#the neon lights of coruscant

[emilianadarling]

A very belated title card for Heart Beats Slow from The Neon Lights of Coruscant series, featuring @lovey-dovey-and-sad's beautiful art! Luke and Din's first kiss from Chapter Two, showcasing the point of impact in question. 😊😀

(Plz go check out lovey's comic for the full delicious experience. 👀)

[sw5w]

I'd Say About, Uh, 12 Parsecs...

STAR WARS EPISODE II: Attack of the Clones 00:33:08

[rochenn]

I am so deeply fascinated by those illustrations of Coruscant having harbors. Like, water harbors. Piers. You can go to the docks in the underlevels and stare out over an ocean locked inside a man-made cavern. Isn't that so crazy. Like there would be deep sea creatures close to the surface at all times because natural light is sparse. You can get street food and sit in the climate-control breeze in neon lighting while looking at fish that are just as neon bright. Terrifying. But you can't deny the vibes

[jetii]

Light in the Dark

Pairing: Hound x fem!Reader

Words: 13,250

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! fluff, hurt/comfort, coworkers/friends to lovers, black cat/golden retriever dynamic, reader is a medical examiner so there's some gore/corpse talk, anxious/insecure reader, we love men who respect boundaries, smut, unprotected sex, oral (f recieving), biting/marking

Summary: On a bustling planet like Coruscant, you enjoy the comfort and solitude of your profession, even though it can be lonely. The only one who can't seem to let you be alone is Hound.

A/N: First fic back after my little break from one-shots! I've been kind of trapped in a rut with life stuff and struggling to adopt the "write for yourself and not for others" mindset, and this is the first fic in a while I wrote truly just bc I wanted to and it felt good. Hope you enjoy!

Previous Work | Next Work | Masterlist

Coruscant has never been your favorite place. It's not the people, though they are numerous and can be rather rude, or the architecture, though it is both imposing and suffocating. No, you’ve decided, the reason that you hate Coruscant is the fact that it is so damn bright all the time.

A hundred sunrises are reflected by a hundred different buildings, a hundred sunsets by a hundred more, and even when the clouds are thick enough to obscure the sky, the city still glows with an unnatural, garish light that’s almost impossible to adjust to.

It's why you prefer to spend your time in the lower levels of the planet-wide metropolis, where the shadows are as thick and comforting as the air is stale and the smells are unpleasant. You don't care. The neon signs, the advertisements, and the glow of the holonet broadcasts keep the streets and walkways lit well enough for you to see what's in front of you. The dimness suits your mood better than the glaring brightness of the upper levels.

It's also why you found yourself in perhaps the most undesirable profession on the entire planet, despite the fact that your talents could have seen you gain a much better one. When the only place you're comfortable is in the quiet dark, why not work there, too?

Being a medical examiner might not seem like a glamorous job, but there are days when it's better than having to deal with living patients or, Force forbid, their family members. In the end, the dead don't judge. They also can't complain. It's a win-win situation.

It's nice. On a planet where you have no space, no quiet, no solitude, you're grateful for the morgue and its constant stream of silence and stillness. You don't need to be around others when they're alive, anyway. They just make things complicated.

Most of the time, you're left alone to your own devices. No one's eager to hang out with the corpse doctor in the basement of Coruscant Guard precinct. That's fine. You like your solitude, your peace and quiet, your personal space. 

And the only problem, the only disruption, is Hound, who also happens to enjoy your personal space.

The clone is... odd. He's tall and broad, his skin a rich, earthy brown and his hair a dark, curly mass that always looks unruly. It's hard to believe that he's a member of the Republic's military, what with his lopsided smile and easygoing manner, but you've seen him in action. He's fast and deadly, with a calm, steady gaze that is belied by the manic gleam in his eyes.

And he likes you.

You aren't sure why. It's not as if you're particularly friendly, or that you've gone out of your way to befriend him. In fact, you're pretty sure that your attitude toward him has been less than warm. You aren't sure how it happened, but you're fairly certain it started the first time he'd visited the morgue.

There's a door at the top of the stairs that leads directly into the lab, a metal slab that swings open with the slightest touch, and he'd stepped inside, glanced around, and flashed a crooked smile that made your stomach flip-flop. It had taken him less than a minute to locate you, and the next thing you knew, he was standing beside you, watching you work.

At the time, you'd barely spared him a glance. He was a new face, and not one you were interested in looking at. There were things that needed doing. Reports that needed writing. A body on the table that needed cutting open and dissecting. All of those were more important than a stranger, and so you'd ignored him until he spoke.

"What are you doing?"

You'd answered without looking at him, your hands deep in the cadaver's abdominal cavity, your fingers wrapped around a lung. "My job."

"You're the new M.E.?"

"No, I'm a serial killer who's pretending to be a medical examiner so that I can have access to the morgue."

He’d laughed. You didn't. It had been a long day, and you weren't in the mood to deal with some joker who didn't have the sense not to interrupt a forensic pathologist while she's in the middle of an autopsy. 

Your answer had apparently been the right one, though, because he'd nodded and said, "Good. The last one was an idiot."

You'd blinked at that, your head slowly turning to look at him. It wasn't a joke. He was serious. You'd had to swallow the smile that threatened to surface, and instead gave him a cool, polite nod. 

"That's good to know."

You'd returned to the autopsy then, but not before seeing the way his eyes had lit up. Not before seeing the spark of interest, the challenge. It wasn't the kind of attention you wanted, and it certainly wasn't the kind of attention you expected to keep. But as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, he kept coming back, and somehow, you'd found yourself looking forward to his visits.

That had been a year ago. A year, and every few days, he was back.

You're in the middle of the autopsy of a man who was found dead in an alley when you hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs behind you. You don't have to look up to know that it's Hound, because his gait is unique to him. He walks heavy and fast, not because he's in a hurry, but because he's too large and too solid to do anything else.

Biting back a sigh, you look up. 

"I thought I told you I'm busy today."

"Hello to you too," Hound laughs. He's still peeking around the doorway, watching you, his head tilted to the side. He looks like an excited puppy. Fitting for his namesake, and, unfortunately, quite endearing. "Can I come down?"

You set your scalpel down and give him an exasperated look. "Since when have you ever asked?"

"Since you told me to," he replies as he pulls off his helmet and fixes you with a grin so blinding, you nearly flinch. Against your will, a flutter of butterflies rises up in a wave in your stomach, and you look away from him to try and hide your blush.

"I did?" you ask. You think back to your conversations with him. Had you asked him not to barge into your workplace and distract you with his... Hound-ness? You honestly can't remember. "Huh."

"So can I come down or not?" 

He's still grinning, and he's still standing half-in, half-out of the doorway. His dark eyes are fixed on you, and there's no denying the excitement in them.

You pause, both to gather your thoughts and to make it seem like you're deliberating. You don't need another distraction right now. You really, really don't. But the longer you hold out, the more his eyes light up and the wider his smile gets, and, damn it, you can't help it.

"Where is she?" you ask instead, pulling off your gloves and crossing your arms in front of your chest.

Hound gives a dramatic sigh and steps aside, and Grizzer comes bounding down the stairs straight for you. Her nails scrape and clack against the floor as she skids to a stop at your feet, and before you can even kneel down, she's on her side with her legs kicking in the air, tongue lolling out of her mouth full of dagger-sharp teeth. She's begging you for belly rubs, and how are you supposed to deny that?

"What am I, chopped liver?" Hound asks, sounding put out.

You look up at him, one hand scratching the spot under Grizzer's chin that makes her leg twitch, and raise a brow. His arms are crossed over his broad chest, his helmet dangling from his fingertips, and his hair is wild and curling from being confined for so long.

"You aren't here for a belly rub," you reply, and a flush rises up on his cheeks. You bite back a smile. "Or are you?"

"No, but I wouldn't mind one."

His grin is back, and you roll your eyes.

"Get out of my lab," you order, pushing Grizzer's shoulder gently until she rolls over onto her feet and stands, panting happily. 

"But I brought you lunch!" Hound protests.

"You did?" 

Your eyebrows raise in surprise as you glance up at him, then at the paper bag in his hand. You hadn't expected that, and it throws you off a bit. You'd assumed he'd come down here because he was bored. And you weren't entirely sure how he'd managed to afford food for the two of you on the Guard's budget, either.

Your confusion must show on your face, because he laughs. 

"Grizzer and I saved a tooka from a high-rise balcony today," he explains. "The guy owned a restaurant and gave us lunch in thanks. I thought you'd be hungry, so..."

His sentence trails off, and he looks suddenly unsure of himself, as if he's made a mistake. Your heart flutters and then does a double-take, and the warmth in your cheeks spreads down your neck. He'd bought lunch for you? How is this the same man who had been so obnoxious and annoying the first time you'd met him? How is it possible that he's still here, still trying, when you're convinced you haven't given him an inch of encouragement?

You quickly stand and reach out to take the bag from him. You don't miss the way his eyes widen slightly at the gesture, and his fingers brush against yours as you take the food.

"Thanks, Hound," you mutter. You muster a small smile for him, and you're rewarded by the sight of a blush creeping down his neck and the tips of his ears. "That was really thoughtful of you."

He shrugs and looks away, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. "Yeah, well, it's not a big deal or anything."

It is a big deal, though, and the realization settles over the two of you like a blanket. It's not often that someone goes out of their way to do something nice for you. You can count on one hand the number of people who've done so since you moved to Coruscant, and Hound is at the top of that list.

"Anyway, we've got the afternoon off, so I thought I'd swing by and see what you're doing," he continues. He's clearly eager to change the subject, and you can't blame him. This whole situation has suddenly become awkward.

"Well, right now, I'm in the middle of an autopsy," you say, gesturing vaguely at the dead man lying on the table between you. Hound leans over and takes a long look at him, then wrinkles his nose.

"He smells bad."

You roll your eyes.

"Dead people tend to," you point out, and he laughs.

"I noticed." He gives the cadaver a long, hard stare, and after a moment, says, "Stabbed in the back."

"I haven't started yet," you protest, and he shakes his head.

"Didn't need to," he replies. He points at the body. "Knife went in here, hit the kidneys. It's messy, and whoever did it was either in a hurry or didn't know what they were doing. My guess is the latter."

"What makes you say that?"

"No defensive wounds." He's pointing at the hands now, the fingers still curled as if they were grasping for something. "He was caught by surprise."

"You're right," you say, impressed. "Maybe I should get you to do this instead."

He grins at you, all cocky confidence and charm.

"If you wanted to spend more time with me, you could have just asked."

"Don't flatter yourself," you retort. You're fighting back a smile, though, and it's a losing battle. "Go sit over there and leave me alone."

"Fine, fine."

He raises his hands in surrender and goes to sit at the table in the small kitchenette, Grizzer at his heels. While you clean your hands and put away the equipment you'd been using, he pulls off his gloves, sets his helmet on the table, and pulls the food out of the bag.

"There's a lot of food here," you remark, and Hound nods.

"Yeah, the owner insisted. I think he felt guilty that his tooka almost fell."

"How did that happen, anyway?" you ask. Hound looks down at Grizzer, then back up at you, and smiles sheepishly.

"Grizzer may have chased it up the side of the building," he admits. You snort. Of course she did.

"Well, it's good to know the Guard is keeping the people safe," you tease, and he grins.

"We do our best."

"Mm."

You settle across the table from him and begin to unpack the food. You pull out the cartons and containers and spread them out on the table between you, and you can feel Hound's eyes on you the entire time.

"So, how's it going?" he asks, and you give him a flat look.

"What do you mean, how's it going?" You pick up a dumpling and bite into it, pointing at the other boxes of food with the remains. "Eat."

He picks up the container of noodles and fishes around for a piece of meat with his chopsticks, then shrugs.

"I dunno, you've just seemed kinda down lately."

"Down?" you echo. You raise an eyebrow at him. "I'm a forensic pathologist, Hound. How exactly am I supposed to be 'up'?"

"You know what I mean."

He's giving you a look, and you sigh. Yes, you know what he means. You know that he knows when you're upset or anxious, and you know that he can see right through the mask of cool indifference you wear when you're trying to hide it.

"It's just a little crowded up here," you say. You're not going to talk about this, not with him, not now. Maybe not ever. But you can tell him a little, just enough to ease his worry.

He nods. "It's loud."

"Loud," you agree, and take a sip of your water. It's loud, yes, and there are far too many people. Sometimes, you want to scream. The sheer amount of life pressing down on you can be overwhelming, and the silence and stillness of the morgue is a balm on the ragged edges of your psyche. "And bright."

"Too much light," he agrees, and you give him a wan smile.

"Right."

He's quiet for a few minutes while you eat, and you're grateful. It's nice, sometimes, to have someone to share the silence with. Nice, too, to not have to fill it with unnecessary words. Sometimes, just the presence of another person is enough.

After a while, though, the quiet becomes too much for him, and he speaks.

"Are you not happy here?"

The question catches you off guard, and you nearly drop the dumpling you're holding. "Happy?"

"Yeah." His brow furrows, and his frown deepens. "Do you not want to be here?"

"Of course not," you say automatically, and he winces. The look on his face sends a jolt through you, and you realize your mistake. I mean, I do! But..." You pause, thinking. How can you explain this? How can you put it into words? "I don't fit here, Hound."

"You fit fine."

His response is quick, almost desperate. You can see the worry in his eyes, the uncertainty, the fear. Does he think you're leaving? Do you want to leave?

That's a question you've been asking yourself for months now. You'd left Eadu, and the only place you'd known as home, in order to start a new life. You'd chosen a career, a city, a place to live, and a path that would make your parents proud. And you're here, but you're not. You're just floating through life, going through the motions and keeping yourself busy, but it doesn't mean anything. Nothing has purpose, and nothing is permanent. You don't even have any friends.

Except...

You look across the table at Hound, who is still frowning. He's worried about you. The realization makes your stomach flip-flop again, and the dumpling you'd just eaten suddenly feels like a stone.

He's actually, genuinely, truly worried about you. He's the first person to actually care about your wellbeing in a long time, and it's not just him. He brought you food. He's always trying to make you laugh. He brings Grizzer down every chance he gets. He wants you to be happy.

"I don't know," you finally say, and your voice is soft and uncertain. "I just... feel like something's missing."

"Do you want to go somewhere else?" he asks, his voice soft.

You don't have an answer. You've been here for a year now, and yet, you feel as if it's only been a few weeks. As if it's still the beginning. Maybe you've gotten a little further, but not enough. 

You haven't settled in, but the thought of leaving Coruscant is a terrifying one. There's nothing left for you back home. Your family doesn't want you there. The planet is too cold, and it's too wet, and the skies are too dark. You prefer the artificial sunlight and the artificial warmth and the bright lights that never turn off. 

The only problem is the people. They're everywhere, all the time. In your apartment building. In the precinct. In the cantinas. On the speeders. And you hate the crowds. You hate the noise. You hate the way everyone is always talking, and the way they walk with no regard for anyone else, and the way they never seem to shut up, and...

Hound is still watching you, his expression worried. You shake your head and manage a smile.

"No," you say, taking another bite of the dumpling. "I think I'll stick around a little longer."

"Good."

His relief is palpable, and a wave of guilt washes over you. How did he manage to wriggle his way into your life? Why does he care about what happens to you? How does he even know what's wrong?

You don't have any answers, and the more you try to figure it out, the more confused you become. It's just Hound. He's just a clone. He's a good guy, a kind man, a decent human being, but why is he different from the others?

You've met other clones. You've met other guards. They're all polite and courteous, but none of them have gone out of their way to befriend you. None of them have spent the time and energy Hound has, and none of them have ever given you a reason to trust them. Not like Hound has. Not like he continues to.

He's always around, always ready to lend a hand. He's a constant presence in your life, a constant source of comfort and support. You didn't ask for him, and yet, there he is, a bright light in the darkness that surrounds you.

"I mean, I don't have a reason to go anywhere," you say. You're trying to sound casual, but you're failing. His eyes are focused on your face, and he's not blinking. You're not sure what's happening, or why, but it's making you uncomfortable. "But if I did, it'd be too much trouble to uproot everything and move, right?"

"Right."

"Besides, I have a job. And an apartment. And my boss isn't a complete dick, which is more than most people can say." You smile at him, but his expression doesn't change. He's still looking at you, his dark eyes intense, and the feeling of unease grows. "And I like my work. Most of the time, anyway. Sometimes it's boring."

"I understand," he says, nodding. He doesn't smile. You swallow hard, then look down at your plate.

"And... I don't know, there are perks." You give a small shrug, trying to seem nonchalant, and hope that the sudden heat in your cheeks isn't noticeable.

"Perks?" he asks. His eyebrows rise, and the corner of his mouth quirks up. "Like what?"

"You know," you say, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "Things."

"What things?"

He's teasing you, now, and you're blushing.

"Just things." You shove the rest of the dumpling into your mouth and chew slowly, trying to buy yourself some time. "Grizzer. And, um..."

"And?" 

Hound is smiling at you now, and it's hard not to return it. It's just so damn contagious. It's like looking at the sun, or standing next to a star. It's hard to look away.

"Don't make me say it."

"I wanna hear you say it."

"Hound..."

"Please?"

"Ugh, fine," you sigh. You roll your eyes and set the empty dumpling container aside, then lean back in your chair. "You, okay? Happy now?"

His smile widens, lighting up his entire face. It's impossible not to smile back. You can feel it spreading across your face, and there's nothing you can do about it.

"Yeah, actually. I'm pretty happy," he says, his voice soft. "Thanks."

"Good. Now shut up and eat."

You look down at the remaining food, but suddenly, you're no longer hungry. Instead, you find yourself glancing at him from beneath your lashes. He's digging back into the noodles, and Grizzer is sprawled out at his feet, chewing on a bone.

Maybe it's not so bad.

It becomes a routine after that.

Hound comes down almost every day after his shift to hang out and have lunch with you. Sometimes he brings Grizzer, sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes he has food, sometimes he doesn't. It's not much, but it's something. It's a bit of comfort, a bit of normality, a bit of light in the otherwise dull, colorless life you're living.

And once, when you're knee-deep in a complicated case and you forget to eat, he brings food down for you anyway. He doesn't stay. He just leaves it on the table and goes back upstairs, but not before making sure you know it's there. It's a simple gesture, and it's sweet, and it makes your heart flutter.

You aren't used to that. You aren't used to people going out of their way to make sure that you're taken care of. It's not something you've ever really experienced. But now that you've seen it, felt it, you aren't sure if you'll be able to live without it.

The next time he comes down, you're not surprised. You're expecting him. Hound still waits for permission to enter your space, and you're secretly pleased by that. You're grateful that he respects the boundaries you've set, especially since most people don't. They think they can intrude, can walk right into the lab, because they have clearance. Hound, however, does not, and so he always knocks. Always waits. Always gives you a moment to prepare.

You've also gotten used to his presence, and it's easy enough to keep working while he chats away.

Today, though, the conversation has died, and you've gone back to your paperwork. He's quiet, and there's an odd tension in the air that you can't quite pinpoint. You can feel it, and you're fairly certain that he can, too. You want to ask, but you don't. You know him well enough by now to know that he'll tell you if something's bothering him.

"Hey," he finally says, and you look up from your work. He's sitting across the room, still eating his food, but he's not looking at you. His attention is fixed on the table, his jaw clenched.

"What's up?" you ask, trying to sound casual. Trying not to show your concern. He's fidgeting with the lid of the empty food container, his hands moving faster than usual.

"Are you busy later tonight?"

"Probably," you say. "Why?"

"Just curious," he says with a shrug, and he turns his attention back to his meal.

He's lying. He's a terrible liar, and the fact that he's refusing to make eye contact only proves that something's wrong. You put down the stylus you'd been using and turn your chair to face him, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Why?"

He shrugs again and shoves a large bite of noodles into his mouth.

"Hound."

He chews and swallows, and the frown deepens. He doesn't answer.

"Hound," you repeat, a bit more forcefully. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You're obviously upset about something," you point out. You lean forward in your chair and rest your elbows on your knees, watching him. "Did I do something? Did I piss off someone in the Guard again? I swear, they can't handle constructive criticism."

He shakes his head, a small smile playing across his lips. "No. It's nothing like that."

"Then what is it?"

He opens his mouth, closes it, then shakes his head again. His dark curls bounce around his face, and you're distracted for a moment. Then, before you can ask again, he stands. He gathers the garbage from the table and puts it into the recycler, then heads for the stairs.

"Hound."

He freezes in his tracks, his shoulders stiffening. He looks like he's debating whether or not to leave. Finally, he turns and gives you a sheepish smile, his face turning red. 

"There's an officer's gala tonight," he says, and your brow furrows. What's so bad about that?

"Okay," you say slowly.

Hound stares at you, his jaw clenching and unclenching, as if he's waiting for a response. You have no idea what he wants you to say, or how you're supposed to respond, and so you wait. You sit and stare, and his discomfort grows.

"I'm invited," he says. He's starting to fidget again, and his voice is quieter. "They're supposed to have good food and decent booze. It'll be a nice night out."

"Sounds like fun," you hum, nodding. Not for you, but that's not the point. He's a social person, and you're not. It makes sense. "I'm glad you're going."

"So, are you coming with me?"

Your jaw drops, and you nearly fall out of your chair. It takes a second for the question to sink in, and even longer for it to register. Is he serious? Does he really expect you to go with him? To an event where there will be dozens, if not hundreds, of people? You're not sure if he's joking or not. If this is a trick, it's a cruel one.

"Wait, what?"

Hound looks like he wants to disappear, and the flush on his cheeks has darkened.

"I mean, you don't have to," he says, shaking his head. "It's fine. I know it's not really your scene, but I thought maybe—"

"You're serious?" you ask. Your heart is pounding. You can feel it in your throat, and in your chest, and in your ears.

"Well, I figured, y'know, since I have to go, I might as well make the most of it. So I was wondering if you'd like to come with me," he says, his voice a low rumble. He's practically mumbling, and you have to strain your ears to hear him. "As, y'know, a date. Maybe."

"Me?" you ask, barely able to find your voice.

"Yes, you," he laughs. It's a bit forced, and the nervousness in his voice is obvious. "No one else is down here, so I'd have to be talking to them."

"Right, but..."

"Look, if you don't want to, it's fine," he says. "I know this isn't your thing. I just thought, y'know, we could spend some time together, outside of this place."

You stare at him, unsure of what to say or do. He wants to take you out on a date? He wants you to be his date to the gala? He wants to spend time with you outside of the morgue, when there are other things that could easily catch his attention? He actually wants to spend time with you, of all people?

"Hound, I... I don't think..." Your voice trails off, and you clear your throat, trying to find the words. How do you tell him that it's not a good idea without hurting his feelings?

"Oh." His face falls, and he looks so disappointed that you immediately feel guilty.

"No, I didn't mean—"

"Nah, I get it," he interrupts, waving his hand. He forces a smile. It's fake, and it doesn't reach his eyes. "You're right, it's a dumb idea."

"That's not what I meant," you insist.

"It's cool, don't worry about it."

"Hound, I'm sorry—"

"No, it's fine. It's my fault for bringing it up."

"I don't—"

"It was a stupid idea. Just forget about it. We can—"

"I want to!”

You blurt the words before you can stop yourself, and the moment they're out of your mouth, you wish you could take them back. Your face is hot, and your hands are trembling, and the butterflies are beating their wings against your stomach, but the damage is done. You've already said it, and the shock on Hound's face only confirms it.

"You want to?" he asks, his brows raised.

"Yeah." You duck your head, staring intently at the floor. It's easier than looking at him. "I want to. I'm just... Not good with social stuff."

"You're better than you think," Hound says, his tone soft and warm.

You give a small shrug, and a heavy silence falls over the room. After a few seconds, he speaks again.

"Look, the gala is gonna be boring as hell," he says, and you peek up at him through your lashes. He's grinning, and the warmth in his gaze makes your heart skip a beat. "Everyone there is just gonna be kissing each other's asses, and it'll be the same people as always. The same stupid conversations, the same stupid stories, the same stupid shit. And it's not gonna be fun."

"Wow, sounds like a great date," you say sarcastically.

"But if you're there, then it'll be bearable," he finishes. "You'll make it fun. You're always funny, and interesting, and... And..."

His voice trails off, and his face is beet-red. You bite back a smile. He's never this flustered. It's adorable, and it's also a boost to your ego.

"Are you sure?" you ask. "I mean, I don't exactly have a pretty dress, or anything like that. I'm not exactly high-society material."

He laughs and shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. Wear whatever's comfortable."

"You're sure I'm not gonna be in the way?"

"I'm positive."

"And if I get bored or overwhelmed?"

"Then we can leave and do something else."

"Really?"

"Really."

You pause, thinking, then nod. "Okay. Yeah, sure. I'll come."

"You will?" He looks excited, and his smile widens. "You really will?"

"Yeah," you say, laughing.

"Alright!"

Hound pumps his fist in the air and gives a whoop of victory, then bounds over and wraps his arms around you. Before you can protest, he picks you up and swings you around.

"Hound, put me down!"

After one more swing, he does, and you nearly collapse into his chest. You're dizzy, but his grin is infectious, and soon, you're smiling back. 

"Sorry," he laughs.

"You're ridiculous."

"You're amazing."

The compliment is given so easily, and it's so earnest, that your face heats up. You look away from him, not wanting him to see how much the words mean.

"Anyway," you mutter, pushing him away. "Go do something useful, and let me get back to work."

"Yes sir," he says.

He snaps a salute, his expression still bright, and then turns and runs up the stairs. Grizzer chuffs once, then follows him. He looks so excited that you can't help but smile, and the butterflies finally settle.

It's going to be fine.

It's not fine.

As soon as your shift ends, you race back to your hole-in-the-wall apartment and tear through your closet, looking for something, anything, that doesn't scream 'I'm socially awkward and I have no idea what I'm doing.'

But the clothes that you brought from Eadu are simple and functional. You hadn't been planning on attending any galas or balls or fancy parties. There's nothing here that screams classy or elegant or sophisticated. It's all cheap, practical, and serviceable, and you're quickly losing hope.

You're about to call the whole thing off when you see a dress tucked into the corner, hidden beneath a stack of towels. You frown, unsure how it got there, then snatch it up and hold it up in front of you.

It's a nice dress, one that your mother had forced you into for a cousin's wedding several years ago. It's a dark, deep blue that fades to black, and the sleeves are long and sheer. The fabric is soft, and it's still in good shape, which means you probably shouldn't have left it buried in the closet for so long.

Sighing, you carry the dress to the bathroom and change. The dress is a little loose, but it's not too bad, and you're able to tighten it enough so it fits. It's not as bad as you remember, and the longer you look at it, the better you feel. This is fine. You can pull this off. It'll be a lot better than the shapeless smock you wear every day, and at least Hound will appreciate the effort.

Your hair is a different story.

It's a mess, and your fingers aren't much help. You're tempted to cut it all off, but you'd promised yourself that you'd never go that route again, no matter how frustrating it is. You need help, and you've got half a mind to comm the office and ask the receptionist for some advice, but she's not much better off than you are. You're just going to have to improvise.

An hour later, you're ready. Or as ready as you're going to be.

The dress fits nicely, and the makeup is the same dark shade as the dress, so at least it goes well together. Your hair is still a bit messy, but you've managed to get it into a bun and pin it down so that most of it is out of your face. You've even found a pair of heels in the back of the closet, and though they pinch a little, they're not unbearable.

When you step outside, the first thing you notice is that the sun is setting. That's not a good sign, because it means that you've already wasted an hour and a half doing nothing.

The second thing you notice is that Hound is leaning against the wall opposite your door, wearing his formal uniform.

He looks gorgeous.

You've never seen him dressed up like this, and it takes a few moments for you to register the sight. The uniform is crisp and clean, with gold buttons and a high collar. There's a single stripe across his chest, signifying his rank, and he's got a medal pinned to his lapel. His hair is slicked back and tidy, and he's even taken the time to polish the mud and dirt from his boots. He looks professional and commanding and sexy.

"Wow."

The word slips out before you can stop it, and Hound's head snaps up. He blinks at you in surprise, then slowly smiles, his eyes roaming over you with blatant appreciation.

"Wow," he echoes, his voice a low rumble.

A flush rises up your neck, and you swallow hard. "Is this okay?"

"Are you kidding?" Hound laughs and crosses the distance between you in a few long strides. He towers over you, but he doesn't feel threatening. In fact, the closer he gets, the safer and more secure you feel. "You look amazing."

"I look like a mess," you say, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

"You look great." He reaches out and tucks the hair behind your ear, his fingers grazing your skin, and the blush spreads further. His touch is surprisingly gentle, and his fingertips are calloused and rough. "You always do."

"Thanks," you mutter.

He tilts his head to the side, and his smile widens. "You're beautiful."

"Stop,” you whine, ducking your head. You're used to Hound's teasing, but not this kind. Not the kind that makes your pulse quicken, or makes your heart stutter.

"No, really, you are."

"Hound..."

"So beautiful."

"I mean it. Stop."

"Gorgeous."

"Hound!"

He laughs and holds his hands up. "Sorry. Couldn't help myself."

"Uh huh." You give him a dubious look, then roll your eyes. "Let's go."

"Yes, ma'am," he says. He offers his arm, and you hesitate for a moment before taking it.

It's an odd sensation, touching him. Not bad, necessarily, just odd. You're used to his casual manner, the way he always brushes his shoulder against yours, or the way he nudges you when he wants your attention. But this is different. It's intentional. Intimate.

You're not sure how to feel.

"Shall we?" he asks.

"Yeah," you reply, and your voice comes out soft and breathless.

He leads you out of the building and down the street towards the main avenue. He's tall and solid and sturdy, and his stride is long and confident. The two of you look like an odd pair, and you feel a bit self-conscious. He, on the other hand, seems completely unfazed. Hound keeps up a steady stream of conversation, and you're grateful. It distracts you from the fact that his arm is pressed firmly against yours, and it's difficult not to lean against him.

By the time the two of you reach the venue, the sun has set and the city is lit up with artificial light. You can see the gala from blocks away, and Hound is quick to point out the various dignitaries and important officials who are milling about. He's not particularly interested in politics, and you suspect that the only reason he knows so many names is because it's required of his job. He does, however, enjoy making fun of them behind their backs, and his comments have you in stitches by the time the two of you are in line to enter the hall.

"Ready?" he asks, glancing down at you.

"No," you admit, but there's no point in stalling. It's not like you can turn back now. You'd agreed to come, and the least you can do is stick to it.

"Good," Hound laughs. "I'm not, either."

"Somehow, that's not reassuring," you mutter.

"C'mon, let's go."

He pulls his arm away from yours, and your skin immediately grows cold. Before you can protest, he places a hand on the small of your back and leads you inside. The warmth and security are immediate, and you lean into his touch without thinking. He stiffens for a moment, but he doesn't complain. Instead, he leans closer, and his thumb brushes against the fabric of your dress, stroking in slow circles.

As soon as the two of you step inside, the noise levels increase tenfold. People are shouting, talking, laughing, and dancing, and the band is playing a loud, boisterous song. Everything is bright and loud and colorful, and the smells and sounds and sights are overwhelming. The panic returns, and you freeze. Hound must notice, because he squeezes your waist.

"Breathe," he whispers.

You do as he says, and the tension eases. The noise fades to background static, and the colors stop spinning. Hound doesn't remove his hand, and it's a welcome weight, keeping you anchored to reality.

"I don't know about this," you say, your voice so small and so quiet that it's a wonder he hears you at all. But he does, and he gives you a reassuring smile.

"We don't have to stay," he promises. "If you get uncomfortable, we'll leave. It's not a big deal. We can do whatever you want."

"Really?"

"I mean it." He gives a small shrug, and a slight flush colors his cheeks. "If you wanna ditch, we can ditch. It's no big deal."

You stare at him, dumbfounded, and wonder how you'd ever gotten lucky enough to meet someone like him. Someone who is patient and understanding, who never judges or pries. Someone who just wants you to be happy.

"Thanks," you say.

"Don't mention it," he replies, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Wanna grab a drink?"

"Sure."

He guides you over to the bar, and the two of you order your drinks. He chooses something strong, while you opt for a glass of wine. As soon as the bartender sets the glass in front of you, Hound snatches it up and takes a sip.

"Hound!" you yelp, smacking him lightly on the arm. "What the hell?"

"Sorry, force of habit," he laughs.

"Why the hell are you so used to stealing other people's drinks?"

"Because my brothers are assholes," he says. He puts the glass down and raises his hands in surrender. "I promise, I'll let you drink the rest."

"Damn right, you will," you grumble. You pick up the glass and take a sip, eyeing him over the rim. "I'm watching you."

"I'd expect nothing less," he says, grinning. He reaches over and grabs his own drink, and the two of you clink glasses. "To... I dunno. To whatever the fuck this is."

"To us," you reply, and he laughs.

"Yeah. To us."

He downs the entire glass, then turns and watches the crowd. Couples are pairing off, and the band has started a slow waltz. You spot Commander Thorn with the Senator of Atrisia in the middle of the dance floor, looking rather pleased with himself, and your stomach does a nervous flip. How the hell is she able to wear those heels without tripping and falling? It looks exhausting. And painful.

"Do you wanna dance?"

The question startles you, and you whip your head around. Hound is looking down at you, his brows furrowed, and he seems hesitant.

"I'm sorry?"

"Do you want to dance?"

"Dance?"

"Yeah." He nods towards the floor, and the couples swaying back and forth. You let out a breath, shaking your head, and you take a long sip of your drink.

“Not really, no," you admit.

You watch his shoulders slump, but the look on his face is more relief than disappointment.

"Okay, good," he says, letting out a heavy sigh.

"Oh, thank the Force," you mutter, and he grins.

"Didn't think you'd say yes, honestly."

"And what if I had?" you ask. You arch an eyebrow at him, and the grin widens.

"Then I'd have made an ass of myself trying to impress you," he says. His dark eyes shine with amusement, and the corner of his mouth twitches. "Not that I don't normally do that, anyway."

"Mm," you hum. "You do alright."

"Yeah?" he asks. He cocks his head, and the smile disappears. "Really?"

"I mean, yeah." You take a sip of your wine and try not to think about how warm and safe and secure he makes you feel. Or how handsome and charming he is. Or how much he actually cares. "You're not too bad."

"High praise," he laughs, his tone dry. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

"I can't tell if you're serious or not," he says, giving you a wry smile.

"I'm very serious," you retort. You're smiling, though, and it's a struggle to keep a straight face. "Dead serious."

"You're awful," he snorts, shaking his head. "Absolutely awful."

"That's why you like me," you tease.

"Well, not the only reason," he murmurs. There's a faint blush on his cheeks, and the expression on his face is far too sweet for someone who is usually so gruff and unruly. "There's plenty of others."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he says. He looks away, his eyes darting around the room, and a heavy silence settles over the two of you. He clears his throat, and his hand finds yours. "C'mon, let's go see what they've got for food."

"Sounds good," you reply. You let him lead the way, his fingers laced through yours, and his grip is strong and firm.

It's going to be a long night.

You end up staying for a couple hours.

The food is excellent, and the booze is decent, and Hound keeps his promise. You stay glued to his side, letting him lead the way and navigate the crowd. He introduces you to some of his friends, and it's not as awful as you'd feared.

You make polite small talk, and laugh at their terrible jokes, and they seem impressed. Thorn even goes as far as to say that you're good for him, and when Hound shoots him a warning look, he only grins.

It's not as awkward as you'd feared, but it's not exactly relaxing. Thankfully, Hound is good at picking up on your cues. When the chatter starts to die down, he knows to make an excuse and move on. When the crowd gets too thick, he pulls you away. When your anxiety starts to mount, he finds a place where the two of you can be alone.

At some point, the two of you find a quiet spot in the corner. He leans against the wall, and you lean against him. The two of you watch the people milling around, and the band strikes up another lively tune. He's still got an arm wrapped around your waist, and his hand is resting on your hip, his fingers tracing slow circles on the fabric of your dress.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice a low rumble.

"I'm fine," you say, and this time, it's the truth. "Thank you for this. I know I'm being difficult, and I'm sorry."

"You're not being difficult." He's smiling, and his fingers move from your hip to the curve of your spine, sliding down your back in a soothing motion. "You're perfect."

You snort, and the butterflies are fluttering madly, beating their wings against your stomach, rising higher and higher. You ignore them and roll your eyes. "Whatever you say, Hound."

"I mean it." He turns his attention away from the crowd and looks down at you, and the intensity in his eyes takes you by surprise. "You're incredible."

"Oh, come on."

"Seriously, you are."

"Hound, I've been a nervous wreck all night. If that's incredible, I hate to hear what you think of the other people here."

"Other people don't matter,” he says. His tone is soft and warm, and the way he's looking at you makes your heart skip a beat.

"Of course they do."

"Why?"

"Because... Well, because..." Your words trail off, and you frown.

That's a good question.

Why does it matter?

Who cares if someone else has a nicer dress or better manners or more friends or a more prestigious title? Why is it important? What does it matter, in the grand scheme of things? You're not even sure anymore, and you find yourself searching for an answer. A good, solid, valid reason that will make sense, but there's nothing. Nothing that isn't completely superficial or trivial.

"They don't," he says. His eyes are fixed on your face, and the intensity of his gaze is unsettling. He's so serious, and his expression is so tender, and it's so unlike him. But before you can respond, he smiles and shrugs. "I'm just sayin'. No one else matters."

"Maybe," you murmur, and your head falls to his shoulder.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promises.

You know he's right. He's never lied to you before. He's never been dishonest, or cruel, or uncaring. He's always been considerate and thoughtful and kind, and he's the first person who's cared about you since you left home. He's always there, waiting at the bottom of the stairs, with a smile and a joke and a friendly hello.

He's always there, and that's a good thing.

You take a deep breath and turn your attention away from the crowd and back towards him. He's still watching you, and his expression is soft and open and vulnerable. He's not trying to hide anything, and it makes your heart flutter.

"Good," you whisper, and he smiles.

And then his hand is on your cheek, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw, his thumb stroking the soft skin just beneath your eye.

"I've got you," he murmurs, his voice rough. "You know that, right?"

You swallow hard and nod, and he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. Your noses bump together, your lips inches apart, and your breath catches.

"Thank you," you whisper.

He's still watching you, and the intensity of his gaze is almost too much. There's a flush on his cheeks, his breath coming out in short, quick puffs. You can tell that he's hesitating. Waiting. Giving you time to react.

You can't speak. You can barely breathe. But your fingers curl around the lapel of his jacket, and you pull him closer. That's all the encouragement he needs, and his lips brush against yours in a featherlight kiss.

The kiss is slow, and soft, and sweet, and the butterflies explode in a whirlwind of emotion and sensation and excitement. Your skin is on fire, the heat spreading from your face down your neck and chest and lower, lower, lower. He's not pushing or demanding. He's gentle and patient and caring, and it's perfect.

When the kiss ends, Hound pulls back, but not far. He's still close enough to press his forehead against yours, and his hand is still on the nape of your neck, his fingers tangled in your hair.

"Okay?" he whispers.

You nod, and his smile widens. He leans down and kisses you again, and this time, the butterflies aren't fluttering. They're flying.

It's perfect.

The rest of the evening is a blur.

Hound is by your side the entire time, keeping you grounded and safe and secure. His hand is on the small of your back, his fingertips gently stroking the fabric of your dress. He keeps his pace slow, matching your steps, and his voice is a low, steady rumble in your ear, whispering little bits of information and gossip and stories. It's easy to tune out the other people, to ignore the music, to focus only on him.

By the time the two of you leave the gala, the moon is high and the streets are mostly empty. Hound walks you home, his hand never leaving your waist. You're both a bit tipsy, and the walk seems much shorter than usual. It's not long before the two of you are outside your door, and he's reluctant to let you go.

"Tonight was nice," you say. You're leaning against him, your face pressed into his chest. His arms are wrapped around your waist, his fingers splayed across your back. His hands are warm, and the heat from his touch is spreading across your skin, sending tingles down your spine.

"It was," he agrees, and his lips brush against the top of your head.

You sigh and relax further, resting your cheek against his chest. The steady beat of his heart is a comforting rhythm, and the scent of his cologne is a pleasant mixture of spice and leather. He smells amazing, and you can't resist pressing a quick kiss to the base of his neck. He shivers, his hands tightening on your waist.

"We should do this again," you murmur. "But maybe next time, without so many people."

"Yeah," he chuckles, the sound low and husky. His lips trail along the shell of your ear, and the butterflies are awake again, fluttering lazily. "I'd love to take you out again."

"I'd like that," you whisper.

You want to tell him that you had a great time, that he was a perfect date, that you don't want the night to end. You want to tell him that he's amazing and sweet and kind and generous. You want to tell him that he's the only person who's cared about you in a long time. You want to tell him how much it means to you, and that you'd be happy to do it again.

But the words are stuck in your throat, and the butterflies are blocking the way, so instead, you tilt your head back and meet his gaze. His eyes are dark and hooded, and his face is flushed, but his smile is warm and soft. He's looking at you like you're the only person in the world, like he's happy just to be near you.

"Do you want to come inside?" you ask.

It's a risky move, and a bold one. You're not usually so forward, and the alcohol is giving you courage. But you can't deny the desire coursing through your veins, and the thought of him leaving makes you feel empty.

Hound blinks, his eyes shifting from your door and back, and he swallows hard.

"If you want me to," he says. His voice is soft, but there's an edge of desire to it, and it's a struggle to keep your hands from trembling.

"I do," you whisper.

He stares at you for a moment longer, then nods.

"Alright," he murmurs, his voice rough. He presses a quick kiss to the tip of your nose, and a flush rises up your neck and into your cheeks. "Then I'll come inside.”

His hands are still on your waist, and you reach up and grab his shirt, pulling him closer. His breath hitches as his body comes flush against yours, and his grip tightens. The kiss is more passionate this time, less hesitant and timid, and it sets your nerves alight. The butterflies are in full force now, and they're flying so fast and hard that you're sure they're going to escape.

The two of you stumble into the apartment, barely managing to shut the door behind you. Your hands are buried in his hair, and his are wandering up and down your sides, tracing the curve of your hips and the swell of your breasts. You pull away for a moment, trying to catch your breath, and Hound immediately starts pressing a series of quick, sloppy kisses along the length of your jaw.

"I've wanted to do this for a while," he whispers, his voice hoarse.

"Me too," you admit, a bit breathless.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I'm glad."

He captures your lips in another kiss, and his tongue slips into your mouth. The kiss is rough and wet and hot, and you moan into his mouth, gripping his shirt tighter.

Your legs hit the edge of the couch, and you fall backwards onto the cushions, dragging him down with you. He lands on top of you, and the sudden weight causes you to yelp in surprise. He catches himself at the last second, bracing himself with his arms, and he breaks the kiss.

"You okay?" he pants, his voice hoarse.

"Yeah, sorry," you mutter.

He grins and ducks his head, resuming his trail of kisses along your jawline and down the column of your throat. Your head falls back, and you moan, tugging at the hem of his shirt. His lips are searing, and the heat is spreading across your skin, setting every inch of you aflame.

He's intoxicating, and you want more.

You push him off, and the two of you scramble to your feet. He grabs the back of his shirt and tugs it over his head, tossing it to the side. You're not sure where it lands, and you don't care. Your attention is focused on him and him alone. You're staring, shamelessly drinking in the sight, and your mouth goes dry.

He's built like a mountain, broad and thick, and his skin is covered in a patchwork of scars and tattoos. You can't stop yourself from reaching out and running your hands along the smooth planes of his chest and the ridges of his abs. The muscles flex under your fingertips, and his eyes drift shut.

He's practically vibrating with anticipation, and when your fingers hook into the waistband of his trousers, he grabs your waist and pulls you close. He doesn't have to say anything, because his eyes are screaming. They're full of want, desire, need. You can feel it in the air between the two of you, heavy with anticipation, with promise.

You reach up and cup his cheek, running your thumb along his lower lip. He parts his lips, and his tongue flicks out, teasing the pad of your thumb. His teeth graze the sensitive skin, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body.

The two of you move together, and your lips crash against his in a bruising kiss. You're a tangle of limbs, your bodies pressed so tightly together that you can't tell where one ends and the other begins. His hands are wandering, sliding over the curve of your ass and up the length of your back. He grabs the zipper at the top of your dress and slowly pulls it down, his knuckles brushing against your bare skin.

The dress pools around your feet, and he lets out a low whistle.

"Goddamn," he breathes as his gaze roams over your body.

You bite your lip and look away, suddenly embarrassed. Your face is burning, and you wish the butterflies would go away. But they're relentless, and they're not going anywhere.

"Hey, look at me," he says, his voice low and soft.

He places a finger beneath your chin and gently tilts your head up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His expression is tender, and the smile he gives you is full of affection. He leans down and presses a feather-light kiss to the corner of your mouth, his hands sliding over your shoulders and down your arms.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs.

"You're not so bad yourself," you reply.

He chuckles and shakes his head. "You have no idea, do you?"

"What?"

"How gorgeous you are." He cups your cheek and traces the curve of your jaw, his touch sending shivers down your spine. "You're incredible."

"So are you."

"No, I'm not," he laughs, his hand sliding up your neck to tug gently at a loose strand of hair. "I'm just a guy who somehow managed to convince the most amazing woman in the galaxy to go on a date with him."

"Shut up," you scoff.

"It's true," he says, and there's a hint of vulnerability in his voice. "I'm lucky to have met you."

"Hound..."

"So, so lucky," he repeats. He leans down and brushes his lips against yours. It's a quick, fleeting kiss, but it's enough to make your heart stutter. "You're incredible."

"Hound, shut up," you groan.

He laughs, the sound rich and deep, and he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close.

"Make me."

You reach up and grab the back of his head, tangling your fingers in his hair, and you press your mouth against his. The kiss is hungry, desperate, demanding, your lips parting, tongues clashing, teeth biting, noses bumping. He growls, the sound rumbling through his chest, vibrating against your body.

When the kiss ends, he's still holding you, and his forehead is pressed against yours.

"Are you sure about this?" he asks, his breath hot against your cheek.

"Yes," you breathe.

"I don't want to rush—"

"Hound, if you stop now, I'll kick your ass."

He laughs and wraps his arms around your waist, lifting you easily. Your legs automatically wrap around his hips, and he carries you into the bedroom, his lips trailing along the column of your throat. The mattress hits the back of his legs, and he sits down, settling you in his lap. You straddle his thighs, your knees digging into the soft fabric of the bedspread, and you bury your hands in his hair.

He slides his palms over the curve of your ass, squeezing and massaging the supple flesh. His mouth finds yours, and his tongue slips past your lips, exploring and teasing. The taste of alcohol is still heavy on his breath, but beneath it is something else. Something stronger. Something darker.

You're vaguely aware of him reaching for the clasp of your bra, and it loosens, falling away. You break the kiss and pull back, and the expression on his face nearly undoes you. The raw, naked hunger in his eyes is enough to make the butterflies beat their wings wildly, and you can't help but grin.

"See something you like?" you tease, and he groans, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"Fuck, yes," he growls.

He cups your breasts, his fingers teasing and pinching, and your breath catches in your throat. Your hips shift as his thumbs rub against your nipples, grinding down against him. The first brush of your clothed pussy against his erection is electric, and the noise he makes sends a fresh wave of heat washing over you.

He's hard and thick, his cock straining against the fabric of his trousers. You roll your hips again, and his hands tighten on your breasts, his nails digging into the sensitive skin. The pain is delicious, and you moan, rocking against him again. He groans, his hips jerking, and his lips find yours. The kiss is rough and demanding, and his tongue is practically fucking your mouth, licking and stroking in time with the movements of your hips.

He pulls away, his eyes wild, and his hands leave your breasts, sliding down your sides to settle on your waist. He holds you still as he thrusts up, grinding his cock against your pussy. You gasp and moan, your head falling back, and his mouth finds the exposed flesh of your throat. He latches onto the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, sucking and biting. He's leaving a mark, and the thought excites you more than you'd like to admit.

His hands move lower, gripping the backs of your thighs, and he lifts you up, rolling the two of you over. He looms over you, his body a solid wall of muscle, and he kisses you, slow and deep. Hound shifts, and his knee spreads your legs wide, pressing against the soaked fabric of your panties. You whimper into his mouth, bucking your hips, trying to find some relief from the building pressure against the hard muscle of his thigh.

Hound pulls away, and you groan, reaching for him, trying to drag him back. He's too far away, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath hot against your skin.

"Last chance," he whispers. The husky tone of his voice, coupled with the sight of his eyes, dark and hungry, sends a jolt of pleasure through your body, straight to your core. "Are you sure?"

You nod, unable to find the words.

"Tell me," he says, and his thumb slides under the thin strap of your panties. He teases the edge of the fabric, tracing lazy circles over the curve of your hip. "Tell me what you want."

"I want you," you breathe, the words coming out as a needy whine.

His eyes widen, and a grin spreads across his face. It's not the playful, easy smile that you're used to seeing. It's wolfish and predatory, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

He hooks a finger into the waistband of your panties and tugs them down, tossing the ruined fabric aside. He takes a moment to drink in the sight of you, both of you breathing hard, chests rising and falling in sync, before he descends with a low growl. He licks a slow, teasing line up the inside of your thigh, stopping just shy of your aching pussy. His lips ghost over your mound, the lightest of touches, before moving to the other thigh, repeating the torturous action.

The first swipe of his tongue against your clit makes you cry out, the sound echoing off the walls. He laps at the sensitive bud, swirling around it, then presses the flat of his tongue against the folds of your pussy, lapping at the wetness leaking from your core. You buck your hips, desperately grinding against his face, but he holds you still, keeping his movements steady.

"Fuck," you gasp, your hips jerking involuntarily.

His tongue plunges inside you, his fingers digging into your thighs, holding you open. His eyes are closed, and his expression is one of pure bliss. He's moaning, his tongue darting in and out, tasting every inch of you. You bury a hand in his hair, tugging at the short strands, urging him on.

He's relentless, devouring you, his tongue thrusting in and out of your cunt. His thumb brushes against your clit, sending shockwaves through your body, and you gasp, arching off the bed. You're close, the pressure building and building, and his tongue moves faster, curling and twisting inside you.

You're not going to last.

You're not sure if it's the alcohol, or his enthusiasm, or the sheer fact that it's Hound who's between your legs, but you're already close to the edge. The pleasure is overwhelming, flooding your body, washing over you like a wave.

"Please, Hound, I need to come," you plead. "Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop..."

His grip on your thighs tightens, his tongue thrusting faster, deeper, harder. He moans, the sound muffled by your cunt, his lips sucking at the sensitive bud of nerves. Your hips jerk, grinding against his face, the pressure building and building until it's almost too much. You can feel it, the orgasm just out of reach. It's just a matter of seconds. A matter of moments.

And then you're flying, your entire body trembling, shaking, pulsing. You're vaguely aware of the loud, ragged moan that escapes you, but you're too lost in the pleasure to care. The orgasm rips through you, crashing over you like a tidal wave, drowning out everything except the feeling of his tongue fucking your cunt.

You're panting, gasping, writhing on the sheets, every nerve ending on fire. Your body is shaking, your muscles twitching, and it takes several moments before the aftershocks finally subside. When the last one passes, you're left breathless and boneless, sprawled on the bed, struggling to catch your breath.

You feel a rush of cool air as Hound pulls away, the sound of his belt being unbuckled barely registering. Your head lolls to the side, eyes fluttering open. He's standing next to the bed, his pants hanging loose around his hips, his cock standing proud, flushed and achingly hard. He's looking down at you, his gaze hooded, his pupils blown wide.

"Do you have any idea how long I've wanted to do that?" he murmurs. His voice is low, husky, full of desire.

"Probably as long as I've wanted it," you say. You reach up, fingers wrapping around his wrist, pulling him towards you. He hurriedly kicks off his pants, nearly tripping over the fabric in his haste, then settles over you, his hands planted on either side of your head.

"How's that possible?" he asks, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Because we're idiots," you laugh. You reach up and grab his neck, tugging him down, and he dips his head, capturing your lips in a kiss. His tongue slips past your lips, and you moan at the taste of yourself.

"Maybe," he agrees, the word a soft sigh against your mouth. "But I don't care."

"Me neither," you whisper, a slight smile curling the corners of your lips.

You shift, spreading your legs, welcoming him into the cradle of your thighs. His cock brushes against your folds, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your veins, and the two of you groan. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, his heart pounding against your chest, the scent of his cologne filling the air. He's everywhere, surrounding you, enveloping you, drowning you in his warmth.

Hound shifts, his hand wrapping around the base of his cock. Precum is leaking from the tip, and the head is flushed red, almost purple with need. He lines himself up, the head teasing your entrance, but he doesn't push inside. Instead, he slowly circles the swollen bundle of nerves, coating his cock with your slick as he leans forward and braces himself on his forearm. 

His mouth finds yours, kissing you deep, his tongue plunging into your mouth, mimicking the slow, lazy movements of his hips. The kiss is intense, possessive, claiming. He's branding you with his touch, his taste, his scent. He's marking you as his, and it's perfect.

The head of his cock slips inside you, and he moans, his body shuddering.

"Tell me what you want," he whispers, his voice rough.

"I want you," you whimper.

He thrusts, sinking in another inch, and you cry out. He's stretching you open, and the feeling is incredible. Your walls flutter, your hips bucking, but he's holding you in place, pinning you to the mattress.

"Say it again," he growls, his teeth grazing your earlobe.

"I want you," you moan, the words coming out in a breathy, needy rush.

He pulls back, the head of his cock just barely stretching your entrance. The sudden loss of his warmth makes you whimper, but before you can protest, he surges forward, filling you completely.

Every inch of you is burning, every nerve ending screaming. You're full, stretched to the limit, molded perfectly to the shape of his cock. His body is flush against yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His hips rock, grinding his pelvis against your clit, setting off another round of sparks.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he groans. "So fucking good."

His words send a thrill through you, your cunt tightening around his cock. He curses, his hips jerking, and his hand finds your stomach, pressing down.

"Easy," he murmurs. "Don't want to hurt you."

"You're not," you gasp, and your walls ripple around him again. He moans, his head dropping to your shoulder.

"Fuck," he hisses. "Don't do that. Not yet."

You can't help but laugh, breathless and lightheaded. He's being so sweet and careful, and you can't resist the urge to push him a little further. You contract again, squeezing and releasing, feeling every inch of him buried deep inside you.

Hound's head snaps up, his eyes wild, his nostrils flaring. There's a moment where the two of you stare at each other, neither one of you moving. And then, in one smooth, powerful thrust, he drives his cock all the way inside you.

Your back arches, and his mouth latches onto the sensitive skin where your neck meets your shoulder, biting and sucking. His teeth graze the bruised flesh, and his hips snap, his cock slamming into you.

You cry out, nails digging into the hard planes of his shoulders. He sets a slow rhythm, each thrust deep and deliberate. He's not holding back anymore, and neither are you. His hands are on your waist, and he's slamming his cock into you, each thrust punctuated by a sharp slap of skin on skin. You're moaning and gasping, and his name falls from your lips, over and over.

You can feel another orgasm building as he picks up the pace, and the heat is spreading, coiling and twisting. His cock is hitting all the right spots, and you're so close, the edge just out of reach.

He leans back, his hands moving to your thighs, spreading you open. The new angle is deeper, and his cock is rubbing against the spongy patch of nerves. He's breathing hard, his chest heaving, and his eyes are dark and hungry.

"Come for me," he rasps. "I want to see you come on my cock."

You cry out, and your fingers twist in the sheets, gripping the fabric tightly. He's pounding into you, his hips slamming against yours, his cock driving you higher and higher. The heat is spreading, and the colors are blurring, and the only thing you can focus on is him, and the feel of him, and the taste of him, and the smell of him.

He's everywhere, and it's too much.

The coil snaps, and the orgasm rips through you, tearing a scream from your lips. Your back arches, and your cunt convulses, tightening around his cock like a vise. His breath hitches, and his hands grip your thighs tightly.

"Fuck," he grunts, his hips stuttering, his cock throbbing. "Where?"

It takes a moment for the question to register, but when it does, you manage to find your voice.

"Inside," you gasp. "Please, Hound—“

That's all the encouragement he needs. His cock pulses, and he moans, burying his face in the crook of your neck. The heat spreads into your core, his cum filling you, and the aftershocks wash over you, the waves crashing and rolling, leaving you boneless and spent.

His arms wrap around you, and he rolls the two of you over. He's still buried deep inside you, and the feeling of his cock pulsing and twitching is almost enough to make you come again. You're both shaking, and he's muttering something, his words jumbled and unintelligible.

You're not sure how long the two of you stay like that, his cock buried inside you, your bodies tangled together. But eventually, the pleasure subsides, and you can breathe again. You press a kiss to his collarbone, then his shoulder, and his grip tightens around you.

"I'm not sure if I'm dreaming," he says, and the admission is so earnest, so vulnerable, that it nearly breaks your heart. "You're real, right?"

"As real as it gets," you reply. You rest your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. "Promise."

He lets out a sigh, and his grip relaxes, his hands sliding over your sides, down your back, along the curve of your ass. You run a hand through his hair, smoothing the messy strands. He shifts to lean into your touch, and his softened cock slips free, leaving a trail of his seed across your thigh.

"You okay?" he asks, his breath warm against your ear.

"Mhm," you hum as you kiss his neck.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" His tone is soft, and there's a note of concern in his voice.

"No," you whisper.

He lets out a sigh, and his lips press against your cheek, featherlight.

"Good," he murmurs.

The two of you lay there, your bodies entwined until eventually Hound moves, rolling you onto your side before sitting up and stretching. He runs a hand through his hair, and the muscles in his arms and shoulders ripple. 

You watch, enjoying the view, but you can't help the way your heart sinks as he gets up. You know that he's going to leave, and the realization is a sharp stab of disappointment. You try not to let it show, and you do your best to keep your expression neutral.

But he must sense it, because he pauses and looks at you, his brow furrowed.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"I'm fine," you reply, not wanting to admit the truth. You don't want him to think that you're clingy or needy or dependent. That's not who you are. At least, it's not who you want to be.

"You sure?" He studies you, and the look in his eyes is thoughtful. "You seem a bit...tense."

"I'm fine," you say, giving him a smile. "Just tired."

He snorts and shakes his head. "Yeah, I'm sure."

He moves to the bathroom, and you hear the sound of water running. He returns a moment later with a wet cloth, and he sits down beside you, cleaning up the mess that he left. He's gentle, careful, and you can't help but notice the way his fingers tremble slightly as they move over your skin.

"I didn't mean for this to happen," he says, his tone apologetic. "I wasn't planning on taking things this far."

"I wasn't either," you admit.

"Well, shit." He tosses the cloth to the side, and the grin that spreads across his face is lopsided and endearing. "Now what?"

"We can pretend this didn't happen," you suggest, even though the idea leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. Hound’s brow furrows, and his smile fades.

"Why would we do that?" he asks, his tone incredulous.

"Because..." Your words trail off, and your heart races.

Because you don't want him to think you're desperate. Because you don't want to scare him off. Because you don't want to ruin the friendship that the two of you have built. Because you don't want him to regret it.

He sighs and reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brush against your cheek, and the gesture is tender and gentle.

"Hey," he says, his voice low. "It's okay. You don't have to explain."

"But—"

"Listen." He takes a deep breath, and his hand falls to the bed, his fingers tangling with yours. "I like you. I really, really like you. And if you want to pretend this didn't happen, we can. But if you want to see where things go, I'd like that, too."

"Really?" 

"Really," he says.

You swallow hard, trying to find the words. He's giving you an out, a way to save face, a chance to take a step back. But you don't want to do that. You don't want to lose him. You don't want to pretend that this didn't happen. You don't want to go back to the way things were.

You take a deep breath, and his fingers squeeze yours.

"Hound," you begin, then pause, collecting your thoughts.

"It's okay," he murmurs, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "I get it."

"I like you," you finally manage, the words tumbling out in a rush. "And I'm sorry. I know I'm bad at this. But I like you. And I want to see where things go."

"Oh, thank fuck," he breathes, and the relief in his voice is palpable.

"What?"

"I was worried you were going to say you regretted it." He grins, and the tension drains from his shoulders. "I was worried you were going to tell me to leave."

"Never," you reply, your heart leaping. "I'll never regret this."

"Good."

He leans down, capturing your lips in a soft, gentle kiss. It's different from the others. There's no urgency, no desperation. It's sweet, and tender, and full of promise.

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispers when the kiss ends. Then his mouth twists, and he looks away, his voice turning sheepish. “Well, I can leave if you want. If you need some time alone, or some space, or—"

"Stay," you interrupt.

His smile widens, and he squeezes your hand.

"Okay," he says.

He pulls the covers over the two of you and lies down beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist. He pulls you close, and you nestle against his chest, enjoying the warmth of his body.

"Thank you," you murmur, your voice thick with sleep.

"For what?"

"For tonight. For everything."

"Of course."

You're tired, and it's getting harder and harder to keep your eyes open. You can feel yourself starting to drift off, and the last thing you remember before sleep claims you is the feeling of his lips pressed against the top of your head, and the soft, steady rhythm of his heart.

You fall asleep with a smile on your face, the warmth of his body chasing away the last vestiges of loneliness.

And when you wake, he's still there, holding you tight.

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[stargirl-writes]

respite

pairing : f! reader x anakin skywalker

word count : 2.2k

masterlist

summary

Amid the war, a healer and a soldier find themselves entangled in a delicate dance between love and survival. When exhaustion and unspoken wounds threaten to drive them apart, they must confront the weight of their fears, jealousy, and vulnerability—knowing that healing isn’t always about fixing what’s broken, but learning to hold on through the storm.

tags : angst, angst with a happy ending (!)

warnings : blood, tending to a wound

notes : hello my loves <3, 1 yr writing for a.s. and long story short all my energy was used trying to survive my medical internship. healer! reader is my most self indulgent coping mechanism— here's another angsty catastrophizing passage i'd like to share wit y'all hehe

Anakin Skywalker was a knife personified.

Sharp, blunt, useful. A touch can draw blood.

But despite the danger, he was made of steel— unrelenting and unyielding. One would make an effort to not stare too much— at what his purpose of being reveals; that in the hands of someone cruel, he becomes something of a weapon.

They say that the healer has the bloodiest hands— a permanent imprint of those you've saved and those you've failed.

You try not to think about it too much— your losses cannot equate to the priviledge of a chance to keep someone alive. That was a gift. Only a God can define salvation—what you're doing is an attempt.

But what did your fingers ever do before they held him?

All of it seemed to pale in comparison.

Maybe the sun has set differently in Coruscant, a place always buzzing with neon and noise— maybe you just stopped noticing it the way you stopped noticing him. You don't know why there remained a part of you that was mistrusting, waiting for him to grow tired with you. Instead, the jagged streaks of electric blue and searing magenta faded into something soft, casting a warm golden light that lingers even after the sun slips behind the horizon, refusing to ever dim.

It's both comforting and heartbreaking that over time you could forget holding onto something so sharp long enough to feel it slip— can leave a trail of blood.

The door to your quarter hisses open— and the weight of Anakin fills the room before he utters a word. His boots are heavy on the floor, dragging with a kind of exhaustion that sinks deeper than muscle and bone. Even his shoulders, which assumes the posture of a Jedi slumps forward. He pauses— gaze wide and apprehending.

His robes are dark with dust and sweat, blood smeared across the cuffs of his bionic arms— not his, someone else's. Always someone else's. He stands there too long, unmoving, as if having already read what's on your mind.

"You're hurt," You speak across the room.

"I'm fine."

His voice is low, flat, like all the life has been scraped out of it. You've seen this before, the wounds he carries aren't the ones stitched into his skin.

He turns on his heel, taking off his clothes. You step closer, noticing the slight wince as he tries to reach for his robes. He held a pose of defiance, unflinching even as you slowly took off the fabric that clung to his flesh. You pressed your palm against the soft skin of his shoulders, coaxing him to sit by the edge of the bed.

He lets out a sigh as the robe slips off. You turn to grab the medkit sitting at your bedside table— its existence a harsh reminder that anytime he comes home— so will the hurt that resides deep within him.

His eyes are hooded and dark as he follows your fingers gently press over a gash lining his chest. He sat still— either too tired to care or too numbed to feel it.

"You can't keep doing this, Anakin,"

He tilts his chin upward, "Doing what?"

You paused, eyes locking in a silent challenge as he kept playing asinine.

"Coming back half-dead and pretending it doesn't matter" You pressed the cloth over his wound, he hisses, flinching away.

He takes your wrist, eyebrows furrowed at your accusation. "I'm still here, aren't I?"

"Barely."

You seal the wound with a sterile band, the scar tissue will build thick and uneven, just like all pain that he refuses to touch buried deep underneath.

It's hard not to get frustrated to watch Anakin undo all the work you've done— that he would resort to passively allowing it to hurt. His skill with a saber is unquestionable, a droid won't be able to even come near him to inflict pain. As the war dragged on— he'd come home late at night appearing more and more injured. Perhaps it's his way to alleviate some guilt. Because he needs it to believe a sort of redemption— that he is not reduced to what was required of him.

A weapon. Unyielding. Unrelenting.

You turn to pack your materials back to the medkit— no longer able to stomach the tensed silences. You can't quite remember when it felt as though you've become one. Someone who deals death and someone who restores life. Where you began and where he ended was the most beautiful thread in the fabric of fate. There had only been one night—just one— where he let himself sleep, slumped against you in a rare moment of peace. You remember the way his breathing evened, slow and steady, as if for a few precious hours, the war has loosened his grip on him. And the room is blanketed with a sort of promise, that he'll be here for you as you were for him. And that also meant working through the difficult days where loving simply won't suffice.

It seems that the difficult days are outnumbering the ones where you both were happy. Thinking back at it makes you feel as if those days had been another lifetime ago.

He slumps down the bed, arms folded holding his head. "I've handed the 501st' command to Ahsoka, the mission in Mandalore is dragging on, I need her with me,"

He's always carried more than he should. Always assumed the weight of a galaxy, even when it would break him. Having your back against him made it easier to deliberately slow down your words to an unassuming casualness. "Without Obi-Wan?"

You go to Obi-Wan to fill the gaps of the chasm forming between you and Anakin, the ones only Obi-Wan seems to understand.

You turn to sit down beside him. You didn't need to access the force to feel the shift in the atmosphere.

"I haven't seen him in a while," His eyes were staring ahead— up at the ceiling. "So… how is Obi-Wan?"

There was an unmistakable edge to his words—tinged with bitterness and accusation.

"What?"

He chuckles hollowly. "I figured you'd know by now. You always run to him."

His sarcasm drips with an underlying insecurity. Obi-Wan, a person he looks up to, being more trustworthy than he was. He's trying not to sound accusatory but it's obvious that he's struggling with jealousy.

You open your mouth to say something. To defend your actions. What else could you have resorted to? When anytime you try to bridge that gap between you, he turns away. Your heart lodges in your throat— any attempt to explain just sounded as if you and Obi-Wan had been conspiring to manage him.

He straightens, balancing his weight against his arms, gaze demanding an answer. "Why do you keep going to him?"

"I'm not—"

He stands to his feet, tension rippling through his body like a coiled spring. "Yes you are! Every time you think something's wrong you look for him like I'm in need of fixing."

You clasp your fingers together— begging them to steady. "I'm only worried about you— you keep coming home changed like…"

"You're disappearing.“ You answered, "How long can you go on like this without breaking?"

There was a beat of silence. He rubs his temples, pacing bad and forth like staying still is the hardest thing he's ever done.

"And so what, you're going to keep patching me up thinking I'll be someone else?" "No," "—Then stop pretending that I am."

“I keep losing everyone, I can't lose you too." You utter as the guilt verbalizes.

His expression softens recognizing the vulnerability of your words. Something in him falters— just for a moment, a breath—and the weight of his exhaustion settles to his shoulders. He kneels down in front of you.

"You're not losing me," He says, quiter this time, as if he's convincing himself as much as you.

"It feels like it…"

He clasps his fingers over your hands, unraveling them. He opens his mouth to say something back—but then he stops. His head dips, the fight draining out of him. In the quietness, you could hear him pace his breaths with yours.

"You're not going to go through this alone anymore," He shifts closer, his bare chest leaving imprints on the skin of your knees. "Ahsoka will be on Mandalore while Obi-Wan takes Utapau, I'll stay here."

Your fingers slip through his hair, brushing it away from his forehead, tracing the uneven skin lining his face. He leans into your touch, and for a little while, the storm settles, just enough to let you both breathe.

He'll always be someone else's arsenal. He is yours. In a way that you wear his touch as a shield, his promises as hope from all the battles left to fight. He plants soft kisses on the palm of your hand, and a light ignites. Something eternal. Something that tells you that there are things worth holding on to—even when it hurts. You're not going to find the resolution tonight. But this was the beginning. That would have to be enough.

"I'm staying," He says as he presses his lips to your palm again, as if sealing the promise neither of you fully understands yet.

You nod, a smallest curve at the corner of your lips, for a fleeting moment, you feel him smile too.

It feels as though love will suffice. You knew he'd weave the fabrics of fate until it only spells your name. That he will tire, and it will not be easy.

"You know for someone who's fine, you're really bad at hiding pain."

Anakin's lips curved to a faint tired smirk— barely there, but real enough to make your heart lighten. He snakes his long fingers against your waist, pulling you closer until his warmth anchors you.

"Guess you must be rubbing off on me." He murmurs, voice rough with exhaustion, but there's a softness in it—like something broken finding a way to heal.

For a moment the weight lifts. It's not gone, not really, but the edges have dulled enough that you can hold him and not wince at the contact of him being pressed against you. Neither of you speaks again, nor moves again. In the dim of night, with senses dulled, the ordinary becomes profound. And— all of the terror slips away, for now. He no longer is someone that breeds horror. He is love. Made solely to be felt by you.

[skywalkerssgirl]

need bf anakin being wholesome on a date bc i've been going thru sm lately 😭😭

a/n: aw i hope ur ok bb and since this prompt was more vague and gave me more creative freedom i hope this was okay?? p.s. guys. my asks are always open and feel free to request any writing for whatever!! or if u ever need advice lmk

Premise: Anakin takes you out on a date to the arcade in the lower levels of Coruscant.

Determined | Anakin Skywalker x Reader

As you step into the bustling arcade nestled deep in the heart of Coruscant’s lower levels, colors burst to life around you upon the dark, bustling background. The lights from the arcade games flickered bright neon reds, blues, and greens, casting vibrant patterns across floors worn smooth by generations of eager visitors. Even among such a lively atmosphere, one presence loomed the brightest beside you.

Anakin Skywalker moved with quiet purpose, a hand firmly pressed against your shoulder, holding you close as you walked beside him. The corner of his mouth curled in a rare, relaxed smile, and his blue gaze fixed protectively upon you. The Jedi Knight wore a simple black tunic beneath his robe tonight, sporting a look much softer than the one you were used to seeing beside you on missions. His golden brown curls hung loose, framing defined features that softened in your presence alone.

"You like it here?" His smooth-like-honey voice broke through your silent thoughts, velvety yet edged with a subtle seriousness—always alert, always observant.

You nodded with genuine delight, looking around at the seemingly endless selection of games in the large arcade before you. "Yeah, it's wonderful, Ani. I haven't been in an arcade like this since I was a youngling, before I came to the Temple."

"I'm glad you agreed to come then," Anakin replied quietly, gently threading his fingers through yours as he meets your gaze. A thrill raced up your spine at his simple touch; warmth unfurled within you, blooming from his fingertips to your heart. "I'll let you choose where we start."

As you two wandered through the crowded aisles, your playfully competitive natures helping you win—maybe use the Force, sometimes—each game you stopped to partake in. As you walked around, browsing to see which arcade game to play next, the prize display near the front entrance caught your eyes. Among the brightly-colored toys, unusually strange looking candies, and elaborate decorations, a large plush tooka cat perched prominently on the top shelf, overlooking the patrons. Its big bright eyes, perked-up ears, and fluffy lavender fur tugged instantly at your heart. You lingered a moment, warmth blooming inside your chest, silently admiring its adorable face before moving onward.

Anakin’s observant eyes hadn't missed this slight softening in your eyes, but he didn't immediately acknowledge it, filing away the moment for later.

Minutes later, your laughter rang loud as you raced each other through the winding digital tracks of a pod-racing game. Of course, you just had to try to beat the one man who’d kick your ass in a podracer even incapacitated. The motion blur of colors and the sounds of the cheering animated crowd seemed muted against Anakin's contagious laughter. His genuine smile broadened when you cheered or protested dramatically at losing…again.

“Now this,” Anakin gestured toward the podracing simulators with a cocky grin, “is my kind of game.”

You raised an eyebrow teasingly in response. “Is that so, Skywalker? Can you beat that high score then?” You nod to the highest number on the leaderboard lit in blue, daring him to beat it.

He flashed a playful smirk, eyes glittering challengingly. “Just watch and see.”

Sliding gracefully into the seat, Anakin gripped the controls again, the ease of his movement oddly graceful and powerful as his slender hands curled firmly around the handles. You watched, captivated, as his narrowed eyes fixated intently upon the screens lighting his face in vibrant flashes of reds, oranges, and yellows. The simulated engines roared, the pod surging digitally forward in a kaleidoscopic swirl.

It was impossible not to smile as you observed him. The muscles of his arms flexed subtly with every turn, every maneuver deftly executed, his expression focused yet somehow lighter than usual. Behind that intensity lay something carefree, tender—something only you ever truly saw.

Anakin moved as if he were flying again over Tatooine’s scorching sands at Boonta Eve, his instincts sharpened through years of war. The final turn sped lucent against his ethereal face, and within seconds, Anakin earned you a perfect score, lighting every indicator in swathes of victory lights.

Grinning boyishly, he stepped down triumphantly from the platform. You warmly clasped his forearm, pride blazing through you. "You're incredible," you murmured sincerely, meeting his gaze.

A faint flush crept onto his high cheeks, his bravado instantly subdued by your genuine praise. "Just lucky, I guess," he joked quietly, leaning briefly into your touch. His stare softened as it met yours, protective and affectionate beneath the noise around you. He reached to gently brush a strand of hair from your cheek.

"You hungry yet?" you asked softly, heart quickening at those small touches he always seemed to find an innocent excuse for.

"Starving," came Anakin’s soft affirmation. "I'll handle ordering the food; you just sit down and relax."

You knew better than to protest his protective nature; instead, you smiled, resigning yourself to his attentive nature. He gently kissed your temple before vanishing toward the busy bar area. You settled comfortably into a nearby booth, glancing around at the vibrant surroundings still buzzing with excitement.

After some time had passed, you checked the entrance to the restaurant section and waited. Anakin typically wasn't gone this long for simple errands. Your worry melted away when the waitress brought drinks to your table, advising kindly: “A tall young gentleman asked me to reassure you; he stepped away for a moment but will return shortly.”

Trusting Anakin completely, you sipped your drink leisurely, relaxed but curious at his mysterious absence. You knew he would always return to you, though.

In truth, Anakin had slipped back into the expansive maze of arcade attractions, his determination etched firmly upon every line of his handsome face. With admitted stubbornness fueling his every move, he poured credits generously into game after game, a generous wad of tickets pooling rapidly around him. His focus was intense, his piercing blue eyes steady. Anakin felt keenly aware of your absence beside him, an ache in his chest intensifying his resolve to win the plush for you.

“All right.” With purposeful strides, Anakin approached the redemption counter, a bundle of tickets filling his arms. “That tooka plush—the lavender one. Give me your finest, fluffiest one.”

The attendant handed it over, bidding Anakin farewell with a knowing smile. A wave of joy and relief washed over Anakin as he carefully tucked the plush protectively against his side, strolling hurriedly back toward where you waited.

Meanwhile, you idly swirled the cool, sweet liquid in your glass, watching patrons bustling around you. Then, finally, the sound of confident footsteps and the timbre of Anakin’s boots you somehow knew far too well; a familiar presence drew closer behind you. You twisted around to greet his return, excitement glowing across your features.

"Hey, stranger," you chuckled, "thought you'd forgotten about—"

Your words died on your tongue as he revealed the surprise he’d hidden behind his broad figure. Lavender fur shone gently beneath the warm, golden light of the table lamps, and his wide blue eyes practically begged for an embrace. Your lips parted softly, warmed through by profound gratitude and tenderness.

"Anakin," your voice barely whispered through emotion, "You... didn't have to."

He slid easily into your booth, the large plush placed gently between you. Cautiously, gently, Anakin captured your hand, threading his fingers firmly yet tenderly through yours.

"I noticed the expression on your face when you looked at it," Anakin confessed softly, casting his gaze downwards shyly before meeting your eyes once more, a curl of his hair cascading gently over his forehead as he did so. His voice lowered deeply, intimately, "I'd have won a thousand more tickets to see you smile again."

Your heart hammered within your chest. Gently laying your hand upon his forearm, your fingers tracing soft, affectionate circles, you said earnestly, "Ani, your presence alone is more than enough."

Colors danced gently upon his thoughtful brow, and his blue eyes warmly studied yours in quiet contemplation. He drew you against him tenderly, closing those precious few inches until your head tucked comfortably upon his shoulder, beneath the embrace of his protective arm.

"I've never...experienced anything like this before you," Anakin murmured reverently, his voice vibrating through his chest beneath your cheek. "Caring like this... being cared for."

"You're allowed to, Ani," you affirmed, your sincerity rich within every gentle syllable. Your fingers traced comforting patterns upon his hand. "You deserve it."

His grip tightened lightly in response, and brief tremors sighed softly through his steady breathing. He held you gently like that for a while, savoring this rare peace reserved only for the two of you.

When your food arrived seconds later, he reluctantly released you, though his thigh remained closely pressed against yours throughout the meal. His reassuring presence anchors you amongst the mingled voices and chaos outside.

The evening drew to a close as you journeyed back to the Jedi Temple. The tooka plush, tucked securely between your thighs and in your arms as you sat in the passenger seat of his speeder, served as another ceaseless reminder of the quiet affection lurking deeply beneath Anakin Skywalker’s fierce and turbulent exterior.

"Did you enjoy yourself, love?" he asked, with a vulnerability mingled with hope and the subtle confidence that followed Anakin wherever he went. He turned to study your lovely face, lit softly by the distant city glow.

You smiled gently, placing a palm warmly upon his cheek as you nodded silently. No words could adequately convey every tenderness swelling profoundly within you. Leaning to rest his forehead lightly upon yours, Anakin whispered tender reassurance into the quiet space bridging you both:

"For you, anything."

And the Force itself seemed to hum in understanding.

[mae-lou-ron]

::steps up to @gargothnightzine altar::

Am I doing this right? I can’t draw for kriff, so I’m writing something. Humbly presenting an excerpt from my first stab at a ✨GAR Goth Night✨ fic!

Mae Ramble™: I love the goth subculture. it's steeped in so much history- which I could go on and on about how it has evolved over the decades... but I won't. I'll stick to the art and aesthetic. The Crow is an incredible addition to this vast genre, and one of my favorites. For this fic, I'm specifically referencing the graphic novel by J. O’Barr, and the 1994 movie starring Brandon Lee. I wanted to make a little Star Wars play on that for some 'original' content in this story.

warnings: clone x f!reader fic; reader has long nails; this "excerpt" is like 1,000+ words, mentions of grief and loss, flirting, story will have eventual fluff and smut. This is painfully a WIP. Also, I glossed over a lot of the darker stuff in 'The Crow', so if you are interested in checking it out, please consume at your own risk. I recommend reviewing the content for any triggers. It's a beautiful story with beautiful art, but it's full of 'em.

(working) summary: The irony isn't lost on you — being the only actual goth-adjacent one in your friend group. Yet, they coaxed you out of your apartment to a goth-themed night at a bar. A bar for the clones of the GAR, of all places. At least you brought a book to read as you waited for your friends to show up…what you didn’t expect was to pique a certain clone captain’s interest in the process.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A knowing smirk told you he'd caught you staring.

The teal patches on the clone's leather jacket caught your eye from a couple seats down the bar. Quickly, you glanced back down at your novel, still feeling his gaze on you. When you looked up again, however, he had vanished. As you scanned the bar for those distinctive flashes of teal, a warm rumbling voice sounded at your side.

"What are you reading?" The voice was soft yet distinct from other clones you'd spoken to before — a smooth, gruff curiosity that caught your attention.

It was him.

Molten amber eyes found yours, the neon lighting of 79's gleaming off his perfectly imperfect swept back hair. Teal accents standing out boldly against the black leather had your eyes wandering over him with intrigue. There was something disarmingly sweet in the way he tilted his head towards the empty barstool next to you, silently seeking permission to join. His entire demeanor radiated a quiet confidence that put you at ease, despite the pulsing music and crowded atmosphere. There was something intriguing about a man who would approach someone reading alone at a bar, especially on a night like this. Eyes drifting between your face and the book in your hands suggested true curiosity rather than some pickup attempt.

"Uh..." Caught a little off guard, you weren't opposed to people approaching you necessarily, and while being the girl at the bar with a book had its advantages, your friends were proving to be late— yet again. There was no point in being rude when he seemed sincerely interested, so you patted the stool next to you and closed the book, keeping your thumb between the glossy pages to show him the cover art.

"It's 'The Keerdak,'" you replied eventually, turning the worn binding so he could see the other side — a dark figure outlined against Coruscant's neon-lit skyline. "It's a revenge story, about a Mandalorian warrior who returns from death to avenge his lost love. Set in the lower levels of Coruscant, actually. Pretty melodramatic stuff," you added with a slight smirk, curious to see his reaction to your choice of reading material.

"Sounds pretty romantic for the Mandalorians I've met... may I?" He looked hopeful, glancing down at the text with an open hand before his eyes landed on your face once again. A soft smile formed at his assessment, handing the book to him so he could appreciate it more closely.

"What?" he asked, his quiet confidence faltering at your smile for a fleeting moment as he took the text from you.

"It's just most people don't consider this romance... it's so dark."

"I wasn't aware they were mutually exclusive..." a dark eyebrow arched up at you playfully, "...and we're here at a goth night at a bar, aren't we?"

"True, though I would hardly call 79's romantic..." you laughed softly.

"Okay, fair..." His smirk was charming as his eyes scanned over the stark black and white illustrations depicting the shadowy figure clad in all black beskar'gam moving through neon-lit streets, the dramatic panel layouts emphasizing the noir atmosphere. A flying beast with its wings spread in the moonlight circled the warrior. A silent guardian.

"Oh—" you said, tapping a perfectly manicured stiletto nail onto the figure. "That's the keerdak... she's like a warden in the world between worlds. They're connected by some kind of bond that tethers the Mando here even in death. At least until the warrior can exact his vengeance, of course..."

The clone's eyes widened slightly at the intricate artwork, fingers hovering over a particularly striking splash page showing the protagonist perched atop a skyscraper, his black cloak billowing in the wind. "Wow..." a genuine sigh of intrigue caught you off guard. "I've never seen anything like this before..."

Fascination was written across his features, and it wasn't the typical polite interest you got from most people when they saw what you were reading — this was different, almost childlike in its wonder. Something about his earnest reaction made you want to share more.

"My favorite is the helmet..." You leaned closer to him as the song changed into something with deeper bass— a little of his cologne floating over to you as you did so. It smelled of bourbon and burning wood... deep and rich and making you want more. "There's a scene where he paints it..." you murmured close to his ear, noticing how the warmth in his cheeks spread to his neck at your proximity as you flipped to the respective page.

"Like a death's head..." he mused, tracing the illustration with his fingertip, the white paint standing out against his black armor, a floating omen of death in the darkness. The symbolism clearly not lost on him — a warrior marked by loss— his grief and his armor indistinguishable from one another. The clone's eyes lingered on the stark contrast of black and white, seeming to understand the beauty in such a clash of opposing forces.

"So... what made you want to experience a 'Goth' night?" You asked him, curious but clearly not disappointed. He chuckled with a sigh. "My men dragged me out, but it looks like my second has already fallen in love with someone..." he thumbed over his shoulder. "They’re good men, they deserve a little fun..."

Following the gesture, you spotted a clone dancing enthusiastically with a Twi'lek woman, both of them completely lost in the music and each other. Something about watching these soldiers find moments of peace warmed your heart. Turning back to your companion, you found his gaze already fixed on you, warm and intent. He returned the book, his fingers ghosting against yours in a touch that felt both accidental and deliberate.

My men.

Not being in his armor kit meant you couldn’t easily tell this clone’s rank. It wasn’t something that mattered to you in the least, but upon closer inspection of his handsome and weathered face, you realized this wasn’t some shiny cadet whose attention you caught. His honeyed eyes held a hardness that spoke of battles fought and experience earned, set deep in a face mapped with a light scar that splashed across his left cheek. The roughness of his jawline and the slight creases in his forehead and eyebrows hinted at countless hours spent in the unforgiving glare of distant suns, commanding troops across war-torn worlds.

The clone beside you had caught you staring once again. Heat pricked your cheeks when he turned his body fully to face you, extending his arm.

"I'm Howzer..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Honestly, I wouldn't last 5 minutes at an event like this IRL before I got overstimmed, but if I did, this would be me. I’m 100% that chick who brings a book and headphones to a bar…and has massive rbf looks kriffing hot while doing so.

Thank you @ghostymarni for sharing this incredible idea with us, and for all the artists and writers adding their own take on gar goth nite. @lonewolflupe & @gargothnightzine thank you for organizing a place to keep track of all the amazing contributions. I love seeing all the new lore being added by everyone! It's a fresh shake up as we sprint to spring.

GAR Goth Nite frequent flyers who might enjoy?: @eobe @eclec-tech @skellymom @returnofthepineapple @crosshairs-dumb-pimp-gf @wings-and-beskargam

[leapingbadger]

Rumors

I swear I used to be normal and now if my brain is quiet for a minute it creates a conversation between two fictional clones!

Anyway, this is a fun little chat between Cody and Hunter as they didn't get the screen time they deserved. Hunter helps Cody through some CodyWan stuff.

Cody sat in a half empty diner in the lower levels of Coruscant, pushing his half-eaten food around the plate, more for something to do than because he actually wanted to eat it. The sun from the artificial daylight didn’t reach down this far, not that it mattered this time of day. Neon signs glowed on the dark, steely exterior of the buildings as he gazed out of the window.

He looked at the chrono in the corner of the room and sighed, what was taking so long? Just as he was about to give up, a figure strode in the restaurant, his large black and red pauldrons dwarfing those around him and making him look too wide for the space, his helmet tucked under his arm. Hunter’s face cracked into a smile upon spotting the Commander. His half skull tattoo certainly made him look more menacing to those who didn’t know him, but to Cody, he would always be his baby brother.

“Nice of you to join me,” Cody said with a smile, standing up and squeezing Hunter’s forearm as he did the same in return.

“You know I can’t say no to you, big brother. What’s so urgent?”

Cody sat down and indicated for Hunter to do the same. He had to shove the table a little to get into the booth with all his heavy armor on. Cody looked around, noticing eyes on them.

“You couldn’t have been more subtle?” he asked in an amused but exasperated voice.

“Cody, I dragged my ass halfway across the city I the middle of the nightcycle for this. What do you need?” Hunter replied with an eye roll.

A waitress in a blue uniform and four arms strode over, “What can I get ya, hun?” she asked Hunter in a bored voice.

“Just caf, please.” He said, turning back to Cody, “well? Is everything okay? I’m assuming it’s not about a job or you’d have invited all of us.”

Cody chuckled and shook his head, “where are the rest of the degenerates tonight?” He asked.

“I left them at 79s a few hours ago. Cross and Wrecker were fighting over the same Twi’lek and I didn’t have the energy to intervene. Besides, she was more interested in Tech anyway.” He said with a chuckle.

“You didn’t want to take a shot yourself?” Cody asked conversationally.

“We have back-to-back missions and I’m running on caf and some supplement of Tech’s own invention that I’m starting to think may be an illicit substance. I just wanted to sleep, until you dragged me out of bed.” Hunter said with a huff. “Cody, seriously, is everything okay?” he asked, leaning forward in the low light of the diner to try and get a better look at his brother.

Cody pulled his civilian clothes closer around him as the waitress returned with a cup and a pitcher of caf for Hunter. He smiled his thanks and poured the first of what would likely be many cups.

“I …um…I heard something today…wasn’t sure who to talk to about it with Rex off planet and you know…it being…confidential.”

Hunter lounged back in his seat, “Are you kriffing kidding me? You dragged me out of bed to talk about your boyfriend?” he said with a laugh so loud the other patrons’ heads whipped around.

“Shh” Cody hissed, lowering his head and covering the side of his face with his hand.

Hunter regained his composure, his eyes soft on his brother, a pitying smile on his lips, “I don’t have any experience with relationships, Vod, I don’t think I’m going to be much help. And Rex wouldn’t be able to help either. You’re in uncharted territory, my friend. Maybe you should call Bly.”

Cody narrowed his eyes, “I’ve seen you at 79s, you do okay for yourself.”

Hunter looked smug but waved his hand dismissively, “those aren’t relationships, they’re…encounters.”

Cody grinned, “Your last encounter looked pretty nice.”

“Ah, she was,” Hunter said, his eyes un-focusing for a moment before being brought back to reality, “but we’re not like you. We don’t stay in one place long enough for the whole relationship thing. And we don’t have a Jedi to fall in love with. So now that we’ve established that I am the worst person you could be talking to about this, except maybe Tech, what can I do for you?”

Cody sighed, suddenly feeling awkward and wondering if he should have just gone to speak with Obi Wan directly.

“You might not have a Jedi now, but you had a pretty epic crush on Shaak Ti back in the day.” Cody said with a grin.

Hunter rolled his eyes, “Every cadet on Kamino had a crush on Shaak Ti.”

“Not all of them drew pictures of her,” Cody teased.

“Okay, okay. So, you asked me here to shoot you, it that it?” Hunter joked.

Cody liked that he could tease his brother. As the leader of Clone Force 99, Hunter was rarely given the space to let off steam because he was constantly responsible for his younger and more rebellious brothers. With Cody, he got to be the little brother, and the Commander relished that for him.

“So, what’s the matter?” Hunter asked, clearly losing patience.

“I think…I think Obi Wan might be cheating. I heard rumors this morning, that he’s seeing someone.”

Hunter arched his eyebrow. “Who did you hear this from?” he asked, taking a deep sip of his caf and wrapping his large hands around the small mug.

“General Skywalker asked me about it. Wondered if I knew anything about Obi Wan’s…extracurricular activities. He said he was gone at strange hours of the night,” Cody said. He fell silent, looking at his brother across the table, trying to decipher his face and failing. Hunter put the mug down and ran his hands through his long hair exasperatedly.

“Cody, It’s 3’oclock in the morning. And you’re worried about a rumor that Obi Wan is seeing someone? He is, Commander, he’s seeing you. Has been for months now. I heard that rumor too, you know why I didn’t comm you? Because I know it’s true.”

Cody blushed as he sat up straight, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion. Was he really this stupid? “Do you think Master Skywalker knows?” he asked in a sudden panic.

Hunter waved his hand again and poured himself some more caf, “Skywalker doesn’t know bantha shit. He’s too consumed with banging Senator Amidala to notice that you’re banging Kenobi.”

“You wanna say that a bit louder? I don’t think the kitchen staff heard you.” Cody hissed.

Hunter gave an apologetic smile and leaned low on the table so they could whisper to each other.

“From what you told me you don’t have to worry about Kenobi, he’s got it pretty bad.” Hunter said with a chuckle as he downed another cup of caf. “And so do you by the looks of it.”

Cody felt the heat rise in his cheeks and touch the tips of his ears, “I really hate you sometimes,” Cody said, unable to keep the smile off of his face.

“You really don’t. You wish you could though,” Hunter said with a smirk. “So, what now? Wanna come to 79s with me and round up my brothers? Or do you have somewhere else you need to be?” the younger brother asked, eyebrows raised suggestively.

Cody threw a napkin at him and smirked, “I think I’ll head to bed.” He said knowingly.

“Yours or Kenobi’s?” Hunter continued, clearly enjoying teasing his Vod.

Cody looked for something else to throw, his fingers inching towards his cutlery.

“Don’t even think about it, Commander.” Hunter said as he slid out of the booth, throwing some credits on the table.

Cody chuckled and got up to leave as well. They stepped into the cool atmosphere of the undercity when Hunter’s comm sounded, “Ah, Sarg, I think we’re gunna need an extraction.” Wrecker’s boisterous and inebriated voice sounded.

Hunter sighed and rolled his eyes before pressing the comm, “I’m on my way. What’s wrong?”

Wrecker laughed into the line, “It’s Tech, he’s cornered and we’re either going to have to extract him or buy him back.”

“Buy him back?” Hunter asked through gritted teeth.

“Crosshair sold ‘im,” Wrecker chuckled.

“I would have sold you, but he was worth more,” Crosshair’s snide voice sounded in the background.

Cody watched as every emotion crossed Hunter’s face before it settled into that of the stoic Sergeant.

“Have a good night, Vod,” He said to Cody with a little salute, “Tell the general I said hi.”

Cody laughed as his brother disappeared into the night and hailed a taxi to take him back to the surface.

“Where to?” The cabbie asked.

“The jedi temple,” Cody said with a smile.

[anakinca]

Hi nina ✨️ could you please write a sweet story of Anakin and senator reader where Anakin takes her to Dex's restaurant. Something like Anakin has a day off from jedi duties and wants to spend time with his lovely girlfriend. He asks her to take the day off from her work.It is the first time he takes her there he knows she is used to fancy places but he wants to share everything with her, he can tell her that when he was padawan Obi wan took him there and it is a place where they don't have to worry , but she doesn't care she loves Anakin and is happy with him. For a moment they can be free and be a normal couple.

—❝comforting❞

anakin skywalker x reader

tw ; nothing, just pure fluff

a/n ; hey, angel !! this was such a beautiful prompt im SOBBING. i had so much fun with this !! i took a lot of components from anakin and padme's little coruscant date in the brotherhood novel, so that's why some parts may be a little recognizable to people who've read the book. i'm always looking for more requests cause i'm seriously dying from writers block, so never be afraid to send one in !!

CORUSCANT’S GLITTERING SKYLINE SPARKLED IN THE DISTANCE AS ANAKIN GUIDED THE RENTED SPEEDER THROUGH THE WINDING LANES OF TRAFFIC. The lower levels of the city seemed quieter at this hour, the hum of life muted compared to the chaos above. Beside him, you leaned back in your seat, your laughter mingling with the whir of the speeder’s engine, your heartbeat a little faster than normal due to Anakin’s not less than reckless piloting. 

The city’s glow reflected in your eyes, your hair swept by the breeze, and a joyous grin on your lips as you gaze at all the city lights. Anakin takes a couple glances at you every now and then, and in his eyes, all he sees is a pure angel. 

Neither of you two could risk being caught together, which is why the lower levels of Coruscant were best for a night out. Your Senatorial robes had been traded for some dark trousers and a dark green cowl—an unassuming outfit that wouldn’t have you noticed. It blends in with the surroundings and matches Anakin’s own clothing—a simple mechanic’s coat draped over his Jedi tunic to give the appearance of an everyday laborer and not a Jedi Knight. 

“Anakin,” you teased, your voice lilting with amusement, “Are you ever going to tell me where you’re taking me? Or do you plan to keep me in suspense all night?”

He laughed a little, a grin adoring his features, and his hands steady on the controls. “If I told you, it would ruin the surprise.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically, though the smile on your face betrayed you. “I’m beginning to think you’re stalling because you don’t actually have a plan.”

“Oh, I have a plan,” he assured you, the playful mischief in his voice making your heart flutter. “And you’re going to love it. Trust me.” Anakin reaches over to gently squeeze your shoulder in a loving gesture, then puts his hand back on the throttle. 

The speeder dipped lower, weaving through the neon-lit streets of Coruscant’s mid-level districts. Now going into a quieter district, the neon lights of small shops and diners cast colourful reflections on the speeder’s polished surface. You couldn’t help but marvel at how effortlessly Anakin maneuvered through the chaos. His confidence was as natural as the wind in your hair, and you found yourself relaxing, simply enjoying the moment. 

When Anakin finally pulled into a secluded spot outside a retro-style diner with the words Dex’s Diner glowing in bright blue above the entrance, you tilted your head in curiosity.

“This is where we’re eating?” You asked, studying the modest establishment, your lips quirking up at the sides.

“This is it,” Anakin said, hopping out of the speeder and coming around to open your door. He offered his hand, his expression softening with a slightly sheepish look. “I know it’s not like the Senate’s finest banquet halls that you’re used to, but… it’s special to me.”

Your fingers slipped into his as you stepped out, your gaze now fixed on him. “Special?” You echoed, your voice gentle.

He nodded, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. “When I was a Padawan, Obi-Wan used to bring me here. It’s one of the few places on Coruscant where I could just… be myself. No Jedi Code, no missions. Just me. And I wanted to share that with you.”

Your heart swelled at his honesty. “Anakin,” you whispered, stepping closer, “I don’t care about fancy places. I care about you. If this place is special to you, then it’s special to me too.”

His grin lit up his face, the boyish charm that you adored shining through. “You really are incredible, you know that?”

The warmth of the diner wrapped around the two of you as you stepped inside. The air was filled with the aroma of sizzling food and the cheerful hum of patrons of all species chatting. The colorful decor and warm lighting gave it a welcoming, cozy feel—a stark contrast to the polished halls of the Senate you’re used to, but it felt... comforting. A droid server on wheels rolled up to your table as you two slid into a booth away from the windows.

“Welcome to Dex’s Diner! May I take your order?” The droid chirped, its metallic voice cheerful.

Anakin handed you the menu, but you didn’t even glance at it. “You choose for us,” you said with a bubbly smile. “I trust you.”

He smirked, handing the menu back to the droid. “Two orders of nuna drumsticks, a plate of fried tubers, and two blue milkshakes.”

“Coming right up!” The droid replied before wheeling off toward the kitchen.

As you both waited, the weight of your secret relationship and your respective duties melted away. Anakin leaned back, looking more at ease than you’d seen him in weeks. “This place has so many memories,” he began, his tone softer now. “Obi-Wan used to bring me here after tough missions. I remember one time I ate so much I could barely walk out the door.”

A laugh left your lips, picturing a younger Anakin with wide eyes and a bigger appetite. “I can’t imagine Obi-Wan approving of that.”

“He didn’t,” Anakin said with a chuckle. “But Dex just kept piling food on the table, saying, ‘The kid’s gotta eat!’”

Your laughter rang out, warm and bright, and Anakin found himself watching you with a look of pure adoration. The feelings he holds for you can be quite overwhelming for him at times, never knowing how to handle them. But in quiet moments such as these, he relishes in those feelings, utterly grateful for them. They bring him life—you bring him life. “You’re beautiful when you laugh,” he said softly, almost to himself.

Your cheeks flushed a little, cocking your head to the side as you feel butterflies flutter in your stomach. “And you’re sweet when you’re not trying to be a show-off.” You reply, making him laugh.

When the food arrived, it was exactly what you expected—no-frills comfort food served on mismatched plates, steaming and fragrant, and you adored it. You couldn’t help but smile as Anakin eagerly dug in.

Anakin swallowed his bite and watched you nervously as you took your first bite, fidgeting with his fingers on the table.

Your eyes flutter closed for a moment as you savour the flavours, a warm smile appearing on your face. “It’s delicious, you were right,” you said, a content sigh leaving you, before your eyes opened again to look at him. “You know, I might just prefer this to some of the so-called ‘delicacies’ at the Senate.” You playfully rolled your eyes, giggling a little as you took another bite.

His relief was evident, a small breath of air he didn’t know he was holding in escaping him, and his features all relaxing as he grins at you. “I told you, Dex’s is the best.” 

You reached across the table, taking his hand in yours and intertwining your fingers together, bringing it up to your lips to place a kiss on his knuckles. “Thank you for bringing me here. I know how much it means to you.” You whisper softly, his eyes softening and his cheeks dusting a light pink at your actions. 

“I just wanted you to see this side of me,” he admitted, his thumb tracing small patterns into your soft skin. “Here, we don’t have to be a Jedi or a Senator. We can just be us.”

You squeezed his hand tenderly, your eyes shining with affection. “And that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

For the rest of the afternoon, you both shared stories, laughter, and the kind of quiet moments that felt stolen in a galaxy filled with chaos. You both weren’t a Jedi and a Senator navigating a galaxy at war. You were just a boy and a girl in love, letting the war, the Jedi Order, and the Senate fade away, leaving only two hearts intertwined.

And when you left Dex’s, hand in hand, the weight of your two’s responsibilities would return soon enough. But for now, you were free.

[crosshairs-dumb-pimp-gf]

"To Rain and Caf Snobbery,"

Fox x F!Reader One Shot*

Summary:

The rain on Coruscant may be artificial, but the way it seems to guide you feels as natural as the force as it brings you to a chance meeting that quickly develops into something wild and unwise.

WC: 5390 - Read on Ao3

*this is just my general "mature rating" specifics:

Content Warning: A Little morbid, depictions of grotesque art and descriptions of dead bodies, smoking, sex in a morgue, unprotected PiV, biting, over-the-clothes, clothes-on sex, casual sex, rough sex.

*might revisit these two at a later date.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

You cursed as the downpour started. The artificial rain coming down on you in a torrent. You must've missed the notice, and it explained why the streets were so empty. 

Your heels made wet little splashes as you rushed for sanctuary signified by a blinking neon sign. It read “caf” with a simple cup, the steam rising in glowing alternation inside twisted glass. 

The door chimed an electric bell as you ducked into the dingy establishment, leaving a small puddle by the door as you brushed your wet hair out of your eyes. The place was nearly empty, the dark colors soothing despite the stale smell of death sticks in the air. 

You sat at the small bar and signaled for the barista who took your order for a cold brewed caf. 

While you waited, you pulled out your data pad… no new messages. 

You sighed, apparently forgotten. 

“Bad news?”

You jumped at the low rumble next to you. The voice came from a figure clad in a dark coat. He was bent over the bar, arms defensively cradling his own cup of steaming caf. You couldn't see much of his face, but the dark olive skin was marred with a patchwork of light scars. The hair falling over his forehead was streaked with a generous amount of gray. 

“More like no news,”

You muttered, putting the data pad back in your bag. 

“No news is good news in my world,”

“I'm sure…”

You were eyeing your new conversational partner, his intense eyes now looking at you over his folded arm. The chiseled silhouette held familiar features, though he wore them in a haggard kind of way. 

Clone.

Any problems you had of course would dwindle in comparison to one of these men… their short brutal lives. You didn't see many of their kind in this part of town despite your close proximity to the Senate and Garrison structures.  

Your cup of caf arrived, the ice sloshing as the barista gave it a flourishing swirl before setting it in front of you. Thanking him, you waited till he was a comfortable distance down the bar before drawing a mouthful through the straw. 

You winced, smacking your lips in obvious disappointment. They had let the carafe go stale. 

The clone chuckled at your displeased expression, a low and dangerous sound. 

“You should try mine,”

He slid the porcelain cup closer to you with what seemed like an air of playfulness. 

You were suddenly very aware of how cold you were, the steaming cup looking very inviting and making you regret your choice of a cold beverage. You flicked your eyes to the man's golden brown ones, there was no hint of malice but that didn't mean there was no cause for suspicion. You had seen him drinking from the mug himself though…

Ah, Kark it. If it's drugged it's drugged. 

You pulled the hot cup closer, tentatively taking a sip- 

And winced again. The swill was burnt and acrid. 

“Oh this place is just bad at making caf, isn't it?”

He laughed, a short barking sound, that complimented the gravelly rumble of his voice. 

“It might be, but it's still better than the stuff in the office,”

“That's a tragedy, I make much better at home,”

He laughed again, amusement dancing in his eyes. They were the usual shape and color for a clone, but they shone brightly in the moment, catching the light so that the soft reds and golds of the cafe lighting made them glow. 

“To rain and caf snobbery,”

He tilted the mug towards you before downing a swig. You took another gulp of your chilled drink, pursing your lips at the stale taste. 

The noise lifted as the scheduled downpour eased up. You glanced back at the man, and thought about your silent data pad. A wild and unwise idea lit through you. 

“You know, mister… uh…”

You looked over at him questioningly.

“Fox. Commander Fox,”

He offered his hand and you shook it,

“Charmed… you know, Commander, my place is nearby if you'd like to try something actually consumable,”

He arched an eyebrow, picking up his mug and downing the rest of the awful caf. The cup hit the counter with a over eager clink and he stood, gesturing with an extended arm,

“After you,”

You allowed him to guide you to the door, his hand at the small of your back warm as you stepped out onto the cold street. Though the rain had stopped, it was still windy and his long dark coat snapped around you as you turned towards your apartment. 

“What brings you down this way, Commander?”

“I like the cafes down here… no one tries to find me to put out fires, I get to take an actual breather,”

He reached into his coat, pulling out a crumpled death stick carton. Tapping it on his thigh, he bit at the protruding end before looking down at you with it hanging lazily between his lips. 

“You mind?”

“Not at all…Are you on a break now?”

A little disappointment flitted through you, thinking the handsome man accompanying you might have to leave your company soon. 

A small spark lit his features for a moment as he lit his vice, taking a long draw before releasing the smoke. A strong arm wrapped about your hips. 

“No, I'm off for the night, even more reason to be in hiding,”

He smirked conspiratorially at you, offering the lit stick. Fox held it steady as you drew the smoke into your lungs. He seemed pleased with that and you leaned into him as you led him through the streets to the building your flat was located in. That flicker of disappointment stirred into a flutter through your chest. You looked at the profile of his face again out of the corner of your eye, lit as it was by the burning embers. 

There was a prominent scar across his nose, a slight crook to it where it may have broken at some point. His chin was slightly more narrow than the clones on the propaganda posters. He flashed a smile at you, aware of your attention, giving you a glimpse of his canines- unusually prominent. You stifled a shiver as the warm glow of the light over your building's door settled over you. He crushed the spent butt beneath his boot heel as you made your way inside. 

The main floor of your apartment building was brighter than the cafe had been, and you suddenly became overly aware of your wet clothes clinging to you. The simple dress shirt stuck to your curves, leaving little to the imagination, the cold making your nip-

You tugged your jacket closed hurriedly. 

The doorman caught your eye as he took in your odd surprise guest. He narrowed his expression and you nodded at him so that he relaxed and settled back into his chair…but flashed the hand signal to call him if there was trouble. The concern warmed you a little as you made your way to the lift. 

The reality of the situation suddenly dawned on you as the doors slid shut and you found yourself alone with the commander. He was a complete stranger… you watched him out of the corner of your eye as the lift took you higher; chiming as it reached your floor.

The way his footfalls chased your heels brought an unbidden, nightmarish image of a scared child fleeing from the snapping jaws of a ghoul. You shook away the shadowy memory, the feeling of being hunted. Or at least you tried.

He was also watching you, an almost somber look of curiosity in his furrowed brow. It relaxed you a little, your pace down the hall became more sure. Not that he felt safe, quite the contrary… but you found you lacked fear for whatever danger he represented. Whatever trouble this was, you wanted it… were craving it. 

The heat of him felt intense through your wet clothes as he drew near while you tapped in the code to your door. His breath felt too close, the way it stirred the few dry strands of hair at your neck. 

Then you were inside. 

You kicked off your heels, swiping your hand up the wall panel to make the recessed lighting warm the room with soft light. 

Fox looked around at the dark colors of the flat, the dim, strategic lighting, the art spotlighted on the walls. He gave a small nod of approval. You could tell he was impressed and pride swelled in your chest, and a little giddy feeling, betraying your attraction to the man. 

“What do you do to afford a place like this?”

“It was part of my family's holdings, I’ve only moved in permanently since liquidating their estate.”

He raised a brow at that spurning you to add,

“They died,”

“Oh… I'm sorry,”

You shrugged your shoulders, 

“I'm okay, honestly I don't think I  was affected by it as much as I should've been… we weren't close.”

You took off your coat, draping it over the back of a chair. 

“If you don't mind, I need to change into something dry… then I'll get us that caf”

You turned to your bedroom, catching a soft mutter as you left,

“I mind a little…”

You smiled softly to yourself. 

~~~

When you reemerged to the living space, you found him under one of the lit paintings, the one centered to the space. It was tall, the gold frame almost reaching the high ceiling. 

He had removed his jacket as well revealing a dark red long sleeve that hugged his broad shoulders in a very pleasing way, highlighting his slimmer hips where it was tucked into the waist and of his dark denim pants. The scarlet coloring stood in contrast to the black leather gloves that gripped the back of the sofa he leaned against as he looked up at the artwork. 

“It's called, Grief of the Forceless,”

He turned, eyes flicking over the new black dress you had slipped into. The tight cut, flowing fabric shimmered like ink around your knees as you walked. You glided to his side to look up at the twisted imagery. 

The painting was a macab depiction of piled bodies, surreal, exaggerated- racked in obvious pain under a giant foreboding hand reaching over the horizon. It was all splashes of red, white lightning and burnt ashes. 

Fox nodded to himself idly. 

“I like it,”

Your lips quirked as you shared a glance with him, bemused but heavy with the question of, “what now?”

“How bout that caf?”

“Please… I'm dying to learn what a good cup of caf is like,”

The amused tone made you feel like he was teasing you, but it was hard to tell. Perhaps you simply didn't mind.

You padded over to the bar, and turned the nozzle on a line. 

“Hot?”

He nodded, now becoming engrossed with the bookshelves in the adjacent dining room. The paperbacks were expensive antiques. 

You pulled the handle, cold, rich colored liquid siphoning from a sealed canister in a fridge below the bar into the carefully poised mug. You watched him out of the corner of your eye as you lowered the steam wand into the cool drink. 

“Am I noticing a pattern here?”

Fox questioned, withdrawing a paper back, turning it to read the cover, then scanning through the list of digital titles. 

The caf in the mug started to froth. You made another cup for yourself and carried them to the dining room, offering one to the commander. 

“They’re all murder mysteries, can't get enough of them,”

“You like rather dark things, don't you?”

“Mysteries aren't that dark, Commander. They exist in a world we're no matter how clever or creative a killer is, they're always outsmarted by someone with just a little more wit and righteousness,”

He ran a finger down another book spine, nodding as he read the title,

“I suppose real life is much darker…”

“Much. Killers are rarely caught, murders go unsolved…”

“Hey now, I'm doing the best I can,”

He chuckled and you paused,

“You're with the Corries?”

You had had your suspicions but his nod confirmed them. He turned to you,

“Who were your parents? How'd they die?”

“It doesn't matter,”

“Humor me,”

“Their ship blew up on the dock, it took out the valets as well… no one was able to tell me if it was an accident or an assassination,”

“Would someone want to take out your family,”

“My father had his enemies, my mother too- though those wars were usually petty social affairs,”

He sighed,

“Sounds pretty standard,”

He took a swig from the cup you handed him, eyes widening in what you recognized as uncharacteristic delight. 

“That is good, it's so smooth,”

You smirked, pleased with yourself as you added some sweetener to your own mug from the container on the table. 

“Told you,”

He took another long sip from the mug, eyes on you as you leaned back against the table, facing him. 

The commander seemed to freeze a moment, a decision clicking into place behind his features. He moved to lean beside you, as if the morbid discussion before had awoken a sense of familiar solidarity in him stoked into something comfortable by the smooth caf. 

“So, tell me… why'd you bring me back to your place? You that proud of your brewing skills?”

His hand landed on the table next to yours, allowing him to lean into your ear as he spoke. 

“Hmm, maybe I was feeling a little reckless… and you were handsome enough to take a risk,”

“Risk? I'm the one alone in a stranger's home, how do I know you didn't spike the caf?”

His tone carried that gruff playfulness you were becoming accustomed to as his breath danced over the nape of your neck. 

“Mm, despite my interests I'm harmless, never even seen a dead body before- don't think I could handle making one,”

“Not even your parents?”

“There were no bodies to recover,”

…

“You want to?”

“Make a dead body?”

A puff of air against your neck as he silently laughed,

“See one… I can take you to HQ, I have one on hand, if it suits your… interests”

You hadn't really planned on leaving the flat, might've even been planning on convincing your new friend to stay the night,

“Wouldn't you rather stay here? Where we can get to know each other better… in private?”

His fingers moved, lightly brushing up your forearm.

“What's more intimate than looking into the face of death together?”

The offer was deranged, but the peevish look in his eyes, the smell of caf on his breath, it was tempting. You rose your eyebrow, surprised at yourself as you proceeded,

“Let me get my coat.”

“We'd better hurry,”

His voice followed you to where your jacket and heels were discarded, grabbing his own long coat from the back of the couch. 

“It sounds like they plan on hitting us with another downpour soon”

His words were punctuated by a sudden roll of thunder from above. 

~~~

He snuck you into the federal precinct through a service door after an oddly giddy jaunt through the dark, wet streets. Laughing as the rain started falling on the two of you, a lightning strike lighting your way. His hand was clasped firmly around yours, leading you with eagerness in every splashing step. 

The halls of the place were garishly bright, but mostly empty for the night. 

“The morgue is this way,”

He whispered, flashing you a grin, another glimpse of fang. His hand was still holding yours, pulling you along through the halls and it was making your heart race. The whole affair spoke of youthful mischief, sneaking into where you weren't supposed to be. 

As the two of you turned a corner, you ran into a clone decked in red armor, wings painted on the side of the scarlet helmet. 

“Fox? What are-”

The modulated voice cut short as the visor dipped over your form in its slinky dress. A growl of warning from the commander holding your hand and the soldier abruptly turned on a heel and hurried off in the opposite direction.

“Bring girls here often, Commander?”

“No, even more reason for him to leave me be,”

He led you to the end of the corridor, a marked door that he unlocked with a hurriedly typed code before ushering you inside.

The lights flicked on revealing a small, plain hallway of a room. The back wall was metallic, patterned with round latched doors spaced at even intervals. You heard the door click as Fox set a manual lock. No one would disturb you and a wave of nerves flipped through your stomach. It was one thing to be alone with the man in your flat, here was a different matter and for a moment you spared a thought as to what the kark was wrong with you. 

His hands softly gripped your shoulders through your jacket as he whispered into your ear,

“You ready? Can always back out now… if you're scared.”

Scared wasn't the word for it, and you had no interest in showing him your lack of resolve.  

“I'm fine… you sure this is okay though?”

“It's not… you shouldn't be anywhere near this place.”

He was pacing the short distance to the wall of doors. Cold lockers you now assumed. Him popping one of the latches with a loud “cachunk” as the door swished aside confirmed your thoughts. With a swift motion he reached into the cubby and pulled the drawer out. 

The metal shelf held a plasticine bag, translucent enough that you could make out the palid color of the flesh inside. He raised his brow at you as he reached for the zipper, almost as if he dared you to ask him to stop. 

As the bag came undone, you looked down at the face of the man inside. The look of death obvious in his sunken cheeks, the skin of his face and neck still bruised from whatever assault had killed him. 

“Who is he?”

“Just some low life thug… killed three of my men during a spice sting, 

Karked up thing is… my brothers were incinerated as soon as their bodies were collected. Meanwhile this shyte stain stays in our protective custody until we can confirm a next of kin. 

You know, to preserve his dignity.”

His monologue was low with anger, the contempt obvious on his features as he looked down at the dead man. His disquiet was obvious, as if this man had been plaguing his thoughts since before you entered the caf shop. He had gone tense and silent, a darkness in his gaze. You had to wonder,

“Why did you want to show me this?”

Fox blinked, and looked up at you, suddenly looking a little lost. 

“I don't know… I suppose I felt… I suppose I wanted you to see something from my world, to understand,”

He suddenly pushed the drawer shut again, slamming the door with a sharp snap that made you jump. 

“It seemed like you might…”

You wanted to say that you did, but you weren't entirely sure. Despite your own recent grief, how could you say you really knew what it meant to lose people so frequently, so… inconsequentially. 

Your feet seemed to move on their own as you approached the grim man with his back to you. You wrapped your arms around his waist, laying your head against his shoulder making his tight grip on the edge of the door slacken slightly in surprise. 

“It's all so fleeting, isn't it?”

You whispered against his coat, still damp from the rain. 

He turned in your grasp, wrapping his arms around your back as he came to face you, bringing his lips to yours. 

You could still taste the caf on him, the slight bite of smoke as he kissed you. There was desperation in the sudden action, looking for comfort in your embrace. His breath came sharp through his nose as his mouth moved on yours, sliding his tongue between your lips as the kiss became rough, frantic. 

You allowed him to move you, his hands guiding your hips to turn. A click and a swish as one of the other empty compartments was opened. He lifted you to sit on the cold, sterile metal of the drawer as he locked it in place. 

His narrow hips wedged between your knees as his hands came up to cup you cheeks, sharp teeth catching your lip, tugging at it before kissing you again and again. 

As he drew back, eyes searching for yours, you both jumped- startled by a sudden vibration humming from your purse. 

The com link inside had finally started ringing. 

You looked down at the bag, reaching for it instinctively, pausing when a heavy weight rested against your shoulder. Fox’s brow was against you, his words caressing your neck,

“Don't answer it,”

You didn't say anything, just breathed as the com buzzed. 

“Don't, just stay here…stay with me here,”

The rasp of his voice broke your heart. He sounded so tired…

You let the bag fall from your shoulder with a dull clink on the metal drawer before wrapping your arms about his neck. Reassured, his lips pressed to your pulse point, teeth dragging down the length of your neck to your shoulder and back again. The contact felt like electricity as you finally let yourself go, giving yourself to the fleeting moment. 

“Fox…”

He groaned softly against your skin before moving back to your lips, pressing against them hard. You felt his coat slip from his shoulders. He swung it behind you, spreading it over the cold metal surface. 

“Aren't you the gentleman…”

You breathed against his cheek, 

“I'm no gentleman, meshla,”

His tongue dove into your mouth and you moaned around it, heat flooding your core as his posture became domineering. 

Not breaking the kiss, he dipped to lift you, laying you back on his jacket while he leaned over you. It was easy for him to run his hands over you like this, the leather of his gloves smooth as they squeezed your breasts through your dress. 

His motions became sharp; His hand snapping behind your neck to lift you, the other pulling your coat off and tossing it aside. You cringed in the sudden cold of the room, a problem quickly remedied as he hopped onto the drawer in a fluid motion. Fox's trim bulk pressed down on you, hot through his clothing. 

With a needy growl his teeth were at your neck again nipping the soft flesh under your jaw, sucking hard enough to mark you and force your breath to hiss, your gasp sharp. The pain was exquisite, and you reached up to lace your fingers in his greying locks, pulling on them to keep his fangs on you. 

Fox's hands kept wandering, down your side, along your thigh. He pushed your knees to the side, making room for his hips to wedge between your legs. The denim of his pants was rough against the soft skin as he ground his pelvis against you. 

You gasped, pulling back slightly as the feel of him, hard through the fabric. 

“Wait!”

He froze. You only managed another deep breath before he pressed his mouth to yours again, softer than before, carefully,

“You wanted me to have my way with you the second you invited me to your flat… why doubt yourself now?”

You felt your sex clench at his words. He was right of course, you wanted him; The evidence began to pool in your panties as he nuzzled into your neck. 

“Give me this… I won't let you regret it,”

He punctuated his request by rubbing the hardened bulge in his jeans against your groin drawing an undignified moan from your lips. 

You nodded, a little incoherently, pressing your cheek to his. 

“Take me Fox,”

He smiled against your throat, sucking your skin between his teeth with a groan. Your wrists were gathered and held above your head; pinning you there with his left hand, the right slid back down your body. You gasped as his fingers brushed between your legs through your silky dress. 

He used two fingers to slowly rub you through the fabric. A languid pace, up and down, slow and firm making you whimper and squirm beneath him. As the tips brushed and circled your clit you jerked, crying out from the sudden pleasure and wincing as your head thunked against the hard surface. 

“That won't do…”

He growled, sitting up abruptly to tug his long sleeve off, tucking it behind your head. The shirt had barely hid his toned visage but you couldn't help but drink him in as he leaned over you bare. Your hands now free, you reached out for him, running your hands down his chest; feeling the taught muscle, the smooth dips of blaster scars, the jagged raised bumps from healed tears. Fox leaned into the touch, sighing softly as he continued his attentions on you, rocking back on his calves to look down at you spread beneath him. 

He tugged your dress up over your thighs, eyeing the red lace thong underneath with raised eyebrows. 

“You like it?”

His eyes flicked to yours. He didn't answer, just flashed you those fangs of his as he shifted down. He pushed your knees to the side as he leaned in, biting your folds through the fabric. You let out a squeak as his teeth grazed your clit, gasping as he did it again. He nuzzled you with his nose, breathing deeply the scent of your arousal. 

“You’re so kriffing wet, meshla…”

He was right, the cold air catching the damp skin of your thighs. He blew on the glistening flesh, making the skin bump and pulling a whine of need through you. 

Fox chuckled, grabbing the waistband of your panties. He twisted his fingers into the lace and with a sharp tug the delicate fabric tore, exposing you to him. You watched the ruined article disappear into his back pocket before he pinned you again. 

His lips locked to yours, hips grinding into you as you felt his hand undoing the belt buckle and buttons at his waist. You wanted him inside you already,

“Hurry, Fox…”

He bit your lip, a jangle out of sight signalling his jeans were undone. You hooked your fingers into the waistband, helping him slide them down. His cock slapped into you as it was freed, firm and ready. Reaching for it, you felt his length, stroking him as he repositioned himself. He lifted one of your knees guiding himself to your dripping pussy. The head slid over your folds, finding the natural nook for it between your legs. 

With your thigh wrapped around him, Fox braced himself on his elbow. He watched your face as he slowly began to penetrate you. Inch, by slow, tantalizing inch he filled you; watching your expression with intense concentration. He seemed pleased with the way your brow knit as you gasped, the flush that colored your cheeks. Your nerves were on fire, able to feel the ridge of him sliding into you, every vein on his shaft. You were ready to come undone for him right then and there, quivering as he finished sheathing himself inside of you. 

He stayed like that a moment, pinning you with his hips. Leaning in to kiss you, taking his time to feel your lips against his sure and firm, almost possessive. Fox's hand on your thigh pulled your leg around his side and you obliged, wrapping it around him tightly as he started to move. 

Short, shallow thrusts. Slow, grinding into you before withdrawing again. You needed more air, pulling your lips away to bury your head against his shoulder, panting at the rippling pleasure coursing through you. 

Suddenly his hips snapped, the sudden hard thrust ripping a small scream from your throat;The wave of ecstasy that hit your brain too sudden, and you arched back, thighs wrapping around him even tighter. He smiled down at you as he did it again, slamming into you hard. 

“Fox!”

He picked up the pace, brutal thrust one right after another. His belt buckle rattled against the side of the metal shelf, the harsh clatter contrasting the soft, wet pops of his skin meeting yours. You weren't able to make a sound through the onslaught, your body seizing under him as your synapses were set aflame. 

“Cum for me,”

He growled into your ear. 

That did it.

Your sex clenched around him at the command, body going taught and rigid as a strangled cry escaped you. You're sure you ruined his coat. The com in your discarded purse began to hum again. 

You stayed at that high, feeling floaty as your brain swam in the tingling sensation. The only things grounding you to reality being the soft leather of his gloves gripping your thigh, cupping your neck, the half groaned praises in your ear, and of course his hardened shaft hammering into you. 

“You feel so good beneath me, meshla…”

He was lost in his own pleasure, whispering almost incoherently into your neck as he fucked you. 

“I'm going to… soon, I want to… inside of you,”

Your nails dug into his back as you locked your legs around him,

“Do it… fill me,”

He groaned, something low and feral, his thrusts becoming less measured. His hips snapped erratically into you, overwhelming you over another edge. You bit into his shoulder as you came again, the glove on the back of your neck urging you on,

“Harder,”

He panted. 

You flexed your jaw, putting real weight into the bite even as your muscles twitched from climax. 

Fox's hips dropped, pinning you flat as he bottomed out in your cunt. The thob of his cock and the grunt in your ear betrayed the finality of his motions. 

He held you there, still and poised in the taught throws of climax. He twitched several times, filling you till it gushed around his sheathed cock to run down your already slick skin. 

His muscles relaxed, and carefully he settled his weight onto you, wrapping his arms under your back keeping himself firmly buried inside your pussy. He nuzzled your neck, satisfaction dripping from him,

“I needed that,”

…

“Me too,”

~~~

You laid back on his jacket as he inevitably dismounted, boots hitting the floor with a hard thump; Watching with longing as he pulled his jeans back up over his ass hiding it from the perfect vantage you had laying on the morgue self. 

Once his belt was done, he turned leaning in to give you pecking kisses as he gently took his shirt from under you. You drank in his musculature before he could hide it with the red fabric. You felt like you could fall for this handsome man, the odd melancholic look that was once again furrowing his brow. 

He felt the weight of your gaze on him, reaching to lift your hand to kiss your knuckles, your palm, teeth softly grazing your wrist. 

“What now, Commander?”

“You go home…”

He purred it playfully,

“...and I figure out a good excuse to see you again,”

“You need an excuse?”

“Oh yes, and I think I've already came up with a good one,”

He reached down to where your purse had fallen, withdrawing the com and cancelling the call that had started to come through again. You saw him type in a number, presumably sending a message to himself.

“Is that right? What little scheme are you brewing?”

“How about I pull the file for your parent's case, bring you a copy… you said they never shared their findings didn't you,”

Not in so many words, but there had been some bitterness in your exchange with him earlier he seemed to have latched onto.  

“You’d do that?”

“Not out of the goodness of my heart… I bring you the file,”

He put his pointer finger to your lips, trailing it down your neck, between your breasts down to the apex of your thighs.

“We get some caf… and we do this again,”

~~~

@hellhoundmaggie @feral-ferrule

Oh, @vodika-vibes not sure if this is your thing, not exactly bent over his desk but if you're still Fox thirsty 🫡

[wishful-thinking-is-dumb]

Hi! Can you write a yandere story for any of the 501st clone troopers with a civilian darling? If they kidnapped them?

Apprehended - Yandere Captain Rex

You run through the dark and cluttered streets of Coruscant, the sound of multiple footsteps behind you. You fire your weapon back at your pursuers, trying to only slow them down and not kill them. If you kill then you will surely have more of a target on your back.

The neon lights of the lower city levels illuminates the path before you, and you hear the clone troopers gaining on you. They’ve been on your tail for weeks, and it seems like they have finally made their move.

Your heart is beating out of your chest, you quickly climb over a fence and down an alley. You hope that this isn’t a dead end.

You scale the alley wall as the troopers start to shoot nonlethal shots at you. One hits your leg and a wave of electricity shoots up through your body. You loose your grip and you fall to the ground.

You land on your side, pain blooming throughout your body. The sting of the stun shot makes your leg feel numb, in a painful way.

Before you can start to fire back, your gun is kicked away and you are manhandled onto your stomach.

“Suspect apprehended, over.” The trooper on top of you says as he hoisters his weapon and restrains your arms behind your back. You manage to throw a single punch at the clone before your arm is restrained again.

Your face is pushed into the ground, and you are unable to struggle any further. Two more clone troopers round the corner into the alley, a distinctive blue on their helmets and armour.

“Stay down.” The trooper above you states, still holding you down as you are handcuffed. Your leg is still painfully numb from where the stun shot hit you. You can only imagine how it would have felt if you got hit on the torso.

You are dragged to your feet, and a trooper who looks to be the leader walks up to you. He has extra marking on his trooper armour that dictates his higher rank than the other ones.

“You’re hard to track down.” The man says, his voice staticky due to his helmet. He lowers his gun and you don’t say a word to him.

“Not a talker, eh?” He comments again, his voice a little dry. He seems to be tired of chasing you all over the lower levels of Coruscant.

You have no reason to speak, you have committed no crime. You have no idea why they would be arresting you and chasing you down for weeks on end. You huff a little as you are pushed forward by the lower ranking trooper out of the alley.

“Take ‘em to the convoy, make sure she doesn’t slip her cuffs, Echo.” The higher ranking trooper speaks as you are dragged away by the upper arm.

“Aye, captain.” The trooper who is dragging you says. You exit the alley you had run into, limping slightly due to the numbness in your leg. The trooper notices this but makes no comment nor does he attempt to make walking easier for you by slowing down.

You can only hope that someone explains the situation to you soon, and why you are suddenly a wanted criminal. Maybe that higher ranking clone trooper has something to do with it…

[purehypnotic]

🪩 💿 look at what the light did now 💿 🪩

din djarin x reader

the origin of mando saying “wizard”, aka, what happens when din gives you the aux cord.

sfw, gender neutral

☄︎₊˚⊹☆ ☄︎₊˚⊹☆ ☄︎₊˚⊹☆ ☄︎₊˚⊹☆ ☄︎₊˚⊹☆ ☄︎₊˚⊹☆ ☄︎₊˚

He’s not a taxi service.

He insists on this, with one hand on his hip and the other pointing straight between your eyes, while dragging you from your hiding spot. His grip on your forearm isn’t harsh enough to hurt, but you know you can’t wiggle your way out.

“How did you get in?” the Mandalorian drills and you release a full body sigh. You’d found yourself in a little situation back at the space port. A little predicament, you might say. A little tussle that needed a quick getaway, so you darted through the Coruscant spaceport and threw yourself into the belly of the first ship you saw. You planned to lay low and sneak out on the next stop, but apparently not much can get past this Mandalorian.

“I uh came in through there,” you lamely pointed at the hatch. His helmet followed your finger to the door and swiveled back, unimpressed. You’d successfully avoided his attention for two days before he’d glanced at the cargo container you tucked yourself behind. Now here you were, awkwardly trapped between the container and the tin man, ready to convince him to let you couch surf.

“It’s honestly a miracle that I hid for this long, thought I would’ve sneezed or something to give me away,” you attempted at a conversation.

Silence.

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

Silence.

“Okay, alright, that’s fine. I really am sorry about sneaking in. I’ll stay out of the way or organize to make up for it,” you offered. His silence was starting to creep you out, but he squeezed your arm tighter and dragged you to the latter in the center of the hold.

“I’m not a taxi. You’re getting off in Nevarro. Stay in the cockpit where I can see you,” his clipped tone left no room to argue.

That was fine with you. Just dandy, actually, a real chair sounds pretty nice right now. The steel walls of the hold were hell on your back. As the Mandalorian stalks through the sliding doors and settles in the pilot’s chair, you stop in your tracks. You’d seen space only a couple times in your life, but hyperspace? The watercolor of starlight streaked past the windshield like neon rain, taking the breath right from your ribs. The dull thrum of lightspeed resonated through the cockpit, buzzing through your bones like an amplified bass. Glancing at the Mandalorian, you gasped. Soft blues and lilacs streaked across his reflective armor, haloing him, strangely beautiful, like an iridescent statue.

“Sit and buckle in; the Crest likes to stall,” he gestured to the seat at his right, not caring for your slack jaw. Was he not aware of the universe revealing all it had to offer in front of your faces? You took the copilot’s chair, but leaned your elbows on your knees to shift closer to the glass.

“Wizard,” you mumbled, stunned by the beauty of hyperspace.

“Wizard?” The Mandalorian deadpanned. What a killjoy.

“Space. It’s wizard,” you rolled your eyes. His wet blanket aura got in the way of your whimsy.

The Mandalorian puffed out an exhale that was a little stronger than the rest. Was that how he laughed? Is he serious? Is this what you were working with?

Giving up on entertainment from the buckethead, you reached into your pack for your earplugs and music player. A little archaic, but that was part of the charm. Fixing the little cushion into your left ear, you clicked at your vintage player and leaned back into the co-pilot’s chair as the intro to your favorite song started up. Sure, you were half-captive to a metal man with no name, but as you melted into the music with the gorgeous view of hyperspace, your situation didn’t seem so bad. It was almost peaceful.

“What is that?” The Mandalorian pressed.

Nevermind.

“Music, good music. You want some?” you offered the other earbud to the bounty hunter. He tilted his helmet in a way you were starting to suspect was how he showed emotion. He lifted one finger to point at the edge of his helm as if to say the earbud won’t fit. Awkward silence fell upon the two of you as you figured out a way to share your music with him.

“It’s alright. I’m sure you hear plenty of it while flying this thing,” you gestured to the control panel, happy that he’s at least communicating with you.

“I don’t,” Mando flatly confessed and you raised an eyebrow in confusion.

“Music isn’t big in my culture. Unless it’s a war chant or a song for the kids, we don’t sing,” he continued. Briefly, you felt some sort of understanding for him. Robotic and sterile as he seemed, there was a person with a culture and an upbringing beneath the beskar.

“Plug it into here,” the Mandalorian pointed to an audio jack with an auxiliary cord cleanly coiled underneath, as if never used.

“I’d like to hear some,” he said softly. You caught something secret in his tone, as if he was asking for something he shouldn’t be having. Was his culture so strict that he never learned to enjoy music? You had a hard time imagining the Mandalorian dancing or humming under his breath. Your time as an accidental stowaway would’ve been less tense if you caught him tapping his fingers to a tune he can’t get out of his head. Only, he’s never been granted the mundane freedom of music. Fidgeting with the aux cord, a little nervous to show him your tastes, you were giddy to share this with him. Here is a warrior, who was absolutely ready to manhandle you off his ship minutes ago, gently asking you to share your favorite songs with him. His curiosity was endearing, no matter how nonchalant he tried to seem.

As the melody of the first track twanged through the cockpit, the Mandalorian leaned forward in his seat, as if chasing the song for more. His helmet tilted to face the glow of hyperspace, and you guessed he was feeling the wonder you experienced in seeing the stars up close. You slouched in your seat once more, half doubtful of how the hell you upgraded from stowaway to personal DJ, but also entranced by the mystery of the bounty hunter before you. How was he so intimidating when he found you, but so careful, almost bashful, when asking to share your music? Why were you so willing to give him more?

Snapping out of your stupor as the song crescendoed, you realized the Mandalorian’s visor was already pinned on you. A shiver ran through you under his intense gaze, and your wide eyes blinked at your reflection in his shimmering Beskar.

“This is a beautiful song. It suits you,” he murmured lowly. You felt a triumphant smile spread across your face, oddly proud that you were putting him onto good music.

“That’s just the tip of the iceberg, shiny. Track six is gonna blow your mind,” you leaned an elbow on the console as he puffed out another breathy laugh.

-

True to his word, the Mandalorian dropped you off at the first spaceport he docked in. Without complaining or looking back (except maybe a couple glances), you hightailed it from the bounty hunter’s ship. While you ended up with a soft spot for the tin can, you didn’t want to push his patience and overstay your welcome. Admittedly, you wished you had spoken with him more, asked about his culture, or asked him for stories about the galaxy. Hell, you hadn’t even gotten a name.

As you perched under the veranda of a small restaurant, you fished through your pack to ensure all your belongings stayed inside. Digging between a thin blanket and an extra pair of socks, your fingers brushed by a cool, metallic object you didn’t recognize. Pulling out the pocket-sized cylinder, you turned it over in your hands as you unraveled a note coiled around it. The silver trinket was a commlink, you figured, and the note read:

“Let me know when I can hear that song again. It was wizard.” - Din Djarin.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆ ☄︎₊˚⊹☆ ☄︎₊˚⊹☆ ☄︎₊˚⊹☆ ☄︎₊˚⊹☆ ☄︎₊˚⊹☆ ☄︎₊˚

theyre listening to champagne coast btw

with love, katie 💌

[padawan-snack-packer]

can i request like... a child/teen reader & either any of the corries (authors choice) just something with reader having a rough time and getting comfort? (feel free to ignore this bit if it's too specific, i'm not sure what you're looking for in requests) maybe reader with sucky birth parents, sneaking out in coruscant and grafitti-ing or something and getting caught by a corrie? tagging an alt so i can find this ask @what-would-ahsoka-tano-do

not shipping obviously, more platonic/familial?

"You’re Not in Trouble, Kid"

Hi!! First of all, thank you so much for the lovely request! 💛

I loved this idea the second I read it — sneaky graffiti artist reader + big brother/father figure Corrie??? YES PLEASE.

(No shipping, all completely platonic/familial as requested!)

I hope you like it! 🥹✨ And feel free to send more requests anytime if you’d like — I adore writing these kinds of comforting, found-family Corrie stories!

Title: You’re Not in Trouble, Kid Characters: Commander Fox (Coruscant Guard), Teen!Reader POV: Second person (Reader) Tone: Comforting, real, slightly rough around the edges — but safe, fluff and bits of humor!!

(Also tagging your alt as asked: @what-would-ahsoka-tano-do 🌟)

You’re half-finished with the tag when you hear the heavy footsteps behind you.

Too late to bolt. Your spray can clatters to the ground, bouncing once, twice, and rolling to a stop against the grimy wall. You freeze, your pulse thudding hard enough that it echoes in your ears.

You hadn’t meant to get caught.

That’s the first thing that runs through your mind when the red-and-white armored Coruscant Guard stops at the mouth of the alley, helmet tilted ever so slightly in your direction. His pauldron and kama definitely say Commander, but it’s the way he just stands there — arms folded, patient — that feels a hundred times more dangerous than any blaster.

You don’t even want to turn around.

Getting arrested? Fine.

Maybe it’s easier than going home tonight.

You freeze, half-finished tag still bright and dripping across the wall: a defiant streak of neon yellow and angry blue, a messy tangle of words you don’t even fully remember deciding to write. Your backpack’s half-zipped, spray cans rattling inside. You can hear your own heart hammering louder than the Coruscant traffic overhead.

You expect shouting. Sirens. A stun cuff snapping onto your wrist.

Instead, the clone just… sighs.

A slow, tired sound, like someone a hundred years old.

He steps closer, careful, boots crunching over broken bits of duracrete.

“You done, kid?” he says, voice low and not angry at all.

You blink, shoulders stiff. Slowly, you turn.

Standing there at the mouth of the alley is a clone trooper — yup. Definitely Coruscant Guard. The kind of trooper you’re supposed to stay way the hell away from.

Except… he’s not reaching for his blaster. He’s not even moving toward you. Just standing there, arms folded across his chest, helmet tilted like he’s studying you.

Waiting.

You shuffle awkwardly, kicking a pebble by your foot.

“I wasn’t—” you start, then stop, because what's the point? There's bright neon evidence all over the wall behind you. A mess of colors — blue, yellow, green — angry letters that started as cursing out your parents and turned into... something else. Something bigger. Something yours.

You hug your arms around yourself, feeling very small all of a sudden.

The clone sighs — long and low — like he’s tired clear down to his bones.

He steps forward, slow so he doesn’t spook you. His boots crunch over trash and broken glass. He taps the side of his helmet, and with a soft hiss, he takes off his helmet.

You’re not ready for how normal he looks. A little older than you expected, with a scar across his cheekbone and tired brown eyes. Tired, but not cruel. The city lights catch on the silver at his temples.

He crouches down a bit until he’s eye-level with you.

“Name’s Fox,” he says, voice rough but careful. “And you’re not in trouble.”

You blink, not sure you heard him right. You shift from foot to foot, half-ready to bolt anyway.

“You gonna arrest me?” you mumble, not quite meeting his eyes.

Fox huffs a soft laugh, like that’s the dumbest idea he’s heard all day.

“Nah. No cuffs, no charges. Look, kid — you’re a pain in the brass for the night shift, yeah, but…” He glances up at the angry graffiti splattered across the alley wall. “…looks to me like you had somethin’ to say.”

You chew your lip, throat tight.

“I just—” You scowl down at the cracked pavement. “They don’t listen. Nobody listens. At least the walls can't talk back.”

For a second, Fox doesn’t say anything.

The city hums around you — speeders whooshing by overhead, neon signs buzzing and flickering. Somewhere farther down the alley, a droid is arguing with a merchant about credits.

When Fox finally speaks again, it’s low, like a secret just for you.

“I know what it’s like to not be heard.”

You glance up, surprised. There’s something real in his voice. Heavy. Like he means it.

“You do?” you whisper.

Fox’s mouth twists into a wry smile, half bitter, half fond. “Clone or not, everyone gets talked over sooner or later. Especially if you don’t fit nice and easy into someone else’s idea of who you’re supposed to be.”

You let that sit for a second, feeling it soak into the cracks you didn’t realize were already open inside you.

“You got somewhere safe to go tonight?” he asks, softer now.

You hesitate. Then you shake your head.

Fox doesn't react the way you expect — no pity, no frown, no ‘poor kid’ looks. Just a slow nod, like that tracks.

“Alright,” he says, standing up with a grunt. “Hot chocolate or caf? There’s a vendor two blocks over who owes me a favor.”

You blink at him, stunned.

“…Hot chocolate,” you manage to croak out, because your throat’s too raw for anything else.

Fox gives a quiet snort, like he’s half-amused, half-relieved. He reaches out a hand — gloved, solid, steady.

You stare at it for a long second before you finally grab on.

His grip is warm, anchoring. Not squeezing, not pulling. Just there.

“You’re not in trouble,” he repeats, guiding you out of the alley like he’s been doing it his whole life. “You just needed someone to see you.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

For the first time in months — maybe years — you feel your chest loosen a little. Like maybe breathing isn’t supposed to hurt so much after all.

You glance back once at the wall, your messy, furious colors burning bright in the dark.

Fox squeezes your hand, just a little, like he knows what you’re thinking.

“Good work, kid,” he says. “World needs more color anyway.”

The city feels different when you’re not running.

The two of you weave through the lower levels of Coruscant, the neon buzz of signs washing everything in pinks and blues. Fox keeps a loose but steady hold on your hand, steering you around potholes and slow-moving droids like he’s been doing it forever. He doesn’t say much, but somehow the silence feels safe, not awkward.

Like you don’t have to fill it with anything.

You realize after a few minutes that you’re still holding onto him. He hasn’t let go either.

It’s weird. You don’t usually trust people this fast. You’re not stupid.

But Fox has this… thing about him. Not just the armor, or the Commander title. It’s in the way he keeps checking over his shoulder for you. The way he slows down when you lag. The way he grumbles when a speeder skims too close to the curb, like he’s personally ready to fistfight the entire city to keep you from getting a scratch.

Eventually you reach a little caf stand tucked between two towering buildings. It smells like sugar and something fried. The stand’s owner, a grizzled Twi’lek with an eyebrow piercing, gives Fox a lazy wave, like they know each other.

“Commander. Usual?”

Fox leans an elbow on the counter. “Yeah, and throw in a hot chocolate. Extra marshmallows.”

He doesn’t even have to ask what you want. It guts you a little, how easy he makes it.

While you wait, Fox peels his helmet off again and puts it over the table. His hair’s a little messy underneath, streaked with gray at the temples. Somehow, it makes him look even safer. Less like a soldier, more like... someone who could be your dad if the universe hadn’t been such a jerk.

You wrap your hands around the warm drink when it’s passed to you. It’s so sweet it makes your teeth ache, but you don’t even care. It’s the best thing you’ve tasted in months.

Fox blows on his caf and takes a slow sip. For a while, neither of you say anything.

Then, casually, like he’s mentioning the weather, he says:

“You know,” he drawls, “the Guard’s rec room walls are lookin’ a little rough these days.”

You glance up at him, confused. Marshmallow foam sticks to your upper lip. You wipe it off with your sleeve, embarrassed.

Fox chuckles under his breath, shaking his head fondly.

“Could use someone with, say, some artistic talents,” he continues, tapping a gloved finger against his cup. “Brighten the place up. Make it less like a prison block.”

It takes you a second to catch up.

“���Wait. You mean me?”

He raises an eyebrow, mock-serious. “Well, it sure ain’t gonna be me. I’d just draw stick figures and angry notes about paperwork.”

You snort into your hot chocolate, and Fox grins, quick and fierce and real.

“I could put in a word,” he says more gently. “Make it official. No cuffs, no chasin’ you through alleys. Just you, a bunch of paint, and a few of my brothers making terrible suggestions about what to draw.”

You bite your lip. The part of you that’s used to disappointment, to people saying nice things and never meaning them, flinches a little.

“…You’re serious?” you ask, voice small.

Fox leans down so he can look you dead in the eye.

“Dead serious, kid,” he says. “You got somethin’ to say. City like this?” He gestures vaguely at the endless sprawl of towers and traffic. “It needs voices like yours.”

Your throat tightens.

You blink down at your half-empty cup, marshmallows melting into foam.

“I’m not... I’m not really good,” you mumble. “It’s just— it’s just stuff.”

Fox shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Doesn’t have to be good. Just has to be yours.”

You sit with that for a second, turning it over in your head like a smooth stone.

Maybe you could build something new out of the mess.

Maybe you don’t have to do it alone.

Fox reaches over and ruffles your hair — gently, careful not to startle you. It’s so parental it makes your eyes sting.

“You’re family now, kid,” he says, half-teasing, half-serious. “Means you’re stuck with us.”

You laugh — shaky, surprised — and for once it doesn’t hurt.

[stormyblue90]

Fox hates Red.

Just a little something I wrote while bored at work based on @sleepingsun501 headcanon of Fox's favorite color. I hope you enjoy it!

Fox hates the color red.

Despite what most would think if they were to judge his armor, Commander Fox hates the color red.

If it were up to him, he'd paint his armor any other color, but alas Fox is forced to wear the color he despises.

Red is the color of his brothers' blood that spills onto the battlefields, in the medical bay, on the streets during civilian riots. A color of pain.

The robes of the despot he and his kin are enslaved to serve, are shades of red. Fox imagines the invisible strings he pulls would be red as well.

Fox was told the blades of the Sith, the enemy of the Jedi his brothers proudly fight alongside, are a burning red. Such a fiery red blade is what took his batch-mate, Wolffe's eye.

Red are the flames that burn on the battlefields, red was the dirt of that first battle on Geonosis, of the uniforms he and his brothers wore while trapped on Kamino, dreaming of other worlds and waiting to be deployed. Back when they were all so innocent and naive of the horrors that would await them.

When Fox wakes from unexplainable blackouts, with gaps in his memory, and injuries he doesn't remember suffering, red is the last thing he can remember seeing.

In Commander Fox's mind, red is the color of death. Red is the color of darkness, of pain, and suffering. He abhors the color he can only associate with evil and destruction.

Green however, Fox enjoys.

The opposite of red, a color he finds comfort in.

Naboo, Alderaan, Kashyyyk, lush planets filled with green, with life. Not the cold metallics and blinding neon lights of Coruscant.

Fox thinks he would enjoy visiting such lush planets someday. He'd love nothing more than to leave the artificial planet that has become his prison.

Green is the color of many a Jedi's blades. Of the old Grandmaster who told Fox's brothers they were unique individuals, and protected them. Who treated them with respect and kindness.

Should he and his brothers finally be freed, Fox will choose to fill his wardrobe with green, repaint his armor in shades of the color. He likes to think that were he ever to have a lover, perhaps their eyes would be green.

In Fox's mind, green is the color of life. Green is the color of growth, comfort, and protection. Fox loves the color he has come to associate with freedom, vitality, and hope.

When the titanic beast that the chancellor so foolishly brought to the planet, finally devours the man in red and calms its fury; Fox finds comfort when he looks into its eyes, and finds they glow a beautiful green.

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

Commander Fox x singer/PA Reader pt. 1

Summary: By day, she’s a chaotic assistant in the Coruscant Guard; by night, a smoky-voiced singer who captivates even the most disciplined clones—especially Commander Fox. But when a botched assignment, a bounty hunter’s warning, she realizes the spotlight might just get her killed.

_ _ _ _

The lights of Coruscant were always loud. Flashing neon signs, sirens echoing through levels, speeders zipping like angry wasps. But nothing ever drowned out the voice of the girl at the mic.

She leaned into it like she was born there, bathed in deep blue and violet lights at 99's bar, voice smoky and honey-sweet. She didn't sing like someone performing—she sang like she was telling secrets. And every clone in the place leaned in to hear them.

Fox never stayed for the full set. Not really. He'd linger just outside the threshold long enough to catch the tail end of her voice wrapping around the words of a love song or a low bluesy rebellion tune before disappearing into the shadows, unreadable as ever.

He knew her name.

He knew too much, if he was honest with himself.

---

By some minor miracle of cosmic misalignment, she showed up to work the next day.

Coruscant Guard HQ was sterile and sharp—exactly the opposite of her. The moment she stepped through the entrance, dragging a caf that was more sugar than stimulant, every other assistant looked up like they were seeing a ghost they didn't like.

"She lives," one of them muttered under their breath.

She gave a mock-curtsy, her usual smirk tugging at her lips. "I aim to disappoint."

Her desk was dusty. Her holopad had messages backed up from a week ago. And Fox's office door was—blessedly—closed.

She plopped into her chair, kicking off her boots and spinning once in her chair before sipping her caf and pretending to care about her job.

Unfortunately, today was not going to let her coast.

One of the other assistants—a tight-bunned brunette with a permanently clenched jaw—strolled over, datapad in hand and an expression that said *we're about to screw you over and enjoy it.*

"You're up," the woman said. "Cad Bane's in holding. He needs to be walked through his rights, legal rep options, the whole thing."

The reader blinked. "You want *me* to go talk to *Cad Bane?* The bounty hunter with the murder-happy fingers and sexy lizard eyes?"

"Commander Fox signed off on it."

*Bullshit,* she thought. But aloud, she said, "Well, at least it won't be boring."

---

Security in the lower levels of Guard HQ was tight, and the guards scanned her badge twice—partly because she never came down here, partly because nobody believed she had clearance.

"Try not to get killed," one said dryly as he buzzed her into the cell block.

"Aw, you do care," she winked.

The room was cold. Lit only by flickering fluorescents, with reinforced transparisteel separating her from the infamous Duros bounty hunter. He sat, cuffs in place, slouched like he owned the room even in chains.

"Well, well," Cad Bane drawled, red eyes narrowing with amusement. "Don't recognize you. They finally lettin' in pretty faces to read us our bedtime stories?"

She ignored the spike of fear in her chest and sat across from him, activating the datapad. "Cad Bane. You are being held by the Coruscant Guard for multiple counts of—well, a lot. I'm supposed to inform you of your legal rights and representation—"

"Save it," he said, voice low. "You're not just an assistant."

Her brow twitched. "Excuse me?"

"You smell like city smoke and spice trails. Not paper. Not politics. I've seen girls like you in cantinas two moons from Coruscant, drinkin' with outlaws and singin' like heartbreak's a language." His smile widened. "And I've seen that face. You got a past. And it's catchin' up."

She stood, blood running colder than the cell. "We're done here."

"Hope the Commander's watchin'," Cad added lazily. "He's got eyes on you. Like you're his favorite secret."

She turned and walked—*fast*.

---

Fox was waiting at the end of the hallway when she emerged, helm on, arms crossed, motionless like a statue.

"Commander," she said, voice trying to stay casual even as adrenaline buzzed in her fingers. "Didn't think I rated high enough for personal escorts."

"Why were you down there alone?" His voice was calm. Too calm.

"You signed off on it."

"I didn't."

Her stomach sank. The air between them thickened, tension clicking into place like a blaster being loaded.

"I'll speak to the others," Fox said, stepping closer. "But next time you walk into a room with someone like Cad Bane, you *tell me* first."

She raised a brow. "Since when do you care what I do?"

"I don't," he said too fast.

But she caught it—*the tiny flicker of something human beneath the armor.*

She tilted her head, smirk tugging at her lips again. "If you're going to keep me alive, Commander, I'm going to need to see you at the next open mic night."

Fox turned away.

"I don't attend bars," he said over his shoulder.

"Good," she called back. "Because I'm not singing for the others."

He paused. Just once. Barely. Then he walked on.

She didn't need to see his face to know he was smiling.

---

She walked back into the offices wearing oversized shades, yesterday's eyeliner, and the confidence of someone who refused to admit she probably shouldn't have tequila before 4 a.m.

The moment she crossed the threshold, tight-bun Trina zeroed in.

"Hope you enjoyed your field trip," Trina said, arms folded, sarcasm sharp enough to cut durasteel.

"I did, actually. Made a new friend. His hobbies include threats and murder. You'd get along great," the reader shot back, grabbing her caf and sipping without breaking eye contact.

Trina sneered. "You weren't supposed to go alone. But I guess you're just reckless enough to survive it."

The reader stepped closer, voice dropping. "You sent me because you thought I'd panic. You wanted a show."

"Well, if Commander Fox cares so much, maybe he should stop playing bodyguard and just transfer you to front-line entertainment," Trina snapped.

"Jealousy isn't a good look on you."

"It's not jealousy. It's resentment. You don't work, you vanish for days, and yet he always clears your screw-ups."

She leaned in. "Maybe he just likes me better."

Trina's jaw clenched, "Since you're suddenly here, again, congratulations—you're finishing the Cad Bane intake. Legal processing. Standard rights. You can handle reading, yeah?"

The reader smiled sweetly. "Absolutely. Hooked on Phonics."

---

Two security scans and a passive-aggressive threat from a sergeant later, she was back in the lower cells, now much more aware of just how many surveillance cams were watching her.

Cad Bane looked even more smug than before.

"Well, ain't this a pleasant surprise," he drawled, shackles clicking as he shifted in his seat. "You just can't stay away from me, huh?"

She dropped into the chair across from him, datapad in hand, face expressionless.

"Cad Bane," she began, voice clipped and professional, "you are currently being held under charges of murder, kidnapping, sabotage, resisting arrest, impersonating a Jedi, and approximately thirty-seven other counts I don't have time to read. I am required by Republic protocol to inform you of the following."

He tilted his head, red eyes watching her like a predator amused by a small animal reading from a script.

"You have the right to remain silent," she continued. "You are entitled to legal representation. If you do not have a representative of your own, the Republic will provide you with one."

Bane snorted. "You mean one of those clean little lawyer droids with sticks up their circuits? Pass."

She didn't blink. "Do you currently have your own legal representation?"

"I'll let you know when I feel like cooperating."

She tapped on the datapad, noting his response.

"Further information about the trial process and detention terms will be provided at your next hearing."

"You're not very warm," he mused.

"I'm not here to be."

"Pity. I liked earliers sass."

She stood up. "Try not to escape before sentencing."

"Tell your Commander I said hello."

That stopped her. Just for a second.

Bane smiled wider. "What? You thought no one noticed?"

She didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply. She left with her heart thudding harder than she wanted to admit.

That night, 79's was packed wall to wall with off-duty clones, local droids trying to dance, and smugglers pretending not to be smugglers. She stood under the lights, voice curling around a jazz-infused battle hymn she'd rewritten to sound like a love song.

And there, in the shadows by the bar, armor glinting like red wine under lights—

Commander Fox.

She didn't falter. Not when her eyes met his. Not when her voice dipped into a sultry bridge, not when he didn't look away once.

After the show, she took the back exit—like always. And like always, she sensed the wrongness first.

A chill up her spine. A presence behind her, too quiet, too deliberate.

She spun. "You're not a fan, are you?"

The woman stepped out of the shadows with a predator's grace.

Aurra Sing.

"You're more interesting than I expected," she said. "Tied to the Guard. Friendly with a Commander. Eyes and ears on all the right rooms."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Aurra's lip curled. "Doesn't matter. You're on my radar now."

And she vanished.

Back in her apartment, she barely kicked off her boots when there was a knock at the door. She checked the screen.

Fox.

Still in full armor. Still unreadable.

"I saw her," he said before she could speak. "Aurra Sing. She was following you."

"I noticed," she said, trying to sound casual. "What, did you tail me all the way from 79's?"

"I don't trust bounty hunters."

"Not even the ones who sing?"

He didn't answer. Either he didn't get the joke, or he was to concerned to laugh.

"You came to my show," she said softly. "Why?"

"I was off-duty."

"Sure. That's why you were in full armor. Just blending in."

A beat passed. Then he said, "You were good."

"I'm always good."

Another silence stretched between them. Less awkward, more charged.

"You're not safe," Fox said finally. "You shouldn't be alone."

"Yeah? You offering to babysit me?"

He almost smiled. Almost. Then, wordless, he stepped back into the corridor.

The door closed.

But for a moment longer, she stood there, heartbeat loud, his words echoing in her mind.

You're not safe.

And for the first time in a long time, she believed it.

———

Part 2

[lostinsnow]

can I ask about Smoke and Mirrors for the WIP game if you're still playing?

I'd love to talk about it! Unfortunately I haven't written much for this fic beyond the outline since it's a newer idea, but I'll show off the very beginning below if you're interested! :)

In this canon divergence Anakin didn't become a Jedi after TPM and instead had to live and work his way through the galaxy's underbelly to now work as an exotic dancer on Coruscant. Through a chance meeting with Obi-Wan, they instantly develop a connection in the Force. Anakin discovers his latent abilities and potential, meanwhile Obi-Wan's just dealing with the guilt and humiliation of accidentally becoming the force bonded sugar daddy to a stripper he's never even touched lmaooo. Of course, all this will be tested when Chancellor Palpatine, beloved now more than ever with the separatist movement snuffed, discovers the young man he believes will be perfect to undermine the Jedi.

“I hope you’re aware this is a HoloNet scandal in the making.” 

Blaring, synthetic music poured out of the club’s entrance in a heavy beat, filling the narrow alleyway’s air and requiring Obi-Wan to shout far beyond comfort to be heard. Just a scant breath in front of him, confident hands shuffled out credits gleaming in the neon lights overhead, graciously given to the hulking man guarding the door. 

The cocky grin Quinlan threw over his shoulder did nothing to assuage his anxiety. 

“I’m aware!” he yelled back, laughing in response to the long-suffering glare Obi-Wan pointed his way. Waved on by the guard, he and their small group of friends from the temple marched in through the open doors. 

“I’m quite serious, Quinlan,” Obi-Wan insisted as they entered a dim hallway, empty and stuffy with the growing season’s humid haze. He tugged again at the constricting collar pressing into his throat. Aiming for some degree of anonymity, he had chosen to wear one of his few civilian outfits, a confining ensemble of a tight brown jacket and black pants. “Five Jedi spotted in a lower level strip club, can you imagine the outrage? It could jeopardize the tenuous peace we’ve only just established.”

“Oh, calm down!” responded Quinlan, pushing him forward to the curtained archway looming at the corridor’s edge. “You’re supposed to be celebrating, not bitching at me about your precious reputation. Pictures aren’t allowed in here, anyways.”

A ‘celebration’ he had been calling this trip all week, a night of relaxation after the brief few months they’d all been dispatched around the galaxy, quelling the brief but fierce Separatist movement staged by Count Dooku. One of their own, defeated. Obi-Wan couldn’t parse whether a celebration was necessary or even appropriate, but he knew for sure he wouldn’t find it here.