, not by choice. You were able to walk maybe 4.5 meters away from Hound before the tell-tale tik-tik-tik! of long black nails came to a trot behind you. Trying again, you held the outside door open and Hound eagerly loped through it.
You really did not want him to know your apartment number. Hound knowing the building was as far as you were willing to compromise. But then it happened again. As soon as you got four and a half meters from the door, Sergeant Hound found a way inside. His body stiff. Ears held high and still. Tail swinging faster than a scythe at harvest.
Hound was regarded with half-lidded eyes. This was not amusing in the slightest. You would be inside five minutes, tops.
"You're fucking kidding me, right?"
No, an extra vigorous slashing of his long tail seemed to say.
His body began to smolder only seconds later, his apparent outrage equal to yours (if not more). "Then go wait outside! I'll never forgive you if you burn down my building," you snapped. If Hound could work his way inside, then surely he could do the same getting out.
You kept walking. So did he.
Owing to the nascent nature of the spell, how exactly it worked remained unclear. But it was becoming plainly evident that Hound had to follow you. And you didn't like the strongest possibility that was going to answer why. "What, you're like my familiar now or something? Rabid rancors, this is just perfect…" You can't exactly stand each other. Does he know just how many potent herb clippings you burned to confuse his quadrupedal companion? Good clippings that could've been used for healing salves? Or medicine!?
You do your best not to gut every grow bed you come across, knowing the plants you harvest from aren't your own. That the folks living in the undercity levels have put great care into foliage with low-light needs. All for something organic to make these urban canyons feel less… barren. More natural.
So taking too much is wrong. You know taking any is wrong. And that you're going to have to do it in front of Sergeant Hound, repeatedly. (The spell doesn't leave any luxury of staying any further from him than four and a half meters!) He's just going to have to tolerate it.
You're not a bad person, y'know.
Reaching your floor, you curse bitterly. With so much going on, you had forgotten your apartment is at the very end of the hall. Now Hound will have to do more than just see the door number.
Things keep getting better and better.
"Kriff me…"
I'll pass.
You look down, meeting the large charhound's eye. Did he just–? Are you…? HAVE YOU—?
"Did you just… say… 'I'll pass', sarge?"
Say wasn't the right word. But it was accurate enough. Those prior instances you heard Hound's voice in your head had in fact happened. Now things were getting far more interesting. Extra complicated, too. Not only could Hound understand what you were saying to him, but he was capable of responding. How was that even possible? Was that part of the dark magicks you performed — forming some kind of telepathic link with your unwitting familiar?
(Force forsake you: it better not be a two-way process.)
Hound whined. Growing impatient. Antsy. You had been the one who said you didn't have all night. Now you were standing there, wasting time. Precious time he now had to worry about someone being sent out to look for him when he failed to report.
'If I say yes, can we get this over with? I'd like to get back to my proper body. My brothers.'
Yeah. That makes two of you. Sooner he's out of your apartment the better.
You usher him inside. "Hope you're housebroken…"
'Bite me.'
You enter your tiled kitchen, instructing the overgrown charhound to wait here for the time being. At least here he's less likely to burn any holes through the floor. (You'll never hear the end of it if Hound ruined the carpets…) It takes a bit of rooting around the cabinets in order to find what you're looking for. You just so happen to have ONE bowl made of Elphrona crystal. This, you know can withstand a charhound's heat.
Hating Sergeant Hound (…sort of…) is no excuse to be a terrible host.
"I'm teasing. Obviously," you say, gingerly using the hem or sleeve of your clothing to wipe dust from the dishware. "This'll be a lot more fun if you're less grumpy."
'What are you doing with that? Nightsister stuff?'
Using the faucet, you fill the bowl and set close to Hound.
"Thought you might be thirsty. Just… be careful with it, please. That's the only Elphrona crystal I have."
Hound eyes the bowl warily. Then you.
With a slight sigh, you pinch the bridge of your nose. "Hey. You watched me fill it from the sink. Promise it's not the Waters of Truth, or something."
'That's not what I'm worried about… Won't it evaporate if I try to drink?'
Hmm. A good question, honestly. You can't say you have any idea. But not to worry. If Hound needs more water by the time you've gathered everything, then you'll give him more. After all… the sergeant will be stuck in this form for… a while.
Looking at the notes you were given for the spell proves there IS a cure. A reversal. Whatever you want to call it.
But the reversal-cure is much like baking bread — it requires time to proof.
Four weeks; assuming your ingredients are fresh.
Twenty days of doggy daycare.
You're doomed.
Right…?
You've known rusted-over cargo freighters to have smoother flights than your first five days forcibly cohabitating with Sergeant Hound…
To say things were tense was the understatement of the era.
The tension (re)started before the two of you returned to the undercity streets. Before you even exited your apartment, for that matter. The ARF trooper was not thrilled with your plan to repurpose an old bantha leather belt. Not if it meant doing so would better sell the story he was your massive mutt. Planet-wide leash laws be damned! This damn spell be damned!
You were not above throwing Hound's own regulations—or the exact city ordinance—in his face in order to fit him with a collar.
"You want some underpaid animal control team on our asses? Or CSF? Or worse yet, your brothers?"
… no. He didn't want his vode to see him like this. And Tanivos Divo of the Coruscant Security Force gave Hound a headache. (Though that was nothing special; Divo gave everyone headaches.) He'd wear the kriffing collar. Only because he had to. Not because he was your "familiar". Or because it'd make whatever yarn you'd have to spin about him being a "pet" make sense. It was simply a matter of law.
Hound made it very clear he would not be entertaining the rudimentary collar for long, either.
"It's only temporary," you promised while fitting it for the first time.
'I'd prefer a harness. More secure.'
"Might be tricky, finding one that fits… And works for charhounds. But I'll see what I can do. Okay?"
Hound only chuffed. You took it to mean "fine" — at least in a neutral sort of way. Both of you had to work together and make the best of a bad situation. That didn't mean either had to like it. You told yourselves the truce was only temporary.
And you quickly learned what did and didn't work over the course of the first three days.
The first time the sergeant heard the familiar lockstep of patrolling Corries, he pulled you by the wrist into deeper shadow to keep out of sight. Hound's method worked… but it also left you with minor burn and bite injuries. Healing them depleted what was left of your last batch of salve. Safe to say you started wearing longer, thicker sleeves going forward. Just until you found and ordered—then later magicked—a harness large enough to hold onto instead of the flimsy leash.
"Sorry about the glitter. It was the first one that I found with express delivery…"
Hound's blazing eyes were fixed on the harness, leash and collar set you held in your hands after pulling it free of the courier package. Everything looked about the right size. Sturdy, too. Now… the glitter color scheme oh-so-creatively dubbed "Mustafar Magma"… Finding microplastics in his fur and on his skin (and around your apartment) for years to come were the least of Hound's concerns right now.
But should he be… thanking you?
When Hound didn't answer, you returned everything to the package. "I can try finding something else. But it'll take longer to get here than–"
'My masculinity isn't so fragile that I can't handle a little black and red glitter. I've been sleeping in your bathtub the last three nights, after all.'
You pull things out a second time.
Trying to think of the right words to bring this next topic up. Speaking of your bathtub… Were the two of you still ignoring the bantha for now, or could you talk about what happened?
You weren't just talking about a thin layer of soot you had to sweep out each morning, lest it enter the pipes. Nor the fact you were already feeling sorry for Hound for having to sleep there. You had pity for him, even, after hearing how much he missed his loyal massiff… She had been sleeping at the foot of Hound's narrow bunk back at HQ every night since the two of them were stationed here.
Emphasis on had been. Turns out the reason Grizzer wasn't with Hound the other night in the greenhouse was she had a litter of three pups less than a week before. Some deeper massiff instincts emerged after Grizzer had her litter. Became more territorial. Started sleeping under Hound's bunk instead. Snapping and growling at anyone who came too close while the pups were still vulnerable — the characteristic armored hide slowly finished thickening after birth.
Hound almost sounded like he was trying convince himself more than you while cautiously pacing your kitchen.
'I'm sure we both just dreamed it. The- The refresher gets pretty dark! We were seeing things!'
"Hound. I've crept in to use the refresher while you were asleep. Evening a calm, sleeping charhound throws a bit of light from right here—" You point to the pattern of glowing red, orange and yellow lines that have a vent-like appearance and cover his body from throat to underbelly when he's close enough to touch, "—no different from a freshly-started fire! There was no light when I snuck in last night!"
'You were seeing things,' Hound insists, louder this time.
"Oh. I saw things alright. I got an eyeful—"
'You did not!'
"—of a grown, naked-ass man in my bathtub!!"
Your argument got more and more heated until eventually Hound was thrown under a ripping cold shower head.
The rest of that night was spent in slightly smoky silence.
Eight straight nights of venturing deeper into Coruscant—level by level—elapsed before you and Sergeant Hound looked like things might be turning a corner.
You were arguing less. None of your other cabinets or kitchen chairs were subjected to sudden blazes. And you had taken a little inspiration from a holofilm you heard about once. By using a visible in-ear communicator, you were able to talk out loud to Hound without raising too many eyebrows.
'What are we looking for tonight?'
"Be nice if I could find some mushlings…" you murmured thoughtfully, looking about.
The two of you were carefully passing through a low-level market. Doing some more honest shopping for a change. If you walked normally, and Hound kept close, then people generally gave you a wide berth. Hound bristled nervously when someone came close. While you took precautions against his ambient heat, others had not. Any herb stalls the two of you came across meant you'd have to let go of the harness loop and use the longer leash instead. Couldn't very well peruse the cultural imports if Hound simply standing near the herbs and fungi caused them to wilt. So long as you were not separated by more than that 4.5 meters, then Hound could safely stand back a ways to give the vendors peace of mind.
'What's so special about mushlings?'
"They're typically boiled down to make the tattoos Nightsisters and Nightbrothers have come to be known for, but you can also use them for other things. Natural paints… Spells… A hearty Dathomirian stew I haven't had in a while…"
Hound's impatient comment that you weren't here for that kind of grocery shopping goes unaddressed. The vendor in front of you asks who the hell you're talking to, not noticing the ear piece. Fortunately, you have a canned response. (But it could do with some refinement.)
"Sorry sir. Just a, uh, friend of mine. Only time I have to talk to him lately is in the middle of Sergeant Smokey's late-night walks!"
There's a pointed huff behind you.
'Sergeant Smokey? You can do better than that…'
With a soft oh sound, the vendor nods. "I see! And, uh, what's with… his… red stripes there?" He gestures to Hound's brindling. You're just going to ignore the fact that a total stranger felt the need to glance at Hound's private bits.
What? In a galaxy where your nextdoor neighbor has three heads and you can surgically install cybernetics for the hell of it, he's going to get critical about needlessly narrow gender norms on a dog because of a glitter harness? What a pointless thing to give oneself a headache over.
You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Or laugh over Hound's biting sarcasm.
'Someone's jealous of my whimsy…'
"Pet dye. Turned out a little darker than I thought it would… Helps me identify Smokey in the event some sicko tries to take him. Again, I mean. We were… separated… for something like three months."
You're lying through your teeth. You know it. Hound knows it. But people tended to be pretty distrustful of Nightsisters. Even on the lower levels of Courscant, if one could believe it. Knowing how, and when, to show you weren't as dangerous as people thought you were was often enough to successfully disarm certain preconceived notions. It was invaluable, really.
"Huh! Real smart idea that is. You sound real glad to have ol' Smokey back."
You're not quite sure what to say, so you merely settle on a nod. Hound waits for the vendor to answer how fresh the mushling pods are before commending you on your believability. Credits change hands. The produce bag of mushlings is carefully added to the rest of your possessions.
'Damn. Think a few brothers could stand to learn a thing or two — you made that sound so convincing I could've fallen for it myself!'
"Thanks," you say.
Both Hound and the vendor think you're talking to them. Truth is you're not sure yourself. Taking hold of the harness loop, you and Hound weave yourselves back into the crowd quieter than creep vines. You're still not sure what to say. The faux sincerity of your tone, making yourself sound like a true pet-owner recalling a distressing situation, had been startlingly… easy. But Hound wasn't your pet.
You're talking about a person who's taken on a canine form because of a fuck-up. Your fuck-up. It would be nothing short of naïveté to think Sergeant Hound wouldn't have hauled you in were it not for the aforementioned fuck-up. That had been his almost single-minded goal these past three long months. He, an ARF trooper, was not going to allow the likes of a Nightsister to best him. Not without a fair fight.
But one can hardly call it "fair" when your opponent cheats, now can you?
Not only did you cheat, you… further stripped the sergeant of his finite autonomy.
Hound can't go anywhere without you. Hasn't slept in his own bunk. Hasn't seen his massiff and her three pups. Doesn't know if someone's been taking care of them in his absence. Has had to hide himself from his own brothers. Hide YOU from them, too. If you're caught before the cure is finished, then the sergeant may be stuck like this. Likely forever.
And you'll be no closer to puzzling out why he sometimes reverts back to human form — often in his sleep.
Maybe the two of you should consider shifting your collective focus for a night or more.
Determine whether Hound can change forms on command, so to speak.
Better add a stop to your late-night shopping plans.
"Hey. What size clothing do you wear?"
Hound's golden gaze turns to you.
'Why do you ask…?'
He'll see soon.
Well… hopefully.
The morning of the ninth day started with buying emergency supplies.
After hunting through the Holonet for pet-friendly stores—entirely too late last night might you add—you found one that had what you needed in order to safely test some theories.
Never mind that nine straight cycles of ridiculously late nights were beginning to catch up with you. Or that the store was located on the surface. At the very least, Sergeant Hound's brothers deserved to know he wasn't dead. Honestly both of you should have thought of that sooner. Or tried to figure this out sooner. Whether Hound had to be asleep to revert back to human form, or if it was tied to some commonly-used magical mechanic.
Perhaps through an emotional component. Or, say, moon phases.
The latter was the current prevailing theory. Coruscant's four moons and their asynchronous lunar cycles could potentially explain why Hound reverted to human form on select nights. It would take a bit of checking reputable astrological records against his known transformations to know for sure, of course. Getting the exact phases of Centax-1 through 3 and Hesperidium will eliminate a ton of guesswork.
And Hound knew just where to look.
'The Guard has access to the data logs from the Weather Control Station. They have the most accurate readings, which we occasionally need for high-profile reports. The infiltration of Ziro's Palace in the Federal District, for example.'
"Careful, sarge. Sounding a bit boastful," you teased.
'Nothing to boast about, except for the gett'se of my brothers. That was a bit before I got here and properly joined the Guard.'
The what of his brothers?
'GEHT-sey. Means courage.'
Hound would go so far as to use the word to describe you at this point. Took no small amount of daring to do any of what you did. To leave your home vulnerable and exposed to him. Tempting fate—even literally playing with fire—by keeping a charhound of his size somewhere a charhound was never meant to be. By waiting so long to buy fire blankets in various sizes and as many canisters of expanding fire retardant as your arms could carry.
It took guts risking both safety and peace when you first crossed paths. Not to mention each of the previous eight nights putting yourself in repeated jeopardy. The trust you had to put in Hound fighting training, fighting instinct, not to reach out to his brothers. Call for help. Give them a signal. Some proof of life.
And your back-up plan? Well Hound didn't know what that was.
Trying to determine if he could voluntarily transform—and for how long—was of course going to be… risky. Hopefully none of the attempts would set off any smoke detectors. But you had a lot of confidence in a second theory. If provoking Hound set him ablaze, then maybe if he was calmer, chances were he MIGHT revert to human form.
Fully nude human form, granted — but still positive progress! That's what you had gotten more than one pair of clothes in his size for.
It was the next step you had in mind that Hound had issue with.
Arranging a secretive meeting with his commander.
Was that gumption; as gett'se as it gets?
Or was it sure suicide?
Hound was no closer to deciding what your plan was as much of the ninth day practicing the reverse transformation gradually bled into the ninth night. Now, you were only a night away from completing the concoction simmering on a hotplate in your kitchen. Then came leaving it to "proof" for the remaining two weeks.
Ten days.
That was a significant amount of time to Clones.
A significant amount of time to be absent. To… miss and be missed. Blast, did Hound miss Grizzer. His best girl. His crime-stopping partner. He missed the shitty GAR food. The too-stiff mattress of his bunk. His armor, his weapons, his brothers. He missed having hands! And two feet!
Missed racing through the winding streets. Chasing after criminals and thugs. The thrilling challenge as he—
Wow.
It's been nine nights.
And Sergeant Hound isn't sure if he misses it or not. You have one night before you're supposed to meet Commander Fox behind Hasher's Corner Market on the surface. This may be his last chance to figure it out.
You find Hound urgently nosing you awake, harness in his mouth, at 0200. You had fallen asleep in the living room, too exhausted to take yourself to bed. (Fuuuuck… you'll be paying for that in the morning.) He lies and says he has to pee again in order to get you up. Next going through the trouble of finding laced footwear. You learn why soon enough.
'Run, ■itch, run,' Hound urges you with a sharp bark.
You're confused why he's led you so far from your apartment so early for the morning if not to do his business. If it was to insult you, surely Hound could have taken care of that in your apartment…
"Excuse me…?"
Hound adopted a play bow. Tail twitching. Long, ember-speckled tongue lolling from his mouth.
'I said run, witch!'
"Dammit, sarge. This is a really inconvenient time for zoomies…" With another groan, you begrudgingly break into a jog.
Within minutes you're awake enough to entertain a proper chase, giving Hound his answer.
If it was the pursuit of a petty criminal that he missed, then his tail shouldn't be wagging.
Turns out it was the fun all this time.
Night ten.
Ten nights of the sergeant being a charhound a size worthy of the underworld.
You were no closer to working out how Hound could successfully revert to human form only half the time.
The concoction would take another ten days to proof.
And Commander Fox was to meet you in this back alley fifteen minutes from now.
What might happen next, only the Force truly knows. Not even the sisters of your coven gifted enough to read the imprecise nature of the future could say. Would you catch a fatal case of blaster poisoning — shot on sight? Be arrested? Believed?
If Hound couldn't change back in front of Fox… what was going to happen to him?
The thought of him being stuck like this, forever, weighed on you heavily. You only meant to defend yourself and picked the worst possible spell. Okay; not actually the worst… That didn't mean it wasn't pretty damn bad on its own. There was no way to know if you dying tonight—as grim as that thought was—would undo your spell. No way to know if you'd be allowed to return home.
Or if you'd find yourself in some kind of… VIP guest suite courtesy of the Corries until you rectified this large, four-legged mistake…
For the first time in ten days, you were quite scared.
Scared enough to experience more than a tiny spook when the crimson commander turned up ten minutes early. He came melting out of the shadows. A single blaster drawn. Trigger finger tucked beside the barrel. Voice firm and venomous.
"Hands where I can see them, Nightsister. Don't try anything funny with that leash."
Panic was capable of poisoning even the cleverest of minds. The most courageous, too.
"Like what…?"
Words came out in a tremor. Fear for your safety, for Hound's safety, beat against your ribcage. The leash was held firm.
"Consider yourself lucky I met you alone as the message asked," Commander Fox answered cryptically. "Now where is Sergeant Hound?"
The ARF trooper whined behind you. High. Shrill. Hound's ambient heat began to climb as he pulled at the harness. Everything was falling into place at the worst possible time. The nature of the spell—the linchpin of the transformation—was emotional. Looking up the business end of his brother's blaster proved that.
Being in danger proved that.
You couldn't let the commander shoot his own brother.
Hound couldn't let his own brother shoot you.
He managed to wrench the harness loop free of your hand with a sharp lunge.
A warning, or a plaintive cry, punched itself free of someone's lungs.
"Don't–!"
WOOF!!
The DeeCee never had the chance to fire.
More than that, it was rendered inoperable.
Commander Fox's blaster—torn from the palm of his hand—now sat clamped in the charhound's maw, where it rapidly melted the firearm down to a useless hunk of metal.
Using only a single bark, Hound had created a small tongue of flame. Enough of a distraction to catch Fox off-guard and successfully disarm his superior of one of his blasters. Keep the two of you safe. Buy you time.
Get Commander Fox to look at him.
Really look at him. That's when the top dog of the Guard's composure begins to slip. Not far. Just far enough to keep him from drawing his other blaster on you. Hound paces forward, gradually driving Fox back. Creeping further and further away.
Two meters. Three meters. Four. Four and a half.
Five meters.
Commander Fox is stunned. "Why does your charhound have Sergeant Hound's armor markings?"
"He's not my charhound," you answer honestly.
"Then whose is he?"
"Wrong question, Commander…"
Fox looks down at Hound — really looks at him.
"It's you. Isn't it, vod?"
The sergeant's tail wags in answer. Slowly to start. Then faster than a scythe at harvest.
Oh yes.
It's really him.
Commander Fox carefully kneels into the permacrete, bringing himself eye to eye with his brother's charhound form.
He then removes his helmet. It's eased off his head. Perhaps afraid that, if removed too quickly, Hound will be spooked off. Vanish before his eyes. Something. Wisely, Fox keeps his gloves. He'll need them to scratch behind the charhound's ear longer than a few seconds as he works through his disbelief.
"We thought you were dead, Sergeant… That the witch you've spent so much time chasing might've finally killed you."
Wag slowing, Hound glances back at you. You've stayed where he left you. Five meters apart. The spell's tightly enforced proximity has loosened. It's anyone's guess why. Another emotional component? Some safety measure? Yet another thing to figure out. If you can.
Or better yet — want to.
"Hound," the commander scoffs softly, now looking at you too, "don't tell me you're suddenly friends after spending ten days with her! She turned you into a charhound—somehow—for blasts sake! I'm hoping by accident…"
It wasn't exactly an accident, you admit. Maybe Fox should hear the whole story somewhere other than this damp back alley. You've taken one Corrie too many back home as it stands, but it might help if the commander was shown proof that you've been working on reversing Hound's transformation.
Together, that is.
You're normally a one-Nightsister-show of course. But given the circumstances, there have been more than a few necessary changes. It will certainly be quite some time before you're keen to stretch your magick beyond the known limits again after… all of this. Having an unwitting familiar. Pulling together a time-consuming cure and leaving it to brew for ten days. Forcing Sergeant Hound and his brothers apart. Not reaching out far sooner.
Or being more forthcoming in that message.
"I wasn't sure you'd believe anything I told you, Commander Fox. Certainly not about turning Hound into a dog. Or the– Oh, how should I put this...?"
Hound whined to get your attention.
'Just rip the bacta patch off.'
Well… If the ARF trooper insists.
"Don't hate me for making your brother sleep in my bathtub. It's the most fireproof place I have that I could offer so he'd have a place to sleep. I had to use the refresher one night; found a Clone instead of a charhound sleeping in it. No armor. Or anything, really."
Trying to give Hound blankets to sleep on top of after that—in case it happened again—went up in flames the one and only time you tried.
Commander Fox chuckles softly before standing.
"And has it?"
"Only seems to work half the time we've tried triggering the transformation voluntarily, but, yes. So I— we left that part out in the message," you explain.
Better that you told Hound's superior in person. Someplace neutral. Keep it between the three of you to start. You knew there was a non-zero chance you had set up your own trap. That the commander would come with backup. You'd be placed in stun cuffs. Hauled away. Questioned. Or he, Fox, would save everyone the trouble with a single, well-placed shot.
And you can't decidedly lie — say you wouldn't blame him. Were you the one in those scuffed white boots, who knows. You might do the same. It's a dog-eat-dog galaxy out there. Anyone would eagerly attest to that; especially those on Coruscant.
No amount of glitz and glamor could ever hope to gild over the grime.
Folks like you living in the undercity understood that perfectly and were just doing what they can to get by.
Hound chuffs, thinking the same thing as his commander. "Ah. So that's how you rationalize petty theft."
"To help people? Yes. Whatever I take I use to make medicines. Curative salves. Ointments. Pain relief. Those are the requests I hear most of the time," is your almost pitiful explanation. You promise turning Commander Fox's men into charhounds is NOT part of the regular program.
Now… if you're going to be arrested, that's fine. Could he at least make it a matter of eventually? When his soldier is back to normal (hopefully within the next ten days)?
Hound again chuffs. It almost sounds laugh-like this time. He seems far less surprised than his commanding officer. With nothing but time on his paws, the sergeant has paid close attention to the herbs poking out of grow beds. The ones you've glanced at, hummed almost regretfully, and walked away from.
Fox couldn't help but chuckle, if only briefly. You had some damn nerve asking that. After your actions left the Guard in a tizzy for two weeks. Wondering what foul fate befell their ARF trooper. Imagining the worst. Working out how in the hells they could possibly track you down when you've given a man trained in stealth and reconnaissance a run for his (metaphorical) credits. Not for three hours. Or days. Or weeks. But three months.
Here you are, asking for another two weeks.
Commander Fox smiles. Soft and lazily. Dark brown eyes become drawn half-lidded in thought.
"Tell me, if you can, Sergeant Hound. She's been taking care of you, has she?"
The colossal charhound purrs. A vocalization the breed is capable of personally left unheard. Until now, that is. And it's warm. Slightly fond. Uncoerced.
"Good care?"
Hound's tail wags.
The strongest spell man's best friend can cast — solid endorsement.
Commander Fox reseats his helmet with a short nod. That's good enough for him. If his sergeant not only signaled he was being cared for, but stuck out his neck for you in spite of your… tense history… earlier, then he could graciously overlook the theft. Maybe for the time being. Or, maybe, for good.
Better that you not count on anything just yet. Forgiveness had it's limits. Whether that would apply to forgetting remained to be seen. You created quite the headache, y'know.
The commander is going to have a hell of a time figuring out how to explain this, starting with the other Corries.
Might not be something so easily covered up with a bit of clever paperwork like usual.
Sergeant Hound looked at you, head tilted. First to the left. Then the right. Considering something. Scheming.
Maybe there was.
Some time later…
Rabid rancors — if the sisters of your clan could see you now!
A simple plan to obtain a branch from a mature Grave Thorn tree grew into something wholly unprecedented. And what flourished first was not without it's share of biting briars, much like that tree. An unchecked domino effect between a Nightsister and a Clone who once couldn't stand each other. Each locked in a drawn out dance of pursuing law-enforcer versus evading law-breaker. By utilizing an untested spell, those became some of the wildest weeks of your life.
Never in a million lightyears did you imagine things would end up quite like this.
Though you will say you're glad they had.
Things as they are now are a marked improvement. You're worrying less about your supply stores drying up as quickly as they once did. Living free of concern about untimely run-ins with the Corries. And the Guard now has some unique bragging rights among the whole of the GAR. Not every detachment could say they had a Nightsister graciously making use of her many talents and assisting their ranks.
All it took was a bit of clever paperwork and Commander Fox leaping through one of the largest (and legal) loopholes he could find before anyone had the chance to close it.
A modest greenhouse was requisitioned for the Guard by using the "Other" category of the GAR's medical supplies order form. Fox explained, through careful and precise language, his carefully thought-out decision in branching out to natural remedies. Bleed off some of the straining demand for precious medical supplies, he claimed — supplies which were sorely needed by the vode on grueling frontlines scattered across the galaxy. The commander argued at length with the pencil pushers. First on the legitimacy of his use of the form. Then, the matter of who to hire (and the party responsible for the hiring).
"The Coruscant Guard feels quite strongly that we should be the ones to determine who will be filling the so-called "GARdener" position. Sergeant Hound's discovery and proposal of a Nightsister living in the Lower Levels, one with vast experience in many plants and their medicinal properties, will eliminate any need for a lengthy candidacy process. Furthermore, it already has my full support."
"And this is the same Nightsister who you say… I believe the words you used were 'cared for' this same trooper when he was, and again I quote, 'sick as a dog' those four or so weeks he was presumed M.I.A.?"
One and the same, was Commander Fox's reported reply. When pressed for further reasoning why the Guard had chosen you, the answer was limited to two words.
"Who better?"
Now for the low price of a little dirt under your fingernails, the relationship between the Corries and a Nightsister was no longer akin to hunter and prey. It was symbiotic, save for a single Corrie. In the time since curing Sergeant Hound of his four-legged predicament, your cat-and-mouse rivalry has been retired for something more romantic. You wouldn't say the change happened immediately. There was still a bit of refinement to go through. Learning what the other liked, loathed and longed for. Making it past the puppy stage of your love.
And now?
You were lucky if you could make it through most of your chores in the greenhouse before Hound inevitably came to "help" you these days. More accurately, it ought to be called "getting in your way" half the time. You didn't need a second set of hands—sometimes massiff paws—to dig holes in bigger and bigger grow beds, but you certainly won't turn them away, either. Brushed by gilded fingers of late afternoon sunlight, you and Hound worked between the rows together, as often as you could. Weeding. Fertilizing. Pruning. Plucking. Grafting.
Laughing. Teasing. Playfully taunting.
"Ah! There's my favorite witch," Hound called from the entrance. He was dropping by a little earlier than normal today. Must not be due to patrol. Your back was to the entrance, meaning you miss the cheeky smile currently playing across Hound's full lips.
"Was wondering if Grizzer and I had to make sure you weren't sneaking around the grounds of the Jedi Temple. Again."
"Now why would you think that, wags?"
That had only happened once, as Hound well knows. And while the Temple Guards who had sleeping spells cast on them feel differently, you had taken extreme care not to hurt anyone — or anything. It wasn't going to hurt the big tree in the courtyard so long as you shaved off the bark as thin as you possibly could. Nor did you need a lot. Being spotted by a yellow-eyed youngling ultimately meant none of that mattered, of course.
But… you can't possibly forget: that was how you met Hound to begin with. You're also the only witch he knows, you remind the sergeant from where you kneel in the greenhouse. Pouring over a sizeable swath of seed labels has taken up most of the afternoon. Some of these you do remember ordering. Others, less so.
"That makes you my favorite by default, doesn't it?"
You chuckle, smiling as you feel Hound take great care to wrap an arm against you while still keeping your dominant arm free to work. Hound stamps a chaste kiss into the space behind your ear. Then another, trailing lower this time.
Seeing as he was your favorite charhound — yes.
That certainly made you Hound's favorite witch.
If you made it this far, I want to quickly take a moment to thank you for reading the fic! 🩷 My original plan for an October/Halloween 2025 story would not be completed in time, so this was the "something short" backup plan! Hope you enjoyed~.
Summary: When you nearly get robbed on your way home from work, a certain Sergeant and his hound come to your rescue...
Pairings: Sergeant Hound x Fem!reader (Trans reader MtF)
Warnings: angst, robbery, mentions of injury, mentions of being misgendered, fluff, cute ending
Words: 1.1k
A/N: My first Corrie fic ever! I knew Hound and Grizzer were gonna make an appearance during my Pride month posts! The two gentlemen deserve so much love and there's not enough of it on here! Also this experience felt so real and raw in its own way, I really hope you all love it. It made me emotional ngl
Pride Masterlist here
Main masterlist here
You were not having a great night.
You were sticky from some drunkard dumping his drink on you during your dance, your feet were killing you from your heels and not to mention you were currently running for your life through the back alleys of lower Coruscant as you tried to evade the man who was trying to rob you.
“Help! Please someone! Help me!” you screamed as you turned a corner, hearing the man's boots pick up speed behind you. You tripped over a pile of trash and went rolling to the ground, scraping your legs and ripping your dress. You look up and see the man standing over you with a malicious smile as you clutch your bag tightly to your chest. He grabs your bag trying to pull it from your grasp as you fight to keep it in your hands when you see a huge, grey animal jump out of nowhere and bite the man's leg, throwing him to the ground.
“AAAHH! Get off me you stupid mutt!” he screams as you scurry away from him and what you now realize is a massiff from the Coruscant guard. A trooper in grey and red armor steps around you pulling out binders as the massiff continues to hold the man's leg in his mouth.
He then handcuffs the man and pats the massiff on the head, “Good girl Grizzer.”
You sit on the ground in complete shock as he re-leashes the hound and turns toward you, his helmet tilting, “You alright ma’am?”
You trail your gaze over your red scraped legs to your new pink glitter minidress that was now ripped up the side, barely hiding your panties and sigh defeatedly, “Not really...”
He walks over to you and offers his hand for you to stand. You take it and stand up with a wince, “Gonna have to take you to the station to get your statement... and I’ll treat your wounds for ya.”
Ten minutes later a speeder with another Coruscant guard appears and takes you, your attacker, the trooper and the hound back to the Corrie's headquarters. Once inside the clone you learned to be named Sergeant Hound leads you over to his desk and disappears for a few minutes. You feel ridiculous sitting here in your little minidress, your heels kicked off on the floor, covered in glitter and most likely garbage from your fall, while another guard sits at the desk beside you typing on his data pad completely ignoring you.
Sergeant Hound returns with a med kit and Grizzer trailing behind him to the rather large dog bed that sits behind his desk. Then he starts asking you all the standard questions. Where were you when he attacked you? Where were you going? Were you alone or with someone? Do you know your attacker?
After answering all his questions, he leans back in his chair with a med scanner, “Alright I’ll patch you up and then you’ll be free to go.”
“Thank you, Sergeant...” you say with a small smile, twirling your hair nervously. He takes the med scanner and slowly scans you from head to toe and freezes. He tilts head like he’s confused and scans you again. You look up at him worried, “Is everything alright?”
“I think the scanner is malfunctioning. It’s pulling up the wrong medical file...” he says while smacking the scanner, like that would fix the issue.
Your heart drops into your stomach, “May I see the file?”
He pauses for a moment and then turns the file toward you so you can see. Staring back at you is someone you’ve been trying to erase for a long time. Pale skin, strong jaw, striking blue eyes, short military cut your dad always insisted was a proper haircut, and a thin blonde mustache that you always hated. The man behind the desk at the Republic office assured you that he would have your ID taken care of. The young man staring at you from this medical file hasn’t existed for the last two years, you're not him anymore. (to be fair you never really were.)
You sigh defeated knowing you’ll have to go back to the republic office the next day and fight to have it changed again, “That was me Sergeant.”
He’s quiet for a moment just staring at you, “What did you say your name was?”
“It’s y/n y/l/n...” you say cautiously. He doesn’t say anything just scans you again and types something on your file and then grabs the bacta spray and bandages from the med kit and begins cleaning and dressing your wounds. “You said you were coming from work?”
You look down at him, “Yes I did.”
“Where do you work?” he asks casually.
“Oh, um I work at Drac’s. The little night club on level 55,” you explain trying to adjust your dress so you're not flashing the clone, “I’m a dancer there.”
He nods, “You certainly have the legs for it.”
You face goes red, “Umm thank you...”
He walks back over to his desk and begins typing fast on his data pad. Grizzer hops up from her bed and walks over to you nuzzling her head against your leg. You smile down at the hound patting her head affectionately, “I guess I owe you a thanks to Grizzer.”
The massiff licks your hand making you giggle. Hound looks up and sits there watching you and Grizzer with an unseen smile behind his helmet. He has never seen someone so beautiful, your long blonde hair fell around your shoulders, your blue eyes sparkled as you talked with Grizzer warmly, and your pink little dress left little to the imagination, but he was so grateful for it, you are stunning.
He clears his throat, “Alright I have everything I need here. You're free to go.”
“Thank you again for all your help Sergeant.” you say as you continue to pet Grizzer.
“Oh, one other thing.” Hound says as he turns his data pad towards you, and you gasp. In front of you was your file updated with your name and photo, bringing tears to your eyes, “I thought we better update everything to the correct information...”
A few tears slip from your eyes, and you smile brightly nodding, not being able to put into words how thankful you are. Hound stands and you do as well, grabbing your bag and your heels from the floor and then against your better judgement you lean forward and place a tender kiss on the side of the Sergeants helmet where his cheek would be. “Thank you again, Sergeant Hound.”
Hounds face was bright red under the helmet he so desperately wished he’d removed, “Uh- Umm you’re welcome, ma’am...”
“I don’t suppose you would be able to walk me home? For safety purposes of course.” You ask with a mischievous smile and a wink.
A/N: This is a follow-up to Part 1, which I wrote last year. The muse struck on the autumnal equinox, and who am I to reject her overture? Yes, I switched tenses, and no, I’m not sorry. Enjoy!
Pairing: Hound x Reader (Fem)
Rating: M (mature content intended for readers 18+; minors DNI)
Wordcount: 2.8K
Warnings and tags: fluff; domesticity; language; little bit of SMUT; one (1) slap on the ass; tickling; pinning; allusions to bondage; Reader is a bit of a brat; Hound is a playful switch (I don’t make the rules); this isn't as kinky as it sounds; I made up pretty much everything about Alderaanian culture, holiday observances, and spirituality for this fic, so don’t take anything here as having a basis in canon.
Summary: Autumn has come to Alderaan, and you’re stuck on kriffin’ Coruscant. But Hound won’t let that stop you from celebrating.
Suggested Listening:
This fic smells like: Hempz Apple Cinnamon Shortbread body lotion (autumn leaves; warm spices)
Part 1 | Masterlist | Sign up for my tag list
Grizzer launched herself off of your mattress with a ferocious snarl before you even heard the door chime. Hound startled awake with a muffled grunt, and you sat up, rubbing your eyes groggily and fumbling for your datapad to check the security holo.
“‘S goin’ on?” he mumbled.
“Groceries,” you rasped as you crawled out of bed and slipped into a robe. “I’ll take care of it. Go back to sleep.”
Grizzer was prancing triumphantly at the front door, and she greeted you with a loud, delighted snort to let you know that she had successfully repelled the invading force and secured the perimeter.
“Good girl,” you yawned. “So brave. Gonna tell Fox to give you a medal and a promotion.”
She plopped down resolutely in front of the door and refused to budge until you had administered what she deemed to be an appropriate number of scritches between the spines on her back. At length, she shuffled out of the way so you could open the door and dart out into the hallway just long enough to retrieve your grocery delivery, silently beseeching the Force not to let your well-meaning but nosy neighbors catch you in your bathrobe. Gods knew you and Hound already gave them plenty of fodder for gossip.
Once the groceries were safely inside, Grizzer had to complete an exhaustive sniff-spection of every single bag before she would allow you to put the food away, and then she gave you a meaningful look and lumbered over to the back door. You tapped the panel and shivered at the blast of cold air that rushed in as the door hissed open.
Grizzer sauntered out to do her business on the comically tiny patch of fake grass you’d installed on your balcony once you realized she and Hound would be staying over as many nights as they could possibly sneak away from the barracks. By the time you’d finished stashing the perishables in the conservator, she was back inside and waiting for her breakfast.
You activated the cleaning droid to deal with her mess, dumped a scoop of massiff chow in her bowl, and finally returned to the bedroom. Hound’s eyes remained stubbornly closed, but he wordlessly pulled the blankets back as you climbed into bed and snuggled your ass into the nook of his body, extending his other arm for you to use as a pillow.
Stars, he’s so warm. This is the best part of my day.
You barely had time to settle in before Grizzer hopped up onto the bed, circled a few times, then flopped against you hard enough to knock the wind out of you.
“Ugh, careful with the spikes, Grizz. Don’t you have breakfast to eat?” you muttered.
Despite your grumbles, you couldn’t resist the pleading look she shot you, and you reached down to pat her lazily as she settled her chin onto your leg with a happy sigh. Kriffin’ massiff always wants to be the littlest spoon.
You shifted, looking for a comfortable position while being smooshed between your two favorite beings, then tucked your feet closer to Hound, trying to get warm. He flinched as he felt your icy feet against his shins, but instead of pulling away, he rested his hand on your hip and drew you more firmly against his body, then slid up your torso to cup your breast. He nuzzled his face into your shoulder and pressed a kiss to your skin.
“Mornin’,” he rumbled. ”Happy equinox. I assume you've planned somethin’ festive for today?”
“Mm-hmm,” you mumbled, privately reflecting that he was using far too many words for this early on a Benduday morning. “‘S why I ordered groceries.”
He hummed his approval and began to kiss a path down your spine. “Does it involve tying me to a kitchen chair and licking a jar of honey off my skin?”
You laughed quietly and kissed the scar on his forearm that rested beneath your head. “Is that a specific fantasy you have, or are you just looking for an excuse to get me to tie you up and have my wicked way with you?”
“Two things can be true, angel.” He squeezed your breast gently, then trailed his fingertips down the centerline of your body, unerringly finding his way between your thighs. “Your feet are like kriffin’ icicles. You go on an expedition to Ilum for those groceries or somethin’?”
“Grizz was extra needy this morning,” you explained. “Mm, that feels nice. Don’t stop.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured. His fingers slipped over your clit and into your pussy, and he shifted slightly to grind his cock against your ass. “Feel how hard you made me? Prancin’ around in that little thing you call a bathrobe. Probably gave the neighbors a coronary.”
“Nobody saw me,” you laughed, then gasped as he slid deeper. “At least I—fuck—I didn’t see anyone.”
“Grizz, off,” he ordered, to the massiff’s vocal disgust. Nevertheless, she complied, jumping off the bed with a huff of protest and wandering out of the bedroom in search of the breakfast she’d previously snubbed. “Guess we’ll find out if anyone saw you when they send a thank-you holocard. Damn, little one, you’re kriffin’ soaked. What were you dreamin’ about, dirty girl?”
It wasn’t a dream, it’s just you, you thought, but rather than inflate his already impressive ego, you wiggled your butt against his hips and replied in your most provocative tone.
“Thorn.”
He laughed, then withdrew from between your thighs and gave you a firm little slap on the ass. You let out a shrill squeak and squirmed out of his arms just far enough to launch yourself off the mattress and tackle him, pinning him briefly and digging your fingers into his ribs to tickle him ruthlessly.
Alas, your vengeance was short lived. After the briefest moment of being incapacitated by laughter, he managed to roll over on top of you, capturing your wrists and holding them against the pillow on either side of your head.
“Oh, you asked for it, darlin’,” he said with a wicked grin.
The morning light caught in his eyes and illuminated them to honey gold. They danced with mischief, and you felt an odd flutter in your chest that you didn’t have enough time to examine before he pounced, and the only thing on your mind was holding on while your ARF trooper took you for the ride of your life.
When the pair of you finally stumbled out of bed, you mentally scratched off a few of the activities you’d planned, since you were running two hours behind schedule—a sacrifice you were more than willing to make, all things considered. There was still plenty of time to visit the Alderaanian shrine of the ancestors in the Federal District and make it home in time to cook dinner—a meal that you’d been planning with meticulous care for weeks, going to great lengths to source Alderaanian ingredients that were often difficult to find in the Core Worlds.
“You sure they’ll let me in?” Hound asked as he surveyed the entrance to the temple with obvious doubt in his eyes.
“They will,” you replied firmly. “They don’t turn anyone away. If you ever find yourself in trouble and need a place to lie low, they’ll give you sanctuary.”
“Even though I did absolutely depraved things to you an hour ago?” he murmured in your ear, sending tingles of awareness down your neck.
“... Maybe don’t mention that part.”
“You know, this whole sanctuary thing sounds a little illegal,” he joked.
“Who are you, the police?”
He snorted, then allowed you to lead him inside. The temple was crowded, and not a single person recognized Hound as a clone trooper, or if they did, nobody mentioned it. Hound was fascinated by the vibrant—not to say chaotic—energy inside.
“The only temple I’ve ever been inside is the Jedi temple,” he said. “This one is really different.”
“I imagine so,” you laughed. “I’ve never been inside the Jedi Temple, but I’ve heard it’s really tranquil. This is… not that.”
He grinned in acknowledgment. “Do you come here every equinox?”
You shook your head. “I’m not really that observant most of the time. When I’m at home, we just have a family celebration. But here on Coruscant, it’s kind of nice to come to a place where I can meet other Alderaanians. For me, it’s really more about staying in touch with my culture, but a lot of people are very devout.”
When the pair of you finally made your way through the temple and to the shrine, he followed you inside and observed respectfully but with keen interest as you lit a stick of incense and left a small offering for the shrine guardian spirit. You were in and out in under a minute, and as the pair of you rejoined the thronging crowd headed toward the exit, Hound leaned in to whisper in your ear.
“That was quick.”
“No point in monopolizing it,” you replied under your breath. “Bad form when the temple is this busy.”
The temple wasn’t the only thing that was busy. Traffic was fully gridlocked, and the trip home took ages. By the time you arrived, you were both ravenous, which was deeply unfortunate, given that you’d planned a fairly elaborate dinner. Still, you were determined to make it work and salvage what was left of the equinox.
Grizzer was beside herself when you walked through the door. She barreled into Hound with a delighted squeal, and he knelt down for their ritual greeting. She sat patiently until he was within reach and then, with a gentleness that was wholly improbable for a creature of her size, she touched her snout against his nose.
“I’m here, too, Grizz,” you teased, and if a massiff were capable of rolling its eyes, she would have. Nevertheless, she eagerly snuggled up to you, demanding her tribute of affection.
“Do I have time to take her for a quick run before dinner?” Hound asked.
“I think so. It’ll be a refreshing change to cook without my reptile sous chef.”
“Don’t listen to her, Grizz,” Hound said, covering the massiff’s ear holes. “She’d be lost in the kitchen without you.”
“Oh, definitely,” you agreed solemnly. “What ever shall I do without constant supervision and the in-house quality assurance expert?”
Hound gave you a quick kiss and headed out, and you set to work, swallowing down a faint feeling of disappointment that so many of your plans had fallen through. Dinner would make up for it, though. Dinner would be perfect.. Within minutes, the entire flat began to fill with delicious smells. Everything was proceeding swimmingly. Nothing could possibly go wrong.
“Gods damn it!”
Your frustrated curse was the first thing Hound heard when he opened the door. Grizzer charged inside and skidded to a halt, prancing around the kitchen.
“Not now, sweetie,” you said, your tone softening a bit as you saw the massiff.
“Somethin’ wrong?” Hound asked.
“That karking shopper droid brought me decorative mini pumpkins instead of edible ones,” you groaned. “And to make matters worse, the pumpkin stems mutilated my Force-damned tomato.”
“Damn, looks like it got squashed,” he murmured.
“That is a terrible pun, and this is no laughing matter!”
“You’re right,” he said apologetically. “It’s an obvious case of assault with a deadly veggie.”
“Still not funny. Look at this carnage!”
You held up the mangled tomato, and he inspected it closely before gravely replying. “That’s a pretty gore-dy victim. Better shield Grizzer’s innocent eyes before she’s permanently scarred.”
You snorted, obstinately refusing to laugh. “I knew I should have just gone to the market myself.”
“Why don’t we go now?” he asked, giving up on his quest to distract you with the worst puns in the Core Worlds. “We can pick up some pumpkins that are actually edible, maybe have a little tour of the market district, get some fresh air?”
You glanced at the clock and sighed. “If we do that, we’ll be eating at midnight. I’ll figure something out.”
Grizzer whined at the sharpness in your tone, then curled up in the corner of your living room so she could keep an eye on you, sensing your frustration. You glared at the offending gourds for a moment, and would have bet every last credit of his nonexistent salary that you were contemplating hurling them into the abyss of the Coruscant underworld. Seeing how much the kriff-up had upset you, Hound ventured into the kitchen and wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.
“What’s really bothering you, love?” he asked. “You’re always good at coming up with contingency plans. Is this really such a big problem that it’ll ruin your equinox?”
You sighed and leaned back against him, closing your eyes. “No. Not really. It’s just… My mom always makes this for the autumn equinox. I really wanted it to be perfect, you know?”
“You miss her.”
You nodded. “I do. I miss home, too. It’s weird to celebrate an Alderaanian equinox holiday on a planet that doesn’t even have seasons. And I really wanted this to be perfect so you could have the experience even though you weren’t able to get leave to travel back home with me, and we had to cancel almost all of our plans, and now dinner is ruined, too, and I’m just so fucking tired and hungry.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” He kissed the side of your head, then turned you around slowly so he could look into your eyes. His chest squeezed when he saw the beginnings of tears in your eyes, and he brushed his thumb across your cheek to wipe them away. “It is perfect, because I’m spendin’ it with you. No place I’d rather be in the galaxy.”
“Not even a musty old tent surrounded by wolf-cats?” you muttered rebelliously.
“As tempting as that sounds—and if I recall correctly, you were extremely tempting—no. But I’d eat rations and sleep in a musty old tent every night for the rest of my life if it meant I got to wake up next to you.” He didn’t say the words he desperately wanted to. It was too soon, and he didn’t want to scare you off. Instead, he pressed his lips to your forehead and wrapped his arms around your shoulders, holding you close. “Kriff the pumpkins. We’ll get takeout and go for a speeder bike ride in the entertainment district.”
You gasped. “Blasphemy! How dare you insinuate that I can’t salvage this disaster? Stand aside and watch the master at work.”
“That’s my girl,” he grinned.
“Hmph,” you replied haughtily, unable to quite repress the smile at the corner of your lips.
You started toward the stove, but as you took your first step, Hound caught you by your apron ties and tugged you back into his arms for a devastating kiss. He was extremely thorough, and by the time he released you, you were dizzy and breathless, and he made damn sure you couldn’t remember that mini pumpkins even existed.
“That. Was. Incredible,” Hound said as he cleaned the last few morsels from his plate.
“Not quite as aesthetically pleasing as Mom’s,” you hedged.
“It was rustic,” he insisted. “Homestyle. Deconstructed.”
“You really need to stop watching cooking shows on the holonet.”
“How else will I learn all the terms to describe your food to make my brothers insane with jealousy? You think clone troopers have a reason to say ‘craveable’ on a daily basis?”
“Oh, yeah? You tell Thorn all about me?” you teased.
“Easy now, darlin’,” he replied with a lazy grin. “You’re gonna give me a complex.”
“Don’t worry, I could never leave Grizzer.”
He laughed. “Lucky thing for me.”
He leaned back in his chair and stretched, then stood up and began to clear away the dishes. You groped his ass shamelessly from your seat, then wrapped your arms around his waist and buried your face against his abdomen.
“Thanks for celebrating with me,” you murmured, your voice muffled by his shirt. “I know I kind of lost the plot there.”
He set down the plates and wrapped his arms around you. “Not the first time I’ve seen you hangry; won’t be the last.”
You laughed into his belly, then tugged his shirt up so you could kiss his warm, smooth skin. “You know, there’s one equinox tradition that we haven’t observed yet.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“It involves a kitchen chair, a pair of your binders, and a jar of honey.”
“Dank farrik, I’m in love with you.” The words slipped out, and by the time Hound realized what he’d said, it was too late to call them back.
You drew back and stared up at him with an expression of shock. “What?”
Hello! Welcome to my Star Wars Clones (and their Prime) x Reader Mermaid AU!
So over the past few years, the clone troopers, in all shapes and forms, have meant a lot to me. I started writing on tumblr about half a year ago now and I just got into a graduate program. So I’m probably gonna drop off the face of the earth in a few months.
I wanted to take part in one of these month long fandom events before I left so Mermay seemed like a good fit to me. I went around tumblr and found prompts that inspired me and I thought went with each character.
Thank you for reading!
Day 1: The Courtyard - Mer Rex x Harpy Reader
Day 2: The Bakery - Mer Jesse x Reader
Day 3: Black Pearls - Siren Kix x Reader
Day 4: The Lobster- Mer Hardcase x Reader
Day 5: Two Siren Songs - Siren Fives x Siren Reader
Day 6: Sown Together - Selkie Echo x Mer Reader
Day 7: Scavenged - Mer Denal x Reader
Day 8: Choosing to Help- Mer Vaughn x Jedi Reader
Day 9: A Heart Fish- Mer Cody x Reader
Day 10: My Dream- Mer Gregor x Pirate Reader
Day 11: To Swim With A Siren- Siren Waxer x Pirate Reader
Day 12: Hold On- Mer Boil x Reader
Day 13: Hasn’t Changed - Mer Wolffe x Reader
Day 14: Trapped in the Lake - Mer Boost x Reader
Day 15: Stuck - Mer Sinker x Reader
Day 16: The Forgetful Selkie- Selkie Fox x Fae Queen Reader
Day 17: Here - Siren Thorn x Pirate Reader
Day 18: Just the Beginning - Selkie Thire x Reader
Day 19: Excitement - Mer Stone x Thief Reader
Day 20: Stargazing - Mer Hound x Nightsister Reader
Day 21: Get On With It - Siren Hunter x Doctor Reader
Day 22: Fishing for a Merman - Mer Howzer x Twi’lek Reader
Day 23: Understatement - Mer Mayday x Ice Dragon Reader
Day 24: Stories- Mer Slip x Mer Reader
Day 25: Sea Caves - Siren Fireball x Reader
Day 26: Sea Glass - Mer Nemec x Reader
Day 27: Actions- Selkie Samson x Jedi Reader
Day 28: The Sea Alor - Sea Alor Mer Jango x Harpy Reader
Day 29: The Heir - Mer Boba Fett x Kiffar Reader
Day 30: The Wait - Mer Fordo x Goddess Reader
Day 31: The Bet - Mer Alpha 17 x Sea Dragon Reader- NSFW
Guys, Hound has been living in my head rent-free and distracting me from my WIPs for the past day thanks to Fireworks by @imarvelatthestars and Watch And Learn, City Boy (Taylor's Version) by @dystopicjumpsuit.
So, to be able to return to my WIPS, I gotta write these down now. Will probably do a whole fic but for now ...
SFW
It's almost time for his shift, so Hound is circling your apartment, gathering everything he needs. The last thing is getting Grizzer ready. But when he whistles, the massif doesn't come.
Scouting the living room, he sees his partner curled up on the couch next to you.
You are sound asleep, with Grizzer pressed against your side keeping you away from the edge of the couch, his head protectively over your shoulder.
The sight nearly knocked him down. Massifs weren't overtly social animals, but once they recognized someone as part of their pack, they were extremely loyal. And Grizzer clearly decided you were his to protect.
With the serene look on your sleeping face, Hound couldn't help but agree. Despite being responsible for all of Coruscant along with the rest of the guard, he wanted you to be his to protect, to cherish.
Hound doesn't know where the gall comes from, but he finds he can't resist leaning forward to press the softest kiss to your forehead.
But he can't. Grizz moves to block him, huffing angrily, keen on maintaining your trust that he would keep you undisturbed in your sleep.
"Oh kriff off, you mutt." Hound mumbles with no real bite. Despite the denial, he secretly loves how keen Grizzer was on keeping you safe. But duty doesn't care about that the way he did.
"Grizz, off." is answered only by a whine. But when Hound holds up his partner's collar, the massif finally caves, knowing it was time to work.
The pair make their way to the front door, with Hound casting one last look over his shoulder where you slept peacefully. He would do everything he could to keep this planet safe for you.
NSFW below the cut ...
This is gonna be less lazy writing of a scene and more just thots
Hound is a switch, hard core, though he's not into those labels. He's a guy who's comfortable in his skin and just wants to have fun, adjusting the dynamic based on his and your needs that day.
He loves watching you take the lead, seeing in your actions just how much you actually want him. It makes him feel desired and powerful, and he genuinely gets off seeing you take your pleasure. Naturally, he's favorite position like this is watching you ride him, but from a sitting position, where he can still reach you.
But when he's in a mood, he gets into primal play. It's one of the few times this side of his personality comes out. He and you know he'll always be gentle, always keep you safe. But when he is most needy, most in need of reassurance, he'll take it, maneuvering you onto your stomach, laying you flat, pressing himself of top of you from torso to groin and taking you from behind, his thighs on either side of yours, giving him leverage and keeping you still so all you can do is take him. His whole weight helps press his cock deeper into you, needing to feel every inch of you around him and under him.
He'll sneak his arms under you, one crossing your hip so he can rest a hand over your lower stomach, pressing firmly there before moving further south. The other is nestled up the center of your chest to hold your throat - not to choke or squeeze, but just to hold you, reinforcing his position and his mental hold on you. And it helps in pulling you up slightly so he can mouth at your neck and shoulders before he claims your mouth
Hound nipping only slightly playfully at the back of your neck, right on the vertebra.
Man has a massive praise kink - giving and receiving. Narrate to him exactly how he's making you feel good and oh boy does that get his engine going even more. Especially if you pair the praise with soft touches, even in the middle of a rougher session. Soft touches (one may even say heavy petting) make this man fucking melt. And he gives as good as he gets, whining mostly, interspersed with growls and groans and "good girl/boy" every so often.
"So good for me, baby. So kriffing good, squeezing my cock so tight. It's not too much, right? Of course not. My good [girl/boy/petname] can take it all."
Also has a massive creampie kink. Not breeding kink, cause he's unsure about kids - likes them in theory but it's just so far outside his realm of experience it's not something he's thought much about - but his brain stops working when he pulls out of you and sees his cum dripping down your tights to pool on the bed under you. He likes the possessiveness of it, of leaving part of himself in you even after he's done.
Afterwards, all he wants to do is hold you. You eventually will have to negotiate him letting you to go the restroom to clean up, but that will usually get delayed by how long he wants to keep you in his arms, reassuring that you're here, you enjoyed yourself, you're happy and satisfied and safe and it's because of him. Honestly, after an intense session, this man just wants to nest - blankets, bed, cuddles and takeout when he eventually gets hungry. You or his patrol duties usually ruin that fantasy for him but on his rare days off, you indulge him and it genuinely restores like a year to his life when he gets to basically cocoon with you.
