At long last! Thank you for this precious prompt. :3
Sev/Fi, 650 words, Teen+, Post-O66, Mandalore, established relationship
Sev set his partially disassembled DC-17m on the counter-top with a clunk.
A moment ago there’d been a sigh resonant enough to wake his youngest batch of brothers 60,000 light years away on Kamino. It had come from between the couch cushions (Someone had placed an antiquated, aromatic, manka-hide couch in the armory — Sev knew it was Vau’s, the same way he knew something thoroughly normal had just occurred.)
A few paces away, Fi had sunk as far as was possible for a well-muscled, domesticated, former commando — into the couch, and his brows had sunk further over his eyes than Sev thought possible. For Fi.
Omega’s sniper appeared to be sulking.
Fi lived a lavish a life, Sev thought privately, never lacking for food or laughter or company. Or a hard day’s work at his own pace. Or civvie anything and everything. And yet, here was this demonstration of acute forlornness. Sev sighed his own small sigh, a barely discernible exhale through his nostrils, and thumbed his blaster regretfully.
Whateveritwas tugged him over to the couch where he stopped, shin to shin with Fi, work boots crowding designer sneakers, coveralls crackling as he spread his legs in a standing straddle over Fi’s knees. Sev crossed his arms, and Fi promptly dropped his head against them, as if the surly shelf were a specially proffered pillow.
A funny, moany noise came out of Fi, partially muffled by Sev’s arms, which he then uncrossed and folded around Fi’s head and neck.
“What?” Sev repeated, to Fi's black curls.
“Ingrid Irunen’s performing at the Kallarak.”
Sev sighed, resigned. Fi’d been talking of nothing but his favorite Glimmick vocalist recently. She had a three-octave range, and based on the sized of her voice, you’d never guess how petite she actually was.
Obviously Fi had never had the chance to see her in person. There would be a sold out concert on Coruscant in five days — now —
“Quit griping then and go watch the live feed.”
Unconvinced, Fi remained inert against Sev’s chest. Seconds ticked by, and the longer they held, the warmer Sev grew with Fi’s cheek resting on his sternum, ear against his thrumming ventricles. His thighs squeezed Fi’s tight, blood pooling cheerfully between his hips despite the joyless mood. His line of sight curved over Fi’s back, down to the visible waistband of Fi’s skivvies: a tease just out of reach.
But Fi’s face wasn’t, and this would definitely work to lighten him up.
Sev slid both his hands rather un-gently through Fi’s hair, pulled his head back, locked eyes long enough to read something like gods yes please you dickwad, and kissed him longer than was really appropriate given their location — Vau’s old couch in the armory at Kyrimorut, on Mandalore in the middle of a violent regime change.
Sev knew, judging by the way Fi melted every time, that he was a good kisser. It was a consolation. Sev felt quite lucky, actually, for a deserter clone. Abandoned by the system which had produced him. Collected by what — who — made his heart beat.
Presently, though he didn’t want to, he released Fi’s face, now aglow with renewed vigor twinkling in his eyes and the corners of his mouth.
“Alright, I’m off," Fi declared. "You’re right. Mereel’s probably got the feed up and running.”
Sev had succeeded in kissing the melancholy right out of him, apparently; enthusiasm had welled up from some mysterious store. Sev's crotch twitched painfully. He’d watch the show too, if only to herd Fi somewhere intensely private afterwards.
Fi seemed to pick up on this — he swatted playfully between Sev’s legs, just hard enough to jolt out a soft groan.
“Love you,” Fi murmured, withdrawing his hand.
Sev followed Fi dutifully out of the armory, cringing about his blaster. It lay abandoned on the counter until tomorrow morning. What a shabby excuse for disciplined he had become.
