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vizslasaber · 7 months ago

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FRIENDLY FIRE ──── i.

summary: after landing on the umbaran surface, you butt heads with your fellow general—but get along swimmingly with your temporary clone captain.

pairing: captain rex x female jedi!reader

word count: 3.9k

warnings: combat/action, mentions of injury + death, krell being a bitch, reader with a name instead of y/n because i hate it

a/n: it’s back!!! previously i posted this series on my main, @brrmian, but i changed that blog’s username and have mostly shifted over to fanart and general SW content. i’ve decided to dedicate this new side blog’s content entirely to fic writing under my old username, posting reader insert on here and everything else on ao3! this fic will be updated sparsely but definitely more often than it was on my main. i’ve changed a few things regarding the plot of this series specifically, and i like it a lot more now!!

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You hadn’t wanted to leave the Temple behind—you still don’t, even lightyears away from the Core.

When the Jedi Council had first made you aware of the plan to have you and a Master you’d never met capture an Umbaran airbase with troops that were not your own, you had put up something of a fight. What right, you demanded, did the Chancellor have the right to simply pull a Jedi from their sacred duty for a trivial air-to-ground assault?

The Council had either not wanted to answer this question or had not known how to, so now you stand on a transport gunship with two clone troopers and an intimidatingly tall Besalisk Jedi Master by the name of Pong Krell. Both of you are holding onto the grab handles hanging from the ceiling; you’re gripping the handle so tightly your knuckles are slightly pale, but Krell looks perfectly steady.

Of course he is, you think bitterly. He has four arms.

The atmosphere of Umbara is breathable but strangely thick—fog seeps through the blast door openings, and the lights inside the gunship’s passenger bay seem to have dimmed. Your lightsabers bump against your hips and you wince slightly as sounds of frantic gunfire reach your ears.

This will be your first campaign.

You have seen death before, on missions as a Padawan before the war—but never on this scale, if the reports of your already-knighted friends from the Temple are anything to go by. You only hope that you will be assigned your own battalion soon, so you don’t have to go running around replacing wayward Generals.

It’s hard, standing at the side of an imposing Master, not to feel like a Padawan. The skin behind your right ear burns with the memory of the braid that had been there just last week, waiting to be sheared off as you prepared for your ascension to Knighthood.

While your battalion assignment is pending, Master Windu told you as you stood in the center of the Council Chamber, the Senate has requested that we send two Jedi Knights to replace Skywalker on Umbara.

Master Krell is already on-world, assisting Master Kenobi, but he will need another Jedi’s help if he and the 501st are to take the capital in Skywalker’s stead, Master Plo explained, his hologram flickering as he called in from some faraway world.

All due respect, Masters, you remember asking as you willed yourself not to tremble, but why me? I’ve never been anywhere near the front. I wouldn’t be much help.

Believe in your potential, we do, Master Yoda said. An opportunity for you to do good, the Force has given you.

And that, it was decided, was that.

Even now, after meditating on your anxiety for practically the entire journey through hyperspace, your nerves feel impossibly frayed. The transport jostles, but you only sway slightly, arm already holding onto an overhead handle for balance. There’s a shiny new military-issue commlink attached to your right vambrace. A morbid thought, of calling in a medevac for injured soldiers with this very communicator, crosses your mind—but you let it dissipate.

The gunship suddenly makes a sharp dive, and your stomach swoops—you must be about to land. You spare a glance at General Krell, who has now let go of the grab handles and has crossed all four of his arms over his chest. For a moment, you’re almost tempted to ask how he manages to stay so balanced while the ship is moving, but then the blast doors slide open and the gunship lands in shadowy darkness.

The first person you see is Anakin Skywalker. He’s around your age, maybe a bit younger—despite having been knighted several years earlier, as one of the first Padawan victims of the Jedi Military Integration Act. Your Master, ever traditional even when the Order began to stray from its centuries-old teachings, did her best to keep you apprenticed for as long as possible, but even that eventually proved futile.

In the end, you and Anakin are practically of the same age, and yet he has infinite more experience than you. Uncertainty wheedles its way into your chest and slips a pin into your lungs; you’re holding your breath as you follow Krell off the gunship.

Being far shorter than the Besalisk, you have to jump down. When you hit the ground, you shiver at the misty atmosphere, watching as bioluminescent specks of dust fly up underneath your boots.

As the two of you approach, you hear the troopers of the 501st legion mutter amongst themselves, but you push it aside and focus on the pleasantries.

“General Krell. General Neridian,” Anakin says, smiling graciously. “My thanks for the air support.”

“Indeed, General Skywalker,” Krell replies, bowing politely. “The locals have proven to be more resourceful than we anticipated.”

“We managed to get here in one piece, though,” you add jokingly, and Anakin smirks, his eyes twinkling. You gesture to the troopers unloading the gunship behind you. “And we brought ration resupplies.”

Anakin nods appreciatively, then raises one eyebrow after a moment, looking slightly confused. “But—that’s not the reason for your visit.”

“No,” Krell admits. “The Council has ordered you back to Coruscant, effective immediately.”

“What?” Skywalker demands. “Wh-why?”

“The Chancellor...” you pause, searching for a word, before you settle on, “insisted that you return. The Council had no say on the matter.”

“That is all they would tell us,” Krell adds, though he doesn’t sound displeased.

“Well, I—I can’t just leave my men!” Anakin protests, and for the first time you notice the trooper standing at attention beside him.

He’s identical to all the clones you’ve met, of course, except for one detail—his hair is blond. You wonder vaguely if it would be polite to ask him whether or not it’s natural as you survey his armor. The pauldron on his left shoulder indicates a position of command, but he carries a sense of individuality in the Force that, despite your inexperience with working with them, you’ve come to realize every clone has. His helmet is painted with a distinctly Mandalorian sigil, but it’s not one you recognize.

His gaze is pointed directly ahead; he makes no eye contact with you. Probably just as annoyed at the change of plans as Anakin is, you realize.

Krell moves to speak, jolting you from your thoughts. You recognize Anakin’s agitation, however, so you calmly move to intercept.

“The Council would not just leave your troopers to fend for themselves—not that they aren’t perfectly capable of doing so, of course,” you add, which merits the barest hint of a smile from the trooper standing beside Anakin. “It’s just… well, the Senate needs a Jedi to be at the head of every campaign, and I guess they figured subtracting one of you would mean—”

“—adding two other Jedi,” Anakin says with a snort of derision. “Yeah… sounds like the Senate. But you guys’ll probably get it done faster anyway.”

“Don’t worry about a thing, sir,” interjects the trooper, and Anakin looks to him. “We’ll have this city under control by the time you’re back.”

“Generals, this is Captain Rex, my first in command,” Anakin says fondly, and you see something like pride show itself in Rex’s eyes. “You won’t find a finer or more loyal trooper anywhere.”

“I don’t doubt it,” you affirm earnestly.

“Yes, that is good to hear,” Krell agrees, then places a large hand on Anakin’s shoulder. “I wish you well, Skywalker.”

Anakin simply nods at him, then stops beside you and says, “I hear you passed the Trials.”

You gesture to your hair, now void of a Padawan braid. “Apparently so,” you reply. “Funny, I didn’t think you were one to get swept into the rumour mill.”

A grin, boyish and bright, springs to Anakin’s face. “Nah, I’m always one for good gossip.” His expression turns softer, then, and he puts a hand on your shoulder. “Seriously, though… congratulations.”

“Thank you,” you say, but he’s already approaching the gunship and taking hold of one of the grab handles. The ship is off within seconds, and you can’t help but feel apprehensive as it flies away, up into the fog.

Taking a moment to gather yourself, you turn to Rex and offer a polite nod. He returns it, then says, “It is an honour to be serving with you, Generals.”

“The honour is all mine,” you return graciously, and Rex looks like he’s about to say something else, but stops when Krell begins to speak.

“I find it very interesting, Captain, that you are able to recognize the value of honour,” he begins, then—almost as an afterthought—adds, “for a clone.”

Silence.

Your eyebrows shoot up, and as Rex stares at Krell in shock, you feel your armored chest tighten—with frustration or shock, you don’t yet know.

“Stand at attention when I address you,” Krell snaps, turning to face the other troopers, and as Rex obliges, you narrow your eyes and step forward.

“Master Krell,” you start, your jaw tightening, “I do believe it would be far more... prudent to show respect to the soldiers who have so graciously agreed to undertake this mission with us.” You tilt your head questioningly, sending your ponytail swaying. “After all—we are the ones who just arrived.”

A ripple of white-hot anger moves through the Force with lightning speed, but it’s gone before you can take time to process it. Now, all you can feel is something akin to gratitude, trickling like a cool waterfall from where Rex stands, back straight and eyes ahead.

“They agreed to nothing,” Krell counters, and you blink as his wide upper lip curls back to reveal a row of dangerously sharp teeth. “Do not forget, young one, that we are the Generals they serve under at present.”

“I...” you pause, momentarily at a loss for words, then clasp your hands behind your back and force your jaw to unclench. “I haven’t forgotten that. But I also haven’t forgotten that the only way to succeed in this endeavour is to work together.”

“And with what experience do you so kindly bestow this advice upon us, Knight Neridian?” Krell asks, and the question is like a bucket of ice water down the back of your robes.

You swallow, and search for the words to say, but none come. Cheeks burning with shame, you stare determinedly at the ground.

The tension in Krell’s Force signature disappears, as sudden as the crack of a whip, and he draws in a deep breath. You look up as the pouch-like piece of flesh under Krell’s chin grows in size and he begins to pace.

“Nevertheless,” Krell brushes off, acting as though none of your words register with him, “there’s a reason my command is so effective, and it’s because I do things by the book.” He walks past a soldier in an ARC Trooper uniform who has the number five tattooed on his right temple. The trooper doesn’t move as Krell passes him, but you can see a vein on his forehead bulge.

“And that includes protocol,” Krell puts in. He turns to you. “Have all platoons ready to move out immediately.”

You bristle. “I—I thought we were to make decisions together,” you protest, raising your chin defiantly.

Technically, there’s nothing to defy, seeing as you hold equal rank with Krell—but the Council specified in their briefing that this was supposed to be a learning experience, an introduction to combat before receiving your own battalion. And something about Master Krell demands respect, or at the very least obedience, despite the fact that you’re starting to want to do everything you can not to give it to him.

Krell simply huffs and turns around, his yellow eyes flashing, and walks away, leaving you surrounded by a platoon troopers.

You frown after him. “Well, now I know why Master Venn wished me good luck,” you mutter, mostly to yourself. Some of the troopers snicker, but you hardly notice.

Your former master, Esya Venn, had pulled you aside just before leaving. The look on her face had been nothing short of concerned, but you’d shrugged it off in the moment, even when she’d told you to be careful, Padawan. She never told anyone to be careful—it was simply a reflex to think twice about your actions around Esya.

But now you understand.

Scrubbing a hand over your tired face, you take a deep breath and turn to Captain Rex. “Shall we set off?” you ask, and he nods, promptly putting on his helmet.

“Move out, soldiers!” he shouts, starting down the path after Krell. “Come on, let’s go!”

You give Rex a grateful smile, and though you can’t see his face, you know he’s returning it. With one last glance at the battalion, you hurry to the front and fall into step next to General Krell.

It’s silent for some time. Krell doesn’t deter, no matter how dark it gets, and after a while you begin to grow uncomfortable next to him. The anger you’d felt in the Force earlier is dormant, but certainly there, and it makes chills erupt down your spine.

"I’m going to check on the Captain,” you say, and Krell only nods when you turn around and quickly find Rex, who’s walking about two meters behind where you previously were.

The Captain salutes briefly. “General.”

“Captain,” you reply politely, before glancing back at Krell. “I can’t help but notice that there’s—” you pause for a moment. Do these troopers know enough about the Force to have conversations with you about it?

Knowing Anakin, you realize, they probably do, so you clear your throat and continue. “I get a strange feeling from Master Krell,” you say quietly.

Rex’s shoulders relax just slightly. “How so, sir?”

You bite your lip and shake your head. “I don’t know, exactly,” you reply, then gesture vaguely in front of you, where Krell is half-visible in the murky fog. “The Force around him is unclear. It’s... hard to explain.”

“Hard to explain, as in it’s a Jedi thing?” Rex guesses, and you grin widely.

“Yes,” you say. “It’s a Jedi thing.” Reaching up, you curl a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“I may not be a Jedi, sir,” Rex says after a moment, “but I think I know what you mean by strange feeling.”

“Quicken that pace, battalion!” Krell suddenly shouts over his shoulder, and you jump. “This isn’t some training course on Kamino.”

You sigh and raise your voice, turning to the troopers. “What General Krell means,” you call, pointedly shooting a glare at the Besalik’s back, “is that we must continue to make good time. Keep up the good work.”

Krell gives no answer, but you feel a ripple of frustration coming from his direction. There’s another thread in the Force, one of gratitude, but you can’t tell where exactly it’s coming from. You latch onto it nonetheless and file the feeling away for later, letting yourself make an easy pace just ahead of Rex.

“He certainly has a way with words,” you hear one of the clones say, and when you glance behind you out of the corner of your eye, you can see that the source is someone with similar armor to Rex’s. Another ARC, or someone of similar rank.

There’s a sigh. You think it’s from Rex. The troopers obviously don’t know you’re listening, so you direct your gaze ahead, keeping your pace steady.

“He’s just trying to keep us on schedule,” Rex explains, voice hushed and sounding a bit sheepish.

"By raising everyone’s ire?” the other trooper grumbles.

“Either way, he’s in charge,” Rex protests. “And we’ve got a job to do.”

“She’s in charge, too,” hisses the trooper, and you purse your lips, knowing he’s pointing to you.

Another sigh, again from Rex. “Just—treat them both with respect, and we’ll all get along fine.”

You’re about to turn around when your neck stiffens. It’s an instinctual reaction, like the Force tapping you on the shoulder—one that you’ve learned to interpret as a warning. Less than a second later, a loud screech echoes above your head.

“Ready your weapons!” Rex shouts, at the same moment you draw one lightsaber.

Faster than your eyes can process, a winged creature swoops down and grabs a trooper—but you don’t need your eyes. The cyan beam of your lightsaber casts a glow on the shadowy ground, and you jump upwards, landing on a large plant that allows you to swing from a vine and graze the blade across the wing of one of the creatures. It falls to the ground with another screech before flying away, relatively unharmed.

One to go.

You’re about to grab hold of a second vine and swing towards the other creature, but a flash of blurred blue and green makes you pull back—Krell beats you to it, landing on top of the creature and wrestling it to the ground.

“Wait—stop!” you shout as he draws his lightsabers, but it’s too late. He’s already skewered the creature mercilessly, and it lies dead on the ground, life blinking out of the Force in an instant.

You jump off of the large plant, landing on both feet, and hook your now deactivated lightsaber onto your belt. “Why did you kill it?” you demand, pushing past several onlooking clones.

“It is nothing more than a violent inhabitant of this area,” Krell dismisses, and you feel your jaw drop.

“But…” you start, at a loss for words. “The Code decrees—”

“The Code,” Krell says coldly as he turns to stare at you, “allows for self defense.”

You draw yourself up to your full height, switching off your lightsaber with a snap-hiss before hooking it back onto your belt. “That’s not what—”

Krell’s lightsabers deactivate loudly, cutting you off, and he returns them to either side of his belt before turning away and continuing on the path. “Anyone else want to stop and play with the animals?”

No one answers, but you feel your fists clench as if of their own accord.

This is going to be a long night.

Umbara’s plant life is fascinating. Observing the bioluminescent life forms is the only thing that serves a proper distraction from both the grumbling clone troopers and the pit of apprehension in your stomach. You’d been walking for twelve hours, give or take, and every time you’d tried to suggest a break to Krell, he’d snapped at you.

This can’t be allowed, you think bitterly, skipping over a glowing pink tree root, boots skidding on the dark purple ground.

You chew on your bottom lip and glance at the clones behind you. They are understandably worn out, and even with the extensive survival training Master Esya drilled into you as a Padawan, you were starting to get tired, too.

“Sir,” says a voice from behind you, and you jump, expecting in your exhaustion to see Krell—but it’s just Rex.

“We’ve been keeping this pace for almost half a rotation,” Rex points out, sounding vaguely nervous. “The men are... starting to tire. General Krell is...” he tilts his head, expressionless visor unreadable. “You know.”

You muster a smile, hoping you look at least a little like Master Enya, and nod.

“I know, Captain,” you say, and he shifts slightly, as though his blue-painted pauldron is uncomfortable. You can’t blame him. Running a hand over your ponytail, you blow out a breath and frown at the puff of air that appears in front of you. “Let me talk to him. Tell the men to start searching for a good spot to camp for a few hours.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Rex giving an affirmative thumbs up to the troopers behind him, but by then you’re already approaching Krell, clasping your hands tightly behind your back.

“Master Krell,” you start, and Krell turns his head just a bit. “I’ve told the men to scout for a place to rest. I reviewed the mission plan on the way here, and we can spare three hours without being delayed, possibly more—”

“The men don’t need rest,” Krell interrupts, and you feel your cheeks flush with anger. “They need resolve to complete the task at hand.”

“Apologies, Master,” you say, squaring your shoulders as frustration heats your neck and face. You breathe deeply. There is no emotion, only peace. “But I don’t think the men will be on their best game when we reach the capital if they don’t take some time to gather themselves.”

“That they need to ‘gather themselves’ is a sign of weakness,” Krell cuts in, stopping and turning to face you with a sneer. “That is not what these clones were bred for.”

Not far away, many of the soldiers bristle at Krell’s choice of words, but you keep your focus on the yellow eyes staring you down for the second time that night.

“They weren’t bred to be mindless droids, either,” you argue, crossing your arms over your chest and making sure to keep your voice even. “And in case you’ve forgotten, even battle droids need to recharge. If we march on the Capital without any sort of break first, I promise you, this mission will not go as planned. Exhausted and underfed soldiers are a guaranteed disadvantage.”

Krell studies you, a sneer forming on his lips. “I see you take after your Master’s incessant need to get the last word on anyone she disagrees with.”

You scowl. “I beg your pardon, but Master Venn is—”

He ignores you, cutting past where you stand and walking away. “Do what you wish, Neridian,” he dismisses, then walks away to stand by a glowing tree.

A sigh escapes your lips, and you close your eyes. It’s becoming harder and harder not to snap at him—but you know what the Order’s teachings require of you. Emotion, yet peace.

You grimace as Krell retreats to the back of the line, then turn back to the troopers nearby and give Rex a nod. The captain returns it in what you hope is a grateful manner, then calls for the men to make camp at the top of the ridge your group has been climbing.

By the time you gather all the troopers together, the battalion has put together a hasty campsite, with half the troopers having fallen into a fitful sleep and the other half keeping watch while eating as many rations as the limit allows. You frown and approach the trooper you heard Rex talking to earlier, his Force signature familiar from when you were eavesdropping. His helmet is now sitting in his lap, being meticulously cleaned with what little supplies the battalion has on hand.

You study the soldier. He has a tattoo on his right temple, and upon studying it, you realize it’s the same ARC trooper who’d been glaring at Krell when you stepped off the gunship. You wonder what significance the number five has to him.

Taking another step forward, you clear your throat. “Trooper,” you begin, and the soldier looks up curiously before abruptly shooting to his feet and snapping off a salute. You wave a nonchalant hand. “No need for that. I only wanted to ask a favor—can you gather troopers to stand watch? Six at a time, tops, and make sure they take turns so everyone can rest. That includes you.”

“You got it, sir,” says the trooper, and you smile.

“Sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name...” you say, then, and the trooper blinks.

“Oh, uh—it’s Fives, sir.”

“I see,” you reply, gaze flickering to his tattoo and back again. “Thank you, Fives.”

You retreat to your own tent soon after, shrugging off your vambraces and arranging them neatly next to your bedroll. This wouldn’t be the shortest sleep cycle you’d had, what with the nature of your apprenticeship at the temple—but not the longest, either.

From what you can hear inside your tent, the camp is silent. Slowly, you poke your head through the canvas flaps to find exactly six men—as you’d requested—sitting in the center of camp. Farther away, at the outskirts of the circle of tents, sits Master Krell’s hulking form. In spite of yourself, you frown.

“General?” asks a sudden voice above you; letting out an involuntary yelp, you scramble backwards before stopping at the sight of Rex standing near the entrance to your tent.

Embarrassed, you stand up, brushing off your cream-coloured robes. “Sorry,” you say sheepishly. “I could swear I’m not usually so jumpy, I don’t know what—” you look up and stop short.

Rex has removed his helmet.

His blond hair isn’t a surprise this time around, but close up, you’re struck by how tired he looks. There are smile lines at the corners of his eyes, but his face is cast in exhausted shadows.

You wonder if a full night’s sleep is something he’s ever had, or if the training regiments on Kamino prepared him and his brothers for this kind of halfhearted sleep cycle. Curiously, you study him.

Rex’s eyes are golden-brown in the dying light of this shadowy planet. They’re the same shade as all the troopers in the immediate vicinity. And yet, as you stare into them, something in you stirs as your Force signature brushes against his—something you know you’re not supposed to feel.

“Er, General,” Rex repeats, jolting you from your faraway thoughts. “I just wanted to let you know—the scouts are detecting a clear journey from here on out. We have approximately four hours to kick back, as predicted.”

Hurriedly, you turn away and clear your throat awkwardly. “Very good, Captain,” you mumble. “Thank you. You’re—erm, free to go and rest.”

For a moment, Rex looks surprised, but he composes himself seconds later. “Thank you, General,” he says. “But I—”

“Not up for debate,” you interrupt, holding your hand up. Bemused, Rex blinks, so you shoot him a reassuring smile. “You said it yourself: the soldiers need rest. You’re a soldier, yes?”

Rex opens his mouth, probably to say something about him being a Captain, but you lower your hand to rest it on his shoulder. The kind gesture seems to quell him, so you continue. “Don’t exclude yourself in that. Rest well, Captain.”

When you turn and reenter your tent, you don’t catch the way Rex’s eyes linger on the closed flap for far longer than they should, heat prickling up his neck as the remnant of your touch burns itself through his pauldron.

“You too… General.”

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awkward-tension-art · 6 months ago

Text

Clone Force 99 (+ Howzer) S/O Cutting Hair to Escape

Random idea of the boys having an s/o with long hair and needing to cut it to escape. No this isn’t me projecting because I have long hair. Not at all. No projection here.

Tw: Gender neutral (I try to be inclusive of all readers), violence, hair cutting with knife, threats, brief mention of death, all of the boys being sweeties tbh

This isn’t proofread so I die like a man

“Are you willing to listen to my terms now?!” The Twi’lek had her fingers in your hair, pulling tightly. It hurt, badly. And she wasn’t alone. There were a couple of other criminals around. All their own blasters were pointed at either you or the man you loved.

You swallowed, staring directly at your lover. His blaster was steady. He had good aim, but was he confident enough to take the shot with you so close?

You had a knife, but the armor the twi’lek criminal wore was too thick.

But your hair wasn’t. In one swift movement, you slice the strands of hair she had gripped so tightly. Once you had ripped yourself away, taking her off guard, your lover took the shot.

Hunter

Once you’re in his arms safe and the threat has been taken care of, he’s pissed. Not at you, but at the fact that this happened to begin with. His senses should have detected the threat and he should have protected you. Instead, you nearly got hurt because he was distracted.

If you’re super upset about your hair, he’s going to try and be reassuring. You still look amazing to him, but he understands if your hair is important to you for whatever reason. He’ll wipe away any tears and just offer comfort for such a loss. Yea, it grows back sure, but that’s doesn’t mean it’s any less important to you.

Hunter will struggle to look at you for a while. Not because he thinks your impromptu haircut is ugly, he just blames himself for what happened. He feels guilty he let something like this happen and It reminds him that he failed you.

Even though he’s upset with himself that he allowed this to happen, he’s so understanding and comforting to you.

Echo

He’s gonna fret over you and make sure you’re not physically hurt. He’s apologizing for letting this happen and not thinking of something to get you out of the clutches of a criminal. Like Hunter, he feels some guilt over what happened.

Once he knows you’re alright, then he’s gonna be heart broken for you and your hair.

He loves your hair. He loves playing with it. And he knows how it’s important to you. Even if hair grows back, he knows what it’s like to have a part of you taken. So he won’t judge your tears or emotions over having to cut your hair in such a way.

He’ll hold you and comfort you, giving soft reassurances.

Though, once your hair does grow back, he’s gonna suggest maybe tying your hair up to prevent something like this happening again.

Tech

He’s panicking until he knows you’re alright. He checks you over for any wounds and once he sees that you’re not hurt, he’ll hold you close.

He kisses your forehead and doesn’t even comment on your hair. To him, you just did a very clever move to get away from a criminal. It’s a shame about the hair, but you’re alright and that’s what matters.

Tech isn’t unsympathetic, he just won’t fully know you’re upset until you say something. He’ll offer what comfort he can but he might not entirely understand why you’re upset. It’s just hair, and even if he finds your hair beautiful, it’ll grow back.

You’ll probably have to explain why your hair is important and why losing that large amount of it upsets you. Once you explain, he becomes more sympathetic. Later, he’s going to do some research for way to potentially help your hair grow faster.

While your hair is in the process of growing back he also researches ways to take care of it. Like special oils, soaps etc. he’s a sweetie that way.

Wrecker

Might be more emotional than you, to be honest. Like Echo and Hunter, he’s upset you were grabbed by a criminal. But the fact that you had to cut your hair to get free? He’s beyond upset.

He is in despair. Wrecker loves your hair so much. He loves to play with it. Help you style it. He even learned to braid just so he could braid your hair (and Omega’s)

As your hair is growing back, he pretty much showers you in compliments. He knows how much your hair means to you and he’s gonna do his best to make up for what happened.

Even when it’s short he’s still gonna play with it to be honest.

Crosshair

He holds you so so tightly when you’re free. Crosshair will be shaking so badly. His emotions hit him waves. First was fear. Then relief.

Then rage. Absolute rage.

You’re his love. And you were in danger. You were forced to destroy something important to you in order to get free.

He’d feel useless. Like he failed you spectacularly. And now you were forced to cut your hair because he was too slow to react.

His anger over your hair is in connection to how you feel about it to be honest. If you’re emotional over the loss, he’s out for blood against the entire criminal group that did this. But if, say, you’re minimally upset and move on quick, so does he.

You wore it long because you liked it long. So he liked it.

But, bright side, if you end up liking your hair shorter, he likes it too.

It’s your hair. So how you like it, he likes it. He’s a pretty simple guy like that.

Howzer

Surprisingly calm. Once you’re free, he’s holding you in one arm and using the other to shoot down the other criminals. Once they’re down, his focus is on you.

He’ll pet your hair and feel where it was unceremoniously chopped off. After a second he apologizes so softly for being unable to help you.

However, he won’t directly say anything about your hair other than ask how you’re feeling. If you’re upset, he’ll hug you, and reassure you that it’ll grow back. It just takes time.

To him, he honestly prefers shorter hair just on the basis of it being more practical for battle, but if you like your hair long, just like Echo, he suggests tying it up or styling it in a way that’s more battle friendly. He’ll even help you with it.

Bonus:

Omega (platonic obv)

She’s going to cut her hair. She sees her brother’s lover sad over their chopped up hair? Welp, you’re not the only one who had their strands butchered by a knife.

I’d imagine her brother and you return to the Marauder with cut up blonde strands littering the floor and her looking so proud with her….new look.

284 notes · View notes

ireadwithmyears · 1 year ago

Text

address the letters: “to the holes in my butterfly wings”

pairing: Kix and GN padawan reader (platonic)

Word count, guys it’s basically 10 K 💀bc apparently I am in capable of writing anything short.

tags/warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, mentions of blood and injury, medical procedures

summary:

In which, the CMO of Torrent Company discovers that you, a Padawan under his care have been hiding injuries and skipping medical checks, and now must take care of you as you suffer the consequences of your actions.

Also known as

Why you should never hide an injury from Kix. he will find out, and he will drag you off to the medbay so that he can take care of whatever mess you’ve made of yourself, scolding you all the wile.

“Look what I found on my bunk.”

You’re interrupted from eating your sandwich in the Cantina when Fives plops down beside you at the table, setting down a tray of food and waving a pink slip of paper in your face.

You’re about to tell him that “Can’t you see that you’re eating and get this paper out of my face,” when your eyes catch on three words written in bold text across the top of the page.

Mandatory vaccination updates.

The sandwich, that up until this point has been the absolute centre of your attention, listen, you’re fighting a war and you have to appreciate any opportunity that you get to eat food that isn’t bland ration bars, drops out of your suddenly limp hand as you snatch up the paper, now very interested in the contents.

“When did you get this?” you ask slowly, you’re voice distracted, beginning to chew on your lower lip, already feeling the nervous coil in your stomach.

“When I came back to my bunk after the debriefing we had this afternoon. Apparently everyone got one. I bet you 10 credits that your master is going to pretend that he didn’t see it, and try and avoid it until Kix has to tear apart the ship looking for him and drag him to the medbay.” Fives chuckles.

Master Skywalker’s reputation for trying to avoid the medbay at all costs is widely known throughout Torrent Company..

“Kix is going to have a field day. I’ll give it to general Skywalker, he has some creative hiding places,” he continues, eyes lighting up at the memory of Anakin, half hazardously crammed into a supply closet, folded in an impressive, yet uncomfortable looking position as he forced his unwitting tall limbs to fit in the cramped space.

Unfortunately for Kix, your masters habit of avoiding the medbay whenever possible has rubbed off on you, though, you don’t think it’s for the same reason. Your avoidance stems from a place of fear, and, okay, a stubborn insistence that you can take care of yourself, which yes, definitely like master, like apprentice.

But that also stems from a fear. You’re determined to prove yourself, especially being a young Padawan working with those who are much more experienced than you. You don’t want to risk being taken off the field because of some stupid injury, and letting those who rely on you down, especially your master, who’s always bouncing back and getting up and ready to take on whatever is next regardless of what kind of peril he’s just come out of. You want, you need, to prove that just because you’re a Padawan, you’re not a liability, but an asset. You can be strong and resilient like master Skywalker.

So, you avoid. You dodge and you ignore and you pretend not to notice when the routine medical check dates come and go without your attendance. You know it’s only a matter of time before Kix gets on your ass about it. You’re surprised that you’ve kept it up this long. But, this only bolsters your confidence in being able to avoid another successfully.

“I’ll be right back,” you say, trying to sound nonchalant, setting the paper back down on the table before you run off into the crowd.

Sure enough, there is an identical slip of paper that’s been placed on your bunk. But conveniently, Jedi master Aayla Secura is going on a diplomatic mission to amid rim planet in a last ditch effort to try and convince them not to secede from the republic during the date that’s listed on the page when you’re scheduled for your vaccinations.

Earlier this morning, master Skywalker had asked if you had wanted to join this mission, saying that it would give you a break from being on the frontlines, and it would be easy enough to arrange, as master Secura would rendezvous with the 501st before she departed.

This morning, you had turned him down, listing several reasons as to why you needed to stay with the 501st. Your troops needed you, diplomatic missions were boring anyways, and you didn’t think that you would be of much help to the experienced and capable master Secura, who was a formidable diplomat in her own right. You didn’t think you would be able to add anything of particular value to the conversation, at least nothing that master Secura wouldn’t be able to say much more eloquently and better.

Now though, the only thing that’s running through your mind is the fear of needles and the dread of going into the medbay and that’s enough to make you reconsider everything you had said.

When you tell master Skywalker that you’ve changed your mind, and would actually like to accompany Aayla on her mission, he’s slightly confused considering you had been so adamant that you were needed here only just a few hours ago.

But, he knows that as a Jedi, you need diplomatic experience. Experience that, before the war, would be very easy for Padawan’s to come by. He knows that you don’t have nearly as much as you should.

These are unprecedented times, though, and Padawan’s being trained during an active war is not ideal. He wants for you to be well-rounded. He has hope that your future won’t always involve war at the centre of it, and any opportunity that you get to learn how to be a keeper of peace should always be encouraged, especially during these times.

So he gives in pretty easily, and when master Secura arrives, you happily join her. When the ramp of the ship seals behind you and you’re sitting with her in the cockpit, the warm relief that flows through your bones is palpable.

“Success,” you think to yourself triumphantly.

Your triumph, however glorious it might have felt in the moment, is short-lived.

In spite of the fact that some old injuries, that you honestly thought you had done a pretty good job at taking care of yourself, were starting to aggravate you again, the unexpected joy and relief that weaved itself through the force, openly shared between you and master Secura, surrounded you like a warm blanket, protecting you from feeling the things that hurt you.

The planet you had just visited had agreed to stay with the republic, after a tense three days of debate between its political factions. The victory Was a surprise, considering how vehemently the opposition pushed to secede, but it was not unwelcome.

Aayla’s T-6 shuttle docks in the hanger bay of the much larger 501st transport. As you wait for the doors to open and the ramp to fold down before you, you’re still riding on that high, feeling, for the first time in a long time, the thrill of a success. One that you are unable to feel on the frontlines, because even when your battles result in a victory, you are surrounded by so much death and violence that in the end, you don’t really feel like celebrating.

You’ll never admit it to your master, but privately, you think to yourself that maybe diplomatic missions aren’t as boring as you thought they were. You were able to help resolve a conflict, peacefully, without even having to brush your fingers against the hilt of your lightsaber, which, nowadays, is becoming more and more of a rare occurrence. But it’s what Jedi do, or at least, what they’re supposed to do, so you have to embrace the gratitude of the experience you just had, and try and take it with you going forward.

Your thoughts are preoccupied with these ideas swirling around your head, so you don’t see him until you’re stepping out onto the ramp of the T-6, descending into the hectic and busy as usual crowds of the hanger bay.

When you do, though, you stop dead, and your heart begins to race.

Shit.

Directly in front of you, at the bottom of the ramp, stands Kix.

One look at his expression, and your stomach flips.

His lips are set in a thin, unreadable line, his brow creased as he observes you with pinpoint focus. Stern, brown eyes observe your every movement. There’s no question that the second you step off the ramp, he’s going to pounce on you like a cat seizing a mouse.

He stands at attention, body forced into an unbending straight line, such positions you mostly see on the shiny’s, new troopers who are freshly trained during their first days out on the field. His hands are placed on his hips, the position that he assumes before he’s about to give someone, it’s usually your master who you’ve seen it directed at, the lecture of their life.

“Keep moving,” your brain supplies. “Act nonchalant, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll be fine.”

You feel your feet hit solid ground, and your speed picks up, all along, your brain is screaming at you to move. It’s weird how now that he’s standing in front of you, every injury you’ve accumulated over the past weeks is beginning to hit you, all comfort and protection that the force has been giving you to keep you going rapidly vanishing with each step you take.

The uncomfortable angle that your shoulder is sitting at, the pulling of stitches in your leg as you increase your speed. It throbs and aches with sudden abandon. But your fists clench, and you do your best not to falter under Kix’s unwavering scrutiny, just knowing that he’s looking for any flicker of weakness, any sign of pain that registers on your face.

“Just keep going, and maybe, you’ll be able to slip past...”

He steps in front of you, reaching an arm out to easily intercept your path. He says your name, in a tone that breaches absolutely no room for trying to ignore it.

You jump, startled in spite of yourself. He’s effectively got you cornered, and seeing that there’s no way out of this, Your nerves begin to skyrocket, raising like the sound of alarm bells in your head. You look up, eyes meeting his unwaveringly stern expression, And suddenly, you wish that the floor would open up and swallow you whole.

He looks down at you, and he must see something in your disposition that belies your true feelings, because though his face remains set, his eyes somewhat soften, and when he next speaks, his voice is quiet but firm.

“Come with me, please. I need to see you in the medbay.” Though he’s phrased it as a request, you know that it is an order, and one that you must follow.

As a medic for the GAR, and this is something that you’ve heard him say to many a complaining troopers being escorted to the medbay when they don’t want to go, it is well within his rights to exercise such authority and make these orders. Because when it comes to the health and safety of every 501st personnel, whether you’re a Jedi general, commander, or Padawan, Kix immediately outranks you.

You look down at the floor, suddenly finding the marks that are speckled across it very interesting, and mumble a defeated and quiet “Yes sir.”

When he turns, and you hesitate to follow, he lets out a gentle sigh, moving to place a hand on the small of your back. His voice is low, but reassuring as he ushers you forward.

“Come on, kid, you’re okay,” he breathes, and in spite of the fact that you’re still thinking that jumping out of an airlock would be better than this, your feet, still unwilling, but the slightest bit reassured, begin to move.

Coric giving you a subtle pitying glance as he’s reading over a patient’s chart when Kix escorts you into the medbay makes you want to vomit.

Between the two medics, Kix has the reputation of being a hardass because he’s the CMO. Make no mistake, you do not want to get on either of their bad sides. But, given the choice between the two right now, you think you’re more equipped to handle Coric, who can usually be counted on to soften the blow a bit, with enough pleading glances and apologies.

Your eyes flit to the door that you’ve just passed through, because stupidly, your brain is still trying to make the calculations that if you can just duck out of Kix’s grasp for two seconds, you’d be able to make a run for it.

Unbeknownst to you, however, both medics have been carefully observing your every movement since you’ve entered. Coric, remaining completely calm and at ease, rises to his feet, moving swiftly to stand in the doorway in several long strides. He casually leans against the frame, arms folded.

“Don’t even think about it, baby Jedi. Your master has attempted the same thing you are considering, and he has always failed,” he says, keeping his voice light and non-threatening, making it clear that you need to give up on your fantasy of bolting out of here, but also not trying to scare you off..

You’re just beginning to wonder how the kriff they were able to read you so easily, with one covert glance determining that you were about to bolt when Kix removes his hand from the small of your back, instead, fingers coming to gently grip your shoulder.

The change in his hold is obvious. He is fully prepared for if you try to run. He gives your shoulder a squeeze, in what you interpret as a warning not to.

Unfortunately, he’s just touched on an injury, you’re not entirely sure what you did, but you messed up your shoulder the last time you were on the field, and even the slight pressure elicits a sharp intake of breath that you’re unable to stop from escaping your lips, and that immediately has the attention of both medics laser focussed on you.

Kix’s anticipation evaporates and quickly melts into concern. Carefully, so carefully, he turns you to face him, keen eyes sharp as they analyze your face.

“Hey,” he calls softly, waiting for you to look at him. “Tell me where it hurts,” he says, so gently that it makes your eyes burn with shame. You look down at your feet.

“That’s uh... that’s, a loaded question,” you admit sheepishly, trying to keep your tone light and joking, in spite of the fact that now that you’re thinking about it, the list of injuries you’ve sustained without reporting to the medbay is a lengthy one, and might make Kix have a stroke.

Kix lets out a controlled, slow breath, eyes momentarily finding the ceiling as he silently begs the stars to give him strength.

“Kaysh Mirsh solus,” he mutters to himself.

You’ve heard Kix toss that phrase around the medbay on multiple occasions, and though you’re uncertain of what it actually means, he usually brings it out when one of his brothers has done something that he would consider incredibly stupid, which is often.

Coric makes a noise of agreement. “It appears that our stupidly self-sacrificing general has passed on his stupid self sacrificing behaviour onto his apprentice,” he groans. “Will we ever know a day of peace?”

Kix looks back down at you, his expression calm and restrained. “Come on, then, let’s see what we’re dealing with here,” moving his hand to your uninjured shoulder, he steers you both further into the medbay.

Your eyes don’t leave the ground, but you can hear the sound of a privacy curtain being pulled shut around the cubicle that Kix has brought you to.

When an eerily familiar pink slip of paper is being held up in front of your downcast eyes, you cringe, Arms wrapping around yourself in defence

You can’t even pretend that you haven’t seen it before, because the words mandatory vaccination updates have been circling around your brain the whole time you were out on your last mission.

“Do you know why the GAR enforces these?” Kix begins, and his voice is too measured and calm.

You lift a brow, questioning. Does he seriously expect you to answer this? Isn’t the answer obvious?

“Uh... so that we don’t get sick?” You answer, uncertain as to what he’s getting at.

He nods, his face displaying a slight flicker of approval. “Yes, that is one reason as to why, and it’s an acceptable one,” he acknowledges. His frown deepens as he continues. “However, one must look at the much larger picture, at every personnel aboard this ship. The most important reason why mandatory vaccinations are enforced is so that we can avoid many people getting sick and spreading illness to the rest of the crew, so that we may remain fully functional and operational, continuing to serve and protect the people of the republic.”

You squirm beneath the scrutiny of his gaze. You’re starting to see where he’s going with this, and it’s incredibly discomforting.

“I would’ve thought, that as a Jedi, you would be able to more easily see this bigger picture than most others,” he observes mildly. “After all, I know, and I’m sure everyone who spends a considerable amount of time with you can see that there is so much compassion and care for others within your very nature.”

His voice is so genuine, laced with such real kindness in his tone that it makes your eyes sting. Your heart constricts, because he’s just pointed out something that you hadn’t even considered in your selfish haste to avoid this.

By avoiding your vaccinations, you have put every member of the 501st who works with you in danger.

Your arms wrap tighter around yourself, and you can’t bring yourself to look anywhere but at the pristine white floor beneath your feet.

Kix senses that he’s hit a mark, and his voice gentles considerably. “I also understand that you are young, and still learning to see the bigger picture and how your actions can affect those around you.”

“I, I didn’t, I was scared and I just I didn’t think about...” your voice trembles as you try to answer, tumbling out in a rush of words that race as quickly as your heart.

“I understand, and it is perfectly reasonable for you to feel that way,” he keeps his voice level and measured. “However,” he continues, and you know what he’s about to say even before he says it. “We still have to face the things that scare us. If you had simply told me how you were feeling, we would have figured out a way to navigate it.” His face is reassuring when you dare to glance up from the floor that you’ve been resolutely staring at for this whole conversation.

“We still will figure out the best way to proceed. However, these vaccination updates are very low on my priority list of concerns when it comes to you, compared to this,” and he holds up a datapad, displaying medical records with your name typed neatly across the top.

The last several appointment entries are highlighted in red, indicating that you did not attend any of them.

“Do I need to remind you that these appointments are not optional. Any member of Torrent Company who goes out on the field must report to the medbay upon return for examination, as well as attend our regular medical checks to ensure that you are fit for active duty.” It’s clear from the tone of his voice that this is a lecture that he is very practised in delivering.

You lift your head, finally looking directly at him. He’s already made you admit a fear that you desperately wanted to keep to yourself. You try and summon what remains of your dignity.

“What do you want me to say, Kix?” There’s a hint of defiance in your voice.

“Do you want me to admit that I avoided these because I had injuries that I didn’t want you to know about? Because yes, the truth is that I did.” Your eyes level with his as you try to make him understand.

“I was scared of the medical procedures, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?” You snap, not particularly annoyed with him, but more annoyed at the fact that your answers sound so stupid out loud.

“But I was more scared of the fact that you were probably going to take me off the field, and I couldn’t, I couldn’t let that happen. My master was relying on me. Everyone was relying on me, and I couldn’t let them down.” You try to shrug off his concern with a dismissive wave of your hand. “Besides, I’ve been doing fine,” you say evasively.

Kix does not rise to the bate of your seeming anger. He’s much too practised and controlled to let it affect him. He also has the uncanny ability to look at someone, and see everything, read through their feelings, whether they’ve been acknowledged or not, and understand them. So, even though you’re trying to push him away, with what at first glance appears to be frustration, underneath it all, he can tell that it’s just as plainly fear.

He meets your storm filled eyes unflinchingly, levelling you with a look that is equal parts stern and unwavering, and equal parts concerned and filled with compassion. It makes your insides twist with guilt, and you want to look away, but you can’t bring yourself to as he speaks, his voice calm but steely.

“Are you fine?” he asks, an eyebrow raising as he tilts his head to look at you, his gaze clinical, assessing, even as you just stand there in front of him.

. “I already know that there’s something wrong with your shoulder. But aside from that, I’ve been observing you since you got off your transport. The way you move is slow and careful, not at all like the usual way you dash around the ship. Even now, you’re hesitating to put much weight on your right leg.” He ticks off the things he’s noticed on his fingers like a list.

“Apart from the fact that skipping these mandatory appointments have consequences. If you had kept this up, I would’ve had to bring this to our superiors, that includes the Jedi council,” he gives you a pointed look, even the mention of the high Council makes you shiver. in your experience, whenever you and your master have been summoned to speak with the council, it’s always to be reprimanded, and never good.

. “You could have been Court-martialed,” he says, knowing that his words will hit the severity of the situation home.

You falter, stepping back as you feel your eyes go wide. “Court-martialed?” you breathe, feeling the blood draining from your face.

He gently takes your arm, guiding you to sit on a bed as he continues, voice softening. “It is very clear that you are hiding injuries, and though I can understand why, in premise, You did this, the reality is that this will begin to affect your performance in battle. It will not just affect you. You will put yourself, as well as the entirety of the people you are leading, in danger. People could get hurt. You could get hurt. Because you would be putting not just yourself, but others, in unnecessary danger, your ability to be in the position of a commander could be called into serious question by your superiors, and for good reason”

As much as he keeps his voice low and calm, you can sense that he’s disappointed in the way that you’ve handled yourself. Your teeth sink into the inside of your cheek, forcing the tears that prick at the back of your eyes to not fall. You hate disappointing people, and the fact that you’ve managed to disappoint Kix, one of the kindest people you know, makes you want to curl up into a ball and never show your face in public again.

“And that, the safety of yourself, and everyone aboard this ship, is my priority. It is much more important to me than having to report to any superior. The fact that you hold your safety, and by extension, the safety of those around you, with such blatant disregard, is what concerns me the most, and that is what I need you to understand.”

There’s a certain gravity in his voice that you’ve never heard before, but it slams into your chest and hits you like a ton of bricks. The implications of what you’ve been doing, of what could have happened to those around you, to his brothers, because of your inability to face your fears begin to swirl around your head with a rapidity that makes your heart race.

These thoughts come unbidden, and too fast for you to process. The tears, that you’ve been so desperately trying to push back, spring free and begin to fall down your cheeks, unprompted, slowly, and silently. You don’t have time to stop them from coming.

Kix knows that he’s been very direct, and very blunt with you, deciding that this would be the only way to get through to you. He hates having to do it, though. Kix considers himself to be a fairly good judge of character, and he knows that you have such a caring, gentle heart and strong presence wherever you go. So, watching you break in front of him like this pains him.

Your breath hitches in an unsteady gasp as you look up at him, tears blurring your vision.

“I’m sorry, Ori’vod,” your lip trembles as your voice breaks, wanting to curl in on yourself. “Ni ceta,” you get out in barely a choked whisper.

But he hears you, and it breaks him.

You’ve never referred to him as ori’vod before, and the idea that you consider him as such, as a big brother, awakens his protective, instinctive nature to gather you close and keep you safe from harm.

His Vod, mostly his batchmate, Jesse, calls it his mother hen instincts.

He can’t help it, though. Your voice, sounding so much smaller than he’s ever heard it, trembling and filled with tears, has broken what’s left of his resolve, and gently, very gently, mindful of the fact that you’re injured, he takes you into his arms, holding you close to him. Your head buries against his shoulder, and he easily cradles you there, feeling every sharp intake of breath as you cry.

“Oh, adika, shh,” he soothes, hand coming up to gently stroke your hair as he continues to speak softly to you. “You’re okay, I promise, everything is going to be alright. I’ve got you, we are going to sort this out.”

“Well,” he says, reading over the results of the medical scan he’s just performed. Would you believe me if I told you that a dislocated shoulder is the least of your concerns?”

Your eyes find the ceiling, and you exhale a slow breath before asking, “how bad?”

He keeps his voice neutral as he relays the results of the scan to you. “According to your last medical check, you were diagnosed with Iron deficiency anemia, not incredibly uncommon, what with our limited access to rations and food with the proper nutrients,” his brow creases as he continues. “However, preliminary scans indicate that your haemoglobin levels haven’t much improved.”

He gives you a look.“You have been taking the supplement you were prescribed?” he asks, in a way that makes you suspicious that he already knows that the answer is no.

You avoid looking at him. “I was, but they kept making my stomach feel queasy all day, so I stopped.”

Kix Lets out a long suffering sigh. “An issue that we easily could have rectified by changing your treatment plan if you had just let us know,” he scolds. “Nonetheless, I’d like to do a blood test to get exact confirmation of those levels and see how bad the numbers are so that we can Start getting them back up to baseline.”

Your stomach does a flip and you cringe silently at the mention of a blood test.

Kix continues, consulting the scan results that are displayed on a datapad. “You’ve got untreated burns on your fingers.” He raises a curious eyebrow at you and your cheeks flush.

“They weren’t entirely untreated, I put them under running water,” you try to argue. The unimpressed look he gives you stops you dead in your tracks.

“It wasn’t entirely my fault,” you defend. “I was fixing one of the starfighters that got hit during our last airstrike. I got R2 to help me with the repairs but he wasn’t listening to my instructions. He crossed two of the wrong wires and caused the circuitboard to spark.”

“And that is why you should never ask R2 for help,” he says with a hint of amusement in his voice. “Those burns weren’t given time to heal, and the fact that you’re constantly wielding a lightsaber has exacerbated them. I will apply a burn ointment to them that should take away the pain and speed the process of healing.”

He fixes you with a look.

“The most concerning thing is The blaster wound on the front of your right calf. Really, vod, you should know that injuries being treated and stitched up on the field, especially when not done by a medic, always should be looked over by a medic as soon as possible, due to the unsanitary environment that they were performed in.”

“Tup did his best to stitch it,” you say, feeling the need to defend the brother who, in spite of the fact that he was not a medic, sutured you up as you took cover from separatist battle droids.

“I don’t doubt that he did. I was the instructor who took every single one of the troopers on this ship through their mandatory medical courses, and I did not let them pass without proving that they were adequately able to handle emergency first aid on the field. However, it still remains that you’ve picked up an infection, and to treat it, the sutures will have to be removed, the wound reopened, and extraction of the infected tissue, as well as a course of both IV and oral antibiotics to clear up anything that remains.”

You stare at him, your eyes growing wide with horror as he explains. “How?” You ask, alarmed.

He senses your nerves and leans forward, taking your hand and running his thumb along the back of it reassuringly. “This is a surgical procedure, performed under general anesthesia.”

You flinch at his words, and your fingers tighten around his with anxiety, needing something to hold onto.

“I know that sounds scary, especially if you’ve never been put under before. But I promise, this is a fairly common operation. Me and Coric will both be here making sure that you’re okay the whole time.” he continues to stroke his thumb along the backs of your knuckles.

“Let’s take this one step at a time, though. We’ll take care of the things that are manageable, first,” he says, giving you an encouraging smile.

“Hey uh...” you say nervously, watching with anxiety fluttering in your stomach as Kix ties a band just above your elbow, prepping you for the blood draw. The way the band tightens, restricts and squeezes around your arm Makes you feel trapped. You hate it.

“I have... I’ve had, issues in the past when it comes to these,” you say awkwardly, not knowing how to explain.

Kix only looks up at you, raising a perceptive brow. “Are you referring to your predisposition of fainting whenever a blood draw is performed?” he asks, completely unfazed.

It’s your turn to raise your eyebrows in questioning. “Don’t worry, Coric already has this listed in your file. I’m going to get you to lie down when we do it.”

He has the sensitivity and grace not to mention the fact that he also knows this because he walked into the medbay to find Coric absolutely tearing into a junior medic for letting you leave too soon after you had gotten a blood draw, resulting in you crumpling to the floor in a faint right outside of the medbay doors.

At your continued staring, he adds, his voice softening. “It’s a normal reaction, that likely is exacerbated because of your low haemoglobin levels. There’s nothing wrong with you, Vod’ika.” he reassures, gently guiding you to lay down on the bed. “Now, just lay down for me, and we’ll get this over with quickly, and if you faint, you faint. It happens, no big deal, I’ll be right here regardless.”

And because you’re you, you do faint.

The needle itself is always not as bad as you anticipate it being. The Sting, though prominent, is small and quick and over before you have time to fixate on it.

It’s only when he’s pressing a cotton swab into the crook of your arm, encouraging you to keep it in place while he puts a Band-Aid over top, that you register the familiar feeling of drowsiness, vision blurring and ears beginning to ring, that always comes before you pass out.

You think that you might give him some indication, some warning, because he’s removing your hand from where it’s been pressing against the cotton round, replacing it with his own, much more steady one. Everything around you is muffled, and it’s jarring, but in a way that is too far away from your immediate concerns to really react to it.

When you come to, he’s pressing a cool, damp cloth to the back of your neck, other hand gently stroking hair away from your forehead. His voice fades back into your consciousness, a stream of gentle, soothing words as your eyes flutter open.

The feeling of the cloth cools your heated skin, and the hand gently running through your hair brings your senses back to focus, grounding you.

“Easy, adika, i’m right here, you’re safe,” he brushes his fingers against your cheek, and when you react, leaning into his touch, he gives you a small smile. “That’s it, there we go, you’re back. Everything’s good,” he soothes, gently stalling your movement when you attempt to sit up.

“Not right now, vod, stay down for a few more minutes. I’ve already got the blood work running through the scanner, and we should have its results quickly, okay.” You give him a small nod, still not really having the energy to do much else. You close your eyes, taking deep breaths as you come back to yourself, and when the scanner beeps, indicating that it completed its diagnostics, you jump slightly.

Kix moves over to check it as you slowly sit up. “Okay, so, your numbers are definitely not nearly where they should be he says, clearly unimpressed.

“But, Once we have taken care of your more serious injuries, will start you with an iron infusion delivered through an IV before transitioning back to pills. Don’t worry, we’ll have you on a much smaller dosage so that we can hopefully circumvent the discomfort you had in your stomach,” he says with optimism, which makes you feel slightly better about the fact that he’s just mentioned an IV. You’re not given much time to fixate on it, though, because he’s already turning away from the scanner, moving back to you.

“Let’s not worry about that right now, though. We have enough problems having to deal with the mess That you’ve made of yourself. I will do my best to resist calling you a di’kut as much as possible,” he says, hands on his hips, and in spite of yourself, it actually makes you laugh.

You didn’t realize how sore and irritated the burns on your hands were until you couldn’t hold back the audible sigh of relief that fell from your lips as soon as Kix began applying the burn cream to them. The pain instantly vanished, leaving a pleasant, cooling sensation behind. He wrapped small bacta patches around your injured fingers, explaining that it would make sure that the healing process was unimpeded by the outside environment.

That was easy, quick, painless.

Your shoulder, on the other hand, is a completely different matter. As soon as Kix touches it, as gentle as he can be, it flares with pain, and your muscles tense, which just makes it worse.

“I don’t know how you’ve been functioning with this for as long as you have,” he comments dryly. When his fingers press against the bone, assessing the damage with a practised familiarity, you cry out, eyes squeezing shut.

“Haar’chak,” you grit out, as behind you, Kix preps a syringe with local anesthetic.

“Which one of my di’kut brothers taught you curse words in Mandoa?” he asks, beginning to disinfect the injection site.

You flinch at the cold and your cheeks flush. “Shit, you weren’t supposed to hear that. I can’t tell you that, I made a promise.”

“Did you now?” he asks, fighting the amused smirk that plays on his lips. “Well, whoever it was, you might as well put your skills that they taught you to use.”

You look at him from over your shoulder, eyebrows raising in confusion.

He explains, “I need to give you an injection of local anaesthetic so that it takes the edge off of resetting your shoulder correctly. I know those aren’t your favourite , so, I am making a deal with you. Let me do this, and I give you free rein to throw whatever Mandoa insult my brothers have taught you at me, no consequences. Is that fair?”

The unimpressed look you’re giving at the syringe turns to surprise, then, slowly, a smile spreads across your face and you nod, quickly looking away from it. “Deal,” you accept, your voice still shaky with nerves but determined.

“Okay, deep breath for me,” He waits for you to inhale. “Perfect, now, on the exhale, give me that insult with all of your might. Ready?”

He waits for you to nod, then prompts you to exhale as he administers the anaesthetic into the back of your shoulder.

“Osi’yaim, that hurt, you di’kut,” what should be just a little pinch to your already injured shoulder makes you cry out the words, and you swear you can hear the familiar sound of Coric laughing from the other side of the medbay.

Your cheeks flush, you did not intend to be that loud. But you don’t apologize, either, and Kix only gives you a rueful grin, nodding in understanding.

As you wait for the anaesthetic to settle, Kix warns, “I’m gonna be honest, kid, because of how long you’ve left this injury to sit, even with the anesthetic, setting it is still going to hurt.”

You close your eyes, grimacing, before nodding with a sigh. “Do your worst,” you say, bracing yourself.

He lays a reassuring hand on your uninjured shoulder. “I need you relaxed, adika,” he says gently. “Trust me, it will only hurt more if you tense like that,” he continues, gently encouraging your shoulder downward with his hand.

“Easy, now. I want you to give me some good deep breath’s. In,” he inhales deeply, holding for a few seconds, “and out,” he lets his breath go in a controlled, slow stream of air.

He waits for you to copy, giving you a few breaths to settle into it as he prepares himself. “Perfect, just like that, keep it up, you’ve got this,” he keeps up the stream of encouraging words as carefully, but firmly, he rotates your arm, guiding your dislocated shoulder back into its proper place with one precise movement.

The sudden flare of pain, even dulled as it is by the anesthetic, takes your breath away momentarily, your vision instantly blurring with tears. When it clears,Kix has shifted to standing in front of you, gently wiping them away with his thumbs.

“Well done, vod’ika, you were so brave,” his words make you want to cry more, because you didn’t think you were brave. You thought that being brave meant confidence, at all times, and not letting other people see your vulnerability. You can’t fully understand it, but, now, you’re beginning to think that maybe your initial idea of bravery was wrong.

Your lip wobbles as you speak, “W what now?” you look up at him with wide, still watery eyes.

He gently strokes your hair. “Now, I’m going to get Coric, and you,” he playfully taps your nose, “are going to take a much-needed nap, if the bags under your eyes are any indication, while we take care of that leg wound.”

It sounds simple enough.

Kix explains the procedure while Coric preps you for surgery, making sure all your vitals are stable. As he wraps a blood pressure cuff around your arm, he tells you that that’s essentially his job while he’s in here. Throughout the surgery, he will monitor your vitals and make sure that they remain at safe levels.

“I’m going to remove the sutures, clean the wound, remove the infected tissue, pack the wound with saline soaked dressings, then bandage it back up so that it can heal. It goes without saying that you’re going to be off the field for at least a week. You’ll need to stay here so that we can continue to monitor your recovery as well as change the dressings often. You will also need to undergo a course of IV antibiotics to kill off any lingering infection. This will also give us time to get your haemoglobin levels back up with an infusion.”

Your eyes close tightly as anxiety knots your stomach. “Oh, force, a week? But, my master needs me,” you protest.

When your eyes open again, both medics are fixing you with equally stern looks. “Your master needs you to be safe, and healthy,” says Coric, frowning, as he carefully attaches a pulse oximeter to one of your fingers.

“If you want to be back on the field as soon as possible, you will take this week of recovery. If you want to argue with me about it, I will make it longer. A week is the absolute minimum,” Kix says, arms folded across his chest, wearing his signature “i’m the chief medical officer, you have no authority here,” expression.

You visibly deflate, reminding yourself that you pick and choose your battles, and picking and choosing a battle with two medics who are very competent at dealing with very stubborn Jedi would be a very stupid idea.

You can’t help yourself, and in spite of the fact that you shouldn’t, you stare as Kix preps your wrist for an IV line.

Sensing you’re mounting anxiety as your eyes nervously flit around, watching Kix’s Every move, Coric gently takes your other hand, squeezing when your eyes don’t immediately look at him. When you finally tear your eyes away from what Kix is doing, Coric is wearing a mischievous smile on his face. “So, Vod’ika, who taught you how to curse in Mandoa?” he asks, raising a curious brow.

You only scoff, rolling your eyes. “Kix already tried to find out. What makes you think that I’m going to tell that secret to you?”

“I’ve already got my suspicions. My moneys on Echo or Fives.” he gives you a wounded look, “I thought you would tell me, because I’m obviously your favourite.”

Kix uses this conversation to quickly insert the IV into a vein on your wrist. Reacting to the small pinch, your fingers instinctively tighten around Coric’s hand, squeezing it tightly.

“You’re definitely my favourite now,” you grumble, giving Kix a sidelong glare.

He gives you an apologetic look. “Sorry, Vod, i’m going to run the medication through the line now. It will act quickly, and when you wake up, this will be all done with.”

You nod, biting your lip nervously. Coric notices, giving your hand another gentle squeeze. “Hey, kid, I know you’ve heard Kix say kaysh mirsh solus all the time. Do you know what it means?”

You look at him with curiosity, shaking your head.

“Well, essentially it means they are stupid or foolish. But, the literal translation is even more direct .” Coric gives you a conspiratorial smile.

“What is it?” You ask as he leans forward.

“The literal translation means their braincell is lonely,” he says, completely serious.

You feel a smile pulling up the corners of your lips and a surprised laugh falls from them.

You feel the medication beginning to enter your system, but you’re so busy laughing that you can’t bring yourself to care. “You better not be bullshitting me,” you threaten,“or I...” you let out a yawn.

“I swear to the force, I,” your eyes begin to flutter and you yawn again, shrugging.

“I’ll think about it later,” you mumble sleepily, before promptly passing out, smile still lighting up your face.

Your leg hurts.

That’s the first thing you become aware of as Kix is gently encouraging you to open your eyes.

“Come on, adika, open your eyes for me,” he says softly, fingers gently brushing against your cheek to bring you back to awareness.

“But it hurts, and I wanna go back to sleep,” you wine, blinking sleepily up at him.

“Ni ceta, vod’ika,” he soothes, fingers gently caressing your forehead in an apology. “I know it hurts, and you can go back to sleep soon, I promise,”

He glances at something that you can’t see, giving a small nod,“Vitals look good, the anaesthesia is wearing off nicely, and it doesn’t appear to have affected them too much. Let’s up that IV dosage,” Kix speaks to Coric, who moves to adjust your IV out of your eyeline.

Your leg throbs, and you let out a stifled whimper, hand reaching down, trying to at least find the source of your pain when Kix catches it in his, gently stalling your movements. “Let’s leave that alone for now, vod’ika. Coric is just increasing your pain med intake, that will make it better. Then you can sleep,”

At the continued expression of pain on your face, he lets go of your hand, fingers gently playing with your hair as he instructs, “nice and easy, adika, deep breath‘s for me, everything’s okay.”

You don’t believe him at first, but slowly, things become okay. The pain quickly fades and dulls , breathing becomes easier, and your eyes begin to flutter. All the while, Kix continues holding his vigil at your bedside, fingers continuing to gently run through your hair until you fall into a natural sleep.

When you properly wake up next, the first thing you notice is that your leg doesn’t hurt anymore.

Whatever pain meds Kix has got you hooked up to are very effective, and your lips pull into a relieved smile.

The second thing you notice, when you glance around to get your bearings, is the face of your very concerned captain, Rex, at your bedside. You blink slowly, yawning. Although the anaesthetic has worn off, the pain meds still have you feeling like you’re in a fog, and your brain is working pretty slowly.

“When did you get here?” you ask, confused.

“I came straight here after you never reported to the bridge for today’s debriefing. The general said that you would be back today, and it’s unlike you to miss or forget about meetings,” he explains, looking at you, relieved to see you awake, but a flicker of concern still lingering in his eyes.

“Osik, sorry, Rex, I got myself into a bit of a bind over here,” you gesture to the IV that you’re hooked up to, chuckling a little.

“So I heard, don’t worry about it, kid. There wasn’t much to report, anyways.” His head tilts, and he raises a questioning eyebrow.“Who taught you how to curse in Mandoa, vod’ika?” he asks, keeping his voice light.

If you weren’t under the influence of pretty heavy duty pain medication‘s, you would have restraint, you would have thought before you opened your mouth. But for Rex, it was his lucky day.

you smirk, “good old Hardcase taught me everything I know,” you say with pride, smiling fondly at the memory.

Rex carefully files that information away so that he can scold Hardcase for that once he leaves. But he carefully keeps his face neutral.

His face grows serious. “Kix told me about all the medical appointments you’ve missed and the injuries that you’ve been covering up,” his voice is stern, every bit the commanding officer that he is in front of the troops. It makes you nervous, and you swallow, looking away from him.

“I swear to the force, if you ever pull something like that again, I will find out about it, and I’ll drag you to the medbay myself, even if it means chasing you around the ship and stunning you if I have to. do you realize how much danger you were in? How much danger you put others in? That was extremely reckless of you, commander. I’m very disappointed in your actions, and it will not happen again, do you understand?”

Your hazy memory recalls the conversation you had with Kix earlier, about this very thing, and for some reason, it hits even harder seeing the disappointment, worry and concern etched on the face of the normally composed captain.

Without prompting, you find yourself bursting into tears.

Later, you’ll blame the pain meds on your inability to keep a grip on your emotions. But right now, all you can do is think about the people, the brothers, you could have hurt, the things that could’ve happened because of you, and the tears just fall down your face, streaming from your eyes, falling down your cheeks, into your ears, dampening your hair.

.“I I’m sorry Captain I I didn’t I,” you gasp out, trying to explain, but your brain is still foggy, only clinging onto the hazy images of loss and pain due to your inability to act fast enough.

There’s a reason why people are convinced that Kix has eyes on the back of his head. Working as the highest ranking medic in the 501st has trained him to be hyper observant of all of his patients, even if he isn’t at their bedside.

So, even though he’s been taking the time to update your file on a datapad, unbeknownst to either you or Rex, he’s also been watching you like a hawk, and the minute you begin to show that you’re overwhelmed, he’s swooping in on the two of you, protective mother hen mode fully activated by the tears falling down your cheeks.

He steps in front of you, broad shoulders immediately blocking your view of your commanding officer. “Captain,” he says, and his voice is still respectful, but there’s a hard edge beneath it, something stern that you haven’t heard before, even during the worst of him lecturing you.

“You are causing undue stress to my patient, and I’m going to have to ask you to leave, sir,” he continues, physically ushering Rex to the door.

More quietly, out of your earshot, he says,“I have already harshly reprimanded the commander. Trust me, this experience will ensure that the lesson will not be forgotten. Now, if you want to be of use, get the general and bring him to me, please. I need to speak with him. Between you and me, Rex, I’m blaming this ordeal on him.”

Rex begins to make an objection, but Kix is already turning away, folding his arms. “I don’t care if you have to drag him out of council meetings. His Padawan is more important,” he shoots back, before quickly moving back to your side, all of his hard lines instantly fading at the sight of your tear streaked face.

He’s all gentleness and soft reassurances uttered as he cups your face, wiping away your tears. When you struggle into a sitting position, falling against his chest as your arms clumsily reach for him, his arms easily pull you close to him and you sob, trying to explain.

“Kix, I, I didn’t mean to, I never wanted to hurt anyone,” you whisper, clutching at him, burying your face into the crook of his neck, wanting to disappear, feeling his body shift, one hand splayed out, rubbing your back in slow, soothing circles, the other coming up to cradle your head, holding you against his warmth, sheltering you.

“Oh, adika, shh, I know. You didn’t hurt anyone, vod’ika, nothing happened,” he coos, tightening his arms around you. Lips press against your hair briefly, and you continue to cry, letting your emotions run their course as he cradles you to him, gently rocking you back-and-forth, as if you were a much smaller child.

In this moment, you certainly feel like you are, and it’s comforting, the way he holds and settles you against him , making gentle shushing noises and speaking in low, soothing tones, the words eventually losing their meaning as sleep, yet again, gently pulls at your consciousness.

The last thing you’re aware of is him gently guiding you to lie back down, another medic, you think it’s Coric, passing him a freshly warmed blanket that he tucks around you, and a hand gently brushing through your hair as you drift back to sleep, your storm settled and calmed by his words and his presence.

Anakin Skywalker had been in meetings with the Jedi high Council all day, was running on his 3rd cup of caff, and still found himself stifling a yawn every five minutes. So, when Rex silently slipped into the room, politely interrupting the meeting to request that Anakin report to the medbay, he instinctively rolled his eyes, grumbling that he would go later.

But when Rex stated that this wasn’t actually about him, and was in regards to his Padawan, Anakin was out of his seat in an instant, hastily making his excuses to the council before leaving the room, legs carrying him to the medbay faster than he ever had moved there before.

He doesn’t even stop to look as behind him, Rex calls to a group of troopers in a booming voice, “Hardcase, get Over here right now, you di’kut, I need to talk to you regarding professionalism when it comes to working with young Padawan’s .”

When he’s escorted into a cubicle, his eyes grow wide with alarm at the sight of you, peacefully asleep, but your face looks exhausted and worn out. You’re hooked up to an IV and monitors, there’s a thick bandage that’s been secured to the bottom half of your right leg.

Kix keeps his voice low and quiet, so as not to disturb you, but he fixes your master with a hard look as he takes him through an overview of your current health status.

“Iron deficiency anemia, burns, a dislocated shoulder, a blaster wound that had to be surgically operated on due to an untreated infection that had grown quite severe and needed to be manually removed, as well as several muscle strains and bruised ribs that can be healed with proper rest.”

His mouth falls open at the growing list, but Kix only folds his arms, continuing to speak. “General, sir, your Padawan looks to you with the highest regard, and you lead the way by example. All of these issues could have been caught much earlier and treated without having to deal with all this,” he gestures at everything you’re hooked up to.

“This behaviour was learned, and when I pressed, I found that at the root of the problem was fear of disappointing you and letting you down,” he waits for these words to sink in, and when they do, Anakin Skywalker, Jedi general who is known for his strength and recklessness on the field, hangs his head with shame, eyes finding the floor and refusing to look at Kix directly.

His meaning is clear, you are his Padawan, and as your master, it’s his responsibility to set a good example for you, and in this regard, watching pain medication flow through the IV line attached to your wrist, he knows he has failed to do so.

“So, just maybe, the next time you decide that are mandatory medical checks are optional and you can manage on your own, maybe just, consider this,” Kix gestures to you, still deeply asleep.

Before your master can respond, not that he really has any words to do so, Kix turns on his heel, quickly exiting the room before he can be reprimanded for speaking to his superior that way, not that he really cares, anyway.

If he had stayed, though, he would have seen Anakin tentatively move to your side, gently sitting on the edge of your bed as he strokes back your hair and adjusts the blankets that are tucked around you, properly shamefaced as he looks down at you and says in a voice that is soft and rarely heard coming out of him, “I’m sorry, kiddo, this one’s on me.”

“And this,” says Kix, quickly injecting the third and final mandatory vaccination into your arm, “is your ticket out of here.”

The week of recovery has come and gone, And you have finally been cleared to head back onto the field, as long as you continue to follow a regimen of oral antibiotics for the next week, and, more excitingly in your opinion, get out of the medbay.

“There you go, you did it,” Fives, who’s been sitting across from you, happily agreeing to be your emotional support/cheerleader, ready with a damp cloth if you need it, does a little celebratory dance that makes you laugh, even as Kix, sensing that you’re feeling unsteady, gets you to lay down.

Fives gently places the cool cloth against your skin, and it’s enough to ground you, pulling you back from the edge.

“That’s it, Vod’ika, well done, you did great,” Kix says encouragingly, giving your shoulder a warm squeeze. “Now, wait 15 minutes, and as long as you’re feeling back to normal, you can get out of here,” he smiles down at you, patting your head affectionately before moving out of the cubicle.

As soon as he’s gone, Fives liens in conspiratorially, face lighting up with mischievousness sparkling in his eyes. “Hey, kid, I bet you 10 credits that I could easily sneak you out right now and we could make this 15 minutes go a lot faster,” he grins.

In spite of the fact that you smile back at him and laugh lightly, you give your head a small shake and throw a cautious look over your shoulder.

“Are you kidding? I’ve been here for a whole week, and the biggest thing I’ve learned is that Kix and Coric do, in fact, have eyes in the back of their heads. We wouldn’t even make it out of the door.”

It’s true, you’ve seen several different troopers trying to carefully sneak out of the medbay when they think that no one is watching.

What you’ve learned, though, is that the medics of Torrent Company are always watching. Nothing gets past their keen eyes or ears, and no one successfully sneaks out undetected.

You grimace, “besides, I’ve just gotten off of Kix’s bad side, and I have no desire to go back there.”

“So,” Fives says, resignedly coming to sit on the edge of your bed with a sigh. “We’re waiting the 15 minutes?”

You carefully sit up, giving him a nod and a decisive look as you lean your head against his shoulder..

“Yes, Fives,” you affirm, letting out a small sigh of your own. “We are waiting the 15 minutes.”

************************* thank you so much for reading. Comments and re-blogs are always appreciated here.are always appreciated here.

Mandoa translations. Kaysh mirsh solus, they are stupid/foolish. Ori’vod: Big Brother (in this instance) can also be used as big sister or big sibling. Ni ceta: i’m sorry. Vod: Brother/ sister/ sibling. Adika: little one. Vod’ika: Little sister, little brother, or little sibling Haar’chak: damm it. Di’kut: Fool (literal translation is underwear forgeter) which kills me. Osi’yaim: shithead. Osik: shit.

#star wars x reader #kix x reader #platonic #reader insert #gn reader #padawan reader #fives x reader #anakin x reader #rex x reader #kix #clone medic kix #arc trooper fives #captain rex #Anakin Skywalker #the clone wars fanfiction #platonic imagine #tcw fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #Ireadwithmyears masterlist

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bruh-myguy-what · 7 months ago

Note

Hello! Could I possibly ask for a Echo/reader (Gn)

Setting could be 79’s maybe some angst with someone calling out echos “missing parts” after he rejects their advancements, and he feels a bit dejected about it. The reader (after insulting the other person) would take him back to the Marauder and comforts him (it can be smut or fluff either is fine)

Thank you! Have a nice day <3

He's More Than That***

Pairing: Echo x GN!Reader Warnings: Smut (my first so you must forgive any issues), Twi'lek woman being mean to our beautiful cyber-clone, cursing, filthy nonsense at some point, oral (Echo receiving), intercourse/sex, fluff Word Count: 5K Summary: Hunter, Wrecker and Echo waned a temporary reprieve from their constant stay in the Mauarder and decided you should be their babysitter for the night at 79's. Reluctantly you join and overhear a conversation Echo had with a Twi'lek who doesn't seem to take being rejected by him very well. After defending him and convincing him he deserves more, he shows you exactly what you deserve from him. A/N: When you requested this, anon I absolutely had just admitted- the same day!- that I was basically now an Echo girlie. I hadn't ever really noticed how adorable he was or how much I actually loved him until after the finale. Like I've always loved him, but I was never a girlie until now and now I simp. Also, I've never really written GN or smut so the two together really threw me for a loop lol so I hope this is alright for you! I do really appreciate you sending in a request, feel free to send in whenever you'd like!

Requests are open if you have anything you'd like to send in!

____________________________________________

The atmosphere of 79's was as smoky and dingy as ever, the blue/green lights of the neons hanging around illuminating faces and bodies as they moved about the bar. It hadn't been your idea to be here tonight, usually opting to stay back on the Marauder with Tech and Crosshair for the sake of serenity, but when the other three boys begged you to come along so that they have a designated babysitter who wouldn't get wasted, you couldn't deny them. Hunter wanted to get away from the ship to what he labeled "loosen up" which you knew meant he needed to get laid before the stress made him strangle his brothers. Wrecker wanted to drink some regs under the table and joke about how 99 was better in every aspect while listening to good music.

Echo, on the other hand, didn't give you a reason why he decided to join in on the outing. It wasn't his usual scene. Not anymore, anyway. As far as you were aware he also preferred the relaxed atmosphere of the ship; the two of you spending your time playing a game or watching a bad holomovie you'd downloaded on one of the datapads the Batch kept aboard for entertainment. It wasn't really like him to want to drink all that much, not since he joined Clone Force 99. He'd told you a few stories of him and his twin, Fives, trying to pick up a few women here and there while hanging around the clone bar back in the day but you never thought you'd actually see him here.

You peeked to the corner of the club, seeing Hunter cozied up with a pretty green Twi'lek woman- her legs draping over his lap as he kissed along her neck. At least he'd be less snappy on your next mission. Then you heard Wrecker laughing boisterously over the music as some reg tapped out, his squad mates dragging him away from the table. He'd be content too and it's almost as if you could already hear him hollering at Crosshair to regale his win over the regs. Resting your eyes back on the pale clone sitting at the bar independently, you watched from across the hazy atmosphere wondering if you should approach him or leave him to his thoughts.

You and Echo had a relatively close relationship. His reserved yet courageous demeanor was always something you had admired about him, and whenever he'd joined 99, you were among the first to buddy up with him. You knew exactly how it'd felt not to be "one of the brothers", even with how close you'd become with the Batch. So, it seemed easy for the two of you to cling to that shared understanding. You felt a smile reaching your lips at some of the memories you'd shared with Echo, a familiar ache settling in your chest and you determined that joining him at the bar was the best idea- even if not for him, but for yourself.

You made sure to clock him in the spot he was settled in before tearing your eyes away and descending the stairs to the main floor, losing sight of him through the dense crowd. Weaving through, apologizing to a few couples who were dancing or going about their "business" on the floor, you managed to emerge from the mass of people to find an empty bar stool- entirely devoid of your companion.

"What the-" you muttered to yourself under the loud music, "He was just here." Swiping a glance up and down the span of the bar, the friendly sight of a pale clone adorned by blue neons captured your attention. He seemed to be speaking to someone, though you couldn't quite see who it was from your current position so you stepped up closer to casually join the conversation when you overheard Echo decline whatever they had offered.

Curiosity got the better of you and instead of being a good friend, leaving the man alone to hopefully find some solace for the night, you stood just close enough to eavesdrop a little more. "I appreciate the sentiment, and you're stunning, don't get me wrong." His voice was as sweet as ever, a little solemn you could tell, but only if you knew him well enough.

Was she really all that pretty? Were Twi'leks the type of person Echo was into? Against your better judgment, you leaned forward onto the bar to glimpse the woman he had complimented, and your heart sank at how her pretty eyes glimmered against the neon lights.

Then you heard her laughter. It sounded as if she were laughing… at him. "Oh, honey," her accented voice cut through the music with its patronizing tone. "You can't honestly be refusing me when you look like," and you watched as her pretty eyes scanned the clone before her, gesturing lazily with her manicured hand, "that."

Maybe you'd heard her wrong. You'd definitely heard her wrong… right? There was no way in the galaxy that she was insulting him about his looks just because he told her no… right?

Echo stammered in shock, momentarily caught off-guard by her comment. It wasn't as if he'd not been used to people making remarks about his… unmistakable condition. He just hadn't anticipated the Twi'lek to be so hostile at his decline. "Well, I-"

"I mean, seriously? Look at you, you're a mangled mess." She let out an irked breath as if she were, suddenly, too good for the current conversation. You noticed her lean away from Echo, surveying the rest of the room full of clones, "I bet you don't even have all of the right parts to please anyone anymore, do you droid?" The Twi'lek's snide grin as she huffed out another laugh made your blood boil.

Droid?

Did she actually have the audacity to call a man of war, who kept her safe from the rising Separatist threats, a droid? She couldn't even begin to understand the horrors of war Echo had seen.

You heard a disparaging laugh bubble up from your friend, noting how his shoulders sank only a fraction, head inclining to the cup in his hand. His back had been facing you, turned completely to the attention of the Twi'lek in front of him, so you couldn't entirely make out his expression- though you'd felt as if you'd known him well enough to imagine the rueful smile etching his features about now. "Ah, yeah," he breathed with a soft, somber chuckle, "I guess I am a freak at this point, eh?"

"It isn't about that anyway," you finally chimed over his shoulder.

Echo's eyes widened at your raised voice, his hurried voice muttering your name in surprise. "What are you doing?" His brown eyes glanced between you and the Twi'lek nervously as you walked around to place yourself between the two of them.

"I don't think he'd have trouble pleasing anyone that had the decency to see past a few war scars. But clearly, that isn't you, you'd only be a waste of his time." The knuckles of your fingers began to ache because of your clenched fists and only at Echo's gentle touch did you relax.

The soft voice you'd come to rely on whispered past the music into your ear, "Cyare, please, it's not that big of a deal, really." Though his tone was even you could tell he'd been embarrassed that you'd overheard the conversation.

"It is though, Echo. You don't deserve to be spoken to that way just because you don't want to whore around for the night." You defended sharply, throwing a look back at him then quickly pinning the Twi'lek to her spot once more. "He has plenty of satisfying features, I'll have you know. He's funny, loyal, protective. He loves his brothers fiercely. He doesn't shy away in the face of danger. He's the first to answer when help is needed, he's reliable, and a wonderful man who deserves more than what most people give him."

Condescending giggles rippled over her pink lips as she covered them, a manner of mischievous glee sparkling in her eyes as she watched the protective display. "You defend him as if you two fuck."

A burn crept up your neck and into your cheeks at the allegation but you couldn't slow your words quickly enough before you said, "I'd be damn lucky if we did."

Echo's grip on your arm flexed at your statement, tentatively pulling you back toward him to de-escalate the rising frustration in you. "Cyare, maybe that's enough." He whispered again.

"You two are cute. No wonder he didn't want to sleep with me. Whatever," the Twi'lek waved you off noncommittally, then pushed herself off of the bar. "There are other handsome men around who need my attention." And with a subtle flip of her lekku, she merged with the swaying crowd.

Frustration simmered beneath your surface as you watched her disappear, more nasty remarks popping into your mind after the confrontation was over. "Stupid, nasty-"

"Cyar'ika," Echo's warm voice broke your hostility, his fingers raising your chin to meet his eyes, "what was all that about?" The pale brown hues narrowed in concern as if you had just been in a serious altercation on his behalf and were injured in some way. "It's not like that doesn't happen all the time, what with the regs calling us defective," his laughter dying as he noticed your soured expression.

You crossed your arms over your chest indignantly, "Just because people insult you, Echo, doesn't mean it's okay. You don't deserve to be treated that way. By anyone." The reassuring brush of his hand- passing from your chin to your shoulder- made you even more upset as if he were okay with being so dehumanized by someone. You pushed his hand away, not because you were offended by his touch- far from it- but because you needed him to take your words to heart. "And stop with the Mando'a, you know I don't understand what you're saying. I'm being serious right now, ya know? You're not a droid. You're you. You're Echo."

The slight tilt of his head made your heart lock up as he smiled at you. He didn't say anything, he just stood there, the pale brown of his eyes highlighted by greens and blues from the bar. It was something you two often did, communicate with just a few looks, something that Crosshair had hissed and griped about, witnessing it on multiple occasions. As the two of you stood there silently for a moment, you began to notice his smile shift and the color of his cheeks showed a little darker. "A-About what you said to her-"

Your entire world came raging back, the music suddenly too loud for you to think properly. "O-Oh right! The...uh-"

"F-Feeling lucky if the two of us-"

You hummed in agreement, with his sentence, not your earlier sentiment. Not that if you thought about it long enough you would've disagreed with your truthfulness brought on by impulse. In fact, you had thought about it quite a lot since meeting the Arc Trooper. You couldn't help yourself, really… he was quite literally amazing at nearly everything he did. He was fluid on the battlefield, quick to make decisions, soft, and compassionate when someone needed comforting. He walked around as if the horrors of his dreams didn't haunt him, opting instead to care even more for those around him. Echo was a man of honor and you marveled at how he carries himself. Not to mention being in close quarters with him, or any of the Batch really, only heightened your ever-growing desire toward him. It was practically inescapable to see someone either in their blacks, partially dressed, or completely naked while on the Marauder. You had seen Hunter and Wrecker shirtless on more than a few occasions and even once seen Tech remove his blacks to use the fresher, and nothing was really wrong with any of those instances. Though the one that lingered in your mind, that just kept nagging at you when you were particularly desperate to reach out and have his pale hand touch you, was when you'd walked in on Echo after he'd finished in the sonic. You thought Crosshair had been the last one to use the fresher and hadn't seen anyone else take a turn, but when you pressed the button revealing the cybernetic clone with just a towel hanging around his waist you froze. You could've acted normal about it, muttering an apology and turning around but you'd only stood there floundering.

And that was how you reacted in this very same instance- dumbstruck and speechless- as your cheeks and ears burned desperately.

Clearing his throat, jolting your attention back to his face, Echo rubbed the back of his neck bashfully. "Well, we can just forget about it. I'm sure it seriously threw her off when you said that, so that was a good tactic." He joked kindheartedly, eyes closing in that familiar charming, laid-back smile of his.

He honestly thought you were joking. Or just trying to defend him by saying anything that sounded good.

Maybe that was okay.

Maybe you could get away with not making anything awkward between the two of you. Maybe he saw how anxiously you reacted when he brought it back up and was gracious enough to drop it for your sake.

But was that fair?...

He deserved to know how handsome he was, just as much as any of his brothers- 99 or otherwise.

"Besides, like she said- whether it was meant as an insult or not- I'm a mangled mess. We can't have you wasting your good looks on me, now can we?" Echo tapped the tip of your chin with his hand gently, winking mirthfully at you.

He was being serious.

He didn't have any clue how desperate you were some nights to call out to him. Echo genuinely thought he was unwanted and he harbored it like a man devised for loneliness.

Never reciprocating his humor or obliging him in his self-deprecation, you remained stern, eyes locked with his handsome pale face. "I would fuck you right now in the middle of 79's if I knew we wouldn't get banned from the only clone bar on Coruscant."

Disbelief filled the clone's expression, eyes dilated to the size of Tech's goggles, his cheeks flushing a red bright enough to rival the neon lights. It was a terrifying leap to take, conveying these tight-lipped secrets you'd been carefully preserving but if it made Echo understand that he was just as desirable as any other man- clone, Jedi, or otherwise- then you'd shout it at every single person in the bar tonight. Your name fell from his lips in an airy exhale, frantically his eyes searched for any sign of banter or sarcasm but he was only met with decisiveness in your returning stare. "You..." he breathed again, deliberately slowing his racing heart, "You're being serious." At your resolute nod, brows furrowed and eyes stern, Echo looked down at himself critically. "B-But, I-"

"Do I need to prove it to you?" you provoked.

Echo's bewildered stare snapped back to your face, brows raised high in astonishment. "Pro-Prove it?"

Again you nodded with resolve. "You deserve it just as much as Hunter. I'll prove it to you right-" and before you could finish your sentence you were yanked forward away from the bar, weaving through the crowd. Echo's pale hand gripping your upper arm tightly enough not to lose you amongst the moving bodies. Confused but curious, you followed his lead.

Pulled to one of the single restrooms you felt yourself being slung inside, Echo behind you now, locking the door. The dingy lights were also a staple in the small room, the most of the illumination coming from the neon lights outside the high window. "Echo, what in the galaxy-"

"Say it again." His voice rushed as you turned to meet his urgent but dangerously narrowed eyes, the low tone startling you.

You knew he was referring to what you had said by the bar, but which part, in particular, left you timid to respond. "Say what again?" You finally managed, anxiously fiddling with a loose string on your pants.

The clone across the room looked positively possessed as he took only a single step toward you. "Tell me you want me." Echo pressed, the gravel to his voice making you shiver. "Please," his whispered demand nearly lost to the bass rumbling the walls.

This was certainly not where you had envisioned the night to go when you agreed to come out with your squad mates, but as you took a breath, you dove right into the dream. "I want you, Echo." And with the speed of an Arc Trooper, the man descended on you, pressing you into the wall. His body crowded around you, leaving no room to breathe in anything but him as his lips furiously pursued yours. Though he seemed desperate in his actions, there was a hesitation you felt in him. He was leaning against the wall by his arms, keeping himself just a hair's breadth away, afraid to touch you. Pulling back enough to speak against his lips, your hand found his cheek. "Touch me, Echo, please," your own plea a whisper.

His breath shook against your mouth as he faltered, "I-I'm afraid of ruining this…" His sincerity was the fear of a desolate man. "It's been so long… way before I looked-"

Reaching up beside you where his arms lay against the wall, gently guiding his hand and scomp-link to your body. "You can't ruin anything for me, I promise. I've been wanting this for so long, just touch me." A breathy exhale that sounded like a soft chuckle washed over your face at himself and to keep him from overthinking anymore you surged forward to press yourself against him fully- lips connecting.

The kiss you shared this time, was less desperate and hasty, instead imbued with passion and certainty as your tongue came out to greet his bottom lip. Mandalorian curses escaped under Echo's breath, voice trembling as he did, welcoming the dance you challenged. "I can't believe you want me… How could you want me?" Disbelief greeted you as you kissed him again trying somehow to get your affections across.

"How could I not?" Your simple reply caused him to look at you squarely, again searching your face as if he could find some hint of sarcasm or deception- but he found none. With a warm smile, you started unstrapping your armored chest piece and undressing from your standard issue GAR clothes. "Like I told the Twi'lek," you started as you set the clothes on a bar beside you, trying to maintain your composure with intense brown eyes observing you eagerly. "You're loyal, and kind. Funny as hell, adorable when you get embarrassed, charming when you aren't feeling too tired to banter around with me or your brothers," the last one made him chuckle a bit but it died off when the last of your clothes fell away and you stepped back up to him. "And no matter what's going on down here," you glanced down to where his codpiece sat, "I know you'll satisfy me completely."

"Kriff..." Echo stammered softly at the warmth of your hands reaching to unclasp his armor, a questioning look in your eyes. He grinned timidly, "I didn't think at this point you'd even feel the need to ask, cyare," to which you went at undressing him, yourself. Upon lowering yourself to the floor to undress his lower half, even with him imploring you to not get on the bathroom floor for him, you marveled when his blacks were pulled past his thighs.

"Well, color me surprised," your wistful voice made the clone groan in embarrassment as he covered his mouth with his hand, looking away bashfully. "Looks like you won't be disappointing anyone, will you, Echo?" You teased, glancing between the adorably sheepish look on his face and the solid cock that greeted you. Nothing amiss whatsoever. How could he be so insecure when he harbored this under his blacks?

Echo shifted on his robotic legs, anxiously, "There's no need for the commentary, cyar'ika," he complained, his voice deeper than usual as he stole glances at you between his legs as if he were caught watching something he shouldn't.

Smirking, you shrugged nonchalantly up at him, "Guess I'll just have to keep my mouth busy then." Your tongue splayed out over your bottom lip to experimentally lick at the head of his cock, reveling in the shaking gasp that escaped the clone.

"Oooh, k-kriff," Echo groaned helplessly, eyes screwing shut at the feeling blitzing through him like a barrage of blaster fire. The way his husky voice stretched out your name made your body ache for his touch.

You wanted more.

All of it.

All of him.

Your tongue danced along from the base to the tip a few times, placing delicate kisses here and there over his pale skin. It was sweet, watching him enjoy himself with such a small form of affection. The way his eyes fluttered every time your tongue swiped over the tip, how his teeth found purchase on the skin of his bottom lip to keep himself from making too many sounds. "Y-You gotta stop t-teasing me, mesh'la, please..." Echo breathed desperately, hand falling to the back of your head.

"Please, what, handsome?" The naïveté in your tone betrayed the way your eyes twinkled dangerously up at him and made him groan again, hand coming around to thumb your bottom lip, mesmerized by you.

"Please suck my cock." Desire finally blossomed in his eyes, the adorable timidness dissipating and giving way to a man who hungered for more. "I want to feel your mouth around me… I've wanted that for so long."

The admission surprised you, but you couldn't focus on it for too long before you acquiesced and took his cock into your mouth as far as you could before he hit the back of your throat. Echo choked out a moan at your motion, feeling the way your mouth warmed his skin, your tongue lapping around him. "S-So long… oooh, kriff. Wanted to feel your pretty mouth suck me off."

The filth murmuring from his pale lips was only fueling your lust as you hollowed your cheeks and started to bob your head back and forth on him. "I-I can't believe this isn't one of my-my dreams, oh fuck," Echo whispered as he looked down to meet your gaze, groaning at the hazy look in your eyes and whispering an astounded 'look at you' as his hand pressed into the back of your head. His hips thrust, against his better judgment, shoving himself further into your throat provoking a moan from the both of you simultaneously. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes as you relaxed, allowing him to fuck into your mouth at his leisure, the sounds he makes stirring you up more.

You pull back to catch your breath, a string of drool trailing from your tongue to his soaked cock. "You've dreamed of me sucking your dick, have you?"

"I've dreamed of many sinful things concerning you, cyare." Echo's voice was solid as he pulled you up by your arm, crushing his mouth to yours in a searing kiss. His tongue tasted yours for a moment, scomp pressing into your lower back so you were flush with him. The large expanse of his hand explored your body, mapping every scar and dip of skin to commit to his memory. "Your body is even better than I could've fantasized it; much softer, stronger." He whispered against your neck, placing warm open-mouthed kisses along it.

"Echo," you breathed out his name, his mouth dizzying you. "Show me what you've dreamed… I want to know."

The chuckle that escaped through his lips and fell over your skin sounded dangerous as if you asked him to show you his crimes. "Bend over for me then," the drawl of your name spurred a whine from you that made him grin and you spun around in his arms to place your hands steadily against the bar drilled into the wall. "Kriff, and I thought the sight of you sucking my dick was going to make me cum..." Echo muttered from behind you, his hand brushing down the curve of your spine, admiring the way goosebumps chased after his fingertips. "This view is sure to ruin me."

"Echo, please," you whined over your shoulder at him. The sudden change in power lost on you as you shifted your hips back to meet his, yearning for some sort of relief. Teasing him had done a number on both of you and you needed him to relieve you somehow.

"Looks like I can't deny how badly you want me now, can I, cyar'ika?" The cybernetic clone chuckled from behind you, leaning his tall body over your back to whisper, "Not when you beg for my dick like that." The warmth of his breath tickled the back of your neck and you moaned at the feeling. Without any more taunting, Echo finally leaned away from you to watch himself slip inside of you. "Shit… look at how you take me," he sounded nearly astonished by how his cock disappeared inside, appreciating the sight before him- second only to how you choked his dick.

"Stars, Echo," you moaned desperately, wincing at the stretch of him inside of you, panting as you took more as he pushed deeper inside. "M-More, please, fuck me Echo, please."

"Greedy, aren't you," Echo teased lightheartedly, chuckling at how you begged for him to take you. He seemed to be enjoying himself as he sank into you fully, his typical jovial attitude returning. It wasn't even as if he were teasing you in an expected sexy way. He was teasing you as if he caught you with your hand in the ration box, looking to take extras. The feeling of his cock dragging inside of you as he gradually pulled out to just the tip and then just as slowly pushed himself back in nearly made you sob at the burning fixation for him to shatter you. "I love feeling you like this. I can't believe you want this as much as I do. Kriff, you are stunning. Everything you do floors me." You continually whined his name as he spoke, moving in and out of you at an agonizingly slow pace then you felt his hand brush up your back and grip your shoulder tightly as if bracing himself. "You're the reason I said no to the Twi'lek. I just want this, only this," he moaned as he pulled out one last time before stopping, whispering, "Only you," then hammering into you at a fracturing pace.

"Oh fuck, Echo!"

"That's it," Echo praised in his warm encouraging tone, your name falling from his lips like a tribute as he drives his cock into you over and over until you were almost screaming. His stamina was devastating, the force behind his thrusts calamitous as your body rocked against his. "What a breathtaking sight you are taking me like this, kriffing hells. I'm gonna cum," Echo stammered as his hips faltered narrowly.

You'd hardly been able to process anything he'd been saying, too deafened by the passion though you felt his hips shift a bit, slowing their pace and you begged, "Inside, inside please."

"Maker, y-you can't say it l-like that," Echo chided with a choked moan, "I-I," and with a shocked gasp, Echo's hips stilled as they pressed into you. The Mandalorian praises that intermingled with your name, the way his mouth fell to your shoulder, leaving open-mouthed kisses, everything coalesced to a white flash shooting through your body. A sob of his name reverberated off of the bathroom walls, echoing around the two of you as your release hit you. The force seemed to hit your knees and you faltered on your feet but were caught quickly by Echo's scomp-link arm, reeling you back into him.

"Careful there," the smile in his voice evident as he nosed at your temple, pressing a few gentle kisses along your cheek. "Just relax, I gotcha." The gentleness of his touches weaved around you, lulling you against his firm body and the mechanical parts cool against your hot skin. "Sorry, I know some of the pieces might be prodding you." He winced at the thought abruptly.

You shook your head in response, steadying yourself against him by wrapping your arms around his neck and nuzzling closer. "Perfect… You're cool, it feels good, don't move."

Echo was once again left silent by your unconditional favor of all of him. "You continually amaze me," his chuckle affectionate as he hugged you closer. "Now, let's get dressed and get out of this filthy place. I've been thinking about another holomovie we could watch."

339 notes · View notes

ladyanidala · 7 months ago

Text

Reader Insert Masterlist

Crosshair

Preservation - a two part story about Crosshair reuniting with his secret Jedi wife after the events of Order 66. Set during an unspecified time between s1 and s2.

Quietly, Gently - a little snippet of Crosshair's thoughts after a fight. More of a character study than anything else. Modern AU.

Tear My Soul In Two (Don't Leave Me) - a four part story involving Crosshair and his soulmate. Set pre Order 66.

Tequila - a oneshot where Crosshair likes Tequila. Utter crackery ensues. Modern AU.

The Ghost Took My Heart - a four part story about Crosshair leaving his significant other and coming to terms with the fact that he made a mistake in doing so. Republic Victory/Skeevy Sheevy dies AU.

An Unthinking Kiss - a oneshot where Crosshair accidentally kisses his best friend. Modern AU. (One of my favorite pieces!)

Left For Dead (Oh Baby, I Won't Leave You) - a oneshot where Crosshair betrays his Jedi wife when Order 66 is given. Based off a Tumblr post I found in the wild.

Insolence Answered - a short and fluffy oneshot of Crosshair making dinner. Modern AU.

The Joy You Give Me - a oneshot where Crosshair likes to brush hair. Modern AU.

In The Midst Of The Night, My Heart, Be Still - a oneshot where Crosshair wakes up from a nightmare, goes out to the porch on Pabu to breathe, and his wife finds him. Can be read as canon compliant.

I'll Share My Heart (Please Stay) - a oneshot where the reader is forcibly transferred from CF99 to the 501st. The reunion with Crosshair is interesting, to say the least. Republic Victory (Ball) AU.

Tu Me Manques (You're Missing From Me) - a reunion oneshot set after s3ep5. Forgiveness ensues.

Hunter

Your Personal Weighted Blanket - a oneshot where Hunter gets a weighted blanket, of sorts.

My Happy Home - a oneshot where Hunter attacks his wife with snuggles. Modern AU.

Echo

A New Reality - a oneshot where Echo comes back from the dead. Set pre-Order 66.

I'll Be Needing Stitches - a oneshot where Echo feggs around and finds out. Modern AU, and written for the TBB 2024 Fic Exchange!

Fives

Dessert - a oneshot where Fives won't let you help him make dessert. Can be either Modern AU or in universe.

Commander Fox

A Picture of Love - a oneshot where reader and Fox attend an art gala for reader's job. Republic Victory AU.

Cody

Kiss It Better (Tell Me We'll Be Ok) - a oneshot where Cody and reader deal with the fallout of a fight. Modern AU.

Jesse

Don't Come Any Closer (But Don't Move Away) - a novella length enemies to lovers oneshot with Jesse and medic!reader. Canon divergent (everybody lives, nobody dies)

320 notes · View notes

toska-writes · 9 months ago

Note

Clone commandos request if possible. 😁 Could you do delta squad. where on a mission they get captured along with the Padawan, and get protective when they try to separate them or interrogate them.

So i thought about writing a fic based on todays bad batch episode (but I need to get some of the requests done- if you wanna request some Wolffe *wink wink* that’s ok)

“Got your back”

Summary: a mission goes south with the delta squad but they have your back

Paring: The delta Squad/ republic commandos x padawan!reader (PLATONIC OFC)

Warning: slight mentions of injury and imprisonment nothing too bad… the most scary- not proofread

Word count: 1688

Notes: Delta Squad fics are not my “most popular” but ones I always do so much for and I don’t know why

Also I swear to god someone asked to join the Taglist but I can’t remember nor find it so let me know!

"Can you focus for one second Scorch? EVER?" Fixed screamed through the comms, you could see his tense movements from a mile away as the squad ducked once again behind a wall.

Boss could only nod this head, he quickly spun around from where you, Sev and him were hiding to shoot an incoming droid.

"Sorry Scorch I can't defend you this time it's not looking good." You spoke between gasp of your own breath, the adrenaline from the long hours fighting wearing on you and the whole group.

Sev leaned heavily on Fixer from where you could see him, though Scorch as of now was doing a good job covering them.

"Boss," You yelled over the hiss of a smoke bomb going off- the contents of which were going in your eyes and making you cough. "I'm all out of ideas here."

The comando spared you a glance for a second, you feared what his face would have looked like if his helmet was discarded.

Boss looked down at the padawan for a moment. A thin cut ran along their cheek way too close to their eye for Boss’s comfort. He watched their head whip around looking through the fog desperately before a huge bang went off.

After a moment of slight ringing Boss felt the bump of another person against his side. The padawan looked around frantically for the force of the bomb before looking up to the comando.

In a more solemn voice they asked. “Boss what are we gonna do?”

Boss thought about their options then. Backed into the corner of what should have been an abandoned outpost, on of their men injured and the rest ready to collapse from exhaustion. He as a leader thought he was better than this but Boss felt as if he walked his squad right into this trap.

“The missions easy enough for us.” Boss had said only hours before. A knot sat in his stomach but the team needed an easy mission, a break from their last fiasco with the bugs.

He’s never been more wrong in his life.

While he was lost in thought, Boss nearly missed Scorch sliding up next to their leader, his panicked voice tried to fill Boss’s ears.

For a moment the other comando didn’t realize the trooper in yellow was talking until Scorch made a shhh gesture with his hand.

That’s when you noticed it too, the complete lack of noise. No more clanker chatter or blaster bullets from each side. Just the low hiss of the fog that didn’t seem to die down.

You opened your mouth to say something before the unmistakable scraping of metals filled your ears.

“Rollies! get down!” Scorch shouted pulling you and Boss to the floor with him. About 5 Droidekas emerged from the smoke…. Lucky you guys.

“Scorch handle them.” Boss yelled using his hands to signal something at Fixer and Sev at the speed of light. His gruff tone scratched your ears but you all seemed pretty fed up at the situation.

Blaster bullets were blocked by your lightsaber left and right until the next words made your heart drop all together. “Out of hand grenades sir.” Scorch ripped his blaster out now but the shields were too strong on the droids.

“Down the hall!” Fixer yelled as both He and Sev passed the 3 of you, a way out hopefully planned.

You felt them before you saw them, you tried skidding to a stop before turning into the next hall as a hand shot out to grab Boss.

“Shit.” Was the only thing you could say, before they could question what you meant a group of comando droids emerged with guns drawn.

“You’ve got to be joking me.” Sev rasped out, his arm shook while he tried to lift his blaster up and fire. The tiredness leaked off of him though you were sure it did for everyone.

A ring of blue light hit the wall behind you. It didn’t make sense though, comando droids weren’t the type to show mercy.

Your lightsaber flashed along the darkened walls trying to keep the nimble droids away, why couldn’t the separatists just send the normal clankers.

Once again the hall was engulfed in a think smoke. You heard more blasters going off but you feared you were getting more and more disoriented. After a moment you heard a sickening thunk next to you and you assumed the worst.

In the blink of an eye you felt the blast hit its mark and half your body go limp. Unlike the bulking clones you were with it only took about 2 hits before you were out.

•✩•

Boss was the first one to awaken. His head bobbed around and his eyes fluttered open. Boss reached his hand up only to finally realize that his armor was gone.

He laid there for a moment, confusion laced his face. What had happened to him? To them….

In a split second Boss shot up to a sitting position , which his head greatly protested, and looked for the rest of his squad.

Relief was one of the best things in the galaxy in this moment. In the dim light of the ray shield keeping them in Boss could count the 3 other comandos and the form of their padawan knocked out next to Scorch.

Sev still looked bad as now Boss could get the full view of his gash along his side- the blacks on all of the men seemed to be tattered.

Boss observed their surroundings for a moment before giving a light tap to Fixer on the foot. When that didn’t work the first time a much hard kick was implemented.

Fixer gasped awake along with Scorch after a “friendly” tap from the clone comando.

I didn’t take Scorch long before he leaned back against the wall and groaned, clearly he knew the situation at hand.

Boss could only stare for another second at Sev, guilt rummaged through his insides as he helped his injured brother up ultimately waking him as well. This was his fault and Boss couldn’t shake that.

“Fixer start working on those bindings.” Boss ordered unable to keep his gaze on the unconscious padawan. Clearly to the eyes of their captors the Jedi was the bigger threat.

Sev hissed for a moment now finding a new brother to lean on.

You came to with the feeling of someone’s exposed hands brushing against your arms. The pounding in your head was present but the blanket of confusion was much scarier.

“Thanks for joinin’ us.” The unmistakable voice of scorch chimed in. Your eyes strained against the darkness but you could tell what the problem was.

The cool metal hurt your wrists as Fixer fiddled with them muttering a small apology every once in a while.

Boss’ low voice filled the cell, plans of just how they would get out to fight another day. Your eyes scanned the worrisome group.

Scorch sat fidgeting with his hands trying desperately to listen but you could see the worry in his eyes as clear as day.

Fixer sat in front of you cursing and apologizing but he just couldn’t seem to do anything useful without his tools and data pad.

Sev’s eyes closed everyone once in a while and you could see the fight to remain in the moment, though his scowl never seemed to be wiped off.

And finally Boss. His voice was level and low just like the countless other times you heard him give directions, however this time was different. He knew this wasn’t in their favor and he was worried beyond belief.

Someone had to stay strong for them all.

Your heartbeat beat out of your chest, a dull throb started in your temples the feeling seemed vaguely familiar.

“I think someone’s coming.” For the first time you were unsure in the force. Fixer faltered for a moment before meeting your eyes. “It’s probably these. Messing with you.” He shook the bindings.

Though to your surprise, and relief in a way, someone did make their way down the hall. Boss spoke out quickly as you averted your gaze, sweat started to form on your brow.

“We need a medic.” It was hard to call it pleading despite where Boss said it from his position on the floor, but it was definitely more of a demand.

2 masked figures approached though they seemed to ignore Boss all together.

“We need the Jedi.” The cool voice stated only once.

Everyone seemed to freeze for a moment unsure about which group would make the first move.

“Get up.” Was demanded at you and you glanced around meeting Boss’ eyes for only a moment before you gripped onto the sleeve of Fixer.

The ray shield was down now and the larger figure stepped in. “I’m not asking again”

“Like kriff they’re going with you.” Scorch stood in front of you now. His full height filled up their line of sight.

“Move clone.” For a second Scorch was pushed back that was until Boss stood as well and shoved their captor away from his brother.

Before the other could react with their blaster Scorch was all over them. Fixer taking the hint that their time was now scrambled to get their other brother still on the floor.

Your eyes were blown wide with the loud alarm that was set off. You felt someone grab your arm as you were still in a little daze.

“I hope you didn’t think we were really gonna let them take ya.” Scorch said as the group rushed down the halls.

You thought about that for a moment, had there truly been something to worry about while you were surrounded but the Delta Squad, your brothers?

A smile broke out of your face and Scorch seemed to get your reply.

“I hope you know.” Scorch called over his shoulder. “You’re never picking the missions by yourself again Boss.”

An angry yell was heard from somewhere behind you replacing the fear in your body with a laugh. “You were the one to pick the bug mission Scorch!”

______________________________

Taglist:

@arctrooper69 @thereforepizza @padawancat97 @pb-jellybeans @floffytofu @verybadatwriting @solstraalaa @ray-rook @gregorsmissingarmor

#star wars #star wars clone wars #the clone wars #clone wars #the clone boys #my writing #toska-writes #clone boys #the delta squad #delta squad x reader #delta squad #republic commando #clone commando boss #clone commando fixer #clone commando sev #clone commando scorch #x platonic!reader #padawan reader #reader insert

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qvnthesia · 8 months ago

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Another You (.02)

an anakin skywalker/jedi consular!reader fic set during the clone wars

the pitch: best friends with anakin since he had joined the jedi order, you hadn’t expected to catch feelings for him, not that hard, at least. his intentions were clear — his heart already enraptured by the nubian senator, leaving you to ruminate about the prospect of letting go of not just him, but maybe everything. until another anakin shows up, and your — your universe’s anakin starts behaving strangely.

A/N: happy birthday, @kaizsche! i hope you enjoy this update!! a note to all readers — there’s no y/n here, the reader’s nickname for the fic is sky. happy reading!

part two— you're not helping.

word count: 7,042

part one | two (here) | ....

Simply put, Aayla Secura was enjoying this. Restraining herself with absolute failure from bursting into fits of laughter, Aayla watched as even the most experienced of Jedi masters drop their caf or just stare with their jaws dropped, t h u n d e r s t r u c k, at Anakin and his double — the long-haired Anakin — walking side-by-side with Master Kenobi being the only one who separated Anakin from thoroughly sizing up his copy, who simply viewed his new-found sights with a twinkling gaze and an even more unbothered attitude.

“Is it just me—” Aayla leans next to your figure, her eyes fixated on the live footage from the Jedi Temple’s security feed. “—or is our new guest having a wind machine around him? Because you humans could take some hair care tips from him.”

You scowl, elbows propped up on the desk, as you watch the footage behind your intertwined fingers held together as tightly as your frown.

“Relax, Sky,” Aayla props an elbow on your stiff shoulder, “He gives off a good vibe. And plus, he’s definitely more attractive than—”

“Aayla!”

The agile Twi’lek proves herself as one of the best the Jedi Order has to offer as she flicks on the live footage faster than your attempts to take it away from her.

“Mon amie, this is literally out of a holo drama!” she giggles, switching off the footage under your sharp gaze. “It’s a sign from the Force itself to take your leap and get your man, or in this case, one version of the man!”

“Aayla, he belongs to another universe—”

“And you’re saying you haven’t been attracted to him?”

You freeze, and Aayla smiles.

Twi’leks weren’t humans, but were sure as hell kriffing good with their senses, so Aayla knew you were lying, and how much she was going to enjoy the day ahead.

Maker, why did I go for this job?

You silenced your mind — there’s a member of the kriffing Jedi Council in the same room as you and you’d feel much more comfortable knowing Master Kenobi had a visual on his enemies rather than the six hundred scenarios of you and Anakin in your mind.

Instead, you focused on your datapad, tapping on six different squares as Anakin answered your questions.

“—Anakin Skywalker, Jedi Knight, aged twenty-one Galactic Standard. Commanding officer of the Five Hundred and First Legion—”

“Currently on leave,” Master Kenobi remarked, stroking his beard.

“Yeah, but still, Obi-Wan, come on—”

“You’re really Anakin?”

You perked up at Ahsoka’s voice, who munched on a ronto wrap while perched on one of the desks.

“Yes,” the long-haired Anakin hummed. You’ve lost count at how many times Ahsoka has asked the question, and you’re pretty sure Master Kenobi, Rex and Cody have the same question swimming their head since yesterday. It’s only the constant patience that has persevered through the Order’s new guest that sets a guilty fire ablaze within your body — and it’s definitely from the way his voice never even fluctuates, just stays the smooth baritone, lower than the usual. It’s the same tone that your Anakin’s voice always has when he woke up to you working again late in the night, or he just strolled into your quarters wearing nothing but shorts and pressed himself against your back, his toned frame somehow slotting perfectly against your edges.

“But…” she tilted her head, her lekku twitching. “You look so mature.”

“Snips!” barked Anakin, shooting a sharp scowl toward Master Kenobi’s hacking laughter. Ahsoka shrugged, stuffing herself with more of her ronto wrap. Anakin’s long-haired copy softly pressed his twitching lips together. He caught your lingering gaze, and spread his lips into a smile, one that crinkled the edges of his twinkling eyes.

“How long is this going to take again?”

You snapped to a stiff, attentive posture as Anakin cleared his throat.

Master Kenobi sighed again. “Anakin, you must be patient—”

“—farmboy here smells like weed—”

“Anakin!”

“He’s not wrong.”

Anakin and Master Kenobi’s bickering ceases.

“What do you mean?”

He turns to you, and you internally slap yourself for suddenly becoming his center of attention. Not such a bad idea, but then—

“Are you…” Master Kenobi finds his voice again, bringing you back to the room again. “Are you not a Jedi, Anakin?”

There’s a slight crack in Master Kenobi’s voice, one that propels Ahsoka to stand next to him. The long-haired Anakin surveys the both of them, eyes softly squinted deep in thought, possibly pondering on how to break this brand new piece of information to a suddenly very fragile-looking old man and a dispirited young teenager.

The long-haired Anakin exhales. “I’m Anakin Skywalker, aged twenty-one Galactic Standard. I left the Jedi Order after I turned nineteen, and I’m a farmer—well, part-time mechanic, on Naboo.”

Your eyes widen, exchanging a surprised glance with Aayla.

“Master Kenobi, are you sure none of us are high?”

“Padawan,” chastised the Jedi, his shock secured tightly behind his shields. “I apologise, Anakin—I mean—”

“It’s alright, Obi-Wan.”

The long-haired Anakin waved his hands, and Obi-Wan visibly stiffens at the use of his name by a version of Anakin he should know but he doesn’t.

“You did train me, but I…” he scratched the back of his head, showing all teeth with a gentle, sheepish smile. “Things happened, and I made the choice to leave.”

You swore he looked at you; you were always looking at Anakin for some maker-forsaken reason or the other.

“And the war?”

Anakin turns to Cody and Rex, their military etiquette all thrown out the window.

“What war?”

The floor practically shifts with a lurch from the Force.

“You… you don’t have a war? The Clone Wars?”

He turns to you, and the world melts away as you look up at him, datapad clutched to your chest as a shield from him and from your simmering desperation.

The long-haired Anakin — you should definitely give him a name aside from his long hair — has a piercing gaze, one your Anakin looked at you everytime you looked up at him, your chin pressed to his chest, his arms around your waist as his nose crinkled with every laugh shared between you two about the stupidity of the Separtists’ battle droids.

“From all that I’ve been privy to," he swallows, his sharp apple jutting out even more prominently that it did. “The galaxy isn’t having the, uh, Clone Wars. We do have clones, but they work with the Jedi and provide humanitarian aid.”

“Captain Rex and Commander Cody work under Obi-Wan, who took on a young Togruta as his new padawan after I left,” he turns once again to Ahsoka, smiling. “I’m not General Skywalker, I’m just… Anakin.”

You blink, unable to process him. A part of you pushes that there’s a complete liar standing before you, a shapeshifter sent here to trick the Republic and distract the Consular who’s coincidentally working to counter their latest planet-killing superweapon. But the Anakin before you is as real as yours. He’s had a different life that you can’t help but wonder if you’re there—

“Hypothetically speaking—” coughs Rex. “Can I sign up for multiversal travel?”

“Rex!”

“I don’t like this.”

“More than sand?”

Anakin rolls his eyes at Padmé, who gives him a laugh as she continues to type her latest proposal behind her desk.

His lithe legs propped upon the corner of her desk, Anakin crosses his arms together, replaying the exact moment where he felt your Force signature spring alive when his double looked at you.

He’d never elicited a similar reaction from you when he was there. All those moments holding you close, regaling you in his tales until you succumbed to sleep, feeling your heart against his and wishing it were just like this for eternity. It was torture having to stay away from you, to be called time and again to this siege and that battle when all he wanted was to wake up next to you and live the life that other people did when they loved each other in a way he had loved you since the two of you were sixteen.

He even felt embarrassed to voice this in front of the Chancellor, who had suspiciously kept on pestering him to great lengths to enquire about the reason for his distraction. Clearly, he’d been sloppy — even Obi-Wan had managed to pick up his emotions in the heat of the battle. He’d decided to stay away from the Temple, show his ‘interest’ in politics so that such a slip wouldn’t occur again though, that your position as a Jedi wouldn’t be compromised by his misery. Though, he thinks to himself, the emergence of his double from another dimension spelled trouble for him in both Basic and Huttese.

Damn father, he grumbled to himself.

“If you keep having that stupid, angry look on your face, I’m afraid Sabé would be more than happy to throw you out of my office.”

Anakin sighed. “I’m sorry, it’s just—” he stood up from his seat, pacing. “She likes him more! That peaceful, farming version of me over… me.”

Padmé turned her attention away from the blue screen, sincere pity softly twisting her lips.

“And you’re here, out of all places.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’m just saying,” she shrugged, her smile growing wider. “It’s a sign.”

Anakin hesitated, his stomach roiling with anxiety.

“Are you sure I should—?”

“If you don’t, I will.”

Anakin laughs. Hope blooming bright in his chest, he gives his childhood friend a grateful nod, and races out of the office.

Having receiving enough complaints about ‘seeing double’ of a certain Anakin Skywalker, Master Yoda explicitly commanded you to serve as the long-haired Anakin’s tour guide for the day, remarking a day away from the Temple ought to make him comfortable in his new universe — and reduce Master Windu’s migraines. Since you concomittantly had to visit the Senate Archives for business, you decided your new guest would accompany you to the prompt excursion to the laughing stock that was the Galaxy’s governing body.

Both of you had been loaned a speeder by the Jedi Council, to which the long-haired Anakin simply pointed a slender finger to a sleek, open-roofed speeder glinting under the spotlight of Coruscant’s artificial weather.

"That looks better, wouldn’t you think?” he grinned.

Maker, let the Force lend its might to you today to calm your fluttering heart. He wasn’t just glowing with happiness, you knew very well he was playing with you, and you’d be a fool to deny it wasn’t a good look on him.

So, with a begrudging sigh, you agreed, and headed straight for Dex’s Diner — an establishment he seemed quite familiar with.

“Ani!” Dex roared proudly, sweeping you and him in a hug before you even had a chance to look around for empty seats. “Look at how you’ve grown,” he said appraisingly as he drew back, “And what’s with the hair, eh? All dressed up for a date?”

“This—no—” you fervently shook your head, cheeks ablaze. “No, this isn’t a date—”

You glared pointedly at the long-haired Anakin — Ani — who softly cocked his brow. He seemed to decide with himself for a moment, and then spread his lips in a cocksure grin, the exact same your Anakin had in those holo-videos labelled ‘Hero with No Fear’ racking up views all over the galaxy.

“Last time I remember—”

He snakes his arm around your waist and pulls you next to his toned frame.

“—I did get a yes.”

“That was fun.”

Your disagreements lose to the quick beat of your heart, and you stab the scoopful of ice cream in your hands as you walk through the senate hallways. Leaving aside the fact that the trip to the archives was a monumental failure as you’d expected, you’d come as close as falling to the dark side to melt into a pool of a miserable puddle of your love and embarrassment.

“You’ll figure it out.”

You look up at him, realising the two of you have come to a stop in the middle of your footsteps.

“Whatever the enemy is planning, I’m sure you’ll foil their plans. I know it.”

He smiles, licking the ice cream off the corner of his lips and jutting the spoon in the air as if it were his lightsaber.

The confidence in his voice makes you wonder if he knew you. Not you, but a version of you in his universe.

What were you to this version of Anakin? Were you what Anakin was in your universe? The ‘Heroine with No Fear,’ or ‘The Jedi with No Fear,’ even if there was no war in his galaxy. Were you an acclaimed Jedi or a nobody from the backwater planet you belonged to?

Were you even someone he liked? With the manner you currently struggled to contain the depth of admiration you harboured for your Anakin, being lovers seemed out of the question. Were you at least his friend? Or, you gulped to yourself as your heart sunk low, were you dead?

“Consular Jedi.”

Your voice perked up at the entourage making way towards you, led by—

“Chancellor Palpatine!”

You offered the old man a short bow, which he returned to you with an amicable smile. His eyes roved over—

“Anakin, my dear boy,” his visage extended over to Ani; he let out a chuckle. “I must have caught you by surprise, son.”

You looked over to Ani, who had dropped his ice cream and the little wooden spoon on the floor, the hem of the Chancellor’s robes trailing with tiny chocolate chips.

He looked like a deer caught in the spotlight, except only a fool would describe him as a prey. No, he looked like the commander that Anakin always had been — alert, sharp, observant, and most of all, protective of his loved ones and his duty.

“Are you alright, my boy?”

The Chancellor’s eyes darted between the two of you, and you cleared your throat, wrapping your arm around Ani’s right one, shielding it entirely by your billowing robes.

“We were just coming back from the archives, Chancellor,” you cleared your throat. Feeling Ani tighten his grip around your arm, you continued. “Anakin thought to offer an extra set of hands in my search for a solution to the Separatists’ rumoured advantage.”

“Ah, of course,” the man nodded, interwining his bony fingers one over the other hand. “I must not hinder you, I suppose—Anakin, my boy, do come for a visit, will you? You seem to be avoiding me, though I now understand why.”

He shot a fatherly wink at Ani, who only seemed to stiffen even further, his arms balling into tight, iron-rod fists.

“Of course,” Ani found his voice, steel replacing his usual gentleness. “It was lovely meeting you but I’m afraid we must be on our way—”

Before you could even hear the old man’s professional toodle-oo, Ani simply tugged you by your arm and walked past the entourage, his long strides taking you to the far end of the Senate’s circular hallways within a blink of your eye. Reaching a destination guarateeing privacy, he looked around.

“Anakin, what—WHOA!”

You let out a grunt as your back slammed against the durasteel walls. He looks down at you, an apology flashing in his eyes, but the steel in his voice stops your protests.

“What the kark is that man doing here?”

Your eyebrows shoot up into your forehead, “What?”

You look at him through the Force; his sun is now an eclipse, shadowed by the foreboding storm and thunder.

“Anakin,” you gulp softly, gathering your courage, “He’s the Supreme Chancellor, what—what are you—”

You pause, your mind backpedalling to the events in your office.

“Things happened, and I made the choice to leave.”

He shifts in his feet just as your eyes widen.

“Sky.”

His arms wrap around your trembling figure, but you never leave his gaze.

“Sky, listen to me, it’s okay—”

“Why…” you cut in, failing to sound calm. “Why did you leave the Order?”

“Because I fulfilled my destiny.”

The storm within him dissolves with a wave of the seas within him. Your glare demands answers; his chest puts strain on the fibres of his beige shirt as he exhales sharply.

"I discovered the Sith that had been plaguing the Jedi and the Republic. It was…”

He lets out a bitter chuckle, the corners of his lips downturned.

“It was so ingenious, the way he had been doing it. Getting close to me ever since I was a child, preying on my fears, my insecurities. Deluding me into thinking I was going to be alone forever simply because I was different than the others, that I was born of no father and only a loving mother, that I was a child of the Force itself and as such, the Jedi viewed me as a threat.”

“But what he hadn’t seen coming, what even I hadn’t expected to gain was that I began to have people on my side. People who trained me and taught me that the Dark is never the option to take, because it takes and it takes from you and leaves you wanting more, it leaves you empty, as a shell of who you were. It leaves you alone and no one to go to. And I had people… people who pulled me back—”

He meets your gaze, blown open and vulnerable.

“—people who made me see reason, that my mind was being tipped in a direction that was not of my own making, but of the Sith who I had allowed to poison my mind since I was a child. Sky…”

He intakes a sharp breath.

“I am the Chosen One just as your Anakin is. And I did it. I fulfilled my destiny and stopped the return of the Sith.”

Ani holds your hands, pressing your palm to his chest. A tremor passes through your body, and he steadies your figure, wrapping his arm around your waist.

“Please, you must believe me. I can sense you care deeply for my variant in this universe, and he is in grave danger, Sky.”

Your mind flashes back to one of Master Yoda’s classes, where he had droned in his wise way how the Force made itself known to warn its believers that life itself was in grave danger; it was a warning, a shadow, an event, something or the other that shook the defenders into of their senses and prompted them to act for the betterment of the survival of the Galaxy — and for your own good.

You had felt the Force the first time when Master Windu had arrived to your village years ago, offering his hand to enter the world of the Jedi. The Force had given a warm nudge for you to take his hand and take the chance; you had taken it.

You had felt the Force the second time when you met Anakin Skywalker, nine years old, young and shy, and terribly homesick for the embrace of his mother’s arms. The Force had giggled, and you had decided, fate or not, that you would bring a smile to his forlorn face.

You had felt the Force the third time when you were on Geonosis, standing the arena with your master, saber ignited as Anakin let out a joyous cheer, joining you back-to-back as you both tore through droid after droid in the relentless carnage. The Force, triumphant, had melded the two of you as one machine, as one competently-built Corellian freighter tearing apart the enemy.

The present moment is when you feel the Force again, screaming. You see death and blood, corpses of younglings and clone soldiers strewn on the floors of the Jedi Temple. But Anakin’s there, and you see hope, you see a future with laughing children and the galaxy, alive than you’ve ever felt it to be.

The Force holds its breath, and despite what the Jedi Code said, you’ve never chosen to ignore life.

You steel yourself and look up at him, determined.

“I believe you.”

His gaze widens, and the temperature around you shoots up, charged.

But it isn’t coming from the Anakin front of you, rather from a few feet away from the both of you.

You meet the dark look on your Anakin’s face, his armor glinting in the pale, sterile Coruscanti sunlight.

You haven’t even blinked, but he’s next to you in mere six steps, Ani’s hurling toward the ground, and you’re in Anakin’s arms, warm, cold, safe and scared.

“Anakin.”

He looks down at you, and he melts.

“It’s okay, he wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

You turn to Ani, who’s now on his feet, his stance as same as your Anakin.

“We need to leave,” he states to his armoured copy, stark.

“He’s right,” you turn back to Anakin, “We’re in danger, Anakin, the Chancellor is the Sith—”

“What?!”

He recoils, looking back and forth between him and you.

“Sky, he’s messing with you, don’t listen to him—”

“Are you serious?” scoffs Ani, balling his hands into tight fists.

“You’re the one to talk—”

The sky suddenly turns dark, lights blinking awake in the buildings outside. Clouds fog the tallest skyscrapers, crackling with blue lightning.

The floor beneath you trembles, and you look at the end of the hallway.

There’s a man in a dark robe that you could’ve mistaken for a statue. But his eyes are a burning yellow that remind you of the flames of your Master’s funeral pyre.

The hooded figure bristles, and you can feel his sickly smile on your skin, feel the two Anakins next to you tense as the cold finally settles on their shoulders.

The name shouldn’t click in your head, but it does.

“Sidious.”

Silence rings in your ears.

“On three,” whispers Ani.

His fingers grasp yours and, from the corner of your eyes, Anakin holds your left hand as delicate his shock and anger can allow his metal arm to be.

“One, two—”

You take toward the window.

“—three.”

CRASH !

The air r i p s with a violent blue and purple, and glass tears at your clothes as the air whips at your face and you freefall against the cold steel and stabbing rain.

to be continued...

thank you so so much for reading! if you'd like to be added to the tag list, drop a comment below! 💗✨

cross-posted on AO3

part one | two (here) | ....

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sinfulsalutations · 4 months ago

Text

𝕨𝕖𝕚𝕣𝕕 𝕓𝕦𝕥 𝕗𝕦𝕔𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕓𝕖𝕒𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕗𝕦𝕝 ⋆*･ﾟ 𝕔𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕥𝕣𝕠𝕠𝕡𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕖𝕔𝕙

➼ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ ☆ ᴛᴇᴄʜ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

➼ ꜱᴜᴍᴍ��ʀʏ ☆ ᴛᴇᴄʜ'ꜱ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ꜱᴛʀᴜɢɢʟᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ꜱᴏʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ.

➼ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ☆ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ᴍɪɴᴏʀ ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ, ᴛᴇᴄʜ ɪꜱ ᴀᴜᴛɪꜱᴛɪᴄ/ɴᴇᴜʀᴏᴅɪᴠᴇʀɢᴇɴᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴀᴅ ᴀᴛ ꜰᴇ��ʟɪɴɢꜱ, ᴅᴇᴠᴇʟᴏᴘɪɴɢ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ, ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴅᴇɴɪᴀʟ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ, ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ɪꜱ ᴘᴀᴛɪᴇɴᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀɴᴅɪɴɢ, ᴘʜɪʟᴏꜱᴏᴘʜʏ, ꜰᴀᴛᴇ & ᴅᴇꜱᴛɪɴʏ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴍᴇᴀɴᴅᴇʀɪɴɢꜱ (ꜱᴏʀʀʏ), ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴋɪꜱꜱ, ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴛᴜᴅʏ ꜱᴏʀᴛ ᴏꜰ

➼ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ ☆ 10ᴋ (ᴜʜʜʜʜʜʜ ᴏᴏᴘꜱ)

➼ ᴘᴏᴠ ☆ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ

➼ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ ☆ ᴅɪᴠɪɴᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴠᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀʀᴛɪᴄʟᴇ ʟᴏᴏꜱᴇʟʏ ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴀᴛ ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇɴꜱ/ʏᴜꜱᴜꜰ ɪꜱʟᴀᴍ, ꜰᴀɪᴛʜ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀᴛʜᴇɪꜱᴛꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀɢɴᴏꜱᴛɪᴄꜱ ʙʏ ᴡᴀʟʟᴀᴄᴇ ᴀ. ᴍᴜʀᴘʜᴇᴇ

➼ ꜱᴏᴜɴᴅᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ ☆ ꜱɴᴏᴡ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇᴀᴄʜ - ᴛᴀʏʟᴏʀ ꜱᴡɪꜰᴛ ꜰᴛ ʟᴀɴᴀ ᴅᴇʟ ʀᴇʏ, ɪɴᴠɪꜱɪʙʟᴇ ꜱᴛʀɪɴɢ - ᴛᴀʏʟᴏʀ ꜱᴡɪꜰᴛ, ʙᴀɢꜱ - ᴄʟᴀɪʀᴏ, ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ - ᴛʜᴇ 1975

⋆ ★ ᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏɴɢꜰɪᴄ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇᴅ @cloneficgiftexchange. ᴍʏ ɢɪꜰᴛᴇᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ @isaidonyourknees, ᴛʜᴇ ʟʏʀɪᴄꜱ ʙᴇɪɴɢ: "ʙᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ // ᴘᴀꜱꜱɪɴɢ ʙʏ ᴜɴʙᴇᴋɴᴏᴡɴꜱᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ" (ꜱɴᴏᴡ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇᴀᴄʜ ʙʏ ᴛᴀʏʟᴏʀ ꜱᴡɪꜰᴛ ꜰᴛ. ʟᴀɴᴀ ᴅᴇʟ ʀᴇʏ)

ɪ ᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ᴘᴏᴜʀɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜰɪᴄ; ᴀꜱ ᴀ ɴᴇᴜʀᴏᴅɪᴠᴇʀɢᴇɴᴛ, ɪ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴍʏꜱᴇʟꜰ ɪɴ ᴛᴇᴄʜ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀꜱ ɪ ʙᴇɢᴀɴ ᴛᴏ ᴇxᴘʟᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱɪᴅᴇ ᴏꜰ ʜɪᴍ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜰɪᴄ, ɪ ᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ᴘᴜᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏꜱᴇʟꜰ ɪɴᴛᴏ ɪᴛ. ꜱᴏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜰɪᴄ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ. ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ :)

ᴀʟꜱᴏ ꜱʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏʟᴏᴄʜᴇꜱꜱ ᴘᴅꜰ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴊᴀʀɪᴋ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ɪ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇᴅ ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏᴜꜱʟʏ (ʜᴇʜ) ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴊᴀʀɪᴋ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇ.

⋆ ★ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴏɴ ᴀᴏ3 ⋆*･ﾟ ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀᴍ

Tech isn’t a believer in fate.

It’s hard to believe in something so ardently human when he was conjured out of something quite inhuman. Even then, he’s always been a man of science – facts and occurrences that could be proven without falter appeal to him the most.

The mere idea of fate comes from a natural need for most to believe in something higher than them – but Tech and his brothers had no reason to fall back on such a comforting blanket. It’s almost a shame, he could deduce, but now that he’s never depended on such a thing, Tech doesn’t know why he should ever seek it out.

Thinking of some invisible string, predestined outcome, interlinked paths and journeys leading to the same end doesn’t comfort him in the slightest. If anything, he thinks himself too intelligent to believe in such things. He won’t look down on others for having those philosophies tethered close to their chest, but no matter how hard he tries and makes himself believe, the simple, straightforward fundamentals of the universe are undeniable in his eyes.

It’s just the truth. It can’t be proven otherwise.

Now, Tech has grown significantly from the first years of the Clone Wars – despite his stubborn, know-it-all demeanor, Tech still strives to learn and adapt and evolve into his best self – and much has changed. His belief in fate remains the pillar of his mindset through even menial life, though sometimes he can feel slivers of his humanity slipping past that desperately beg him to believe.

Because on further recollection, the unfamiliar yet pleasant shiver that ran past him the day he properly met you felt far too destined to be the product of mathematical chance.

It’s like a fresh breeze against his skin after a lifetime in blistering heat, a breath taken right before plunging into oceanic depth, unexplored. Tech never considered himself a pioneer, but the first time he speaks to you, he feels like he’s treading frontiers never seen before. Though in reality, if he were to be brutally honest with himself, it only feels so new because Tech doesn’t normally like to indulge in such things.

Though, he doesn’t know this at an initial glance, of course. It takes him countless nights to come to these conclusions.

It starts simple, and begins with stiffness; you wave in his direction when he passes by your stall in the village market. The first few times, Tech doesn’t even acknowledge it, storing the action but deducing the wave isn’t meant for him. He doesn’t notice how your smile drops and your expression turns numbly neutral again when he doesn’t notice you.

Eventually, he finally realizes that your greetings are meant for him. If you had stopped greeting him in defeat, Tech may have never realized. But your insistence on getting him to acknowledge you isn’t in vain.

Tech watches you wave with a keen smile, and he turns around, expecting to see someone avidly waving back in your direction. When he doesn’t see anyone else and turns back again, your gaze still fixed on him, he blinks once–twice, thrice– and tucks his datapad into his pouch. Something almost smug crosses your face when he begins to walk to your stall.

“Hey there stranger,” you greet playfully.

Once Tech hears your voice properly, he begins to piece together moments of familiarity; that same voice speaking calmly to Hunter over the sound of patrons in Cid’s parlor, your eyes staring into his for a split second to exchange some nothing words about something Tech can’t recall. Based on everything else he can recall, you must’ve been in tangles (loathsome or not) with Cid, which can explain why you were speaking to them. But still, he can’t quite understand why a split moment like that would make you so comfortable to greet him like this.

“Hello,” Tech answers you politely, stiffly. You don’t seem to be bothered.

“How long have you and your brothers been on Ord Mantell this time around?” That’s your first question, palms pressing to your stall table to lean over. You still aren’t close enough to the point Tech would become uncomfortable and needs to pull away, but he takes note of your manner.

“We just arrived last night. But we’ll be staying for some time longer to restock.” Tech answers mathematically because it’s the only way he knows how to speak to someone like you– a stranger .

You hum. “No wonder it’s been a while since I’ve seen you around. Or Wrecker and Omega. They always stop by the Mantell Mix stand whenever you're here.”

Tech sneaks a glance to his left and realizes your seamster stand is situated right next to the stand selling Mantell Mix that the Omega and Wrecker always frequent.

That makes more sense.

“Omega’s currently resting, last I saw her,” Tech explains, though he wonders if an explanation is obligated in this situation.

“How is she doing?” You ask.

“She’s doing well.”

You smile. “I’m glad.”

Tech flips up his visor to get a better look at you. He tries not to stare for too long – from his understanding, it’s rude – but he still takes a hefty time taking you in. You’re your own person, just like everyone else in the world is; there’s no reason for him to be enraptured by anything more. Yet his eyes keep getting caught on the curve of your neck to your shoulder, how your hairline meets your ear, how you hold your jaw up.

It’s nothing out of the ordinary, yet that same juvenile feeling of destiny rushes through him again. A flush of red on his cheeks, a warm sense of typical affection.

You couldn’t be the cause, could you?

It’s something about you, isn’t it?

That can’t be right.

“I haven’t talked to you much.” Your next words snap Tech out of his trance but his mind still races through different ideas. He’s not accustomed to this feeling of distraction; his thoughts are usually so methodical and precise.

“I suppose we haven’t had the chance,” Tech finally settles on the answer, voice softening purposefully to seem less standoffish. The corner of your lips turns up at his reply.

“There’s no time like the present, right?” you respond, as peppy as ever. Though, perhaps you’re less peppy than he thinks, but just ten times livelier than him.

“What do you do when you’re not out saving the galaxy with your brothers?” You then ask, and Tech’s first instinct is to ask what led her to believe they were doing such a thing; a worry of that’s rude and dismissive overwhelms the initial thought, and he holds his tongue.

He thinks over the question, momentarily scrambling to think of an answer that doesn’t involve discussing the batch’s next move or tactical strategies.

“I… study. Research,” he answers vaguely, mentally berating himself for not preparing a better response.

Your jaw slacks, mouth forming a small ‘o.’

“That makes sense, considering you’re always on that datapad of yours.” Instinctively, almost defensively, Tech’s hand reaches for the pouch that carries his datapad, and then you’re smiling again. He isn’t lying when he speaks of studying and researching; in fact, more recently he has been studying the origins of faith and mythology. He recalls it again when he looks at you, ideas of the Maker’s beautiful handcraft. He’d like to believe in those beliefs, especially staring into your eyes now, that face so perfectly molded by a touch of godlike divinity or something else entirely–

Or perhaps he’s wishing he could believe in something so below him.

His mind shuts down any other thought, any other command, besides retreat.

“I should leave now,” he states matter-of-factly, trying not to look at how your face contorts with his change of mind.

“I enjoyed speaking with you,” he adds at the end to soften the blow. He’s unsure if it works.

You flash a smile, more bitter than before.

“So did I,” you say.

Tech turns on his heel and walks away. As he returns to Cid’s parlor, stomach flipping in ways he’s never felt before, Tech concludes stubbornly that you are no product of divinity, that the color of your eyes and etch of your smile aren’t utterly spectacular pigments of the Maker’s creation. A thought like that isn’t aligned with his previous beliefs, and he isn’t one to abandon something so fundamentally, provably true. Tech is a man of science, not a critic of artistic elegance.

Inconveniently, that isn’t the last time Tech speaks to you. Far from it.

Not only have you continued to wave his direction whenever he crosses your way – and he always waves back, no matter what, even if there’s no reason for him to familiarize himself with you – but you frequent Cid’s parlor more than he realizes. Perhaps he hadn’t taken notice of you before —just regarded you as another patron— but now he certainly has.

He sees you once again talking to Cid directly, voice hushed and chin tipped low while you speak to each other. Your expression is no more serious than what he’s seen before—it may suggest the conversation is entirely casual, but Tech knows better than to think there’s no ulterior scheming if you’re talking to Cid of all people.

Hunter’s voice cuts through like a knife, pulling him out of his previous trance.

“You’re looking at the civvy again,” he says.

Tech shakes his head adamantly, immediately.

“I’m not,” that’s how he replies to Hunter, but both of them know he’s incorrect.

“Hm,” Hunter mumbles, unbothered by Tech’s dishonesty. Instead, he moves on to the next topic. “Why don’t you talk to her?”

Tech tilts his head.

“She’s friendly,” Hunter then adds. “And I’m sure she won’t mind if you struck up a conversation.”

The idea of Tech walking up to an acquaintance, practically a stranger to drum up unnecessary conversation doesn’t sit right with him. It’s entirely unlikely. Not a viable outcome in the probability and spontaneity of the turmoil that is the galaxy.

“I’m sure she’d rather have a conversation with someone other than me. Someone as lively,” Tech says, attempting to keep an unaffected expression on his face. “Perhaps Wrecker, or Omega.”

Hunter purses his lips. And then he shrugs, which perplexes Tech.

“She talks to me and Echo just fine.”

Wrecker butts in, a level of energy above the rest as usual, and encourages him,

“Yeah! Make some friends, Tech!”

and his stomach twists, partly offended at the implication of their words, and partly discomforted by being pushed out of his comfort box out of his autonomy. Tech says something he truly feels, albeit cold, but he feels it's the only words that keep him safe and sane in his zone of stark,

“Who said I want to make friends?”

Just then, Hunter perks up, eyes darting away from Tech and looking behind him. Tech then turns before looking back again; he’s unsure why he wants to appear so casual–perhaps it’s you, though.

“Hello boys,” You greet them all with a little wave as you lean your body on the booth’s table, looking at everyone; Hunter, who waves and smiles small and quickly; Echo, who appears relieved by the intervention; Wrecker, prepared to say hello in a booming, friendly voice; and Tech, who tilts his chin down so he can’t see that face he worries might be celestial.

“Well hello to you too!” Wrecker smiles for you big and wide, attempting to make up for the lackluster welcome you receive from the rest of the batch. You smile wider, and Tech tightens his lips. The same feeling rushes down his spine, settling in his stomach. Twice now. Twice in your proximity. If it happens thrice, Tech won’t be able to dismiss it as a coincidence.

“Are you looking for Omega?” Hunter asks, debating your reason for approaching them. “She’s asleep already. I understand you wanted to teach her a bit of Dejarik strategy…”

You shake your head loosely with a shrug.

“Not necessarily, no,” you speak like you’re bargaining, Tech notices; as though you’re trying to sell a product, or charm your buyer. “I’d like to say hello to all of you.”

Echo smiles softly. “It’s nice to see you around,” he says. Perhaps you’ve been in closer proximity to the rest of his brothers more than Tech thought.

“Yeah, very nice!” Wrecker says, still so enthusiastic Tech almost cringes.

You shift your weight on the table, one hand leaning over to keep yourself upright while the rest of your body casually careens in their general direction.

“So…” She begins, smile turning coy and probing. “What brings a band of brothers like you–”

Before she can finish her sentence, a scaly hand clasps her shoulder, and she turns. Cid looms over the booth now, seemingly unamused by the interaction.

Though, when does Cid ever look amused? Tech things.

“Hey, bandana, goggles, the other ones,” she snubs. Tech scrunches his face. Cid gestures toward her backroom office. “Over here. I got something to discuss with you.”

She leaves it at that, and you slowly turn your gaze back to the boys, slightly squeamish. As though you shouldn’t be there. Wordlessly, you leave, and as the boys shuffle out of the booth, Tech can’t help but turn and catch a fleeting glimpse of you before disappearing into the room.

Business. That’s all Cid discusses with them. In her defense, they never exchange any other words besides those that regard business, but it still causes Tech to frown. Her interruption could’ve been saved until after you’d finished speaking; instead, Cid clapped your shoulder and dismissed you, your face painted with an expression of valid disregard, and Tech didn’t like it at all.

When the batch finishes discussing their next job with Cid, he exits the back room and is surprised to see you are still there. Instead of talking to anyone, you’re shuffling through a few credits at the bar table, nursing what looks like water. Who drinks liquor during the day, anyway?

The batch each returns to menial tasks; Hunter and Echo go to check on the ship and Omega, Wrecker finds some random patrons to play a round of darts with, and Tech’s feet find an indirect path back to you.

“Your question,” he begins monotonously. It seems his whole body moves at its own autonomy rather than his command because suddenly Tech can’t seem to recall how he got into this position.

You turn, surprise etched into your expression.

“Excuse me?”

Tech quickly debates his limited options. Now that you’ve acknowledged him, there’s simply no way he could back out now. At least, that’s what seems courteous.

“C-Cid interrupted you. So you never got to ask your question.”

Your mouth falls into a little ‘o’ shape, so delicately parted Tech’s entire expression softens ever so slightly.

“Thanks for asking,” you answer with genuine care for his consideration. “…I was just going to ask what brings a group like you to this parlor so often.” Tech hums, encouraging to continue even when you bite your lip. “We’re not exactly very accommodating for long, and…” He picks up on your choice of the words, we’re. “…unless Cid is using you as her lapdogs—“

A momentary pause in your sentence leaves enough space for Tech, now incredibly curious, to interrupt.

“Lapdogs?”

There’s no statistical way to predict how you’ll respond. But Tech considers his past experiences with you, how you’ve replied and reacted to his abrupt words before, and he awaits a response as peppy as you usually are. Instead, it’s radio silence. Deafening, discomforting, haunting silence.

Your gaze drifts down, tongue swiping over your bottom lip momentarily as you ponder your next words. Finally, you gaze up again, and Tech’s breath returns.

“Can you forget I said that?” Is your choice of words. It’s a strange choice, perhaps, at least in Tech’s eyes, but he lets it pass.

Only because… Only because…

“I’ll try,” Tech says.

You smile, warm and friendly and alien.

“I’ll see you, Tech.”

He does continue to see you around the parlor – quite often, actually. More often than not, you’re playing Dejarik with another patron. He’s unconsciously begun to catalog your different smiles– when you play, your smile is always smug, bordering on something nefarious. Tech has also noticed the same expression on your opponent's face every time you finish a game; the same disgruntled, disappointed look on them when they push themselves off the chair and grovel, leaving with fewer credits than they had entered with.

You seem to win so frequently and collect large wads of money, he begins to wonder if you make more money in your games of Dejarik than at your stall. However, he fears that he’ll look like a vermin invading in your business if he tries to calculate your earnings so adamantly.

Rather, you probe him yourself.

Tech is sitting on a barstool, absentmindedly reading another research paper he scoured the holonet for. This time, he’s reading up on the phenomenon of divine intervention. Near-death experiences when someone‘s pulled out of the water right before they take their last breath, that precipice of halting existence in the material plane before you’re brought right back in, by somethingmightier than you.

He’s grazed death many times before. It’s simply a part of existence as a Jango Fett clone. He deals with the risk of death every day he steps on a new planet, even after the war has ended. Nothing has ever felt like a pull out of the water before drowning, a gust of air rushing through his lungs mere seconds before he’s taken out of this world.

Though, perhaps divine intervention doesn’t just apply to moments right before death. As he reaches the counter-rebuttal section of the paper, your voice folds and floats over his skin like silk.

“What are you researching this time?”

Tech looks up from his datapad immediately, tucking it away, as he knows if he keeps it open, his instinct will want to retract back to his comfort zone.

“The phenomenon of divine intervention,” he says, feeling no need to lie. “Or rather, stories of those who believe they’ve experienced such a thing.”

You nod, keenly interested; he’s not used to someone caring to listen to any of his ramblings. You then place your elbows on the Dejarik table, almost teasing-like, leaning toward him in invitation.

“So you’re not a believer?” Your words aren’t insulted; they still wade in pools of curiosity, and those damn eyes trap him in again.

Again, he feels no need to lie to you. Not about this.

“In divine interventions? No,” Tech shakes his head.

You huff.

“That’s a shame,” you jest, opening your arms even further, just begging for him to crawl his way further. “I’d make a joke about how I’m a divine intervention right now.”

Tech raises an eyebrow. Your smile widens.

“I’m intervening oh-so-divinely to invite you for a game,” you gesture to the Dejarik board with a mousy scrunch of your nose.

You must be in his head. That’s it. There’s no other explanation for how you burrow into it so fast, know every thought that’s been plaguing his busied mind ever since he first properly spoke with you. Perhaps he should’ve, would’ve denied you a game another time, but in an instant Tech is pulling out the chair across from you and taking a seat to play.

Only because… Only because…

Why don’t I know?

You smile again, passing him a die to roll and turning on the holograms, each piece appearing unselected.

“Let’s play,” you say.

Tech nods stiffly.

“Let’s.”

Through the years, Tech has taken a liking to Dejarik. He enjoys the mathematical element, the perfect balance of strategy and luck that can’t be faked or excused by some higher entity. Though as much as he enjoys playing, he enjoys watching others play more. Trying to pick apart their thought process as they actively spell out their strategy onto the board, whether they emerge victorious or indebted. And even though he’s playing, he’s never been more fascinated watching another.

Each of you takes turns rolling a die and picking your pieces. You don’t hesitate with your choices, divisive when you place them on your side and Tech admires the confidence on your face. He isn’t

“Do you want to bet some credits?” Tech asks, assuming you’d want a gain out of a game. He’d never seen you play Dejarik for fun before.

You push your eyebrows together, a tiny grin gracing your face.

“I’m not trying to get money out of you. I’m playing just for fun.”

Tech shrugs.

“Just a few. Just for fun,” he shuffles through his pockets and places two credits on the table, raising an invitational eyebrow. The exhilaration that washes over your entire face is incredibly worth it.

The game begins after that. Not before you bet three credits yourself, of course.

Just as he expects from astute (neurotic) observation, you are mostly silent when you play, save for little quips as you’re deciding your next move. You move your pieces with precision, and instead of reaching him first, you let Tech’s pieces meet you in the middle.

“Fancy seeing you here,” you tease when his Houjix meets your Monnok. Tech bites the inside of his cheek, trying to avoid smiling like a fool.

Two full turns pass after that. Tech attempts to roll back with a witty remark, but he worries it comes out swell-headed. After all, he doesn’t want you put off of him entirely. Maybe just a little. Just so he isn’t irreligiously blessed with you far too much.

Besides that, Tech’s put you in an unfavorable position. One he hadn’t expected. He’s seen you play; you move and strategize with the grace and expertise of any master swindler. But here you are, your Monnok pinned between his Ghhhk and K’lor’slug. There’s little chance you’ll be able to defend; with a power piece like Monnok against a flanked defense, he’s

“You seem to have me cornered, Tech,” you say casually, unbothered. He frowns, puzzled.

“I do.”

“Well?” You lean back, hands neatly folded on your lap, ambivalent to your defeat. Waiting for his next move.

Tech attacks your piece. It’s killed with no buffer. When his eyes return to your gaze, he doesn’t expect you to remain so nonchalant about the loss. But you’re tipping your chin down in respect and pushing the credits to his side.

“Good game,” you say. “`Really got me there.”

Tech’s frown deepens, confused by your impartial feelings.

“You were winning up until that last turn,” he says, thinking out loud for a moment. “The only thing that got me back up was that counter-kill.”

You shrug.

“Beginner’s luck?” You bargain, but Tech doesn’t like that answer. Luck is plentifully part of the universe, but it’s far too abstract and all-encompassing to play a role in one Dejarik game. One dice roll.

Instead, Tech just returns the shrug. Perhaps some things don’t have to be over-analyzed, despite the discomfort it gives him to leave it at that.

You look at him with those unholy-holy eyes of yours again, and Tech tenses his jaw.

“Another game?”

Tech doesn’t answer verbally but rather picks up a die and begins to shake. You smile.

The air between the two of you doesn’t change, the same quips and expressions exchanged– Wrecker even notices and becomes your one-man crowd– but this time, Tech is humiliated. Immediately, he loses his Attack and Mobility pieces, realizing his flaw is his flow of movement on the board far too late in the game. He can’t save his pieces before you’ve killed all of them, three of your four remaining triumphant on the board.

His mind does it again. Contradicts his previous belief. Luck is the first thought that crosses his mind when he recalls the last two games. Deliberate luck. Something incomprehensible to those on his plane to understand intentionally changing the course. Something entirely false, entirely juxtaposing everything Tech knows to be true.

You’re then bringing the five credits over to your side, shuffling them around in your palm momentarily with a smile.

“Look at that. I’m rich,” you joke. Wrecker howls out a laugh, but your eyes are only focused on Tech when he returns you the softest grin.

You’ve played him. It’s a classic little hustle. But he knows that. You know that. You know that he knows that.

His first win isn’t beginner’s luck, and your totalitarian victory isn’t just the luck of the draw. It’s clear on your face.

Perhaps you’re not much of a believer in fate either.

Tech allows the moment to simmer. In the back of his mind, he’s still anxious to approach you on his own with seemingly no reason other than just wanting to. It doesn’t feel right to him. Far too out of his nature to do spontaneously.

He only allows himself to indulge in a conversation once the air has settled, and only if you initiate the conversation first.

You do. Well, technically. You wave him over to your stall, and he greets you with exactly what’s been going on in his mind.

“You flank with your offensive piece and reinforce with your defensive piece.”

You blink at him, then blink again, smile slowly turning more dumbly awestruck in your surprise. Nice work, Tech.

“I-It throws people off,” he finishes his thought. Can’t hurt to finish the blow, can it?

Your grin is all teeth and cheek, the crinkles in the corners of your eyes clear as day. Tech isn’t sure what feeling rushes through him when he notices it, but it certainly is pleasant.

“Oh?” That’s all you say. All you give Tech to work with.

He licks his lips with no aim.

“...Oh.”

You snicker, shoulders tensing, but your actions haven’t given a clear stay-away warning. He’s still in the clear.

“You open with your movement piece,” he recalls how you played last night, and the countless other times he’s watched you match against others. “In the first game, you moved your Molator twice, and in the second, you moved the K’lor’slug only once–” You nod in agreement, which gives Tech the green light to continue rambling. “–But you didn’t break the inner circle in the first turn for either game. You wait for your opponent to move inward before you break in.”

You shrug, still grinning all wide, and that rush of fate overtakes him again. This time, he doesn’t stuff it down with an adamant rejection but rather ignores it with little regard instead.

Only because… Only because…

“Can’t argue with that,” you say. “I skirt.”

“Some would say you’re attempting a classic round-table defense tactic. But I think you’re just a strategic attacker.”

“All attackers have to be strategic.”

“Sure. But you attack as though the game lasts twenty rounds. You attack for a long-run victory. One that takes multiple games to enact.” Tech gazes away, feeling himself getting caught up in his words again, pushing up the bridge of his goggles. “It’s– It’s a playing style most people don’t expect.”

Finally, Tech gets the common sense to stop explaining to you your own strategy and clears his throat, fingers locking in and out as he lays out his next words.

“...Or, at least I think. From what I observed.”

You huff, exasperated; or maybe amused.

“You observed correctly,” you say, and Tech’s shoulders heave oh-so-subtly as he sighs in relief.

“I’ve played plenty of Dejarik before. And watched others play,” he replies as smoothly as possible.

With a hum, you tilt your head, still so enraptured in the conversation. He wonders for a split second over what enchanted you. It’s uncharacteristic… yes.

“Is that how Omega got so good?” You then ask.

Tech considers your words, his half-shrug turning into a hand gesture.

“Not exactly,” he says. “She has a knack for those sorts of games on her own. But–but that’s not the point I was trying to make.”

Your eyebrows perk up.

“Well then, please continue, Tech.”

Oh, does he love the sound of his name on your lips. It’s far too–not perfect, no–it’s far too pretty to be wrapping around something, someoneso statically unmatched for you.

“I’ve read plenty on Dejarik tactics, variants, openers… you don’t play in a way that shows you know them. That you’ve ever read them. That the idea of tactic and strategy in Dejarik even exists .”

You tilt your head, urging him to continue. You have that same look of fierce curiosity in your eyes that Tech is beginning to adore.

“You might play those tactics and moves, but it’s not on purpose. It’s by chance. Because, of course, where do those strategies come from? Those who play first.” Tech gestures toward your figure again. “You play like you’re the first to ever do it. Like you made Dejarik yourself. Like the game is yours .”

For a split second, Tech seriously considers that he may have gone too far. But your contemplative face tells you otherwise. You’re still genuinely considering what he has to say.

You let out one more disbelieving breath, head dipping down with a bashful shake of your head.

“Well, I’m flattered you think of me that way,” you reply, biting your lip. “Though I’m afraid that’s too much to deduce from two games… don’t you think?”

“I’ve seen you play,” he says right after you finish. But it’s not long before he regrets it. He watches you tilt your head and he takes a deep breath. “...I, observed.”

You nod along, but Tech worries that you don’t believe him. But he wouldn’t believe him either.

“You’re clever,” Tech adds just to see that smile again. You give it to him, graciously.

“No one’s used that word to describe me,” you shrug. “After I beat someone, I usually get the typical pantheon of shallow insults.” Tech stares at you puzzled, and you shift your weight to ease the tension in your shoulders.

“‘Thieving bitch,’ ‘Conniving whore,’” You list examples with a mild expression of annoyance, “Sometimes just a simple ‘Fucker’ before they’re lunging over the table.”

Tech’s eyebrows push together.

“ Lunging? ”

You laugh teasingly, but not unkindly.

“Sometimes sore losers get aggressive,” you explain. “But Cid never lets that slide.”

“Are you in close contact with her?” Is his next question, though he’s unsure how you might respond. With a purse of your lips, you lean back, increasing the distance between the two of you.

“I guess you could say that,” is your response. “It’s… complicated.”

Tech feels it. How soft and undisturbed he feels in your presence. He’s suddenly no longer having a natural urge to overthink your words and conjure up the perfect response (even if it doesn’t prove successful). He can leave what you say just as it is.

Only because…

Only because what? What makes this special? What makes you special? He’d never once questioned his stance of faith. And he won’t let something like this change it either. So how can you even exist, live, and grace his world so effortlessly as though you know nothing of the way you disrupt his being?

It’s discomforting. It’s enticing. It’s foreign.

“That’s fair, I suppose,” he says. “I think I’d respond the same if you asked me that question.”

You grin, gentler than he’s ever seen it, and Tech is left to seriously debate the existence of material contradictions.

Without your own volition, you continue to occupy Tech’s mind, both in his dreams and in his wake. On missions when he isn’t forced to zero in on a threat, he’s found himself endlessly searching holonet scholars for something to justify his deviation from the objective truth.

There has to be a reason, Tech is sure of it. Why else would he look at you, someone as grounded as any other being, and feel something so divine? Something that feels almost destined?

He recalls certain stories of grand romance he’s read before. It’s like I knew you in a past life… Something drew me to you the moment we met… I looked and I just knew. It’s not an entirely inhuman idea, yet it’s so alien to Tech’s nature he can’t understand how anyone could experience that.

Faith is not something instinctual for Tech. He’s never needed it like others have. His moral compass exists without the need of a rulebook, or a punishment if he strays away from what’s correct.

Yet every time he sees you, his mind screams and grasps at the ideas like a lifeline. The only thing keeping him afloat when he’s in your presence.

Despite that, he does his best to keep these conflicting feelings at bay. You invite him for more games of Dejarik, though infrequent, and Tech eagerly anticipates them. Wrecker has taken a liking to watching the two of you play as well. When the two of you probe the answer as to why, Wrecker just shrugs and says “You two play well together.”

Tech would rather think of you as a scientific anomaly, he realizes; so he thinks of you as a magnet to his opposite, pulling him closer the moment your field meets his. The second you wave him over from your stall, he’s walking over with the smallest of content grins. He’s glued to your every minuscule movement, every twitch and glance. When you lean in, so does he. When you pull back, he follows the trail you leave.

Even through the discomfort, he allows himself to be pulled by your magnet.

Only because… Only because…

“Tech?”

Hunter’s voice interrupts Tech’s mental meandering. Tech looks over at him, pushing the bridge of his goggles up.

“Yes, Hunter? Is there something you need me for?”

Hunter squints, looking past Tech. He turns to look at where Hunter has fixed his gaze, which is, inconveniently, you. Tech turns back, and Hunter grins.

“Nothing, but I did want to ask about your little staring problem,” he says. When Tech stills, Hunter just purses his lips.

“Do you like her?” Tech huffs softly, unsure of how to answer. What a question that is.

“Of course,” he answers, still unsure of what's appropriate. “I have no reason to dislike her. She is a perfectly adequate person.” Before he can begin to overthink his choice of words, Hunter shakes his head and says,

“That’s not what I meant.”

Tech only has a slim idea of what he’s implying, and has no plan of assuming.

“I don’t understand.”

“Tech,” Hunter catches his gaze with a firm tone, and suddenly he can’t look away. “Do you have feelings for her?”

Again, what a question. Feelings are not Tech’s strong suit. He knows this. Hunter knows this. Being cornered with such a question isn’t going to receive the results Hunter wants.

“...What is the exact definition of feelings?” Tech rationalizes before trying to give a real answer. “Because I’m not sure my reflections regarding her match what you’re accusing me of.”

Hunter frowns. Tech half expects him to keep probing, but instead, he leaves it at that with a lazy shrug.

“Sure,” Hunter says, looking over at you again. “Are you going to speak to her, at least? Instead of watching from afar?”

Tech shakes his head adamantly. He isn’t exactly embarrassed to admit to his brother that he has no wish to initiate a conversation.

“Only if she approaches me first,” he says. “I don’t seem the need to otherwise.”

Hunter still has that same look on his face; puzzled with a hint of disappointment.

“If you say so. Just… Don’t limit yourself.”

Leave my comfort zone?

“I’m going to take Omega back to the ship for an early night,” he continues, patting Tech’s shoulder pad and passing by him. “Keep your comm on, just in case.”

Tech nods, but his gaze is far directed your way.

“Sounds good.”

For the most part, Tech finds himself sticking to that same mindset; he won’t approach you first. Unless there was a feeling festering in his chest, that same destined rush that he devoutly will deny, there’s no reason.

The night grows darker, the parlor becomes more crowded with inebriated patrons having their hand at games of Dejarik. He sits on a barstool, waiting for you to leave your booth and challenge an oblivious customer, but that time never comes. Your silhouette looms in the corner, dancing in the dim light, pulling at something deep within him. Each time he tries to focus on something else, gaze away, his eyes keep finding their way back to where you sit alone, an empty glass in front of you, your fingers splayed on the table tracing invisible patterns; lost in thought.

Tech’s mind neurotically considers his options. Could he even approach you without feeling like he was giving into what he’s been rejecting so fixedly? What would he even say? How would you react? Surely, you’re observant enough to realize how he never chooses to come to you first.

The uncertainty gnaws at him, twisting his stomach, but the pull towards you is stronger. He favors you as a magnet once again and takes a deep breath to steel himself before pushing off his seat and walking toward you.

You don’t even seem to realize he’s walking toward you, eyes still glossed over with a look of apathy. Tech clears his throat awkwardly before speaking, his voice quiet, but still loud enough to grab your attention.

“Hello,” is his opener.

Real smooth.

You blink in surprise, gazing up at him with the gentlest part of your lips. He gets the perfect view of your face, and that familiarity he once saw the first time he spoke to you return. Like an old friend, a smell that transports him to somewhere safe and warm. Somewhere he belongs and always will belong, since the beginning.

“Oh,” you speak, a soft breeze settling over his exposed skin when you talk to him. “Hi.” You gesture to the booth seat across from him, and Tech sits graciously, tipping his chin down courteously.

“How are you?” He then asks; it is the only thing he could decide upon that was the least risky.

Your expression tenses, eyebrows pushing together with a scrunch of your nose.

“I’m…” you begin, as though bargaining with yourself. “...I’m not doing great if I’m being honest. Thanks for asking.”

Tech takes a deep breath, chest heaving at your last sentence. Are you… Are you being sarcastic? Do you not appreciate his butting in? Should he–

“If you’d like me to leave, I can do so,” Tech thinks out loud, attempting to backtrack.

Your eyes widen and you reach over, preventing him from sitting up and leaving you.

“No, please, sit down with me.” Your expression is soft again, gentle with a lack of spirit that frankly makes Tech slightly uneasy. But he just nods and sits his bottom down again, clearing his throat awkwardly.

He lets the silence sit. It feels like the right thing to do. But then you start speaking again.

“Tech,” you say, blinking so rapidly he almost assumes you’re holding back tears, “you’re a scholar, right?”

Tech hums, considering your question. He’d almost forgotten what he’d first told you during your first-ever real conversation.

“Perhaps one could call me that,” he says, “though I’ve never published any research or thesis of my own…” he watches your expression intently, and when your lips curl up, his chest seizes again. He backtracks again. “...Unless you’re teasing me.”

You shake your head rapidly.

“Oh, I’m not,” you say. “I’m sorry if it came out that way.”

Tech holds back a frown. He’s always found conversations to be a puzzle, always methodically putting it together like a typical person, but always missing the final piece to match everyone else. Something missing. Something extra. Something different. He’s never been good at this. Conversations with you are far from an exception.

He settles to clarify, “I didn’t interpret it as that,” with a softened expression. “Other’s might, perhaps. But not me.”

You nod, rerouting back to your initial question.

“So you’ve read and researched plenty of topics, right?”

Tech hums.

“I have.”

You breathe shallowly but still deep enough to push out your next words.

“Do you think you can help me with a question that’s been on my mind lately?”

Tech blinks. Now, that’s a heavy request. But he’s looking at a face borderline paradoxical, a loose bolt in the machine; what’s the point of rejecting such beauty?

“I can try.”

You smile softly, but the content doesn’t reach your eyes. Tech begins to truly wonder what’s been bothering you. With a much deeper breath, you lean your elbows on the table and begin.

“All my life, I’ve been doing what I need to do. To survive. To get by.”

Tech sits there, embarrassingly dumbfounded at what to say besides giving a sympathetic response. You hold in such a high regard– he doesn’t want to lose that.

“Many people do.”

You fool.

But you don’t seem to notice.

“Sure, but it’s mixed in with actual desires. Things they want to do,” you continue, rationalizing your next statement. “But with me… it feels like all I ever do is what I need to do to survive. I can’t even think of a time when I’ve done something I truly wanted.”

This time, Tech takes his time to consider your words.

“That’s… Not an uncommon experience.”

You tilt your head, considering his words for yourself.

“Really?”

“Sure,” he pushes up the bridge of his goggles before he keeps talking, recalling any relevant example he could use. If he’d like to leave this conversation in any way, it’s with you feeling comforted. “I know that my brothers and I have focused most of our lives on simple survival rather than a true passion. And sometimes, doing what you want can only come after working for a space to survive.”

You nod in understanding and what he hopes is agreement, taking a few moments yourself before replying.

“That’s not incorrect,” you say before turning it around, “but I think my problem is that I’ve worked so hard to survive that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to fulfill my wants. Not out of selfishness, but just out of… scarcity, perhaps? Of free time. Of liberty. Between finding places to stay, running the stall, making money in Dejarik, ensuring my protection–”

That’s what intrigues Tech. He doesn’t want to interrupt, but he’s doing it before he even realizes it.

“Protection?”

You nod, rather than go silent like the last time he’d interrupted you so starkly to probe at your word choice.

“From Cid. That’s how we know each other,” you explain. “When I first came to Ord Mantell, it was at a peak of crime and murder. Cid saw me playing Dejarik and making good credit, and we struck up a deal; she provided me protection using her connections through the city, and I gave her 25% of my earnings.”

Tech nods along, processing your words with an attending gaze.

“That’s…” he begins, aimlessly, when in reality he should’ve been thinking more properly because then you’re interrupting him with a tinge of insecurity in your voice.

“Dumb?” you ask.

Tech shakes his head automatically.

“I don’t have the right to say that,” he says, and you exhale softly in relief. Though he isn’t sure why you’re concerned about what he might think. “…If anything, I see it as resourcefulness. As you said, you were just trying to survive.”

Then you’re grinning again, a wash of sweet calm on your face.

“I’m glad you think that.”

Then silence fills the room again. Tech seriously considers his next words. He could retract and simmer his words down, or he could take a risk. But it’s been established with you clearly; Tech won’t take many risks.

So he’s unsure what compels him.

“What’s something you’d like to do?” He asks. You perk up with a raised chin. Tech tenses. “Perhaps–perhaps we could try and complete it together, right now.”

Your eyebrows raise, and Tech can see your thinking, a slow smile beginning to spread across your face.

“If we’re talking right now…” You say coyly. “...I’d love to get out of this parlor.” A polite, yet genuine laugh erupts out of Tech, and you laugh along with him, body leaning down with the heaving of your shoulders when you giggle.

Tech regains his composure quickly, readjusting his goggles.

“Then let’s leave.”

You raise your eyebrows. Tech nods again.

“Where?” you ask. Then he purses his lips.

“I’m not sure.”

You sigh, but not in annoyance. Unexpectedly, you rise from your seat, gesturing for him to do so as well.

“C’mon,” you grin, “I know a place.”

With a leading stride, you tug on the fabric covering his wrist and swerve the two of you through the parlor. Tech half expects Cid to interrupt the two of you again, but he takes a moment to glance back and observe, relieved to see her nowhere in sight. For once, he actually can be alone with you, speak to you without such an overstimulating environment, and without the risk of being interrupted.

Once you exit the parlor, you let go of his fabric. Tech forlornly tucks it into a pocket and continues to follow you. Through backways of backways, up a winding staircase, through a hallway, then up another ladder leads him to your destination; atop a tall living complex overlooking the rest of the buildings down to the bustling life below. If Tech was a more spiritual man, he could swear he’d be able to reach up and hoist a star in the sky onto the next planet; they seemed to shine so close. He’s caught up in the view for a few moments before he remembers what he is here for; your company. But to his relief, you’re lost in the expanse as well.

“It’s quiet up here,” he comments, taking a step closer to you.

You nod, still not taking your gaze off the sky. Tech is pulled in again, unable to take his eyes off of you.

“As far as I know, this place is more isolated,” you say. “As you saw from the climb up, it’s kind of hard to spot unless you live in the living complex.”

“I see.”

Tech’s immediate urge is to ask if you live in this living complex, but the worry that he’s overstepping overtakes him. He settles on a different question.

“Do you come here often?” He asks, glancing up at the sky, but after long he’s compelled to look back at you.

You shrug, lament, as though disappointed in yourself.

“Not as much as I wish,” you sigh. “Like I said, I rarely do what I want.”

Then, you’re walking towards the end of the building, taking a seat on the edge, legs dangling over. Tech watches you and then follows behind, taking a wary look over. You don’t seem concerned at all by the risk. So he sits beside you. He reasons with where he sits, worried about overstepping a boundary, but still sits close enough that if either of you were to scoot, your shoulders could graze. That feels reasonable to him.

“Have– have you always lived like this?” Tech stammers, folding his hands over his lap.

“Lived like what?” You ask, seemingly confused by his question. He can feel your eyes on him, but he resists his want to look back; eye contact in a situation such as this might break him completely.

“...Just to survive,” he clarifies for you. You mutter a soft ‘oh,’, looking away again, eyes glossy while you recall past events.

“...No. Not my whole life,” you say. He makes the mistake of looking up, because suddenly you’re looking back at him, lips parted in consideration. He thinks of the first time he properly spoke to you, the familiarity he found in your face; as though he’d seen it before in a past life, or perhaps this one; but the latter couldn’t be correct. Tech would have remembered a face such as yours if it’s struck him so now.

You continue, unaffected by Tech’s neurotic mentation.

“Back in Nalvage, where I grew up, I did what I wanted. Survival wasn’t something I was thinking about.” You pause to take a deep breath, shoulders heaving. “I just… lived. With the pretense of survival already there for me.”

Tech thinks over your words, getting hooked onto one in particular.

“Nalvage.”

“Yeah,” you turn and tilt your head. “You know it?”

Tech holds back a snarky response. It’s you, after all.

“Of course,” he mutters, voice raising as he continues. “My first ever mission was on there. My brothers and I saved and escorted refugees out of a village the Separatists had been seizing.”

You nod, though it's more of a slight dip of your chin.

“Yeah.”

“That was almost four years ago,” he recalls. The clone wars had truly felt like an eternity, Tech realizes, despite in a vacuum, it only lasting a tenth of a tenth of a second. Living through it, fighting in it, growing up under the guise of war and bloodshed changes anyone.

He looks back again, and you seem to be lost in thought. Your eyes are downset, lip swiping over your lips. Then you gaze up again, eyebrows pushed together.

“Do you know how long I’ve lived on Ord Mantell, Tech?” You ask. Unsure of where you were heading in this conversation, take just shakes his head, awaiting you to fill the gaps.

“Three and a half years.”

Tech purses his lips, trying to connect the dots in his head. A flush of deeply rooted history between you two festers, but he pushes it down as he attempts to rationalize. Additionally, he’d rather you fill in the gaps for yourself than let him assume possibly incorrectly.

“Three and a half years,” he repeats to himself under his breath. You catch it and smile softly, breathlessly. “And you’re from Nalvage?”

You nod wordlessly, then provide him the clarity he’d been waiting for.

“The village you helped evacuate was mine, Tech.”

Tech’s never been good at conversations. When he can’t find a missing piece, little people make the effort to help him fill it in. He’s left just a tack behind the rest, inept and foolish for even trying when it comes to easy for others. But you take the time to fill it in for him. And as he looks at you, it’s like he’s been waiting for this along. Waiting for someone like you. Or… just you.

Now you’re looking at him with that same expression of familiarity. Perhaps it’s been there all along, and Tech was too lost in his monologue to realize. But it’s so prominent he begins to feel guilt pounding in his heart. You knew this whole time, yet didn’t share. He must’ve made you uncomfortable. He must’ve hurt your feelings when it seemed he didn’t recognize him.

“I–you–I apologize–” He stammers through, fingers starting to tremble. He combats it by taking a cold grip on his jean-clad thighs.

“No, it’s okay,” you say. “I was younger then. I looked much more alive back then compared to now.” Your tone is joking, but the playfulness doesn’t reach your eyes. “And you were saving so many people. I’m not surprised you don’t remember me.”

“It’s not that,” Tech denies with a firm shake of his head. “I couldn’t recognize you until now, but… I thought I knew your face.”

You tilt your head, intrigued. He’s pulled into your magnetic field again, just another opposite for you to latch with.

“Is that right?” You ask.

Tech nods.

“The first time we ever spoke properly, at your stall I believe,” he adds a tone of slight recollection so he doesn’t appear as enraptured by your every move and interaction as he absolutely is. “You looked so familiar, yet… distant. I suppose I couldn’t put my finger on it. But now I know.”

“All those years ago,” you say. Tech nods, but he’s already deep in thought again, digging his mind for any memory he can scrounge up of you. Your complexion against the lush green of Nalvage, then later smoke. That same scrunch of your eyebrows, your eyes wide, intensely focused on the task at hand, your voice…

“We spoke back then,” he mutters. In the corner of his eye, you nod.

“We did.”

“I asked you to take some children off my hands while I took down a group of clankers.”

“Single-handedly,” you add, and Tech just shrugs. You grin. “You had the same voice, same eyes, same goggles of yours. Just more… youthful,I guess.”

Tech agrees with a shy nod, still struggling to process that any of this is truly happening. “You certainly look much older now.”

You huff, only one side of your mouth tilting up.

“Well, that makes sense,” you remark blankly. Tech bites his lip, realizing the ill-intent you might’ve interpreted.

“Wait,” he begins, “I’m sorry if that–”

You shake your head before he can even finish. Then, you scoot closer. As Tech predicted, now your shoulders graze against each other.

“No, Tech. I wasn’t offended,” you say, your soft gaze set on him with an intent he can’t exactly pinpoint yet. “Don’t worry. If I was I’d tell you.”

Tech pauses, truly at a loss for a proper response.

“So you remember me?” He asks.

“Of course I do,” You say. Tech musters up enough courage in himself to look into your eyes, the first proper time this entire conversation. He wants to look away, out of fear of the sky falling on him if he stares for too long, but you’re tugging him closer again. “You and your brothers saved my life. You helped me get out. I mean… you’re probably the only reason I’m still alive.”

Tech slumps softened at your words. He’s keenly aware of the little, yet impactful effect he’s had on many people through the galaxy. Yet being told it directly… it’s a different feeling entirely.

Yet, he still feels foolish. Firstly, for being unable to make the connection between the two of you. Secondly, for succumbing to the paradox you wrap him in.

“I should’ve realized we were connected in that way,” he finally utters.

A soft noise comes from the back of your throat as you consider his words.

“Fate?” You ask, a teasing smile on your face. Something depravedly hoarse is choked out of his chest. Just how do you know what holds him up without truly understanding the turmoil it’s given him?

Tech just shakes his head.

“I don’t believe in fate.”

You shrug it off without a bother, and Tech’s chest constricts watching you do it so effortlessly.

“Coincidence, then.”

Tech shakes his head.

“That’s not quite it,” he mumbles to himself, but it’s still loud enough that you pick up on it. Tech still has that nasty habit of going off on tangents no one cares to hear, and it rears it’s head again as he begins talking. “My entire philosophy is based on facts and logic, what can be proved. Fate can’t be proved.” However, you’re nodding along, seemingly unbothered that he’s gone off. “Coincidence is just a facet of existence. One could think it's two lives intertwined, but that implies fate already. Something higher above us, controlling everything. And there’s no way for me to feasibly prove it, so… how am I meant to justify such a phenomenon in my mind?”

“What phenomenon?” You ask.

Tech takes a deep breath, and sighs, swearing under his breath with a coarse voice. Is he really going to admit to something he can’t come to terms with in his own head? Come clean to his own vulnerability, his own contradiction, and hypocrisy to the prettiest person he’s seen in his whole life?

“Why I feel meeting you is fate, despite everything.”

It appears so.

You look at him, as though you’re just as lost. Tech wishes you looked at him any other way, even if it meant you didn’t care. But the confusion doesn’t help his psyche.

“I’m not sure,” you answer him truthfully. The weight of the unspoken words between the two of you hangs heavy. If Tech were a more spiritual man, he’d consider the palpable feeling of divine intervention that mingles in the atmosphere. Rather, he thinks it’s kinetic energy. Heavy gravity. Deep-rooted insecurity in the back of your minds. Nothing more.

Tech takes his time to search your face, eyes darting over your features as if trying to decipher a code written in the lines of your expression. His gaze lingers on your cheekbones, your jaw, the wrinkles your smile leaves, and your soft lips before they flicker back to meet your eyes – a silent plea for understanding passing between you.

As the seconds tick by, the world alongside him holds its breath, caught in the suspended moment between what is and what could be. If only Tech was different, someone else, perhaps, and he could remedy everything holding him back.

Finally, you break the silence.

“I’d be willing to find out with you,” you say, voice barely over a whisper, “What all of it means.”

Tech raises his eyebrow. Now that… isn’t an outcome he could’ve ever feasibly predicted. Though, he hadn’t been considering any proper options when the silence settled. For once, he isn’t overthinking, re-thinking, analyzing and predicting.

Tech is still in slight disbelief looking at you, so repeats your words.

“You’d like to figure out… together?”

You nod.

“I’d like that a lot,” you explain, hands folding over your lap. They’d been fidgeting absentmindedly at your sides before, not too dissimilar from how he does. “If you’d like that, as well.”

Tech blinks, still stunned. Finally, is he able to acknowledge it in his mind; your eyes are beautiful, and so is your face. Everything about you is divine. And it’ll forever be true, whether or not it aligns with all he’s known previously.

“Then we shall.”

Both can exist.

You smile warmly, cheeks lifting in a gentle caress of joy.

“I like the way you think, Tech,” you say.

Tech hums with a purse of his lips.

“Most people don’t understand the way I think,” he says, and it’s true. Not many make the effort to understand him, let alone try to meet in the middle. “Or care to be patient when it takes me some time to understand others.”

You shrug, far too modest to regard yourself as such a person.

“I can’t speak for you, or how you feel,” you say, looking down to the fall below you. Your words are quiet, yet only hushed to the point that if anyone were around you, only Tech could hear. “But I hope I do understand you. And that I’m patient enough.”

You’re plenty patient, he wants to say, but his voice lodges in his throat. Instead, he gazes down like you do, taking a good look over the edge of the building. There’s less of a view for him down there, and certainly more of a view if he looked up at the sky, but truly, he’d rather admire the one right beside him.

”Tech?” You then say. Tech looks up at you to find you already looking at him.

“Yes?”

You take a deep breath, hand reaching up to scratch the back of your head with a nervous tremble in your voice.

“There’s one more thing I can think of right now that I want, that I think you can help with.”

Tech tilts his head.

“What is it?”

With a final gulp, the words are spilling out of you in a sweet increment that disguises the weight of your request.

“Would you kiss me?”

Tech blinks before he freezes completely. He repeats your words in his head, once, twice, and a third time for extra measure. You just asked him to kiss you. Press your lips to him. Nothing more and nothing less. And all he can do is just… stand there. Dumbly. Idiotically.

Despite that, he’s able to move ever so slightly, pulled closer to you by that same feeling of a field of magnetic energy around him.

Tech's heart thunders in his chest, echoing the chaos that reigns in his mind. The request hangs between you two like a delicate thread, shimmering with unspoken longing and anticipation. He searches your eyes for any sign of doubt or hesitation but finds only unwavering trust and a glimmer of hope. Without a word, Tech closes the distance between you, one hand on your knee and the other placed over one of yours as he leans in to press his lips against yours, almost featherlight at the first caress. He’s never been one for romantic lyricism, but truly, time does seem to stand still as it witnesses the sight in front of it.

You kiss back, reverent yet not greedy, and Tech hums into your mouth with relief that he’s not doing a bad job. You’re fidgeting slightly under his touch, one of your hands reaching to hold onto something and landing on his clad thigh. You don’t squeeze, nor grip, just let it rest there, letting it act like an anchor while you’re guided through the kiss.

His heart pounds in his chest, yet he isn’t compelled to abort the new situation. Rather, he’d want to lunge in headfirst. You hum into his mouth just as insistently, lips soft and touch tender, and Tech wonders if there’s anything else

But then he’s pulling away, licking his lip with a nervous gaze.

“Was that adequate?” He asks, bottom lip trembling in worry.

But then you flash that heavenly smile, and his body sedates under your warm gaze.

“It was exceptional.”

There it is. That sensation of divine fate. And then the feeling that rushes right after. It isn’t fear, no– rather wandering curiosity. Here you sit, lips mere centimeters away from his, a paradox to everything he’s ever believed, yet he has no wish to push you away in favor of the facts and logic he’s relied on to keep him company. He’d rather pull you in closer, tighter, and make you the exception– not even an exception, but a new addition to his philosophy.

No, Tech doesn’t believe in fate. But you’re his contrary.

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vizslasaber · 7 months ago

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FRIENDLY FIRE ──── captain rex.

SUMMARY | Newly knighted and unaccustomed to combat, you’re suddenly given your first assignment on the shadowy world of Umbara. Waiting on the planet’s surface is the start of a mission filled with death and deception—and the companionship of someone whose smile you never thought you’d fall for.

PAIRING | Captain Rex x female Jedi!reader

A/N | look i'm in love with this man, i simply Could Not help myself from falling in love with him, and i felt the need to live vicariously through reader insert fics, so here we are (don't ask me why they sent two generals in place of one, it's for the purpose of the fic). also, the reader is female, and i've decided some details such as former master (OC) home planet, and name (because i despise using y/n). everything else is up to you!

WARNINGS | fluff, angst because this is the umbara arc, SLOW BURN, star wars curses, death (no major characters), blood/gore, suggestive themes. the whole shabang.

STATUS: WIP | TAGLIST | Last Updated: May 13, 2024

──── CHAPTER ONE

SUMMARY | after landing on the umbaran surface, you butt heads with your fellow general—but get along swimmingly with your temporary clone captain.

WORD COUNT | 3.9k

WARNINGS | combat/action, mentions of injury + death, krell being a bitch, reader with a name instead of y/n because i hate it

──── CHAPTER TWO

SUMMARY | The mission continues, and with it, your growing suspicion of Krell’s authoritarian methods. But the troopers relying on you—including Rex—lead you in the right direction: one of unyielding kindness, even when it’s hard.

WORD COUNT | 3.7k

WARNINGS | Combat/action, mentions of injury & death, Krell being a bitch as usual, gender neutral use of the term “sir,” gratuitous use of Mando’a, and one (1) curse word. Also, a Shakespeare reference because I’m a historian & couldn’t help myself.

──── CHAPTER THREE

COMING SOON!

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awkward-tension-art · 4 months ago

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Misc. Clones x Twi'lek!Reader

I’ve had this idea in my head for a while, so….enjoy?

Cw: Twi’lek stereotyping, Speciesism, reader is a twi’lek, gender neutral pronouns, reader is falsely accused in the last set

Minors DNI (even though theres no smut)

501st Legion:

“Hey tail-head! Why not come here and give me a dance?”

You paused in what you were doing, turning to stare at the one who said such a thing.

He was wearing white armor, and clearly a shiny.

Rex

Ex-fucking-cuse me?

Rex is going to step between you and the shiny, helmet off and clearly pissed.

“Care to repeat that, trooper?”

His glare is steady. He’s not going to raise his voice or shout but by GOD if looks could kill.

The shiny is going to start tripping over his words to apologize but Rex isn’t having any of it

“You see that gunship over there? You’re scrubbing the entirety of it with your toothbrush. Now get moving.”

He isn’t having ANY of that shit in his legion.

Speciesism? Not in his fucking house.

After the shiny is hauling ass, he’s going to check on you.

“I’m sorry, cyare. I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen again.”

Rex isn’t a fool. He’s traveled all around the galaxy. He's worked with General Secura. He’s well aware of the stereotypes surrounding your people.

He won’t tell you, but whenever someone says any sort of twi-lek slur within earshot, he’s making them run laps around the Resolute.

Fives

He’s going to be speechless for a solid second.

Someone??? Just said that??? To his mesh’la?

Oh fuck no.

Fives is going to get in the shiny’s face and just growl, “You have some balls, rookie.”

This is an ARC trooper who is not above breaking some rules.

One of those rules is putting a shiny in their place

Fives is going to push them back hard enough to make them stumble, “Say it again and I'll throw you out of an airlock.”

Once the shiny had gotten the message and rushed away, Fives will drape an arm around you

He’ll peck your cheek, “They shouldn’t bother you again, mesh’la.”

Fives finds you to be incredible, but he knows that there will be individuals who have opinions on you just because of the stereotypes surrounding twi-leks.

He’ll definitely get in the face of anyone who gives you a hard time.

After sometime, it becomes pretty well known that Fives’ S/O isn’t to be messed with.

Kix

The medic is less confrontational.

He also knows you can handle yourself, but he’ll cast a glance your way to see if your alright

If you're ignoring the shiny and moving on, he will too.

But if you look uncomfortable/upset that’s when he’ll say something

“Just ignore them,” He tries his best with comfort, but he knows you shouldn’t HAVE to ignore such words.

If the shiny says something else to you, that's when he’ll confront them.

“If you don’t walk away, I just might forget to give you painkillers when you get shot in the next battle.”

That tends to shut the shinies up. Afterall, pissing off the medic is a bad idea

Once you're alone, Kix will put a comforting hand on your shoulder.

While he hates the twi’lek stereotype, he knows he can’t really say anything to make it go away. This is most likely a constant background noise in your life, and that won’t magically disappear in a day.

Though, he will go to Rex and tell him what happened. Kix can’t change the whole galaxy but he can at least make the 501st more welcoming

Jesse

He thinks it's a joke at first, maybe some playful ribbing.

Afterall, he does the same with his own brothers.

But one look at your face and he’s snapped into gear.

“Good one, brother!” The ARC trooper will put his arm over the shiny’s shoulder, “I got a better one.”

Jesse will lean in close, “If you say something like that again, I’ll personally make you swallow your own teeth, got it?”

He says this with a smile.

At first the shiny thinks HE’S joking, but then Jesse’s grip gets tighter, and his smile is gone.

“I mean it.”

Once the shiny is gone, he’s going to kiss you.

He’s another one who will go to Rex. This isn’t something your lover wants you to deal with, especially from his own brothers.

He expects better from them. Even if they're a shiny

If it happens again, that's when Jesse makes good on his threats.

He’s an ARC trooper. He didn’t get the rank by looking pretty.

He also gets a reputation of being protective, so the next batch of shinies that join the 501st already know to be respectful.

Clone Force 99

“Hey, tail-head, why don’t you and I go somewhere and you can show me some of those twi’lek dances up close?”

You sighed, looking back to see a bounty hunter of some sort with a disgusting grin on their face.

Omega was next to you, brow furrowed, “Tail-head? Why’d they call you that?”

Hunter

“Oh shut it.” is his first response.

If the bounty hunter opens their mouth again, Hunter's second response is to throw a punch.

This is the man that brought his fists to a food fight. His first reaction will be to silence the bounty hunter, his second is to shut their mouth in a physical way.

Yea, he’s not above assault.

Once the stranger is on the ground, that’s when Hunter speaks again

“Think twice before you say something stupid next time.”

He’s going to give you a concerned look and put a hand on your shoulder

“You ok, Cyare?”

He’s also aware of the stereotype surrounding twi-leks, and he won’t let anyone give you a hard time.

He kneels next to Omega and essentially teaches her what stereotypes are

He emphasizes that they’re wrong, and she shouldn’t ever assume things based on stereotypes

Anyone who says ‘tail-head’ in his vicinity they’re losing teeth.

He’s aware violence isn’t going to change opinions, but he isn’t going to stand for anyone throwing slurs at you

Hunter cares for you so much, he just wants you to feel comfortable and safe.

Wrecker

He doesn’t think those vile words are being thrown at you at first. He’ll look to you for confirmation.

When it finally clicks, he stands between you and the stranger. He doesn’t even need to say anything, just glares down at them.

After the bounty hunter gets the hint, Wrecker will turn to you and Omega.

“You can’t say that again, ok ‘mega? That’s a bad insult to twi’leks.”

He doesn’t freak out or draw attention to what Omega parrotted. He’s well aware she’s a kid and doesn't entirely know better.

Wrecker may be a bit dense at times, but he’s not stupid.

He knows exactly what the stranger was getting at saying such things to you.

“Good thing they’re gone, right mesh’la?” He’ll ask, holding your face.

He puts an arm around you and the three of you head back to the ship.

He likes to act as your protector. He knows you can handle yourself, but he just likes to feel like he's protecting you. Afterall you’re precious to him.

His heart breaks if you tell him this has happened before.

He is UNHAPPY that this is something you deal with.

He knows the twi’lek stereotype exists, it’s just…different when it's you.

Honesty, he’ll take this to heart and step-in if he sees something like this happen to another twi’lek.

He’s not going to be a bystander anymore. And Omega definitely learns from his example.

Tech

“Well, that is entirely unnecessary.”

He won’t pick a fight. He thinks it’s best to ignore instigators.

He also knows that arguing or snapping at the bounty hunter may make things worse

He’ll grab your hand and lead you and Omega away

If the stranger follows, he’ll turn a corner, put you and omega behind him and set his blaster on stun

Once the bounty hunter turns the corner, Tech will shoot them.

“There.” He says, putting his blaster away, “Shouldn’t bother us anymore.”

Once you three are back at the ship, he’ll kiss your forehead before speaking to Omega

“Tail-head is a slur to twi’lek individuals. It’s supposed to insult someone's lekku. You must never say it again.”

Tech is very much aware of both the stereotypes and their origin.

If someone gives you a hard time or throws more insults at you, he’s not going to stand for it.

He has very little patience for ignorance.

Echo

Barely stops himself from throwing hands instantly.

“You want to say that again?” He’s going to get in the bounty hunter's face very quickly, “Say it again. I dare you.”

Echo is a damn ARC trooper. He can make the stranger eat their words.

But, he’ll hold back, for your sake.

If the bounty hunter doesn’t back down, he casts a glance at you.

Give the greenlight? It's a fight.

You want to move on and forget this happened? He backs down.

He’ll return to your side and just start grumbling, “Ignorant asshole…if they open their mouth again, I swear…”

He gets really upset about this. And he knows it wasn’t the first time nor will it be the last time this happens to you.

When you're not within earshot, he’ll explain to Omega why ‘tail-head’ is not something to be repeated.

Echo is patient with her. She’s just a child.

But like Tech, he had no patience for ignorance from anyone else.

Will snap at anyone who says ‘tail-head’ or other twi’lek insults within earshot.

Crosshair

While everyone has some form of restraint, Crosshair does not.

It’s an immediate brawl.

His patience is a negative 2 when it comes to this type of stuff.

The bounty hunter hadn’t even blinked before Crosshair knocked them down.

He’s pretty silent, returning to your side and putting an arm around you.

He’ll look at Omega and just say a simple, “Don’t say that again.”

Pretty blunt to be honest.

Crosshair is protective. More so than even Wrecker.

His mind is already running, analyzing your surroundings and seeing who else may make snide remarks.

Afterall, if one person was able to say something like that, how many more are there?

He’ll ask how often this happens.

Depending on your answer he’s either slightly annoyed or pissed.

No one should be giving you a hard time simply because you're twi’lek.

Once back at the ship, he’s going to keep a hand or arm on you in any way possible.

He loves you, and he doesn’t want you to ever feel ashamed or bad for being twi’lek.

212th Battalion:

“Hey, I didn’t know the 212th got its own personal dancer,” The shiny slid next to you, “What do you say? Wanna give the boys and I a moral booster?”

You blinked, eyes wide. That was an entirely new one…

Cody:

After Ryloth, he thought his men would behave better than that. So he’s genuinely caught off guard.

“You have 2 seconds to take back what you said, rookie.” He snaps, glaring.

After a stumbling apology is given to you, Cody continues with his death stare, “I expect better from you. You will treat them and every other alien species with respect. Do I make myself clear?”

Very much not happy about this.

If one shiny said something like that to you, who else stereotypes twi’leks?

It’s not just about you, Cody really expects much better from the 212th.

If one person acts like a moron, it reflects badly on the 212th, General Kenobi and the GAR.

They are soldiers of the Republic in a very diverse galaxy.

However, he’ll turn his attention back to you and grab your hand.

“I’ll make sure that never happens again, I promise.”

He’s incredibly sweet about it.

Boil:

Instant shame.

This is how he used to sound!?

“Hey!” He’ll snap at the shiny, “Show some damn respect.”

In a way, he’s trying to compensate for his ignorance earlier in the war.

Before Ryloth, he used to throw around ‘tail-head’ all the time. Something he looks back at in shame.

It was Numa, and now you that made him realize how much of a bastard he used to be.

If the shiny persists, Boil will get up in his face, “Back off. Now.”

If something like this happens again, Boil will go to Cody.

Like the commander, Boil also expects better from the 212th

But also, he wants you to feel comfortable among his brothers.

“I’m sorry,” He won’t exactly look at you. He knows the shiny’s behavior isn’t his fault, but he can’t help but feel shame and embarrassment anyway.

A bit later, he’ll hold your hand and just admit, “I used to be like him. Ignorant and self-centered…I’m sorry.”

Boil loves you so dearly. He just wanted to be honest.

He respects however you react

Waxer

Another one who feels shame.

Yea he didn’t throw around ‘tail-head’ or see twi’leks as lesser, but he stood by while others did.

After Ryloth and Numa, he doesn’t stand by anymore.

“Oh shut up!” He’ll snap, “Go throw yourself out of an airlock.”

Waxer is a learner. He’s learned more about your people. Your history. Your culture.

He's also learned the stereotypes. Where they've come from.

So, he knows what the shiny is getting at by speaking to you.

this guy painted Numa on his helmet. He’s definitely not going to let anyone disrespect you in any way shape or form because of your species.

He won’t get physical, but he will threaten.

Once the shiny is gone, he’ll put a hand on your cheek, “I’m sorry. I’ll knock some sense into him later, I promise.”

Coruscant Guard

“Hey!”

Your Coruscant Guard lover was walking you home when someone grabbed your shoulder and turned you around.

“Guard! Arrest this twi’lek thief! I know they stole my credits straight out of my pocket!” The pantoran woman yelled right in your face.

When you argued, she just yelled louder, “All twi’leks are conniving thieves! Give me back my credits!”

Of course you didn’t steal anything, but this pantoran seemed convinced that you did. All because you were twi’lek.

Fox

The headache was immediate.

“Ma’am, I assure you they haven't gone anywhere near you.”

He wants to defend you more staunchly, but he’s the commander of the CG.

There’s only so much he can do without risking reprimand.

If the pantoran persists, he’ll get rougher, but remain professional.

“Ma’am if you don’t walk away, I will arrest you for wasting Coruscant Guard resources.”

The best he can do, frankly.

This isn’t the first time he’s seen an innocent twi’lek be accused of a crime.

It happens more than he’d wish to admit.

Honestly, he hates it, but there's protocol in place and he's obligated to follow.

But he knows you're innocent. You were beside him the entire time.

Plus, he loves you. He’s not going to search you.

If she keeps giving you a hard time, Fox will step forward, “Last chance, I will throw you in a cell for the night if you don’t keep walking.”

Usually that works.

He’ll keep you close until you're safely home. He won’t talk about it if you don’t.

Though, he does end up telling the guard to be more mindful of random accusations against twi’leks.

Thorn

“Oh here we go…”

He’s…not taking this woman seriously at all.

“I have seen no such thing. Please make a report to the police.” He’ll just deadpan before walking away.

Petty crime such as a pickpocket is 1-800-not-his-job.

He’ll drape an arm over your shoulder and pull you closer to him.

Like Fox, he’s seen people blame twi’leks solely based on stereotypes

And his response is always the same, “Either show me solid evidence or take it to the police.”

If you say this isn’t the first time, Thorn kinda squeezes your shoulder.

“Don’t worry, love.” He’ll whisper, “the boys and I won’t let anyone accuse you of anything.”

He makes good on the promise. If anyone tries to give you a hard time for being twi’lek, there's usually a Coruscant Guard that steps in.

A partner to one of the Guard is well taken care of.

Hound:

He’s going to look at the woman, then look at you, then look at Grizzer.

He whistles once, and Grizzer licks your hand.

Grizzer just likes you, this isn’t any sort of actual search.

“They don’t have your credits. Move along or go to a police droid.”

Since the massiff didn’t ‘find’ anything, the pantoran woman leaves you alone.

“Happen often?” Hound is going to ask you quietly when the two of you start walking again.

When you nod, he doesn’t respond.

Like the rest of the guard, he knows your people often get falsely accused of crimes.

Having a massiff with a good sense of smell makes it quick and easy to find out if they actually committed the alleged crime.

More often than not, the falsely accused is innocent.

But he knows he can’t be with you all the time. You have your own jobs to do.

One minor fear of his is you getting accused and then thrown into a cell.

All because you are twi’lek

He knows his brothers won’t do such a thing, but police droids aren’t so flexible or understanding.

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cyarikasmoon · 7 months ago

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Rest Now

Bad Batch Hunter x reader

Summary: Hunter returns home after saying goodbye to Omega. *Set just after the Season 3 epilogue scene*

Pairing: Bad Batch Hunter x f!reader

Word Count: 1,539

Warnings: Bad Batch Season 3 spoilers, married Hunter, older hunter, fluff, comfort, cuddles, HUNTER DESERVES LOTS OF CUDDLES AND KISSES

Divider by @freesie-writes & @snotbuggle

A/N: I truly adore this show and just wanted to write a little piece for Hunter. He did so well and is such a good father figure for Omega. That epilogue meant everything to me. I wish we saw older Crosshair and Wrecker, but I'm also quite glad it was a final moment between those two. It was always meant to be them. I will love and cherish them forever.

I hope you all like this. It's a little rough and rushed, and it's just raw emotions being processed onto a page after the finale, but I still wanted to post! Enjoy! x

It’s almost sunrise when you wake up. You sleepily reach out, cold underneath the sheets, and you realise the familiar warmth of your husband is gone. Your eyes blink open with a frown as you pat the bed, almost to make sure he is actually gone. Sitting up in the bed, you blink blearily, taking in the room. It’s dark, but your eyes adjust quickly, the faint lighting of a new day approaching helping you see the dimly lit room. You roll over the bed gently, and you see his boots are gone, and his overshirt that he had left hanging over the edge of the bed last night.

The entire house is quiet, which almost makes you confident that Batcher is gone as well. You let out a soft whistle, a quick two-tone note. Nothing like the loud army shrill your husband does to call the lurker hound. When there is no distant sound of barking, no heavy pads of paws on the ground, you sigh softly.

Gently getting out of bed, you move to pull on your trousers and the quickest shirt being one of his thick, long sleeved ones. As you slip it on, you breathe in the smell of him and let your shoulders sag. It wasn’t normal for him to be gone this early. His side of the bed had been cold when you had felt it. He had been gone for hours. At least Batcher would be with him. You hope, anyway.

Pulling on a quick small pair of boots, she moves towards the door but pauses by the window as she hears voices outside. As she peers out, she sees Wrecker and Crosshair standing talking. Crosshair is almost silent with his words, speech always raspy and quiet but sharp. Wrecker, thinking he was being quiet, was still quite loud. But the early morning rays indicated it wasn't long till the residents of Pabu would awaken.

Crosshair strokes his chin gently, fingers brushing over the soft wisps of grey turning white hair. His hair finally growing back in revealed it to now finally be more silver white than the original grey it used to be back in the days of the Republic. Wrecker still stands tall, and the body is still accumulating so much muscle, but he looks softer, rounder. Years of enjoying and actually living life and eating good food. His lips are drawn into a tight line from where you can see, his jaw covered in a soft wiry fuzz of scruff - the start of a beard that is accentuated with fine white hairs now amidst the dark ones.

The flurry of quick hand movements between the two have you frowning before you all hear a distant bark. You glance through the window to the right. Coming up over the hill, the rising sun casts light across the path as the old lurker hound ambles up the street. Batcher picks up speed slightly as she spots Crosshair and Wrecker, forever excited to see them. It’s then you see your husband, not too far behind Batcher. He walks slowly, his head down slightly, but he looks up as he spots his brothers.

He seems to stand up straighter then as he notices them, almost instinctively falling back into the roll of Seagerant after so long. Crosshair gets up slowly from where he had knelt down to stroke Batcher, leaving his prosthetic hand to rest on the back of her neck as he faces Hunter. Wrecker’s eyes are full of apprehension as if he knows what Hunter is to tell them, but he desperately doesn't want it to be the case.

When Hunter reaches them, you watch as he simply nods his head and says a few words. The three brothers stand in silence for a moment. Whatever news he had just shared, it brings a sombre moment, but then Wrecker’s smiling. He makes a comment, followed by a booming laugh. Crosshair's face twists up into an amused smirk, and he replies with his own comment. Your husband says something else, and they fall silent for a moment. It’s then Crosshair takes a step forward and rests his hand on Hunter’s shoulder, and they share a look. Before anything can be said, Wrecker envelopes them into his arms, a signature crushing hug from the big man that has them all smiling and reminiscing.

Wrecker puts them down, and they all share a final smile. It’s then the old girl barks, and Crosshair rolls his eyes fondly, the hound sticks to his side, ready for her breakfast. They all seemed to nod and head off in their own separate ways. A new day is beginning after all. As Hunter turns towards your home, you move and gently open the door and lean in the doorway and smile at him.

He glances at you and pauses for a moment, a fond smile on his face before he continues to walk forward to you. Like second instinct, you hold your arms open and let him hold you close and tight against him.

“Hi.” You whisper to him.

“Hey.” He responds softly. His voice reserved slightly, like when he’s lost in thought.

“Hey, come back to me.” You whisper softly, leaning back to cup his tattooed side of his face, fingers brushing over his dark beard.

His eyes tell you everything. They’re tired from being up so early. They’re full of love and adoration for you. They reflect peace. They show sadness. You smile sadly then, as you realise. This is the look of a father who has just had to let go and say goodbye. No matter how much he doesn’t wish for it to be the case.

“Omega?” You ask softly, stepping back, so you both gravitate back into your home.

He nods then. A small smile plays on his lips, his eyes softening.

“She left first thing in the early hours of the morning. Thought she could sneak away.” He chuckles, a gruff noise in his throat.

“She spoke about the Rebellion so often. It was only a matter of time before she would want to go help.” You stroke his cheek as you watch his melancholic expression.

“I know…” He breaks away so he can sit and take his boots off, and you do the same. You both leave them by the door, and he rises to stand in front of you again.

You hold your hand to him, and he instantly takes it.

“You’re a wonderful father, Hunter. I know it. Your brothers know it, and Omega knows it.” You whisper to him, taking both of his hands.

His thumbs stroke along your knuckles in a soothing motion for himself and for you. His left thumb focuses on running across your ring. He raises his eyes to look into yours.

“You’ve raised her wonderfully. She is such a bright, beautiful young woman now, and the Rebellion is lucky to have her.” You say and then grin. “You practically prepared her for this.”

He huffs and rolls his eyes fondly at you, lips quirked up into a small smile.

“I was once told battle droids were easier to handle compared to raising a kid.” He muses. “They weren't wrong.”

“Hunter, love, she’ll be fine. She knows you’ll come if you need her.”

“I’d be there in a heartbeat.” He promises, and his voice is so strong and earnest. You could never not believe him. The sergeant shines through in that moment.

You lean forward and kiss him softly, and his hands move to hold you close. Your foreheads then meet in a keldabe kiss, and you smile at him.

“C’mon old man, let's go back to bed for a bit.” You tease him with a grin.

“Who are you calling old man? The days are just starting.” He rolls his eyes and tries to hide his smile.

“And you’ve hardly slept.” You argue back, nudging your forehead against his. “C’mon, a little nap won’t hurt anyone.”

You lead him to the bedroom and smile as you help him take his overshirt off and drape it back over the edge of the bed. Laying down, he holds you close in his arms and still keeps his eyes open and watching you.

“You’ve done so good, love.” You whisper and lean forward, pressing gentle kisses across his face. “It’s okay to miss her. It’s normal. We all will miss her. But she’ll be okay. She’ll come back one day. Now you can rest.”

HIs eyes close as he embraces your touch. His breathing relaxes.

“Rest love, I’ve got you.” You whisper as you watch him drift off. “We’ve got you. You can rest now.”

You press a final kiss to his brow, right below his bandana, before you lay your head on the pillow next to him. The sun has risen now. You can hear the residents of Pabu begin their day. Birds in the distance. You swear even without enhanced senses like Hunter, you can hear the ocean. You look at him one final time before your eyes drift close. It’s a new day. They're here and alive. How exciting it is to live. To live and to love. To do whatever they want.

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thegreatwicked · 10 months ago

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Padawan

May I proudly present....! My first reader insert, I wrote this for all you lovelies who follow/like/reblog/comment on my stuff. This is for you! Obi-Wan/You/Reader Insert. Master/Padawan, SMUT. SMUT. SMUT. That is all. Or is it? Should I write more???

Summary: After disappearing from your Master for thirteen years, the Clone Wars has brought you back to the same planet and a brush with death back into each other's lives. But you’re not his Padawan anymore, you’re a knight, right? No, you’ll always be his Padawan, and he, your Master.

~~~

He wasn't a fool; he had sensed your presence the moment you set foot on the planet, like a blinding light or the ring of a bell only he could hear. Of course, he could feel you—how could he not? At least, he could feel you for a while, long enough for him to be certain that he didn’t imagine it in a post-battle haze. You were here.

The first time your force signature vanished, his heart skipped a beat, and a cold rush of panic coursed through his veins and a horrible cold weight settled in his stomach, making him feel like he may be sick. Determined and distracted, he abandoned his conversation in a mad sprint. Searching. He tracked down anyone who had been alongside you on the battlefield, questioning them relentlessly, not caring how he came off as slightly unhinged as opposed to his normal calm and stoic manner, but each inquiry was met with disappointment and vacant glances.

It wasn't until he caught sight of the familiar sight of a blue and white lekku of Ahsoka that a glimmer of hope ignited within him, brighter than any lightsaber. Ahsoka, Anakin’s padawan. She was seemingly unaffected and greeted him with a smile as though she were seeing a dear friend or distant relative, and that in itself was calming. If Ahsoka wasn't distressed, it meant one of two things: either she hadn't heard of your demise, or, more optimistically, you were still alive.

A wave of relief washed over Obi-Wan as Ahsoka confirmed that you were indeed unharmed and engaged in another mission, your paths had briefly crossed long enough for friendly banter involving drinks later. You were not only alive but also hailed as a hero. Your proficiency with the light your orange, lightsaber had garnered admiration, and the news of your success spread across the battlefield.

As he processed this new information, Obi-Wan couldn't shake the questions that haunted him since the day you disappeared, thirteen years ago. What happened? Where had you been? Why had you left without a word?

Had he been too strict, too distant? He paced in his quarters, the weight of uncertainty pressing on his shoulders. Thirteen years of silence, and now he learned you were not only alive but thriving in the chaos of war. Had he been oblivious to your struggles and triumphs as a padawan? Had he overlooked something crucial?

His distress and confusion fueled his determination to find you, to understand the reasons behind your disappearance. The bond between Padawan and Master was meant to endure, but his had been severed without warning or explanation. The quest for answers became a relentless pursuit, driven by a mix of concern, guilt, and an unyielding desire to reconnect with the one he had lost.

Ilum's gift had bestowed upon you a most unique kyber crystal, weaving the essence of the Force into your arsenal—a radiant burnt orange lightsaber. Obi-Wan swelled with pride, recognizing that your exceptional skills not only ensured your safety but also turned the tide amid battle.

Sharing the tale with Ahsoka, Obi-Wan recounted the moments of uncertainty, the fear that gripped him when the disturbance in the Force signaled potential danger. Ahsoka responded with a knowing smile and a playful eye roll, acknowledging your tendency to dive headfirst into peril and emerge victorious as if it was the only possible outcome. Relief washed over Obi-Wan, mirrored by a grateful grin exchanged with Ahsoka, reassured that you navigated the challenges in your own distinctive way.

“She’s gotten quite good at cloaking, hasn’t she?” And with those words, all his nervous energy fell away.

The reality settled, Obi-Wan marveled at the intricacy of your Force signature concealment. Your mastery of the technique was so impeccable that it eluded even his well-honed Jedi senses. In moments of deep meditation, he attempted to reach out, seeking the familiar touch of your intangible presence, only to encounter a mysterious void. Your cloak, flawlessly executed, had transformed you into a Ghost—a moniker that, suddenly, filled him with pride for your evolving abilities.

Days melted into an endless procession of battles, the smoke of war shrouding the fates of those who entered its domain. Unable to locate you through the Force, Obi-Wan sought solace in updates from Ahsoka and the soldiers who served under your command, the Echo Squadron they were called. 'The Ghost,' a symbol of your evasive prowess, deepened his admiration for the padawan who had become an elusive figure amid the chaos of war.

Despite the promising news, Obi-Wan Kenobi's frustration deepened. Thirteen years had passed since he last saw you, his once-promising Padawan and the silence surrounding your disappearance gnawed at him. Pacing his quarters, he questioned the events that had led to this point. You had excelled in your Jedi trials, proving yourself worthy of knighthood, and yet, without a word, you vanished from his life.

The lack of closure weighed heavily on him. Had he failed you as a master? The memories of your training together, the countless missions you undertook side by side, haunted him. Had he missed something? Obi-Wan couldn't fathom why you chose to sever ties so abruptly and so completely. The bond between a Padawan and a master was meant to transcend time and distance even the Force itself.

His mind danced through potential reasons. Perhaps he had been too stern, too demanding, but he couldn't recall any unresolved conflicts or bitter disagreements. It fueled his restless pacing, so much he thought he might wear a hole in the floor. The war had claimed many, and the unpredictability of life in those times made such disappearances common. Yet, the absence of a farewell, a simple goodbye, perplexed him.

Obi-Wan stopped, staring at the transmission device on his desk. He contemplated reaching out through the Force, attempting to sense your presence, but a lingering doubt held him back. If you wished to remain hidden, he knew the Force would not easily reveal your location.

With a heavy sigh, he admitted to himself that he needed answers. The Jedi Master reluctantly accepted that, without your cooperation, he might never unravel the mystery of your departure. The internal conflict played across his features as he grappled with the uncertainty, the pain of an unanswered question tugging at his Jedi calm. ~~~

Obi-Wan flickered back into his senses, and he’d had enough, your Force signature, elusive and soft, presented a challenge to pinpoint. Yet, now seemed as opportune a moment as any to seek you out. He anticipated that the moment he reached out, you would sense it, and the possibility lingered that you might vanish as swiftly as you'd appeared. Despite the odds, he had to try.

For days, throughout his search, panic clawed at him as your signature exhibited erratic behavior—flickering, softening, going dim and occasionally blazing intensely. Unsettled, he worried about your well-being. Had something happened with your men or yourself? When news of Echo Squadron’s return came across his com, he decided on a more direct approach. The uncertainty fueled his urgency as he raced through the compound's halls, drawing closer to potential answers.

The revelations unfolded when the heavy blast doors swung open, and a chill gripped Obi-Wan's heart revealing a fractured company of clone troopers stumbling in, wearied from the throes of war.

Amidst the chaos, Obi-Wan's voice cut through the clamor, a determined command in battle's aftermath.

"You! Where is your Commander?" he bellowed to the nearest trooper. The man, a walking testament to the horrors he'd witnessed, appeared as if he had traversed through realms of death and fire. His gaze held the weight of someone who had glimpsed into the abyss, far beyond the immediate surroundings.

Obi-Wan called to the trooper, attempting to shake him from his trance, but it was evident that shock had claimed the soldier, rendering him useless for any immediate assistance. A surge of frustration gripped Obi-Wan, that familiar icy sensation taking root within him, he could stand it no more.

"Where is she?" he shouted, his voice cutting through the lingering echoes of combat. Heads turned in response, and a battle-worn trooper, fatigue etched on his face, stepped forward.

"General Kenobi," the trooper addressed him with a weary acknowledgment, capturing Obi-Wan's attention. With practiced discipline, the trooper began to relay the grim news that had been haunting his thoughts.

A surprise attack, swift and ruthless, caught the entire company off guard, unleashing chaos and claiming numerous lives. Amidst the chaos, your unwavering courage emerged as the linchpin that prevented even greater losses. The trooper, his voice tinged with awe, spoke your name with a reverence that echoed through the hushed murmurs of your fellow soldiers. Their expressions carried profound respect, acknowledging the pivotal role you played in turning the tide of the ambush.

The trooper went on to reveal a tale of resilience and determination. The men who managed to return from the battleground owed their lives to you. Your strategic prowess, coupled with an indomitable will, had become the catalyst for the survival of those under your command. The atmosphere grew heavy with gratitude and admiration as the trooper unfolded the narrative, and the unspoken bond between soldiers resonated with the unyielding spirit that defined your leadership.

“Injured?” Obi-wan breathed not wanting to believe it, “How badly?”

The trooper wore a solemn look before explaining; three. You had been hit by three blaster bolts and thrown back in an explosion that you had only barely managed to contain with your force shield, Obi-wan felt as though the breath had been punched out of his lungs. Murmurs of agreement sounded with troopers calling you a hero, and they would go into battle with you any day.

The trooper initiated the playback of the security holo, and the room was enveloped in the eerie glow of the holographic display. The flickering images revealed a chaotic battlefield, where your orange lightsaber danced in a brilliant display of skill, deflecting blaster bolts and cutting through the air. The scene, however, took a grim turn as the explosion unfolded.

The trooper's narration painted a vivid picture of your unwavering determination. Your face, illuminated by the glow of the lightsaber, displayed a fierce concentration as you called upon the Force. The protective barrier you conjured was a testament to the immense power you harnessed. Smoke, flames, and debris relentlessly assaulted the shield, crashing against it with an intensity that seemed insurmountable.

As the holographic depiction continued, the strain on your shield became evident. Each impact pushed you back, a slow and relentless retreat under the overwhelming assault. The trooper's commentary reflected the increasing tension in the room, capturing the collective breaths held by those witnessing the event. Finally, with a heart-wrenching collapse, the protective barrier gave way, and your motionless form was violently thrown backward by the force of the explosion, resembling a discarded puppet.

The disturbing imagery etched itself into the minds of those present, leaving a haunting impression of the sacrifice you had made for your comrades. The room fell silent as the holographic display faded, and the gravity of the moment lingered in the air.

“Where is she?” Obi-Wan’s voice a hoarse whisper.

The troopers exchanged puzzled glances, their expressions shifting from a state of surprise to one of guarded curiosity. Why did General Kenobi, the renowned Jedi leader, express such concern about the whereabouts of a single Jedi, especially one who hadn't reported directly to him? The very nature of Jedi loyalty was well-known, but this level of interest seemed unusual, especially considering General Kenobi had never spoken your name and had no prior connection with your company.

In the austere world of warrior monks, emotional attachments were often deemed a distraction, a sentiment echoed by the Jedi Code. The troopers, accustomed to the stoic and disciplined demeanor of their Jedi commanders, found it perplexing that General Kenobi, known for his wisdom and strategic brilliance, was showing a level of personal investment that transcended the typical chain of command.

As the trooper spoke, the realization hit Obi-Wan like a sudden gust of cold wind. The men, once indifferent, now wore expressions of awe and respect. He had been the mentor to their leader, the padawan of the legendary General Kenobi, and none of them had been aware. It was a revelation that changed the dynamics within the group.

“I apologize, General Kenobi, we didn’t know.”

Obi-Wan's confusion deepened. How was it possible that you had never spoken of your training under him? He couldn't fathom why you would erase any mention of your master, especially considering the strong bonds that typically formed between Jedi and their mentors.

“What do you mean? Has she never spoken of it?”

The trooper shook his head solemnly. His name had never left your lips. There was no connection with Obi-Wan Kenobi, and your silence regarding your master left him perplexed and troubled. What had transpired to make you erase the very existence of your training and relationship with him from your history? It was a mystery that left him with an unsettling sense of guilt and regret.

Dread settled over Obi-Wan as the clone recounted the events in the medical wing. The last remnants of the company had made it back, battered and bruised, their fallen comrades in tow. However, you were conspicuously absent, having been transported to the medical wing for intensive care due to the injuries you sustained. Without a moment's hesitation, Obi-Wan set his sights on the medical facilities.

In his urgency to find you, Obi-Wan maneuvered through the bustling corridors, barely sparing a glance for those he unintentionally bumped into. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the low hum of medical machinery. The chaos within the medical wing mirrored the turmoil in Obi-Wan's mind as he scanned the rows of occupied beds and the busy healers tending to the wounded.

He sought your name among the patients but found no trace. Panic tightened its grip on him, as each unoccupied bed intensified his worry. In the organized chaos, Obi-Wan grappled with the fear that he might be too late, that he had lost you in the vast sea of casualties.

"She’s alright. She was moved out of intensive treatment yesterday; she’s recuperating in private quarters on deck five."

Obi-wan's tension eased at Ahsoka's reassurance. The weight that had settled on his shoulders lifted as he absorbed the news. Ahsoka's brief but impactful update became a lifeline, giving him direction in the chaos. Gratitude filled his eyes as he nodded, silently expressing his thanks. The urgency to find you intensified, but now armed with information, he promptly set off towards the turbo-lift, leaving Ahsoka with the unspoken promise that he would find you.

Inside the lift, the monotonous hum did little to alleviate his restlessness, in fact, it made them worse. The usually swift elevators felt unusually slow on this particular day, and he entertained the thought that taking the stairs might have been a faster option. As he impatiently waited unconsciously tapping his boot, the seconds felt like an eternity. When the doors finally opened on the desired floor, he bolted out, the urgency in his steps reflecting as he raced down the corridor. This was the most cardio he’d had in days. His eyes darted around erratically, scanning the room names, and he eventually found yours.

Adorned next to the door like a beacon, and with a mix of hope and trepidation, he pressed the call button, but only silence answered back. He pushed it again. Then again. And each time the ominous silence was his only response. Mad with anxiety he pushed to override the security lock, a move usually foreign to his respectful nature.

The door slid open, and his heart stilled, there you were on a sofa bathed in daylight from the small window close to the ceiling. Relief surged through him, but it was fleeting; his heart remained uneasy and it would until he saw some indication that you were truly alive. Striding purposefully, he crossed the room, the force signature around you echoing your weakened condition like a medical monitoring device would communicate a pulse or heartbeat.

The aftermath of battle left its gritty mark across your features—bacta patches firmly affixed your shoulder and upper arm worked to make you whole though the tendrils of bruising could be seen around the borders. The marks on your skin were like a gritty painting, telling the vivid story of explosions, blaster fire, and flying debris. Scratches added rough brushstrokes to your face, tracing the chaotic path of the battlefield. Minor burns left fiery imprints on your neck, marking close encounters with searing heat. Bruises, like somber echoes, formed a mosaic on your arms and hands, narrating the intense dance with projectile-like debris.

Despite this, you lay in peaceful repose on your side, facing him, eyes closed in sleep; an elusive serenity amidst the chaos of war. Your head was cradled in your arms, one leg casually folded beneath you while the other stretched out, a blanket loosely entwined around your legs and gathered at your waist. As he crouched down to study you, he sought the familiar essence of the padawan he remembered. The passing of thirteen years had left its mark in the longer strands of hair and the refined, soft features that shaped you into a woman, a stark departure from the Padawan he once guided. No longer bound by the apprentice title, you had evolved into a Jedi Knight—a seasoned warrior.

A close call with death, all for the sake of your men who deeply admired you, almost snuffed out your light. But, your command and growing mastery of the Force made him prouder than ever at that moment.

A subtle shift in your sleep saw a strand of your hair falling gently over your face, just over your nose each little breath lifting it slightly, It brought a smile to his face, and for the first time in days, he felt a sense of tranquility, his pulse calming in the warmth of that precious moment. The chaos of the war outside felt distant within the confines of the cozy room.

Unbeknownst to him, his hand had instinctively reached out, delicately brushing the strand of hair away from your face, inadvertently prompting you to stir in your sleep, accompanied by a soft, sleepy groan.

Wakefulness pulled you from the warm embrace of sleep and instinctively you stretched, a grimace of pain crossed your lips as you moved, prompting you to recoil slightly into a ball once more. Then your eyelashes fluttered open gradually met by crystal blue eyes, quickly filling with a storm of fatigue, confusion, and curiosity.

"Hello, young one," he uttered, his voice a gentle murmur rich with affection, and his smile extended to the corners of his eyes, creating subtle crinkles.

"Obi-Wan?"

"Yes, it's Obi-Wan."

Was this a dream? It didn't feel like one. You scanned the room, casting a questioning glance at your surroundings and the unfolding reality. Your expression wasn't one of pleasure upon seeing him; instead, it bore confusion and distance, as if you were looking at a stranger. He couldn't ignore the palpable sense of disconnect. Hoping for a misunderstanding, that perhaps you had maintained secrecy for a mission, he observed the passing seconds, realizing it wasn't as simple as that.

"What day is it?"

Not the question he had expected, but he was so relieved to hear your voice, that it didn’t matter.

"Primday. You've been in medical for two days, released from the intensive treatment wing just yesterday."

Thirteen years melted away, and those familiar, brilliant blue eyes, so kind and warm. Nostalgia washed over you, and you couldn't deny the yearning for the comforting presence of your former master.

However, as the waves of reminiscence subsided, the reality you'd been avoiding for thirteen years resurfaced. Obi-Wan's knowledge about your condition, coupled with his intense worry, unsettled you, you had to get away from him. Sitting up was a struggle, and as you finally managed to rise, the blanket slipped away, laying bare the toll of battle on your body—a sight that triggered anger, and concern in Obi-Wan's eyes.

A large portion of your left thigh was concealed beneath a sizable bacta patch, and the same superficial injuries that littered the rest of your body continued, it seemed no part of you had been spared, your less-than-optimal state caught him off guard.

“You should be in a bacta tank! They released you like this?” Obi-Wan was flabbergasted, the worry etched on his face evident. “Come, I’m taking you back to the medical wing.”

“Absolutely not!” Your bold assertion caught him off guard and he stopped, there had only been a handful of times where you had defied your master. You adjusted your tone to a more calm and measured cadence before adding, “The bacta tanks are at capacity, and there are far more injured than I. –I’m fine. Just scratches.”

He blinked rapidly, his concern escalating. “Scratches? These are NOT scratches.” Oblivious to your state of undress, he gestured to your leg. “You were nearly killed! I saw the holo myself!”

Feeling the weight of responsibility on your shoulders, you searched for any excuse to put more space between you and your master. Ignoring his pleas for you to stay put, you tried to stand again, driven by your stubborn nature. It wasn't until Obi-Wan physically stepped in, restraining you, that you finally came to a stop.

“You can't go back like this,” he insisted, “You're in terrible shape, you need time to recover.”

You made a final attempt to push past him, but Obi-Wan wasn't having it. A firm but considerate hand on your chest gently pushed you back, and a wave of discomfort washed over you as the dull throb of your muscles crying out caught up with your exertions. Glancing to the side table, he spotted a hypo syringe, and without hesitation, he reached for it, eager to bring an end to your pain. However, you extended your hand and vehemently shook your head, intensifying his disbelief as you refused pain medication despite the evident discomfort you were in.

“I don’t need it,” you insisted, defiantly rejecting any relief for your pain. Obi-Wan couldn't fathom your refusal, considering the severity of your injuries.

“You were hit by three blaster bolts and blown up, and you refuse pain medicine?” His voice rose unintentionally, a mix of concern and frustration evident. He shook his head in disbelief, disappointed by your seemingly stubborn choices. He set the syringe down and rose turning away from you, hands on his hips trying to make sense of you but you’d never made it easy on him.

“And you expected to make it down the hall, into the turbo life through the halls, and into the squad bay like this?” He gestured vaguely to you and huffed out a breath The internal conflict of caring for someone who refused care etched across his face and he shut his eyes in exasperation. “What am I to do with you?”

The room settled into a calm stillness, and he could feel the Force flowing gently, like a quiet river moving past him. Eager to offer support, he laid a comforting hand on your shoulder, connecting his own Force presence with yours. A tranquil hush filled the space as you both embraced the ancient practice, seeking solace for the aches and pains that lingered.

The room filled with the soothing hum of the Force, a brief moment of relief washing over you like waves tickling at your toes, easing the discomfort. The pain began to melt away, replaced by a comforting warmth. Yet, as soon as you felt his added touch, your eyes snapped open, and you jerked back abruptly cutting off both the Force connection and the physical contact. It was as if you pulled back as if the sensation burned you. Confusion widened his eyes, hurt creasing his handsome features. He lowered his head into his hands, his voice tinged with a tremor of pain as he grappled with the mystery of your sudden distance and coldness toward him.

"What have I done to you?"

His eyes closed in unbearable agony, and his head bowed forward, hair cascading over his face.

"How have I wronged you? In what way did I hurt you so profoundly that my own padawan refrains from uttering my name to her company, or anyone else? That she remains a secret, that no one knows she was mine?"

His?

An ocean of hurt filled those beautiful blue eyes as he looked up, and for the first time, he saw you gaze back at him and actually see him.

"Nothing, you did nothing. Obi-Wan I–"

Shaking your head, you reached out to him, but this time it was he who recoiled, taking several steps back, attempting to regain control over his faltering composure. Pain welled up within you, the knowledge that you tried to follow what you believed was right, what you were taught was right, and still it had caused harm.

"I must have done something to you for you to treat me this way." His voice carried a hint of indignation now. "Was I too harsh? Unjust? A cruel master? What did I do to make you harbor such hatred towards me?" Hate?

No, no, no. This was all wrong. What had you done?

"I don't hate you," You pleaded, your voice carrying the weight of regret. "I could never hate you, Obi-Wan."

"Oh? What else am I left to believe? One moment I'm watching you being knighted, the youngest of your clan, my heart swelling with pride at knowing the galaxy will never see another Jedi like you. And the next, you're just gone! No goodbye, no farewells, no communications, nothing. As if the years I trained you were of no consequence, as if the bond that follows a Padawan and Master throughout life meant nothing."

Your heart hurt, and you weren't sure which was more painful: the idea that he thought he had wronged you so much that you hated him, or the realization that you had hurt him and continued to do so.

"That's not what it was."

Your voice was meek, and you struggled to explain but it felt useless, the damage had ben done, by your hand. You had hoped to avoid this conversation, knowing there was only one inevitable outcome: the loss of your relationship with your master, forever. Yet fate seemed determined to unfold it now.

“Then what? What, padawan?”

As he closed the distance between you, your internal turmoil heightened. You clutched the blanket tighter around yourself, a feeble attempt to shield not just your body but the vulnerability you felt at that moment.

"Please, don't call me that."

You sank into the protection of the blanket, avoiding the term that carried memories of a time when things were simpler, a time you desperately wanted to distance yourself from. The weight of the past lingered in the air, leaving you exposed and uncertain about the path this conversation would take.

He seemed both confused and offended now. How could such an important name hold such bitterness for you?

“Padawan,” You flinched at hearing him speak the word in what felt like spite, each syllable caressed by his thick Coruscatnti accent.

“Look at me, padawan.” His commanding presence made it difficult to resist, but you couldn't bring yourself to meet his gaze, you just couldn’t. The last threads of resistance faded when he spoke as he had whenever you were in trouble, “You will obey your Master’s command,”

Of course, you would. You always would when he called, as instinctive a reaction to you as breathing. Painfully slowly, you looked up eyes still fighting it the whole time hoping he would understand without any further explanation, but stubbornness and snark was something the Great Negotiator was famed for, and he would not be denied any longer.

As your eyes locked with his, an unexpected vulnerability washed over you, and you felt more naked than you were. It had been more than a decade since you looked into those eyes, yet the magnetic pull was just as potent now as it had been thirteen years ago. You subtly shook your head, silently pleading.

As the seconds passed, realization dawned on him. Your face, colored by shades of shame and embarrassment, betrayed the unspoken truths. The hand reaching up to your temple was the final revelation, leaving you with nothing to do but let him see.

In the jumble of thoughts racing through your interconnected minds, fragments of him surged to the forefront. His deep blue eyes, the warmth of his smile, the soft touch of his hands—all tangled memories, causing a storm within. He saw the moment you grappled with the painful truth: the man you desired could never be truly yours, shackled by the rigid Jedi code and Obi-Wan's unwavering commitment. Faced with this agony, disappearing into the void seemed like the only refuge, a self-imposed exile to shield both of you from inevitable heartache. So, when you had heard Master Yoda speaking of a mission on the other side of the galaxy, you seized the opportunity. Leaving right away? Perfect. Despite hating the choice, it felt like the only way. You’d have done anything to protect him from yourself.

He understood now, that whenever he uttered "Padawan" the word brought you pain because it was as close as you could ever be. The pain reverberated, and he, peering into your thoughts, could sense it all. As he withdrew, his eyes conveyed not disappointment but a poignant sadness, leaving a lingering ache that cut deeper than any vibroblade could.

The emptiness he left in your thoughts was unbearable. Your head sank into your hands as you whispered apologies—apologies for keeping secrets, for causing him pain, for leaving him, for unintentionally making him believe you were angry or had betrayed him with these unspoken thoughts. The weight of it all overwhelmed you, and grief started to take hold.

"You ran away, for my benefit?" the weight of his words hung heavily in the air.

With a single nod, you admitted the harsh truth. And what good did it do? The heartbreak you'd been dodging finally caught up with you, but you’d given it one hell of a run.

You could hear him taking a cautious step back as if you were a dangerous threat to him, but then again, weren’t you? The impending void that would stretch between you two loomed now, and it would stretch for far longer than the span of a few years. This was exactly what you'd hoped to avoid—the door opening, him walking away, and leaving behind an emptiness that nothing could fill.

In the aftermath, you'd head back to your company, join your men, skillfully avoid their questions, and bury the sound of his name so deep it might never resurface. No more uttering it, not even in the quiet corners of your mind. The once-warm memories of your kind master guiding you in the Jedi ways would become bittersweet relics, stained by your own choices.

A profound hopelessness settled in as you rested your head against your hands, hair falling like a curtain. You braced for the tears, waiting for the sound of the doors to open and close one final time before you’d let them fall, shutting your eyes tightly to keep them in. Any second now.

However, the doors remained sealed, he was still there. Was he about to scold you? To make you feel more the foolish girl who should have had better control over her stupid emotions? Guess every wound needed a little salt, though, didn’t it? The situation seemed to only get worse and you found yourself wishing that the blast you struggled to hold back might have killed you instead, that you might be spared this pain.

His voice was almost a whisper, prompting you to glance up. "You don’t hate me?"

You shook your head vigorously, "How could I?"

Was there a chance to salvage this? In any way? You struggled to get back on your feet, your movements thwarted by a shooting persistent pain that would sooner see you fail in your attempt to reach him. And stumble you did, barely managing a few steps before you failed, but your master was right there, catching you before you could hit the ground. With his support, you managed to stand, though he still towered over you. His arm wrapped around you, a reassurance that you were safe. This shouldn't be happening, and he should have left, but he stayed. Why? Would this be it? It had to be.

Giving in to a momentary desire, you let yourself enjoy a small gesture—your fingers slipping through the back of his neck, remembering the softness of his hair. It was shorter now, and although it suited him, you couldn't help but miss the longer locks that used to invite such thoughts.

“What am I to do with you, padawan?”

His choice of words sent a shiver down your spine, but not in the way it used to. There was a strange undertone in his voice, something you hadn't heard before. You had no answers to his question, but it seemed like responses didn't much matter to him. Then, out of the blue, he stooped down and picked you up in his arms, something you'd only dared dream about.

"What're you doing?"

"Taking you to bed, where I can take you properly."

You froze. What did he say? Could he really mean what you thought he did? There had to be some misunderstanding. Your love-struck brain must be playing tricks on you. Your master wouldn't actually give in to those desires, right? Your blood raced, your heart thundered and your skin tingled as he effortlessly carried you, making your weight seem inconsequential.

The bed, though not exceptionally soft, transformed into the most comforting spot in the galaxy as he tenderly placed you upon it. Kneeling beside you the mattress dipping to accommodate him as well, he cradled your face in his hands, prompting a shaky "Wha-?" from your trembling voice.

"Stubborn girl," his words hung in the air, accompanied by that unforgettable tone, yes, it was slightly critical but there was something else to it. "You're not leaving this bed until you're fully recovered. Understand, Padawan?" Confusion swirled in your mind at hearing his command, but you managed a small nod. "You will obey your master's commands, won't you?" The authoritative tone was unfamiliar, prompting another slow nod from you. "Say it."

"Yes, Master."

"Good girl," he affirmed, drawing closer, and his lips met yours in an unexpectedly ferocious kiss.

His mouth quickly took control of yours, leaving no room for confusion about what his intentions were when he said ‘take you properly’. It felt like a tempest, threatening to engulf you, carrying you to the darkest depths but after thirteen years of wanting, and needing, the storm could do as it wanted, if he was the storm.

He smelled like blaster fire, adrenaline, smoke, and lightning—the aftermath of the battlefield sticking to him. Mingling with his scent, like the promise of rain, held traces of incense, taking you back to moments meditating in temples and deserts during your years of travel together. It was a smell that whispered safety and felt like home, a unique cologne you'd spend countless credits on. Something you wanted to drown in.

In countless dreams, you'd imagined moments where your master sought you out after hard battles, dangerous missions, or late at night, unable to resist the magnetic pull between you two. You dreamed of clandestine rendezvous with his hand covering your mouth urging you to be quiet.

Now, it wasn't just a fantasy; it was real. His lips moving against yours, licking at your lips, sucking on the tip of your own tongue, fueled by hunger as intense as that of a starving man, confirmed the reality of the moment.

During your trials, he had worn his beard and mustache, and it had long sparked your carnal curiosity about the sensations they might bring – a persistent tickle or a pleasurable burn? It turned out to be both, exquisitely and painfully so, surpassing the allure of any narcotic. The intensity of his mouth against yours was relentless, lips brushing yours before his tongue entered the equation. It delved into your mouth, leaving your usually sharp mind in a state of struggle, accompanied by shaky moans. Yet, none of it mattered. The moment he pressed himself between your legs, seizing the hem of your shirt, all rational thought vanished. Your hungry mind could only process the overwhelming realization that your master was kissing you, his tongue licking at your mouth, and he was pawing at you, undressing you like your clothes were an unforgivable offense.

His hands, leaving trails of smoldering embers, intensified the moment, but the euphoria came at a cost. When you moved to discard your shirt, a sharp pain shot through your shoulder, stealing a cry from your lips. Clutching your wound, you fought back the urge to cry.

The sudden sound shattered the enchantment, and his eyes snapped open. He pulled away abruptly, looking as if he were shocked to find himself in this situation with you. Clarity returned to his gaze, and a heavy feeling settled in your stomach as he stepped back, his features clouded with alarm, shaking his head.

"No, we can't," he uttered, releasing you abruptly. In an instant, it was over. A desperate breath escaped you as you reached out, but he vanished.

The urge to scream, cry, or tear down the walls clawed at you, but none of it could change what had just happened. Flopping back on the bed, your shoulder met the mattress with a wince. Anger pulsed through your core, fueled by both the recovering blaster wound and the missed opportunity.

He'd kissed you, and touched you, and just when the promise of something more seemed within reach, it slipped away, leaving a bitter taste of disappointment. The thought of his bare skin against yours, a tantalizing dream, now felt elusive. Despair settled in, but the sudden sound of hurried steps shattered the silence—Obi-Wan's unexpected return.

Before you could fully rise, he gently pressed you back down, his body covering you. His lips sought yours again in a softer, slower kiss, dispelling confusion but introducing a new layer of uncertainty.

He hadn’t left. "Master?" You could barely get the word out before his lips crashed into yours again, a hungry, intense kiss that made you forget about everything—the sudden exit, the unexplained return—all vanished in the heat of the moment. A sharp sting in your arm brought you back, and you pulled away with a surprised 'Ow!' Glancing down, you noticed the hypo-syringe in his hand and the red mark on your arm. "Wha-?"

He came back for another kiss, a hungry and urgent embrace that left you breathless. His tongue teased at your lips, an intrusion you found hard to be angry about. During this heated exchange, he murmured, "I'm sorry," between breathless kisses, his hand entangled in your hair, adding an electrifying thrill to the encounter.

His voice, heavy with sincerity and restraint, trailed down your neck as he continued the assault of hungry kisses. “I don’t want to hurt you,” The tingling sensation from the hypo spread through your body, replacing pain with a welcomed numbness. Now his words made sense – he had injected you with an anesthetic, he wasn’t going anywhere.

"But being gentle is not an option right now," he confessed against your skin, his lips sending shivers down your spine. "And I can't wait any longer."

And neither could you.

His presence enveloped you, a promise to soothe the ache that had haunted you. Rational thoughts and hesitations melted in the passionate exchange, leaving behind an urgent desire for his tongue to dance with yours, to savor the taste of you.

The pain became a distant murmur, overshadowed by the seductive cadence of his armor shedding away. The unmistakable sound of metal parts cascading to the floor filled the air, a harmonious unveiling that played like a haunting melody, laced with the promise of imminent closeness. Each metallic clink and rustle, orchestrated with practiced finesse, blended seamlessly with the mounting heat, composing a sensual symphony that underscored the unfolding intimacy.

"Padawan-” He sounded so full of need. “Have you waited this whole time to touch me, only to just lay there?"

No, you hadn't. Your senses snapped back into focus, and the relentless ache demanded action. Rising up with fiery determination, you seized his lip between your teeth, fingers tangled in his tousled locks. Leg wrapped around his waist, you provocatively thrust your hips into his, stirring a primal hunger. A low, appreciative groan escaped him, and the remaining shreds of restraint evaporated in the scorching intensity of the moment.

“Very good, padawan,” he whispered between searing kisses "Now, tell me what you want. Tell me every craving, every ache you've hidden from your master."

The legendary negotiator, renowned for his poise, eloquence, grace, and dignity in the heat of battle or the midst of a debate, was always portrayed as a polished and composed figure. However, the General Kenobi before you was a stark departure from that image—a persona that sensually grazed your neck with his lips, tenderly explored the curves of your breasts with his hands and moved his hips in a rhythm that ignited an intense passion. This wasn't just the great negotiator; it was the manifestation of a double life—a formidable lover hidden beneath the veneer of a respected leader.

His shorter locks proved to be the perfect handhold, their soft strands entwining with your fingers. The subtle roughness of his beard intensified the already electric atmosphere, adding an extra layer of intensity to the moment.

In the fiery dance of passion and longing, he'd always preached the power of actions over words. Guided by that intimate lesson, you eagerly set out to unravel the layers of his robes, with a gentle push, he rose back up to stand while you sat on the bed, your hands moving with a fervor fueled by desire. The belt surrendered first, dropping to the ground with a soft thud, the lightsaber noticeably absent, carefully stowed away. Urgently, the ties of his loose robe followed suit in the passionate race to undress him. The linen shirt glided away from his broad shoulders, gracefully descending to the floor, revealing the lush expanse of his bare chest. With unwavering determination, you committed every inch of your master's body to the canvas of your memory, each touch a sensual exploration of his lean, muscled skin, a sensory feast that ignited the flames of desire.

"This."

Your fingers traced the shape of his already hard length beneath the fabric of his trousers, coaxing a low moan from Obi-Wan against your neck. "Master, I want this." A firm squeeze elicited a shudder, coursing through him as you continued to tease through his clothing. "I want it in my mouth." His breath hitched, and his hips responded eagerly. Slowly untying the laces of his trousers, your hand slipped inside, embracing his him. The guttural groan that escaped him sent warmth rippling through your body. "Between my legs."

Your master's throbbing cock pulsed in your hands, radiating heat against your skin—hard and demanding. Each stroke elicited untamed pleasure, breaking through the disciplined walls the Jedi Order had meticulously built over the decades. The symphony of his responses played out in sensual notes: the quivers across his skin, the ragged gasps, and the vulnerable moans, all orchestrated by your skilled touch. Hypnotized by the power you held over him, you savored every moment, captivated by the way his body reacted to your every movement. How his hips surged forward in a hungry plea as your hand teased and retreated, and then faltered when you squeezed him with deliberate, unhurried strokes. An irresistible urge surged within you, a yearning to fulfill the fantasies that had simmered within your soul for a decade.

“Master, your padawan wants your cock.”

His hips faltered again at the sheer filth that you spoke of, the way your voice caressed such dirty thoughts, he twitched in your hand and you tried not to moan. Like a siren call you began to dip your head forward, desperate to satisfy the curiosity of how he tasted, your goal so close, a breath away from your lips when it was cruelly ripped away from you. His hand wrapped gently but assertively around your throat giving the softest squeeze that prompted you to rub your thighs together to still the full body shudder.

“My padawan will learn patience. I asked you to tell me your thoughts, not to carry them out.”

You wanted to cry, maybe he expected a submissive little padawan.

“Up, further on the bed.”

He let you go, and you followed his command, scooting back towards the middle of the bed. The intensity of his gaze made it challenging not to tremble. The sight of your master, shirtless, messy hair, swollen lips, and trousers hanging dangerously low on his hips, carried the knowledge that his hard arousal had been in your hands. Knowing you had driven him to that point made obeying his commands a fierce internal struggle. The difficulty only intensified as he knelt on the bed, crawling toward you like a predator closing in on its prey. His eyes held an unfamiliar, burning intensity, setting your own desires ablaze. How was it possible for blue eyes to burn?

His voice, low and commanding, demanded you to lie back, leaving no room for protest. The once-lacy barrier of your panties and bra felt like an unnecessary formality as he leaned over, his arms creating a delicious trap against the bed. Escape wasn't even a consideration, not that you wanted it. He peered at your shoulder, voice holding a hint of soft concern as he asked, "Are you in any pain?" With a shake of your head, A wolfish grin played on his handsome face. "Good. Though, you might when I'm done with you." Oh, stars. Denying you a proper kiss, his tongue traced the trail of desire from your lips down your jaw and neck.

“Going to have to punish you a bit for abandoning your master,”

What? He was going to punish you? Your heart threatened to burst as his lips drifted down your chest, lavishing every imperfection marring your skin with a sweep of his tongue and a caress of his hands.

Despite having command of the force all your life, the very notion that it may be used against you, that it could be unseen hands acting on Obi-Wan’s will, tearing the rest of your clothes off thrilled you. But he surprised you, it seemed he was more hands-on, the bra you wore was quickly gone and that hot mouth of his found its way to your nipples delicately teasing. Slow and purposeful swipes of his tongue coupled with the soft seal of his lips and the gentle scrape of his teeth made you arch wantonly into his waiting mouth with a whimper.

Was this what he’d meant about punishment?

He quickly answered that for you, the gentle vibrations of his moan passing through your teased nipples as he switched from one to treat the other to equal pleasure.

“Your punishment can wait though,” That eloquently talented tongue of his drew sensual circles that brought a choked sob past your lips. “First, I’m going to take care of my padawan. Make her come for me in all the ways she’s ever dreamed, so she’ll never leave me again,” Your heart skipped a beat, several in fact, “Till her body shakes and she can no longer bear not having my cock in her.”

He finally released your aching nipples moving down the soft flat expanse of your stomach tongue dipping into your navel. “My powerful,” he kissed your hip, “beautiful,” he sucked on the skin as his fingers tucked into your panties “Sensitive,” and pulled them down your legs. “Neglected,” His breath ghosted over your thigh, tossing the garment aside. “Padawan.”

Never again would the word Padawan cause you pain, never again would it represent ache and loss and missed opportunities. Your chest rose in shallow breaths and you were fairly certain you were going to have a heart attack. Your eyes fixed on a point on the ceiling before fluttering closed completely, listening to your master's voice, feeling his hot breath on your most delicate body parts. And for a few terrible moments he let you sit there feeling his breath, the occasional brush of his beard on your skin, the anticipation more horrible than a thousand lonely nights with only your fantasies and touch.

“Master.” You wished you hadn’t sounded so pitiful, so needy and pathetic but you were and you couldn’t help it. Naked on a bed with your master’s breath teasing you between your legs, you were ready to beg.

“Padawan,”

The word whispered, barely audible a fraction of eternity passed before you felt the sweetly sinful furnace of his mouth on your lips before his tongue swept past them to taste you. A shrill and sudden intake of breath shattered the stillness of the room, and your hips canted up against his mouth and you cried out in a drawn-out moan. Not in any pain but the desperate tens of thousands of lonely nights where you cried his name in your mind each time you came against your hand.

His strokes were sweet and slow and left no part of you untouched. You’re lungs seized up momentarily and your brain misfired too many impulses, the instinct to jump away upon the startling contact with his mouth warred the desire to watch him, which also struggled against the urge to seize his hair and beg him to take you right then and there.

All impulses crashed into one another with each broad stroke of his tongue against your pussy, you lay back practically panting desperately trying to remember how to breathe properly, but with every flick of his tongue saw to it that you forgot whatever it was you were trying to remember.

Your toes curled slightly in shameless pleasure when you felt his fingers stroking your entrance, teasing you with the promise of sublime ecstasy to be had if he would only use his fingers. The very ones calloused from years of wielding a lightsaber now brought blistering pleasure with every touch. The sounds of his breathing intermingled with deep groans as he lapped at you like he was dying of thirst, only adding to the symphony of sex you would play over and over in your head until the end of your days.

As you lay there losing your mind in the velvet embrace of your master’s mouth, Obi-Wan was studying you, learning your pleasure through each taste, stroke, and flick of the tongue. Committing to memory how you reacted when he licked hard or sucked softly the cadence of your breathing and the buck of your hips, what drew sweet whimpers or unabashed moans. He found a rhythm, long, slow broad strokes, that made you gasp each time no matter how often he did it, you could never get used to it. Followed by the quick teasing flutter of his tongue on your clit, fingers sweeping gently along the length of your lips throwing fuel to the fire he that was beginning to rage out of control. The hot lazy hunger of his mouth was better than anything you’d ever felt and it was impossible to keep your eyes open for any length of time, it just felt so good, as if your brain was struggling to keep up with what was happening it would occasionally rapid-fire messages to you as though you were unaware of exactly what was going on.

‘Master’s mouth is between my legs.’

‘Stars! He’s licking me.’

‘He’s going to make me come!’

Somewhere in the back of your mind you registered the soft sound of a deep and throaty chuckle, the reverberations stole your breath and sidetracked your thoughts.

‘Yes, padawan, you will come for me. Until I grow weary of the noises you make.’

The words played out in your mind as if they came from everywhere echoing off the walls of your thoughts, but when you glanced down, Obi-Wan was focused on you. Not even a teasing expression, his eyes seemed closed in rapture as though he were enjoying an exquisite, delicacy catered to his palette only. And enjoying it thoroughly.

When not dancing teasing touches to your entrance, his hands stroked the inside of your thighs opening your legs further each time, mindful not to agitate your wounds, his touch so delicate that it made your skin tingle with sensitivity.

It was unbelievable how quickly he’d gotten you so close to cumming but then his voice in your head tell you the most wicked thoughts aided in that considerably.

Never before did you ever think such a thing would happen, your master hungrily feasting on your pussy. It had to be a dream, it was too good, any moment when you were nearly ready for the rolling torrent of orgasm to crash upon you, you would wake up and cling to the remnants of this dream while hurriedly bringing yourself to climax while muffling any sounds into your pillow.

“No, my padawan, this is no dream. I’m going to make you come for me now.”

His mouth found your clit again, giving it a series of slow licks and gentle, open-mouthed kisses before spreading your lips open giving you no reprieve from that masterful mouth of his. Then he truly went to work on you, stimulating that little bundle of nerves by flicking the tip of his tongue over and over increasing in speed until you could scarcely breathe and your body was writhing on the bed, the moans tumbling from your mouth. Your wails combined with your desperate pleas carried through the room with lick, swirl, and suckle.

Obi-wan’s voice continued calling to you whispering so many salacious things to you; that he loved how you tasted so sweet to him, “My darling, padawan, your taste is divine, so sweet.”

That your moans were what he would play in his head when he stroked himself if he couldn’t have you, “Yes, sing for me, tell me how good I’m making you feel,”

How he knew you were going to strangle his cock when he finally let you have it, “S’going to feel so good when I bury my cock in you, isn’t it? Going to strangle me, aren’t you?”

How gorgeous you looked like this for him and it was only for him, “So, beautiful all laid out for me, only for me, aren’t you?”

And for each whispered thought in your mind you moaned a ragged “Yes, master! Yes! Yes!”

This was it, he was going to kill you, this was how you would join the living Force, wildly in the throws of orgasm. You couldn’t even manage his name, barely able to utter the first syllable, voice raising in pitch, your body growing rigid as it all culminated towards an exquisite peak. It was the sound of Obi-wan’s half breath, half moan, and the demanding cadence of his order sounding in your mind rising above all other words; the command to come for him, and you did. The thick throaty satisfied moan of a man who wanted to be no other place than between your legs, reverberating through your flesh and raced up your core.

Waves of fire, hotter than any star, more molten than any lightsaber, radiated from your thoroughly stimulated pussy overtaking your body as his mouth worked you over slowly teasing out every ounce of pleasure he could, wringing it from you like water from a rag.

Repeating the word "Master" like a mantra, a symphony of desire and surrender as you writhed against him. No longer in control, you became a willing captive to the relentless pulses dictated by Obi-Wan. The euphoric journey continued an unending cascade of sensations and shared ecstasy. And it didn’t stop, like a fire it grew more and more intense, shocking you, never before had you experienced sensations like what he was giving you. You just kept coming.

Would it ever stop? The overwhelming wave of pleasure seemed boundless. It was intoxicating, almost too much. As the peak of ecstasy subsided, it left behind little electric shocks of overstimulation with each additional stroke of Obi-Wan's tongue, trying to coax out a little more. The intensity lingered, a sensation that bordered on both pleasure and sweet torment.

The sweet agony of pleasure mixed with the sting of overstimulation was a cruelty of human physiology. You wanted more, a hungry desire pushing him to give you everything. But your body rebelled, aching for a momentary escape from the relentless assault. Your hips wriggled and began to buck trying to throw him off in a wordless plea for him to ease the intensity. Yet, he pressed on, undeterred, as you grappled with the conflicting sensations, lost in the dizzying dance of pleasure and pain.

“Master! Please! No more– I-I can’t!” The way your words sounded so weak and your voice nearly broken seemed to finally reach him and he slowed to a stop, depositing one final deep kiss and drawing an unadulterated moan from you before he finally released your overworked, quivering flesh.

Your body shivered as he moved up the bed to kiss your lips. The lingering scent and taste of your orgasm clung to his mouth—a mix of sweat and satisfaction, intensified by the unique aroma coming from him. It was potent enough to make you teeter on the brink of another climax, a fortunate secret he remained unaware of.

For some reason you felt like you needed to thank him, which was ridiculous, thank him for what? For giving you the most amazing orgasm you’d ever had? It seemed a bit awkward and out of place but somehow given this new dominant side of your master, he might enjoy that.

He breathed in deeply as if savoring the aftermath of a fulfilling workout. But the look on his face spoke of more than just exertion; it was a blend of delight and contentment.

You, on the other hand, felt a bit like you'd had one too many drinks. The air seemed to swirl around you, and his disheveled hair falling over his face only added to the effect. His smile was downright criminal, it seemed almost unnatural for a man to look so good wearing nothing but a smile.

"Thank you," you mumbled, the word sounding feeble even to your own ears, but Obi-Wan's pleased expression suggested he appreciated the sentiment.

“Did you enjoy that, my little padawan?” The endearment sent a shiver down your spine, and all you could manage was a nod. As his lips met yours once more, a wave of euphoria washed over you. Soft, powerful, firm—his kisses were everything you'd hoped for, stirring desire in every part of your being, and the knowledge that he’s just used that mouth on you made your heart race and your cunt ache.

“Tell me, before I take you, how many?” The question hung between you, a mix of desire and curiosity in Obi-Wan's voice. You were a bit baffled, trying to figure out the context of his question. Orgasms? It wasn’t something you kept tabs on. Sensing your confusion, he clarified, “Men. Lovers. How many?”

An awkward lump formed in your throat as you replied, “None.”

His eyes widened, and he licked his lips. There was a momentary flicker in his expression that could almost be mistaken for anger, but his subsequent fervent return to kissing dispelled that notion. “None? How is that possible? That I am the first to ever touch you like this?”

“The first man.” He froze, his expression shifting to shock at your admission. The truth was, you couldn’t bring yourself to be with a man when the one you desired was out of reach. Women, however...

“I’ve had lovers, just not any men; I didn’t want them.”

“You’ve taken female lovers?” he asked. You nodded, hoping he wouldn’t disapprove. His grin returned, now carrying a wolfish quality, and his mouth found its way back to your breast. His kiss turned fierce, hungry—a prelude to the kind of passion that precedes throwing someone onto a bed and ravishing them. “Naughty thing,” he murmured. Relief flooded through you, quickly followed by euphoria. “Did you enjoy that? Letting other women touch you?”

"Sometimes." He appeared puzzled, and you nonchalantly shrugged, steering clear of his penetrating gaze. The notion of accepting disappointment felt like a subtle form of judgment.

"Women can be selfish lovers too." The idea of your satisfaction not being guaranteed seemed to trouble him. He shook his head slowly, 'tsking' you, as though imparting guidance on what was and wasn't acceptable.

"That won't do at all," he declared, lowering his lips to yours in a kiss that sent electric shivers down your spine. "I’m going to erase every memory of anyone who’s ever touched you." His tongue danced over your nipple again, barely tasting it and he stopped to savor your little breath. “Going to fuck you until you cry out my name, going to make sure you’re never left wanting again.” With a flick of his tongue, his hand started massaging your other breast, “Would you like that, padawan, for your master to make you feel good?”

“Yes! Please, Master! Please!”

“So respectful when you’ve had your cunt devoured, aren't you?”

Those words, oh, they hit you in all the right places. You never thought he had it in him—the raw, unfiltered sexuality. Suddenly, you weren't just yearning for his touch; you wanted to be the one to make him quiver and groan, to do to him, what he did to you. To see how your words and caresses could unravel the composed Jedi Master. It wasn't just about fulfilling your own cravings; it was about sharing a dance of passion and exploring uncharted realms of desire together.

Strength surged within you, not the physical kind, but a potent force you had at your command. Calling upon the Force was as natural as breathing, and with a graceful wave of your hand, Obi-Wan found himself unceremoniously tossed onto his back, a look of astonishment etched across his features as if captivated by an unexpected dance. Yes, you had just harnessed the Force against your master.

The sight of your master supine, his bare chest rising and falling with each breath, hair tousled in disarray, trousers precariously low on his hips, and all because you had put him there. His eyes held a mesmerizing blend of surprise and desire, mirroring the emotions flickering within yourself. Seizing the moment before he could recover, you took a daring leap and went in to lay siege.

Obi-Wan, caught off guard by your bold moves, sank into the softness of the bed. Your fingers danced through his hair and beard, jerking his head back to expose his neck, ensuring he wouldn't forget this moment. A low, appreciative purr escaped his chest, silently praising your audacity. With each kiss and playful nip, he seemed to yield to your lead, responding with soft sounds of approval.

You savored the blissful aftermath of victory, those suspended seconds lingering in the air. In that fleeting time, your senses buzzed with playful thoughts, tempting fantasies, and desires long confined. He might have allowed the moment to stretch a bit more, but then came your teasing nips, tracing the spots that made him flinch with delightful sensitivity.

“Want to taste you,” You muttered, fairly certain you hadn’t imagined that little ‘oh.’

"Padawan..." His voice, a touch hoarse, accompanied the journey of your fingers down his ribs and along his toned stomach. Moving closer to the tantalizing waistband of his trousers where your prize awaited you, the desire to feel him in your hand became almost unbearable. Yet, you found justification for a bit more teasing. Fingers dipped just inside the band of his trousers, close enough to feel him twitch and buck at your almost-touches, it was too delicious to only do once.

Perhaps you shouldn't have pushed your luck.

Because, like the fabric of Jedi robes, his patience wore thin. It was then that your Master's restraint snapped, like a stretched cord finally giving way.

In an instant, he grabbed your waist, executing a swift and aggressive flip that left him looming above you, pinning you down on the bed. His body pressed into yours, and a sly grin hinted that the game was about to get a lot more daring. The air hummed with anticipation as he shook his head, capturing your mouth in a kiss that left you breathless.

"What were you thinking, Padawan?" His voice, low and husky, carried a thick layer of desire, each word steeped in need. His intense gaze locked onto yours, silently questioning.

"Touching your master without permission?"

Stunned. You struggled to form a response, your lips moved, and no words broke free. Was he serious? After the intoxicating dance of his mouth had just brought you to an unparalleled climax, he expected you to ask permission to touch him? It felt absurd.

Questions raced through your mind. Was this some kind of test? A dominance play? Your stomach dropped. Maybe this was the punishment he’d spoken of, an exercise in humility? Searching his cerulean eyes for a hint of jest, the intense atmosphere from before remained, now layered with a different kind of tension. He simply shook his head slightly. The weight of his expectation hung in the room, leaving you torn between the impulse to surrender and the desire to meet his challenge with your own fiery response.

"Yes, I do. I expect my padawan to remain obedient and respectful, no matter how she hungers."

His fingers lingered just above your cheek, a subtle reminder of his ability to pluck your thoughts effortlessly, like plucking a flower from the grass. However, you had long since outgrown the status of a padawan, having ascended to the rank of Jedi Knight. If he expected pleading or begging, he was in for disappointment. A steely determination cast a shadow across your features. With narrowed eyes, you threw down a challenge. If he sought access to your mind, you were prepared to offer more than he had bargained for.

A coy smile danced on your lips, causing his own smile to falter ever so slightly. That mischievous glint in your eyes was a familiar precursor to something daring, and you had no intention of disappointing your master in this unexplored realm. Shutting your eyes, you tilted your head, letting his fingers brush against your face, shifting the battleground from the physical to the unseen.

Instead of engaging him through physical means, you chose to confront him on the mental plane, projecting your thoughts with an intensity that demanded attention. He took a sharp breath, caught off guard by the rush of images, thoughts, and sounds hitting him like a brisk breeze. The unexpected depth of your mental communication briefly disrupted the seamless flow of the physical connection.

This wasn't just a subtle act of rebellion; it was a declaration that you were no longer the Padawan he once trained. As a Jedi Knight, you wielded more than just a lightsaber—you possessed a will of your own, armed with a bag of tricks beyond anyone's expectations.

Though he could still address you as Padawan to elicit a reaction, you were so much more. Long-concealed thoughts, years hidden in secrecy, surged forth, intertwining with stolen glances and intimate moments—all now laid bare before Obi-Wan.

A mosaic of self-indulgent pleasures unfolded—whispered calls of his name amid moments of personal bliss. Stolen encounters, and lingering desires, all painted a picture of your yearning. The once-private fantasies, meant for the sanctuary of your thoughts, now exposed—a checklist of desires you had secretly harbored for him.

Breathless, he found himself caught in the private corners of your mind, imagined scenes unfolded, that saw you in a passionate dance, bodies entwined, covered in sweat, exploring countless positions. An insatiable hunger for him, even if he lay prone and exhausted, pleading with him for more.

The many ways you wanted to touch him, to pleasure him, and hear him echo your name as you had cried his— to render him powerless and explore his body until he succumbed to climax after climax and could give no more.

He shivered with excitement, lost in the fantasy of the intense bliss you painted in his mind. Those throaty moans of pleasure felt so real, almost like he could taste them. Surprised by the raw intensity of your craving to taste him and drink him, he moaned your name in the tangled passion, every drop of his essence landing on your eager tongue as he lay back lost of the haze of sex and stimulation.

It wasn't merely about satisfying him; your desire surpassed that. There was an unquenchable hunger for him to seize control, to witness him unrestrained and consumed by passion and dominance. Whether he threw you onto the bed or pressed you against the wall, positions that brought a delightful twinge of discomfort on your end, all aimed at bringing him ecstasy, standing unassisted became an impossible task. The profound intensity of your yearning unfurled like a revelation, taking him by surprise.

The cat was out of the bag; the secret lay bare. Now, with an untamed glint in his eyes, it seemed you might have ventured into territory beyond your expectations.

"Padawan, my sweet, sinful, Padawan," His lips dipped to your ear, and the warmth of his breath sent shivers down your spine. "Perhaps I should enlighten you with some of MY thoughts."

Composure became a fleeting notion as he placed his hand firmly on your temple and a rush of sensations overwhelmed you, powerful enough that the right touch might send you into another blinding climax, akin to a torrent of whitewater tossing a stick of dry driftwood.

His unfiltered thoughts surged into your mind, a river of forbidden fantasies and suppressed desires. In the shared space of his consciousness, visions unfurled like an intimate tapestry—a clandestine gallery of how he yearned for you, each scene a seductive exploration of passion.

In one vivid fantasy more powerful than your own, you found yourself pressed against the cold metal of a ship's wall, arms held captive overhead by an unseen force naked while he still wore his full robes. Your leg draped over his shoulder, he knelt before you, entirely at the mercy of his desires, and he had none. He skillfully coaxed orgasm after orgasm from your quivering form, every touch and caress hearing you cry out and wail his name until you were hoarse. Overwhelmed by the sensations, until you were rendered speechless, too weak to utter the word "Master" as pleasure consumed your senses.

Then the landscape shifted with your master now behind you, his hands exploring your body with practiced skill. Fingers danced between your legs, teasing your aching clit, perfectly synchronized with the slow, deliberate thrusts of his hips. In the shared intimacy, he praised you, “Such a good girl” and admiring your patience in holding back on coming until he granted permission. His voice, a velvety whisper, encouraged you to hang on, promising to reward your patience but only after he had cum inside you, again.

“You think your desires are greater and darker than my own? So innocent of you…”

His words hit you like a revelation, unraveling a new side of Obi-Wan Kenobi that forever changed the way you saw him.

Another shift of vision saw you in the High Council Chamber, he sat naked in his seat, his strong thighs spread wide, and there you knelt before him. His hand gripped your hair, guiding his cock down your throat, and you obediently swallowed it all. With a gritty grunt, he demanded you not waste a drop, telling you to swallow all of it, praising your beauty as you served your master on your knees.

Your body pulsed and throbbed with each vision he gave you until the sights, sounds, and sensations grew so powerful all it took was the gentle stroke of his fingers between your legs to set you off. You threw your head back into the bed and moaned as the strength of your orgasm was amplified by your connection to your master as his most private thoughts continued playing in your head.

As he let you go, the fantasies slowly faded, and you found yourself returning to the tangible present. It was like your vision was coming back to focus, bit by bit, from the edges to the center. The room's immediate surroundings started to replace the lingering echoes of those intense daydreams.

In that moment, it was clear—he had won. The sly grin on his face revealed a man who knew he was about to get what he wanted. It was the look of someone who had conquered and was eagerly anticipating claiming their prize.

“Tell me, Padawan, are you ready to ask your master if you can touch him?”

But there you were, a flicker of fight still dancing in your eyes. Trying to push against him to sit up, that burning desire to kiss him ignited, fueled by a longing to make him yearn for you. You wanted to kindle the flames of passion until he begged for your touch. Yet, your Master had other plans. Suddenly your body refused to cooperate, stubbornly resisting your every attempt. Even the simplest tasks, like wiggling your toes, proved to be impossible.

As your efforts were thwarted, Obi-Wan's grin grew, taking on a dark intensity. His stormy eyes promised something profound, something that transcended the physical. His gaze seemed to revel in the power he held over your immobilized form, piercing through the struggle within.

“Use the Force on your master to tease him, will you? Let us see how you like it?” His lips ghosted over your breast, barely warming your nipple, teasing it with the tip of his tongue. “You will ask permission, Padawan. I can wait.” His mouth enclosed over the hard bud lazily stroking, teeth occasionally grazing as your pathetic little whimpers danced in the air.

He seemed perfectly content in his torturous teasing, but he had to be aching himself. Had to want to fuck you as badly as you wanted him to fuck you. This wasn’t fair, this wasn’t fair!

"Life is never fair, padawan," he murmured, as if reading the turmoil in your mind. "I had a very different plan for you until you chose to utilize the Force on your master. Now, you'll beg for the privilege to touch me."

His words sent shivers down your spine, and as he continued his fervent exploration, his hands tracing paths on your body that bordered on pain due to the lingering sensitivity from previous climaxes, you couldn't fathom how he remained so composed. The dichotomy of your desperation and his controlled demeanor only added to the maddening allure of the moment.

“You have no idea how much I want to sink my cock into this tight, perfect cunt,” His fingers grazed your lips and you were powerless to stop him, you could barely tremble at his touch. “How badly I want to feel you squeeze my cock, but I’ve not achieved the rank of master without considerable discipline.”

He returned to your breast sucking harder, as his fingers employed a more delicate touch between your legs, which you were powerless to close, soft, sweet strokes on your thighs, and your lips but cruelly or mercifully avoiding your clit. Your lips trembled at the delicate touch, and in that moment, the unfairness of it all struck you like a tidal wave.

For years, he had been your mentor, teaching you the art of patience and urging you to play the long game. "Be patient," he would say, "gauge your opponent."

But in the whirlwind of your desires, the very lessons he drilled into you seemed to crumble. Impatience surged, a desperate yearning for instant gratification that clashed with the wise teachings of your master. He offered to fulfill your every desire, promising pleasures beyond imagination. Yet, in your haste to assert newfound power, eager to prove you were more than just his padawan, you discovered there were still lessons for him to teach, more wisdom to share.

Your urgency led to a clash of power dynamics, revealing your master still held the upper hand. A soft sob of frustration escaped, breaking his focused demeanor. His once passionate cerulean eyes now held a glimmer of concern and curiosity as he paused.

"Say the words, padawan," His voice entreated gently, a soft call laced with a plea that tugged at the strings of your stubborn pride. You might have resisted longer if not for the unsaid words that reverberated in the echoes of your mind. "Padawan, please!"

Your eyes shot open, scanning the room for any hint that the desperation in Obi-Wan Kenobi's gaze was just a figment of your imagination. Yet, there it was—a pleading look that intertwined compassion and desire in a delicate dance across his face.

At that moment, it dawned on you: you had won. The silent struggle between you and your former master, the unspoken battle of wills, had reached its conclusion. The walls you'd built around your emotions had crumbled in the face of that unspoken plea. It wasn't about conquest; it was a surrender, and the victory was yours.

You might be the first to say the words but he was the first to beg.

"Please, Master," Your voice, a sweet melody of desire, reached into the core of his being. His gaze narrowed, and he froze, the invisible bonds around you weakening, his resistance giving way. "Let me touch you, Master," You pleaded sweetly, your words dripping with need. "I want you," You added, turning up the heat until the bonds snapped completely. “Let me taste you, let me have you.”

With their release, he was on your lips again, kissing you with a desperate hunger, untamed and wild. Yet, despite your newfound freedom, you lay still beneath him, a silent presence he couldn't resist.

"Padawan! Are you going to touch me or not?"

His outrage was amusing. A playful grin toyed with the corners of your lips, hinting at your delight.

Feigning innocence, you shot back, "You haven’t given me permission to touch you."

His eyes widened in surprise, a jolt of anticipation coursing through him as a deep, appreciative groan escaped him, acknowledging your skillful play as his Padawan.

"Darling, please, touch your master,"

With a surge of passion, you seized the moment, fingers seizing his hair with purpose, jerking hard enough that he cried out, a pull that danced on the edge of sweet pain.

Defying the limits of control, you launched a fervent attack on his lips, reclaiming the kiss with an intensity that screamed desire. Your tongue demanded entry, a forceful and unapologetic dive into the depths of his mouth. A low grunt slipped from him, a mix of surprise and a hint of surrender, adding fuel to the blaze sparking between you. The dance of your intertwined tongues became a symphony of passion, a primal declaration signaling the end of any lingering boundaries.

Your hips rolled into a painfully hard erection, and any trace of Obi-Wan's usual witty banter vanished into the charged air. The playful banter was replaced by a more primal language.

Pushing him onto his back was effortless now; he offered no resistance. Finally. The tension that had once held him captive had melted away into bliss. His half-lidded eyes, lost in a dreamy state, promised memories that would keep you warm for days to come.

With deliberate intent, you explored every inch of his chest, savoring the taste of his skin. His deep breathing echoed in the room, accompanied by the subtle sounds of contentment that escaped his lips. As your journey continued downward, tracing the path of pleasure, you encountered the nearly pained expression that adorned his face. His chest heaved with anticipation as you approached his trousers, the memory of how close you had been to having him earlier playing in your mind. A grin danced on your lips, fueled by the sharp gasps escaping him, as you mouthed his cock through the fabric.

You couldn't wait to have him, the urgency taking over. The waistband tugged down in a hurry, your mouth watering in anticipation. Your hand wrapped around him, and he stuttered at the touch. His cock, just as perfect as you'd imagined—long, thick, and undeniably eager to be touched—and positively leaking. It felt like the room might collapse when your tongue licked at the pearlescent precum gathering from his weeping cock, you swept around his swollen head, savoring every delicious drop. His hands shook, gripping the bed in an immediate white-knuckled hold. As you kissed it and slowly swallowed the crown of his cock, he howled in ecstasy. The salty taste of him filled your mouth and he wept at the exquisite, wet heat. Jolting with every swirl of your tongue, each lick, and suckle, the delightful vibrations echoing from the back of your throat to his cock.

“Yes!”

His body arched, his signature flickering wildly, and then you truly went to work on him. Wanting to show him exactly how much you had thought of this moment. With each eager motion, you took more of him, brushing off the impending jaw ache. Your master was sprawled on your bed, fervently chanting your name, but coherent words were out of reach. He tasted just perfect, filling your mouth just right. You traced the veins on his cock like an old familiar map, committing every detail to memory. As you slid over his head sucking gently like one would enjoy a sweet treat, his hips surged, and he let out another wild moan of pleasure.

“Padawan! Padwan! Padawan!”

But you had more, oh so much more to give him, but you wouldn’t tease him as he had you, you gripped firmly what you couldn’t swallow, and aided by the slickness of your own saliva you stroked and twisted his length in your hand. And your other hand? It didn’t sit idle, no, it reached into his trousers to offer gentle almost tickling caresses to his neglected balls. Lesireuly massaging and softly squeezing. Surely, someone must have heard the moan that tore from his chest, it was primal and almost powerful enough to make you come again.

The flood of sensations overwhelmed him, a storm of desire and vulnerability that left him at a loss for words. Normally eloquent, his tongue now stumbled in this unfamiliar territory. His disciplined mind, usually a stronghold of wisdom, faltered under the onslaught of passion. Every muscle rebelled against his rational commands, caught in a moment of indecision the muscles of his stomach flexed and contracted wildly. The composed master was briefly overshadowed by raw, primal forces, his tense muscles reflecting the battle of a man surrendering control to overwhelming desire. He became a disheveled mess, mouth hanging open, eyes wide and then tightly shut, breath hitching in short, irregular gasps as if he kept forgetting how to breathe smoothly. His lips clumsily grazed the edge of words, catching and then losing them amidst the whirlwind of sensations.

“Oh! Maker!”

Oh, another word? Impressive. His disciplined nature must be paying off. Using the last bit of strength he had, he propped himself up on his elbows, determined not to miss the spectacle. There you were, between his legs, your lips wrapped around his cock, all slick with your saliva, disappearing into your mouth. It hit the back of your throat in a way that made him shudder from head to toe. He could watch you do that for as long as the stars lit up the sky. It was something else—beautiful, the way you handled his cock like his pleasure belonged to you.

You were determined to extract every ounce of pleasure from him, poised to take him to the brink, so close to tasting him completely, but your mission hit a pause when his hand gently grasped your jaw, urging you to meet his gaze. His needy “Please,” didn’t go unnoticed either. A slender strand of saliva linked your lips to his throbbing length, and the disbelief in his eyes was palpable. It was as if he couldn't fathom witnessing what lay before him. A ragged breath escaped him, followed by a hard swallow. Redirecting your attention from his pulsating, slick arousal, he steered you into a deep, passionate kiss, one you didn't resist.

“Darling, enough foreplay. I need to feel you on my cock. Tell me that’s what you want.”

His eyes sparkled when you whispered, "I want it, Master," with desire glowing in your own. It made you wonder if anyone had ever been so upfront with him, if anyone had looked into those captivating eyes and just said, "I want you." Had he ever known how it felt to be so openly desired before?

"Good girl, now, up you get."

He effortlessly lifted you onto his lap, surprising you even more because he didn't employ the Force; it was the strength of his own muscles at play. Observing them flex and shift beneath his skin was nearly as gratifying as witnessing him in the throes of pleasure. He held you over his lap for a moment, lips tangling with yours, muttering against them.

“Look at me, want to see you properly.”

How could you ignore a request like that? Oh, no, you couldn’t. And with a nod from you, he began to release you.

Never had anything felt as exquisite as the moment his cock slid effortlessly into your pussy. The sensation of that satisfying first stretch surpassed any pleasure you had ever known—far superior to the touch of your own fingers, toys, or any previous lover. As gravity took its course, guiding you down onto him, there was nothing left to say or do. Your head rolled back and you moaned his name. His chest rose and fell with measured breaths, every ounce of strength dedicated to maintaining control. Surprisingly, his energy remained entirely serene.

The experience was a symphony of wetness, heat, tightness, and perfect slickness. His arms enveloped you, pulling you close, mirroring the way you squeezed his cock. It was perfect. You would ache for this later, he was right, you’d be sore to the touch everywhere he’d touched you but it would be worth it for the exquisite ecstasy you felt right now.

Damn the code, to hell with forbidden attachments; the High Council could go up in flames for all you cared. In this moment, he belonged to you—every inch of him. His response to your body defied description. He was unequivocally yours.

He uttered your name, his mouth tracing up your neck in search of your lips. "Darling, kiss me."

Not padawan, not master. He called you by your name.

Your lips met his, as he’d asked, sweetly, gently as lovers did. The high of shoving your tongue into hi mouth was wonderful but not so wonderful as this simple brushing of lips the added heat and girth of his cock buried in you, there were no more barriers. You kissed him like that for a few minutes until your cunt throbbed demanding more, then you shifted, rising up savoring the way his lips parted in shock before sliding back down slow enough you could see his eyelashes flutter. “Again,” His voice was so full of need and heat, how could you deny him? The warmth of his breath against your skin was like a balm, soothing every ache, alleviating every burden, and imparting tranquility to long-standing wounds.

As his arms encircled your legs, lifting you up to help you along, a surge of emotions overwhelmed you. The dichotomy of wanting to sing or cry left you unable to suppress the whimper rising in the back of your throat. His name escaped your lips again.

His arms held you securely, and he buried his face in your neck, releasing a deeply contented breath. With deliberate slowness, he began to thrust upward. Your hands found their way into his hair, pulling him up for another smoldering kiss, swallowing his moan.

Passion surged like wildfire between you and the man you had yearned for over the years. The connection between your bodies was intense, each thrust an urgent proclamation of desire. The air was thick with the mingling of hot breaths, punctuated by the sound of lewdly slapping skin and fervent kisses exchanged in the throes of lust.

His movements were powerful and rhythmic, and left you gasping for more, all you could do was hang on. With every thrust, he hit that perfect angle that sent shivers through your entire body. The sensation was electric, a tantalizing dance on the precipice of pleasure.

As your breaths intertwined, the shared rhythm hinted at the imminent climax, drawing you both closer to the edge.

In the throes of passion, your murmurs of his name reverberated against his lips as he quickened the pace, both of you on the precipice of an imminent release. The urgency in your voice only fueled his desire, and he nodded in approval as you moaned:

"Obi-Wan…"

Encouraged by your compliance, he implored you for more, his hunger evident. "Again, darling, say it again!"

In a cascade of breathless utterances, you willingly complied, chanting his name with increasing fervor.

"Obi-wan! Obi-wan! Obi-wan!"

With a fluid blend of strength, grace, and skill, he effortlessly tipped you onto your back. The swift change momentarily took you by surprise, but before the disorientation settled, he surged back into you with newfound intensity. Each movement reached deeper, and he committed his entire weight to each forceful thrust, immersing both of you in a realm of heightened pleasure.

His frame shook with each thrust, and with every motion, he felt a piece of himself slipping away, lost in the fervor of the moment. Desperation marked his every move as he teetered on the precipice of oblivion, but determined to hold off just a little longer. The urgency in his actions spoke of a desire to witness you unraveling in the throes of pleasure, to experience the cascade of ecstasy like a tidal wave crashing over him.

His fingers laced with yours, holding a connection that transcended the physical, while his kisses conveyed a hunger that mirrored the intensity of the act. Amid groans and the forceful snap of his hips, he dropped his lips to your ear, breathing hot against your skin.

"Come, darling, come for me!" He moved with an increasingly wild and intense rhythm, his passion reaching new heights. The affectionate term "Padawan" slipped from his lips like a whispered plea, an irresistible command, urging you to surrender to the pleasure he was offering, to climax for your master.

And you did, your body arching in response to the unrelenting intensity, hips bucking wildly against his, meeting his every thrust. Lips locked with his, you welcomed the furious pace he set each time he bottomed out, your bodies entwined in a dance without inhibitions. He threw his weight behind every motion, determined to make you feel every bit of him, to give you everything he had.

His desperate cries of "Padawan!" grew louder in the heated air, a mantra underscoring the intimacy of the moment. The repetition of the endearing term only served to heighten the exquisite pleasure, acknowledging a connection that surpassed the physical act. As he reached the pinnacle of ecstasy, a shudder ran through his entire body, and a helplessly primal howl escaped his lips. The heat of his seed spilling deep within you was the final catalyst, triggering a powerful climax of your own that rocked your entire body.

The Obi-Wan Kenobi you knew, with all his composure and eloquence, had vanished into thin air. In his place was a man, wild and satisfied, fucking you senseless, thrusting his erupting cock hurriedly back into your cunt as though he might die if he stopped. It just kept coming, he thrust harder with each rope you pulled from him until his body had nothing left to give and he began to still after one final hard thrust.

His breaths slowed, and he fought to stay upright. The only thing keeping him from melting into the mattress and pulling you into him entirely was the awareness of your injuries. Thankfully, the pain that had plagued you earlier had quieted down during your passionate love-making, granting a brief moment of relief. His cerulean eyes shifted from the storm of passion to their usual cool and compassionate state. The aftermath unfolded a scene of vulnerability—echoes of shared passion and lingering concerns for your well-being.

He wrapped his arm around you, drawing you close, and skillfully rolled both of you onto your sides. With his arm firmly around your waist, he stayed seated, still in your warmth, unwilling to leave it just yet.

In the ensuing silence, the room was filled only with the sounds of your shared and labored breathing.

"Are you alright?" His voice returned to its soft and warm timbre, the familiar hum that felt like a safe, warm home. When you remained silent, he shifted slightly, concern lacing his words, "Darling, is your leg in any pain?" Despite his own exhaustion, his concern for your well-being was touching. The way he called you darling further added to your sated state, and it made you smile.

"What leg?"

A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest, a comforting warmth you hadn't felt in ages. Shifting to a more serious tone, he inquired again about your injuries, but the light-hearted demeanor lingered.

"I don’t care. Ask me in the morning," You replied unbothered, arms wrapping around his neck. Nestling into the comforting warmth of his chest, you threw a leg around his hips, pulling him closer. His gasp of pleasure, maybe mixed with a hint of overstimulation, brought a satisfied smile to your face, ignoring the subtle throb echoing through your body. It was worth it—the pains, the frustrations—just to lie in your master's arms, his cock still buried in you basking in warmth, safety, and a newfound satisfaction.

"Mmm, Master?" You murmured, your voice laced with the weight of drowsiness.

He chuckled bashfully, "Darling, you don't have to call me Master, anymore."

"Just trying to be an obedient padawan," you teased, planting a kiss on the sensitive spot on his neck, earning a delightful twitch from his cock.

"Careful, darling. I still owe you a punishment for abandoning me," He playfully reminded, his words hanging in the air. "What was your question?"

"If I abandon you again, and you happened to find me. Would you follow through with your 'punishment' against the wall on a ship?"

The recollection of that fantasy, coupled with the echo of his playful threat, coaxed a deep groan from him, as both of you relived those shared fantasies. "Please, Master?" You breathed against his neck, your request underscored by a subtle roll of your hips.

His arm wrapped possessively around you, the warmth of his breath tingling against your ear. A soft growl slipped past his lips, melding with the restrained rhythm of his hips, you could feel him driving into you once more wringing out a moan from your lips. His voice, tinged with both amusement and authority, whispered,

"It seems my Padawan still needs a bit of instruction."

Why, yes, there's more...

~~~

If you would like to see more stuff like this (reader inserts) let me know and let me know if you'd like to join the tag list! For my faithful Obi-Wan content readers! @split-spectrum (you helped inspire this!), @heyhawtdawgs. @pickleprickle @decembermidnight

Alright! I need a cigarette!

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