One day, someone who shall remain an🍏nym🍏us posted on tumblr about the criminal lack of submissive jango fett fanworks compared to literally every character jango's paired with. So I decided to make my own contribution! But it's going very slowly. I cannot for the life of me write relationships (or even pwp) with clear dom/sub roles. I'm lit rally a one-trick pony who writes every character as switches, so you can see the problem here 🤠
Long story short: this was supposed to be a pwp, it's more or less grown into a canon divergent slow burn spanning from pre-Naboo and going well into the clone wars, so. It's fine I'm fine we're fine
apples, sky17
don't laugh you probably read this already but this has been sitting in the grocery list for months
“General,” he acknowledges. Dryly, nonchalantly, blatantly disrespectful. He lifts one eyebrow, tries not to react when Anakin twitches the wrong way. He's—unbalanced, suddenly making himself smaller and stiff. One-Seven blinks, relaxes his stance.
It works.
He's not a very perceptive man, Anakin. He infers people’s thoughts and emotions to the point that what he guesses becomes almost immediately reality. Even when he's wrong. He doesn't see it, doesn't always understand what he thinks people feel isn't what they actually do. For a Jedi he's less than attuned to sentients orbiting him. It's kind of funny, kind of worrying and—well. It's kind of refreshing too.
What he thinks One-Seven feels is usually wrong, and One-Seven is used to the galaxy around him thinking he doesn't feel at all. Having someone somehow overcoming that yet completely missing the mark is both reassuring and dreadful. But it soothes him—more than he'd like to admit.
“Come here,” he mutters. And Anakin does. His shoulders sag but he feels bigger, taller, stronger: his long legs eat the space between them in three strides and suddenly he's here and he's real.
“Can we stay here for a while?” he asks against One-Seven’s thigh, body slouched between his legs. It's suddenly hard to say anything, so One-Seven simply nods. Anakin sighs—something deflates inside him in response. All the tension One-Seven contains, the fear he hides, the anger he feeds: they die with a single sound from Anakin and leave him feeling empty.
He slides off his chair, silent and awkward, and holds onto Anakin until he can breathe again.
