happiest of birthdays to you, you have genuinely made my life so much better by being in it (idc if that sounds corny af it’s TRUE) and thank you for always talking to me, making me laugh, talking about music and anime with me, UGH YOU’RE THE BESTTTTT!!!!! 🤍
ac goes to torucider
synopsis: physical intimacy with choso.
choso loves you with the kind of carefulness usually reserved for fragile things.
the first time you hold his hand, he goes quiet. his fingers twitch once against yours before slowly intertwining with them, almost hesitant, like he’s waiting for you to change your mind halfway through.
you don’t. you only squeeze his hand tighter.
and choso looks at your joined hands longer than necessary, eyes soft and unreadable. there’s something unbearably sad about it, like he’s mourning every moment in his life where no one held him simply because they wanted to.
he becomes addicted to touching you after that. your knee against his while sitting together. your hand on his chest. your arms wrapping around his waist from behind while he stands in the kitchen.
every time, he still reacts like he isn’t used to it. like affection catches him off guard no matter how often you give it.
especially hugs. especially from you.
because when you pull him into your arms, choso holds you back like he’s terrified of letting go too soon. his face presses into your shoulder, his breathing evening out slowly, tension leaving him piece by piece beneath your hands.
you realize then that no one has ever held him gently before. not really.
one rainy evening, he lays with his head in your lap while thunder murmurs outside the windows. your fingers comb through his hair carefully, untangling dark strands and scratching lightly against his scalp.
choso makes the softest sound you’ve ever heard from him. not quite a sigh. not quite your name. more like… relief.
his eyes are already closed, exhaustion pulling at him from somewhere deep, ancient, bone-deep. you continue carding your fingers through his hair anyway, watching his expression soften more and more with every touch.
“does that feel nice?” you whisper.
he nods against your thigh.
then after a long pause, voice quiet enough to break your heart–
“i think i could fall asleep like this forever.”
so you lean down and kiss his forehead.
and choso, half asleep already, reaches for your hand immediately, holding it against his chest like it belongs there.
dryhumping. fingers in mouth. crying during sex. playful bites. lovemarks on your stomach. eye contact. headpats. aftercare. vulnerability. not getting annoyed when you ask for the hundredth time if they love you. kissing for hours that doesn’t lead to sex, solely because you want to kiss each other so much. intimacy.
Reputations | Fives x Reader
Friends to lovers • taken but yearning • slow burn tension • soft regrets
You're spoken for. At least, that's what everyone thinks.
But it's hard to keep pretending when he's always there—
and the way he looks at you like you’re the only one in the galaxy.
----
Clone Wars era | reader-insert | angst, banter, and emotional confusion | featuring just a little too much Fives - eventual smut but it's a slow burn so.
Chapter 1: Gorgeous
“Still nothing?”
The bluish glow of the holo-call reflects off Kylei’s face, her features drawn tight with concern. It only makes the pit in your stomach worse.
“Nothing,” you say, voice flat, trying not to let it shake. “I’m sure he’s just… busy.”
Kylei scoffs, loud and ungraceful. “It’s been a month. No comms. No holos. Nothing but radio silence. Babe, I think it’s time to call it.”
You shift on your couch, curling your feet under you and hugging a throw pillow to your chest like it might keep your insides from crumbling. “He wouldn’t just ghost me. Something must be going on.”
Rylan, your boyfriend of nearly a year, was stationed on Alderaan three months ago. At first, the distance hadn’t seemed so bad. You kept in touch—daily comms, sappy holos, little messages between his briefings. Then the calls slowed… and stopped altogether. Two weeks ago, you’d even commed his base commander in a moment of desperation.
“Currently in a meeting,” the officer had told you curtly. “But I’ll let him know you reached out.”
Still nothing.
Now Kylei’s looking at you like you’re breaking in real time. Maybe you are.
“Do you think I did something wrong?” you whisper, more to yourself than her.
“I’m coming over.”
“No!” You sit up straight, stopping her with a raised hand. “I have work in an hour. I’ll be fine. I need to get ready anyway.”
Kylei doesn’t look convinced, but she backs off. “We’re going out tonight. That’s an order.”
You salute with a sad smile. “Yes, General.”
She returns the gesture with a mock scowl and flicks off the holo. The light disappears, and so does the illusion of comfort. You stare at your comm unit one more time out of habit, even though you already know—he hasn’t reached out.
A sigh escapes your lips as you stand and get ready. Pressed uniform greys, hair up, expression neutral. You're good at that. Holding it together. Pretending. You take one last look in the mirror before stepping out the door and heading to GAR Headquarters.
—
The mood inside is different—familiar and comforting in a way your apartment no longer is. It’s not cold or sterile like some parts of Coruscant. Here, the headquarters buzzes with organized chaos. Voices carry, boots echo, datapads hum with quiet life. This is where you feel useful. This is where you belong.
You cradle a stack of datapads against your chest as you make your way to the main briefing room. Another long day of mission simulations and risk assessments. As a strategist for the Grand Army of the Republic, it’s your job to think ahead—to see threats before they happen and make sure others don’t have to feel the kind of helplessness you’re feeling now.
You work with various units, but lately you've been split between the 212th and the 501st. The difference is stark. The 212th is precise, professional—quiet, even. The 501st? They’re chaos and camaraderie and charm wrapped up in scuffed armor. And in the case of one ARC trooper in particular—dangerously charming.
You settle in at the round table just as the doors hiss open.
“Morning,” Captain Rex says with a curt nod.
“Morning,” Echo adds with a warmer smile.
You return it. “Good to see you both. Aren’t we missing—”
The door whooshes open again. “Sorry, sorry! I’m here!”
Fives.
He moves like he’s got a sunbeam trapped behind his ribs—fast and bright and impossible not to look at. He grins at you, all teeth and dimples, and your stomach does that awful fluttering thing it always does when he’s around.
You give him a quick nod, hoping your face doesn’t betray you. He slides into the seat beside you like it’s his second home.
It kind of is. You’ve noticed that. No matter how early he arrives or how late he’s running, he always ends up in that chair. Next to you.
Six months ago, Fives and Echo joined these briefings after being promoted to ARC troopers. In that time, they’ve become more than colleagues. You’d like to think they’re your friends. Fives especially. You’ve shared late-night caf during long campaign planning sessions, exchanged glances that lingered just a moment too long, laughed over inside jokes that neither of you bothered explaining to the others.
But he’s never crossed a line.
He flirts—but only in the way that Fives flirts with everyone. Teasing. Playful. Safe.
Sometimes you catch him watching you when he thinks you’re not looking. And sometimes—when you're feeling especially foolish—you let yourself wish he would cross that line. If things were different… if you weren’t technically taken…
You shift in your seat and force your attention back to the mission reports. Focus. Breathe. Be professional.
But beside you, Fives leans back in his chair with that signature smirk, nudges your boot lightly under the table, and says, “Hey, Gorgeous. You ready to tear these numbers apart?”
Your heart does a little lurch.
“Born ready,” you say, and try not to sound breathless.
Because the truth is—no matter how badly things are falling apart with Rylan, no matter how long the silence stretches, you aren’t ready.
Not for what it might mean to let go.
And not for what it might mean if you don’t.
The briefing flies by in a blur of tactical reports and holomaps, the minutes slipping through your fingers faster than you realize. When you finally glance up from the datapad in front of you, the session is wrapping and the three troopers are already on their feet.
Rex thanks you with a nod, already deep in conversation with Echo about flank positioning. Echo offers you another quick smile before trailing after him, his voice disappearing down the hall.
But Fives lingers.
He doesn’t rush. He never does with you.
“Hey,” he says, stepping closer, voice low and easy. “I know I’ve asked before, but I’m not giving up on getting you out of this office at least once. Come out with me and the boys tonight.”
There it is—that grin again. The one that makes your pulse skip like a scratched holo-track. You nearly blush, caught off guard by the invitation and the casual way he leans on the edge of the table like he belongs there.
“I… actually have plans tonight,” you manage.
He groans dramatically, throwing his head back with a grin. “Yeah—with me. Or us, rather.” His hand gestures vaguely, as if the whole battalion is included in this mythical night out. “Come on, please. One night. If not tonight, then just say you’ll come out with us sometime. We’re well-behaved, I promise. Mostly.”
You chuckle despite yourself. “Okay, Fives. I promise. Just… not tonight.”
He studies you for a beat, like he’s trying to decide whether you mean it. Whether you’re really busy… or dodging him.
“Rylan in town?” he asks, and the question comes too casual to be innocent.
You hesitate just long enough for it to show.
“I still haven’t had the pleasure of meeting him,” he adds with a smirk, crossing his arms over his chest.
You look down at the datapad you’ve already shut off. “No, not tonight. Just going out with a friend—Kylei. I think you’ve met her?”
The smirk fades just a little. Fives nods, slower this time. “Yeah. Gotcha.”
Something unreadable flickers behind his eyes before he schools his expression back into something breezy. “Well… guess we’ll try again some other time.”
You offer a soft smile. “I’m holding you to that ‘well-behaved’ part.”
Fives lets out a laugh, light and low, and gives you a mock salute as he backs toward the door.
“With me? Always.”
Then he’s gone, striding out of the room with the kind of effortless confidence that makes your heart ache and your stomach twist in ways you wish it wouldn’t.
You’re left standing there, the room quieter than before, like the air shifted the moment he walked out.
And maybe it did.
—
Kylei is a bombshell. Always has been, always will be. She struts through your hallway in a sparkling silver dress that barely reaches mid-thigh, catching the light with every step like a walking disco ball.
Meanwhile, you’re holding up a navy wrap dress in front of your body, already feeling overdressed—and underconfident.
Kylei takes one look and groans. “Ugh, no. Absolutely not.”
Before you can protest, she’s barging into your room and yanking open your closet doors like she owns the place.
“Kylei—”
She ignores you, flipping through hangers with ruthless efficiency. “You have good taste, you just don’t use it.” Her fingers pause on a slinky black number tucked way in the back.
She pulls it out with a victorious gasp. “This. This is the one.”
“No way,” you say instantly, shaking your head. “That’s not a bar dress, that’s a... regret dress.”
“That’s a show him what he lost dress,” Kylei says, tossing it onto the bed. “You’re wearing it.”
You hesitate. You’d never even worn it around Rylan. It had felt too bold, too loud. Too much.
But maybe that’s what tonight calls for. Something louder than the ache in your chest. Something bolder than the silence he left behind.
Lips pressed in a tight line, you slide into the dress. The fabric clings in all the right places. It’s daring. It’s sleek. It’s a version of you you’ve only ever imagined being.
Heels come next—wobbly, but they match—and Kylei gets to work on your hair. She fluffs and pins and smooths until she steps back with a proud grin.
“There she is,” she whispers like unveiling a masterpiece. “Now let’s go.”
You hesitate again. “Where are we even going?”
“Just a bar-club hybrid I heard about from a friend. You’ll like it,” she says, already halfway to the door. “Trust me.”
You arrive outside of the club a short speeder ride later. The building pulses with sound, neon lights flickering across the dark street. A glowing teal sign hums above the door:
79’s
Something about the name tugs at your memory.
You frown. “Wait… 79’s. That sounds—”
“C’mon!” Kylei grabs your wrist and yanks you toward the entrance. “I need a drink, and so do you.”
You barely have time to protest before the doors slide open and the music swallows you whole.
The inside is a sensory overload. Lights flash in rhythmic waves across the room. A DJ spins a mix of upbeat tracks over heavy bass, and the scent of spicewine and fried food clings to the air. The place is packed—and not with the usual Coruscanti nightlife crowd.
Clones. Everywhere.
Some in civvies, others half-dressed in off-duty armor pieces. Helmets on the bar, boots kicked off, drinks in hand. They’re laughing, flirting, dancing—so many of them, blending seamlessly with civilians who clearly know this is the spot to meet a trooper or two.
Your stomach twists.
Of course. 79’s. You’d heard the name in passing from GAR personnel—it’s the off-duty bar where clones unwind between missions. You’d just never connected the dots.
And now you’re here with the ghost of a relationship haunting your every move.
Kylei doesn’t notice your hesitation. She grabs your hand again and weaves you both through the crowd toward the bar. The music is too loud to talk over, but she orders you both drinks with a wink to the bartender.
You take yours without question and sip, hoping the burn will dull your nerves.
It doesn’t take long—three minutes, maybe—for Kylei to strike up a conversation with a cute Twi’lek in a leather vest. They're laughing, already halfway through their drinks, her body language open and easy. She’s in her element.
You… are not.
At least the music is good.
You let the beat pulse through your chest, sinking into it as best you can. Eyes closed, you down the rest of your drink in one long pull, willing the warmth to burn away your nerves. The buzz in your limbs makes you feel loose, maybe even confident.
Or maybe that’s just the alcohol lying to you.
You don’t hear him approach—but you feel it.
A warm presence at your side. Close. Confident. Familiar.
“Well, look what we have here.”
Your eyes fly open.
“Fives?”
He grins, and Maker, that grin should be illegal. “Looks like you decided to come out with me after all.”
You can’t help but laugh, surprised and flustered all at once. “Pure coincidence.”
“Mmhmm.” He lifts a hand and flags the bartender with practiced ease. “What are you drinking?”
You glance down at your empty glass. “No idea. I didn’t order it.”
For a second, something flickers in his eyes—surprise, maybe even something bordering on protectiveness.
“People buying you drinks already?” he says, voice low. “Then I definitely owe you one.”
You smile as he hands you something darker than your last. Stronger too, by the smell of it.
“Where’s your friend?” he asks, eyes scanning the crowd.
You turn to look, only to spot Kylei halfway into her new Twi’lek friend’s lap, laughing as she twirls the straw in her drink.
You smirk. “Occupied.”
Fives chuckles. “Then come join us—Echo’s just over here.”
His hand lands gently on the small of your back as he guides you through the crowd, and the heat that blooms in your chest has nothing to do with the drink. His touch is easy, but grounding—like he does it without thinking.
You slide into a booth tucked into a corner of the bar. Echo greets you with a bright grin and a quick side hug. Two other troopers sit beside him, deep in some rowdy story, gesturing wildly with their hands.
Fives settles in next to you, and the booth suddenly feels much smaller. He throws one arm across the back of the seat—casual, but close. The press of his thigh against yours is warm, steady.
You try not to smile.
It’s friendly. You think.
Conversation starts to swirl—jokes, war stories, teasing remarks that make you feel like you belong. The drinks keep coming, and little by little, time slips away. You're lighter now, floatier. Giggly. The edges of everything feel a little softer.
At some point, you realize you’re leaning into Fives more than you meant to. His arm is still behind you, and he hasn’t pulled away. If anything, he’s leaning closer too.
You could stay in this moment forever.
Until someone else tries to crash it.
A large Togruta man leans over the booth, crowding into your space. “Need another drink, beautiful?” he asks, eyebrows waggling as his grin stretches too wide.
Before you can react, Fives straightens beside you.
“She’s taken, bud,” he says firmly.
And then—he barks.
A sharp, playful bark, followed by a low growl like a protective Loth-wolf. It’s ridiculous. Completely absurd. And it sends the entire table into chaos.
The clones burst out laughing. Even you can’t help it—you double over with giggles, the tension gone in an instant.
“You’re such an idiot,” you manage between laughs, swatting Fives lightly on the arm.
He just grins, pleased with himself. “What can I say? Gotta keep the strays away.”
The moment is golden—bubbly and warm. Until Echo’s voice cuts through.
“Gotta protect your honor,” he says with a smile. “I’m sure Rylan would appreciate it.”
The name lands like a weight in your lap.
You go still. The smile slips from your face, and you feel the shift in Fives too—his arm drops from your shoulders, the space between you stretching.
“Yeah,” you say softly.
Neither of you looks at each other.
Before the silence can settle too thickly, Kylei stumbles up to the table, her glittering dress catching the light.
“What’s with all the barking?” she slurs, bracing herself on the edge of the booth.
The table erupts into laughter again, the tension dissolving beneath the noise. You manage a shy smile, your voice barely above the music.
“Ready to go?” you ask.
She nods dramatically, already digging for her comm.
Fives stands and slides out of the booth, offering you his hand to help you up. You’re a little too quick on your feet—and nearly tumble into him.
He catches you, hands firm on your waist, steadying you with ease.
“Let me grab you lovely ladies a speeder,” he says, glancing at Kylei with a wink.
But his eyes find yours again before he steps away.
And there’s something there.
Something unsaid.
Something you’re too afraid—and maybe too buzzed—to name.
In the hush of early morning, the streets are quieter, the music from 79’s now a distant thrum. Speeder lights glow soft against the pavement, casting fleeting shadows as one slows to a stop in front of you.
Fives hails it with a raised hand and a soft whistle, and Kylei stumbles in without hesitation, already kicking off her heels as she sinks into the seat. You move to follow her, still riding the last waves of the night—light, tipsy, a little overwhelmed.
Just as your hand brushes the doorframe, fingers wrap gently around your wrist.
You stop, breath catching.
Fives is looking at you. Not grinning. Not smirking.
Looking.
“Let me know when you get home safe, yeah?” His voice is soft—low, almost intimate.
You nod, unable to form words. He holds your gaze for one more second before he lets go, and gently closes the speeder door behind you.
As the vehicle pulls away, you sit back in your seat and realize your whole body is buzzing. Your heart’s pounding like you’ve just come off a battlefield, not a night out.
Kylei is already halfway asleep, head leaning against the window with a small, contented sigh.
You stare straight ahead, the city lights blurring past outside, and wonder: Why does he have to be like that?
Why does he have to be so gorgeous?
Why does he have to look at you like you’re something worth waiting for?
Why does he make you feel more seen in a moment than Rylan has in months?
By the time you get home, the buzz has dulled but the thoughts haven’t. You and Kylei collapse into your apartment, deciding without discussion to call it a sleepover. She tosses a blanket onto the couch and is out within minutes.
You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling.
You lift your wrist and open your comm, fingers hesitating just a second before you type.
Thanks for the fun night. See you tomorrow.
You send it before you can overthink it.
Your heart flutters as the message goes through.
And this time, you don’t check to see if Rylan bothered to check in.
—————————
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 0 · Reputations-Fives x Reader: Chapter 2 · Chapter 2: Delicate
A few days have passed since that night at 79’s, and things ha
Dreaming today of not just sex but intimacy. The smell of your good, clean sweat when I hug you after a long shift or a hard lift, and your low laugh in my ear because you know I’m embarrassed by how wet it’s already made me. Making dinner together and warming your feet under my thick thighs on the couch while we eat. Running my nails so carefully over your temples, around your ears and the nape of your neck. Rubbing the soreness from your overworked hands, straddling your lower back to massage your shoulders and down the columns of muscle supporting your spine. You might like me to slip a hand down front or grind my hips into you while I do it, might not; what I need you to know, to feel, is how I treasure the opportunity to offer you care. To find what pleases us both, always and in all ways.
Maybe I can’t handle anything in my mouth today, maybe you don’t want your chest touched. I want to know everything you want to tell me. Could be we both need to come even though we’re exhausted so all we’re up for is pressing a vibe between us with your whole weight rutting me slow and deep into the mattress. Or maybe your energy and desire are boundless but you need to be in control of the touch, so I should just cling to the headboard and trust you to drive. I’ll cherish whatever you give me and thank you for it, honey, we take care of each other so well. I want to learn how it works with you.
I'm working on a new idea that is going to be eventual romance between Draco and Harry (with some side pairings thrown in. I love those!) I'm attempting something different from what I've written before, exploring trauma Draco might have from being in Azkaban, which causes mental health problems, such as age regression. Would any of this grab you? Some of my favorite parts so far.
***
Summary:
The Ministry’s attempt to fake Harry’s death had exploded spectacularly, and public fury was nothing compared to the heartbreak inflicted on those who loved him. At least Harry had managed to persuade them to trust Ron and Hermione with the truth. Desperate to save face after their repeated failures to keep Harry safe, the Ministry seemed eager to sacrifice the Malfoys, hoping to distract the public from their mistake. To help Harry, Hermione enlisted the unlikely help of Dudley and Oliver to expose the Ministry.
***
Harry collapsed into their arms, his knees striking the floor with a jarring thud, though he was numb to the pain. “I-I… no! I can’t let that happen,” he growled, jaw clenched. “They claim it’s for my safety being here, but it’s killing me… slower than any Death Eater’s curse, yes, but I’m...ugh! I might as well be dead already.” He shot a furious look at the wall and began to pace. “I won’t let them execute the Malfoys. Not even Lucius.”
***
She lifted her mug and sipped carefully. Though not made with magic, the tea’s aroma and warmth were more magical than anything Narcissa had faced in weeks. “It’s about Draco. I know you want to wait until he wakes to share your story, and I respect that. But you must understand... My Dragon...” Narcissa paused, swallowing hard, fighting her tears like her upbringing urged her to do. “He’s... not himself, you see. Not fully, at least, not all the time."
***
Harry and Narcissa entered the living room quietly, each instinctively careful not to startle Draco further. Their wariness proved unnecessary. Draco, lost in tears, grasped Kreacher, who cradled him with an awkward tenderness and didn’t notice Harry and Narcissa at all.
“Kreacher is being drowned by tears. Kreacher is not minding.” He patted Draco’s head. “Kreacher is going soft.”
Narcissa knelt next to them, her voice gentle. “Dragon, do you remember? We escaped that dreadful place for a sunnier home. It is clean and safe, with beautiful blue walls.”
Draco blinked, rubbing his eyes as memories from the day came back to him. “Oh… I-I’m sorry.” He shivered, moving closer to Kreacher without thinking. “Am I really being cuddled by a house elf?”
“Yes, by the great and powerful Kreacher. Don’t tell the other elves. Kreacher will never live it down,” Kreacher said, his smile wide and goofy.
***
Kreacher carefully set Harry’s glasses back on his nose, his gaze moving between Draco and Narcissa. “Kreacher must shop for clothing that suits his new Master and Mistress.” With a disapproving click of his tongue, he snapped his fingers and disappeared.
“A house elf is going to shop for me?” Draco muttered, his voice filled with disbelief and a hint of gratitude. “Thank you for helping us, Potter.”
“Yes, thank you, Harry,” Narcissa echoed warmly. “I am curious what styles Kreacher will choose for us.” She found herself surprisingly unconcerned if the clothes ended up garish.
“Mother, you’re calling him…” Draco’s cheeks flushed as he stared at his lap. It did make sense. They kept rescuing each other, after all. “Alright, Harry.”
Also on AO3 [210w]
@corrieweek - day 6: Force-sensitive clones
@ailesswhumptober - day 9: hypothermia
It takes a few weeks for Fox to truly notice, but Coruscant is cold.
It shouldn’t be. Between the climate-controlled atmosphere and his temperature regulating armour he should spend his whole deployment in a comfortably human-standard environment. Yet somehow, a chill has crept its way in to settle against his bones.
Nothing seems to touch it.
Exertion or external heat sources leave him flushed and sweating without doing anything to thaw the icy numbness inside.
Blankets are more variable. The thin mass-produced ones of the medbay and barracks offer bare protection even against more physical drafts. Wrapping himself in the bright patchwork quilts made from scavenged cloth and thread, however, is enough to offer at least the illusion of warmth.
Body heat seems to be the only effective cure. A warm line pressed against his side, even through armour, and he is sagging against the vod beside him. An arm around his shoulders and a face buried in a neck – theirs or his own – and everything else fades away.
The cold is only truly banished when Fox finds himself buried in the middle of a vod-pile, limbs tangled together, the whole mass shifting to the rhythm of calm breaths. He sinks into the sensation like a warm bath.
