#THIS IS LAME AND RUSHED IM SORRY ERKJHEKJ

[jangofctts]

oK SO LIKE EJKKJHRKEJH I CANT FIND THE ASK FOR THE LIFE OF ME BUT IT’s FROM @jango-fettish​ and it said “Imagine sending Blanche nudes when you know he is in a mission briefing. He gets the ping on his holopad and opens it just to quickly see what it is and has to do a double take.”

so ENJOY A DRABBLE KEJHKJH

cc-8352 Commander Blanche // fem!reader

warnings; you send him a nude 

  The debriefing is atrociously boring. Between that and needing to check the hangar every ten kriffing minutes so that Kami and Fuse don’t resort to blowing things up for fun. He grimaces, recollections of their plucky pilot enthusiastically attaching downright banned engine and weapon mods to the sides of the ship last week. It’s still a mystery as to how Kami managed to even find that type of stuff. 

Y’know what, Blanche decides, he doesn’t even want to know.

With a sigh he shifts his weight and straightens his back. Maker—how long does it take for two Jedi to figure out a battle strategy. Hours apparently. General Tavik and Kenobi are notoriously stubborn when it comes to battle strategy—completely different styles of warfare that lead into prickly debates. It’d be amusing to watch if Blanche had got more than a couple hours sleep—right now all it does is tax his own nerves. Rhyssa Tavik’s face is notoriously grim, stony and difficult to read—hell—Blanche still has trouble deciphering her jokes from her regular monotonous timbre. But he’s known her long enough to tell when she’s annoyed. She pulls a strand of dark hair out from her boxer braids, twirls it around her fingers and purses her lips. Her eyes, sharper than a vibroblade cut to Kenobi.   

The low sound of her Coruscanti accent rolls off her tongue. “I am not risking the lives of my men to defend that pass. The rock will crumble from the blaster fire.”

Kenobi pinches the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. “Rhyssa, I don’t see any—“

General Kenobi’s voice becomes fuzzy as Blanche zones out—unless they need his opinion he and Commander Cody are content to linger in the shadows. Naturally his mind wanders to thoughts of you—his one little solace in the horrors of war. 

He met you in that diner—the only diner willing to serve clones in a five mile radius for free. The same diner his men had hounded him for ages into going with them. Blanche never found it anything special—it’s a typical late night diner, flashing neons, air that smells of salt and grease while the portions of the food could clog a man’s arteries ten times Blanche’s size. At least the caf is decent…among other things…  

The moment Blanch stepped in, jostled between an over enthusiastic Kami and a brooding Void, he spotted you. It struck him strange that you weren’t a server droid—the typical choice for a waiting occupation, but Maker. Blanche gets why this is a clone favorite, second to 79s. Frazzled hair from a long shift, coffee and food stains splattered over your apron as you flit around the network of busy tables and rowdy vods. 

You’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

It doesn’t help that everyone else in the dinner thinks so too.

Yes, ok, maybe it was a bit odd that Blanche made the entire squad stay right up until the end of your shift just to get the chance to sneak in a couple words in—but whatever. It worked. He scored your number, scribbled on a crumbled napkin and he’s been seeing you every chance he gets.     

“Blanche?”

The commander jerks his head up, his cheeks flushing with heat when he finds all eyes are trained on him. He clears his throat and straightens to attention. “Yes, General?”

Tavik waves her hand in dismissal. “You’ve been up for nearly a day—go rest.”

“Are you sure, General? I can—“

“Go.” Tavik orders. “Make sure the rest of your men rest too. Force knows you all need it if we’re going to follow Kenobi’s plan."         

Can’t argue with that. Without a word, Commander Blanche salutes and leaves the briefing room before he hears another one of Kenobi’s irritated quips. Wandering down the sterile space gray halls, his feet carry him to the hangar.  

The members of Sunburst Squadron are all splayed out and over the floor and a couple of cargo crates. Just as Commander Blanche expects—up to no good.          

“What are you doing, Kamikaze?” Blanche says with an exasperated sigh, zeroing in on the head of vibrant red hair. 

Kami’s tongue peaks out in concentration as he aims the rubber band at the back of Bruiser’s head. “Target practice, sir.”

The band launches off Kami’s forefinger and thumb with a snap and hits the middle of Bruiser’s neck. Bruiser whips around with a glare, his meaty hand launching up to rub the red slash the band left behind. “What the fuck, Kami.” 

Kami raises his hands in defense, biting his lip to keep his roguish smile from peaking through. “It was Fuse, big guy. I swear.”

Fuse scowls and jams an elbow into Kami’s ribcage. Kami doubles over with a wheezy chuckle. “Fuck off, you tool.”    

“Shut up, all of you,” Void growls, his body wedged between the apex of two crates to sneak in a well deserved nap. “Don’ make me open m’eyes.”

A litany of blame sprouts between the boys, useless bickering that adds to Blanche’s building headache. He sighs for the thousandth time and drops his head to his vambrace at the little bleep, bleep, bleep of an incoming message. He taps at the little button and fuck-- 

His heart leaps into his throat when his brain catches up to what you’ve sent him. You, spread out over your bed, naked and dipping two of your fingers inside of your wet center. A heated spark of arousal tears down his spine--Maker he needs to exit the holopic before someone--

Blanche’s heartbeat skyrockets as a hand clamps down onto his shoulder. Blanche curses and scrambles to shut off the datapad as Max whistles low in approval. “I always wondered what she looked like under that apron.”

Blanche rushes to shut off the image, snarls at his brother and jabs a armored elbow into Max’s arm. “Shut up.”

Max rolls his eyes and ruffles Blanche’s hair. “Heh--just make sure no one else sees that. I'm sure the boys would love getting their hands on that.”

A dark flush collects in Blanche’s cheeks. Never. Not in a million years. You’re his pretty little waitress.