hellfiresky - Tumblr blog

hellfiresky · 1 day ago

Text

VODDD THIS WAS VERY WELL WRITTEN AAAAAA. Also, love the idea that Mayday is an introvert. I’ve never really had a thing for him not gonna lie - most of the time he just makes me really sad ueueue, but this changed it. Gonna look for more Mayday fics (from you).

To Fight Another Day

Commander Mayday × GN!Reader

✢ 𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 ✢ ↤ Prev | Next ↦

✧ Prompt: #4) Pneumonia

✧ Summary: Mayday always keeps a close eye on you since your health begins to deteriorate. And for the sake of all of you, you go off suggesting an escape plan off the planet.

✧ Tags & Warnings: light angst, established secret relationship, reader suffers from pneumonia (+ inaccuracies), bunch of author's headcanons, some fluff at the end, Mayday is an introvert sue me

✧ Word Count: 3.2k

✧ A/N: Honestly this turned from soft fluff light angst thing to a straight up rebel behavior 😭😂 anyway stay safe out there and enjoy Mayday on this one, vode! 🥶

Main Masterlist | Read on AO3 | dividers by me

Barton IV could've been a planet with summer or spring all year around but the galaxy planned a whole different thing for the frigid rock. Instead of blessing the edge of the galaxy with a miraculous planet of warmth and sunshine, it popped out an easily-loathed rock with harsh, eternal winter. For anyone; it's the last place one should be if breathing and moving freely are still deemed valuable.

It's not common knowledge—even to the middle ranks of the Empire's officers—that they do have a supply depot at the very edge of the galaxy. On the furthest planet from the star in the solar system, the blasted compound slowly decays, yielding to time and climate, and eventually to Imperial priority upon Imperial priority. Barely operational. Barely livable. Mayday can't remember the last time he hit the freshers. Hot water system got fried sometime ago last month.

He wonders if this punishment is worth it. He wonders if this is worth everything at all.

It was one fatal mistake that led to commanding power demotion. He had a varping battalion, dammit. Then that happened and they demoted him to over a platoon? Role model clone commanding officer, his arse. The title commander feels sickening to his tongue, like swallowing tar and expired tomato sauce.

And that's not even the worst thing—competitively, at least. That, and got catapulted to the edge of the galaxy to man a supply kriffing depot. Brought his platoon with him. Still a commander. Reg platoons aren't exactly equipped to withstand Barton IV climate. Reg platoon reduced to a squad, a squad to barely half a squad.

All that shame.

Still a commander.

Barely respect left. Hexx and Veetch are all he's got. He knows them way back—when they were still shinies, even. Force be damned—that was barely four years ago. And look at what he's got now. He feels sorry for them.

Then out of nowhere the Empire sent a supervising officer. You, a lieutenant. Despite the badge that you wear without a single ounce of pride, a mark of shame carved to your features that reminded him of his own when he first arrived at this damned ice cube planet.

Functionally, you're below him. Commander over lieutenant—it’s always like that. But; 1) you're a natborn, 2) you're an Imperial puppet who was given no other choice but to begrudgingly follow the new regime, and 3) he's not actually a commander commander.

That makes you his boss.

It's strange, but whatever. He's used to a Jedi General or an Admiral, but you're a refreshing sight.

Mayday learned about your case sooner than he liked—the reasons why you were ashamed upon arrival. You share his fate, too. Apparently you were conspiring against a top superior, and nothing else has ever amazed him since the moment he stepped foot on Barton IV that that one particularly did.

Conclusions were drawn quicker before a doubt could form; you’re a rebellious soul yourself—only much stronger than him. You were one step away to rebel against the system. That earned you much respect for one single day. Even Veetch started to offer his annual stash of spiced hot cocoa to you.

You're a good officer, honestly. But the poor environment stowed whatever spirits you have left to actually run the place and do your job until your punishment's over—or was it a temporary exile? The cold bit into you long ago, your body refuses to last in harsher nights. With your allergies, your health deteriorated, the officer's mess became a lair of bacteria to grow from how damp it is and it worsened your cold symptoms.

From the start, the Empire has intended to give you a chance to reflect on your wrongs by quite physically torturing you, after all.

Mayday has just returned from spot-checking the sensor beacons when he saunters into the main control building, relishing the slight increase of temperature now that he's no longer exposed to the cold air of the mountains. Eager to sit down and gather, his helmet is already off by the time he approaches the small circle of two other clones and a single Imp officer around the portable heater.

Their buckets off as well, Hexx and Veetch are thumb-wrestling (not a strange sight) each other for the past ten minutes. You’re hunched over with every piece of fabric they'd found, wearing thick layers and grinning every now and then at the brothers’ competitive game. It's apparently quite an entertainment—something to smile about in the dead quiet, of course save for the howling wind outside.

Mayday settles beside you, keeping a respectful distance in the presence of others. Because certainly, not long ago, with no one else to be company… something would happen. Happened. Something that sparks two lonely hearts to life. Something born out of anticipating stares—sometimes intense and the other times light. Something that cures longing—although longing for what exactly, that remains a question. But as they say, desperate times…

Hexx and Veetch would probably know already. There are only four of them here, after all. But if they do, they haven't said anything. No teasing glances, despite the breached barrier of formality and evident ease among the four of you.

Mayday can hear the way you breathe. It has to be painful. You're practically wheezing, whatever's left of your immune system has been trying to fight off the pneumonia. It's only a matter of time you'd catch a high fever and you need to be shipped off planet ASAP. You obviously need help, but at these times, who's listening?

“How're you feeling?” he asks then, garnering your attention from the ongoing thumb war match.

“Still waiting for a miracle,” you shrug, even smiling jokingly to make light of the situation. Mayday shakes his head at you.

“So not getting any better.”

“No,” you scoff.

He shares your sentiment, even scoffing to match your sarcasm. He restrains himself from laying his hand on your back to rub some heat into you. “Med’s almost ran out, if I'm not mistaken.”

“Yeah,” you agree glumly. “But I could always hijack the supplies if it means staying alive. I'm not dying on this rock, Mayday.”

He sighs. “Makes two of us.” Definitely not agreeing about the future supply theft, but it's enough to make him jealous of your authority. Illegal, yeah, but the Empire wouldn't probably even care if you succumb to your sickness anyway. You're just an underling and a pawn inside a greater scheme. Replaceable.

But it's not rare either for you all to huddle together for heat when the planet hurls a violent blizzard at them. You of course need more heat, and while clones could provide with their enhanced metabolism and squat, you feel like you're about to fly off the surface of the planet and let the varping pneumonia kill you. Turns out the worst way to go is by deliberately not given access to proper healthcare.

“But I put in a transport request,” you suddenly chirp, tone light yet groggy from all the mucus in your respiratory system.

Mayday didn't know that. “You did? When?”

You shrug. “Yesterday, when I felt like passing out.” He remembers that alright. You retreated to the warmest nook in the building before he could catch up. “Took a holo, both still and video log. I looked like wet, bleached pile of bantha poodoo from how pale and sickly I am.” Mayday grimaces and before he goes to protest, mischief sparks in your eyes for a moment as you turn for the other troopers. “Oi, boys—do I look pale and sickly like a miserably wet, bleached pile of bantha poodoo?”

They pause, Hexx using the opportunity to beat the heck out of Veetch’s thumb. Completely ignoring his own defeat; ever the more expressive one out of the two, Veetch responds first with a grimace similar to anyone ever who'd hear that. “...What?”

You roll your eyes. “I said—”

Hexx interrupts, “Pale and sickly like a miserably wet—”

“Okay, enough,” Mayday half-laughs, stopping himself before getting carried away. He acknowledges your aforementioned initiative. “It's good you did that. You need emergency medical attention.”

“Yeah,” Hexx says, listening along after all. “We don't wanna be blamed for an untimely death of a supervising officer on duty.”

“On punishment,” you correct, chuckling at his joke.

“Any response yet?” Veetch asks you.

“Not yet, sadly.”

“Man,” he groans. Then his posture stills, shifting to a serious mode all of a sudden. “Know what, if they really do come here to pick you up, the second they touch down I'm emptying my mag.”

“Easy,” Mayday cuts in. “Good luck shooting through a Nu-class, though.”

“I'll pass along the good word for effort,” you play along, muffling your laugh into your palm while fighting not to cough up more mucus.

Veetch stares at you in disbelief, his mouth gaped open. “Seriously? Just a good word?”

“Or what, you want an A on your sheet? Extra credit for your pathetic C-minus written with big bold red letters?”

“Honestly don't know what you're talking about, sir.”

You bark a laugh, but the notion causes you to turn away and hack your lungs out. Mayday hurries to your side, ignoring the warning alarms blaring inside his head when he rubs your back as you're hunched over. He can feel your body trembling under his touch. You cough violently, feeling like you're about to snort oggdo bogdo babies out of your nostrils.

The exiled commander sighs. “That's it, men. No more jokes.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” both troopers respond, apologetically. An unmistakable regret shoots across Veetch's expression. “Really sorry, Lieutenant.”

You raise a hand. “S’fine,” you drawl hushedly, wheezing as you reach for your water bottle next to you. “Need a good laugh every now and then.”

“Why don't we keep it all down?” Mayday suggests, kindly yet authoritatively. “Needn’t remind myself and you two again that we're not entirely immune to illness, much less pneumonia. And that it's been months since our last routine shots.”

“Makes me miss it,” Hexx mourns. “Healthcare in general. And of course, warmer climate.”

Mayday scoffs, but it's only to hide how physically painful it is that it's tweaking his conscience. “Damn right.”

“But you know what.” You place your water bottle aside after sipping some off of it. “Veetch pitched an excellent idea.”

“Uh, yeah?” Veetch is at a loss. “What idea?”

“Storming towards my pickup transport blaster first head second. That, but let's put more strategy to it feasible enough for four men to execute preferably without failin—”

“Whoa, hang on,” Mayday grabs your elbow warningly, prohibited physical contact agreement be damned. You look too high on your flu symptoms to notice. “If you don't mind going over that again with more sense and consideration—”

“What?” you challenge, completely lacking hostility and ending up drawling. “You saying you don't wanna get off this ball of shaved ice you call a planet?”

The three clones freeze (ha).

“We… want nothing more, honestly,” Veetch speaks up first, quite nervously, and apparently not accustomed to the idea. Yet. “We’re stationed here. It’s just that—”

“You've never had the chance,” you supply.

“...Yeah.”

“Well here's now and now's here,” you assert. Mayday awaits for what you might say next with a stupid amount of anticipation. Problem is he knows what you're insinuating, but he can't be sure yet. He's not up there with you, so to say. “And they’re gonna come for me.”

Hexx blinks. “With all due respect, sir, that's an oddly high level of certainty.”

“Because my boss is my own cousin and his name is Orson varping Krennic, that's why.”

“Right,” Hexx says as calmly as possible, as if not just learned the fact.

“I need to hear it from you clearly,” Mayday steals your focus, even grabbing your arm to convey his seriousness. “What are you suggesting?”

You meet his gaze, unwavering. “As little hard contact as possible so we could take the ship and bail.” Hit hyperspace. Scramble ship's signature. Basic drill of hijacking a ship. “I could take us somewhere safe to lay low.”

Hexx and Veetch share a look with each other—and by the looks of it, they're barely contemplating and a breath away from saying yeah alright we're in. Probably not even looking for their commander's approval. This is their free will speaking. Mayday throws his gaze to the durasteel flooring, the very ground that holds against every kind of crap this planet has thrown at. He's a little jealous. He can't even believe he's jealous towards a steel material.

He'd be willing to take that risk if only they're at an advantage, strategically. If your request is approved and you're flown out of here, they would send a transport vessel with medical personnel, and there won't be many troopers to deal with. Escorts won't be much, probably half a squad. Two pilots. Imp medics are no fighters, but they'd slow them down alright. Ten against four? His gut is saying that there are indeed battles won with fewer numbers, but realistically speaking?

With the chill that bites and an armor that’s not made to endure frigid climate, it even physically screws him over to stew in agreeing to commit mutiny and eventually becoming fugitives of the Empire.

Mayday stands, huffing in relief for movement and warmth slowly seeping back into his joints.

“I'll get you some more water,” he says to you, sweeping your water bottle up before you could ask nor protest, and marching away to one of the rooms where they store personal supplies.

For a moment, as he fills your bottle, his thoughts clear up. No longer muddled, they even link up and chain together several possible outcomes and gameplays if they would be pulling that gig off. Three 89% on-form men and one other who can't even run half a yard without wheezing and collapsing.

“May.”

You saunter into the room, your pace slow and careful to approach him, and then there's also your illness. You clutch your shawl and makeshift cardigan close. The door shuts quietly behind you, and the emergency light blinks, casting an orange glow in the dark. Lights were busted some time ago, but no problem—all you need is to stick your hand in an open crate and you'd get either a ration bar or canned stuff.

“It's not impossible, you know.” Mayday screws the cap of your water bottle close once he fills it full to the brim, and places it on top of a crate. He turns to face you, standing a distance away, and crosses his arms as he leans back against the same crate. “Attacking your pickup transport and taking over. All we need is a working comm and a good stealth strategy.”

“Which we have, right?” You rub your hands together, confidence slipping into your voice and Mayday could swear he catches a hint of a smirk on your lips. “You’re cooking up something in there, I just know.”

“Well, we all wanna survive off this gig.” Mayday fishes inside one of the open crates next to him. He grabs a can and pops it open. He drinks, and the taste of cheap canned ale floods his tongue. Just the warmth he's been looking for.

You nod. “Great, so um, so we can do it?”

“We can.” He passes you one of his sharp looks, some sort of a warning and asking for your promise that you'll stay as far away from the line of fire.

Mayday's sharp features glow under the orange light, even his dark beard. You hold a lengthy studying gaze at him, your feet taking one step forward. “But back there you just seemed… off.”

“Just needed some space to think.”

“Right, of course.”

“And I just don't want you to get more hurt, that's all. You're already weakened in that state.”

You're fierce. You always are. Behind your blunt professionalism facade there is a soul who wouldn't give up trying for the sake of survival, the one that he already unearthed. The rancor is done getting poked at. But this time; a bleeding rancor who wouldn't make it that far if not careful. You've lost. You've surrendered. Spirit and passion have no longer been on your side for a while, only your sick complexion and coughs that are even painful to hear, and more to be let out.

“Okay,” you concede, where you usually would bite more. “I'm following your lead.”

“It's risky,” Mayday explains, to provide you more clarity in hopes to make sure you've totally 100% understood the decision. “Every bit of it, down to the smallest thing. We're outnumbered, and I don't want to worry about you while I work the field.”

You give a silent nod, a sign that you'll oblige. Mayday takes another long sip off his canned carbonated ale, appreciating the burn on his tongue and throat with a small grunt. He passes you your water bottle. “Here. Hydrate some more.”

You cross the invisible barrier between you when Mayday makes no movement to approach you, just letting you come and close the distance. But as soon as your fingers grip around your bottle, you step into his space and find home in his embrace, the cold surface of his plastoid armor the most luxurious comfort you could've ever gotten.

“It'll be fine.” Mayday has his arms around you, strong and secure, tugging you as close as possible without breathing your air and risk infection. “We'll pull through. Together.”

“I'm not gonna forgive myself if we all fail.” You would let the guilt eat you alive, even.

The commander sighs quietly. He rubs your back to provide you more comfort that you need. “We won't. Me and the boys still got some juice left to fight.”

“That's good. And... Yeah, I don't…” you sniffle. “I don't like to think that the Empire has been kind to you. Nor to your men… all for them… either.”

Clones. Unappreciated, unsung heroes of the war that has gone to pass, whose stories are never told twice.

For once, Mayday doesn't know what to say. He hasn't been exposed to this great deal of sympathy before. “...Thank you.”

“No, thank you.” His heart goes quiet in his ears as he feels your fingers tracing patterns in the exposed spot on his shoulder. “You've done a lot more than a single thanks, too. I'm sorry.”

Then he doesn't know what to say again. Twice today. He's just there, enjoying the rare moment where you both could be close like this, tugging you close to his body and his warmth as a silent declaration that he'll stay with you no matter what, watching your back.

“This lay-low place,” he asks then, eager for a change of topic. “Where's that?”

“Ah. Somewhere warmer, that's for sure.”

Chuckling, Mayday feels his anticipation also burning up. “Thank Prime,” he huffs. “Okay. Somewhere, like?”

“Like Teth.”

He frowns skeptically at your quick answer. “Yeah? What's on Teth?”

You hum once, quite casually. If he doesn't know any better, he's pretty damn sure you're either smiling or having something else in mind. Something with purpose.

“Trees, sun, ruins—places where you won't freeze your arses off.” You let out an airy chuckle. Mayday follows the trail of your quiet laugh with his own. “Where there's something much, much better to fight for.”

Thanks for reading! Taglist is moved to event masterlist.

A/N: You can request for x reader in my askbox! If you're interested in my clone x reader oneshots you can sign up as well to be tagged of future works. (Link provided ⬆️)

#THAT WAS SO SO SO GOOD #commander mayday #sicktember 2025 #commander mayday x reader #z3st reader fics

18 notes · View notes

hellfiresky · 1 day ago

Text

Spicy Mando'a (NSFW)

Basic Vocab

(Remember to drop the R's off of infinitive verbs to use them in the present tense!)

Verbs

Muun'bajir - To trounce, teach someone a lesson, lit. educate hard

Mircir - Cage, lock up, capture

Gaanaylir - Trap, catch (gaan means hand and taylir means to hold or know, could mean to grasp in hand)

Gedetir - Plead, beg

Chayaikir - Tease, make fun of

Takisir - Insult

Adjectives

Mirdala - Clever, smart

Mesh'la - Beautiful (refers to gemstones)

Copyc - Attractive, appealing (doesn't apply to looks)

Copikla - Cute (childish, insulting)

Aikiyc - Desperate

Iviin'ishya - Faster

Muun'shya - Harder (physical quality, refers to punishment)

Laandur - Delicate and fragile, or weak and delicate (walks a fine line between being factual and insulting)

Nouns/Pet Names

Cyar'ika - Beloved, sweetheart (most common pet name, not explicitly romantic but frequently is)

Ori'jagyc - Bully, Big Man (not male exclusive)

Bev'ika - Dick (anatomical, literally means 'little spike,' not found in most dictionaries but appears in Order 66)

Phrases

K'atini - Endure it, Stick it out (command, typically used encouragingly)

Udesii - Calm down, It's alright, Take it easy

Gedet'ye - Please

Tayli'bac? - Understand/Got it? (Aggressive, harsh)

Gar serim - You're right/correct

Gar shuk meh kyrayc - You're no use dead (More affectionate that it sounds, encourages someone to rest)

Phrases I made (No fanon vocab, all words canon or directly inferred from canon)

Gar copaade ner ke'gycese - Your wish is my command - Your desires, my commands

Gar copikla vaal gar aikiyc gedeti - You're cute when you beg desperately - You cute/charming while you desperate plead (extremely derogatory)

Ni copaani gar uram/gaane - I want your mouth/hands - (Same literal translation)

27 notes · View notes

hellfiresky · 1 day ago

Text

New reaction meme just dropped

836 notes · View notes

hellfiresky · 3 days ago

Text

Not all commando but I vote all the demo experts. So that means Scorch, Hardcase, Hevy, Wrecker, and Darman 👀

Y'all I'm headed out for an early flight (7:25 am is early for me) to see my grandparents and it's so windy over here (5 am at the train station) 😫

Also handpick a commando to warm me up pls

#i need them all

19 notes · View notes

hellfiresky · 3 days ago

Text

Hello???? Suggestions????

51K notes · View notes

hellfiresky · 3 days ago

Text

The holonet has always contained more than light insubordination & wholesome memes. Another pastime favored by more "romantically inclined" clone troopers is, of course, thirst-trapping. These posts are derided by the majority of clones for their ineffectiveness and wanton desperation. Satirizing a wenchless squad-mate caught creating thirstposts is a popular twist on the format, and has become even more common than the original thirstposts themselves.

507 notes · View notes

hellfiresky · 3 days ago

Text

Thank you for reading! I’m so glad that most readers are actually annoyed by him because I really wanted him to be annoying lol ��

For the Record

Word count: ~11k words Pairing: Scorch (RC-1262) x GN!Reader (Reader is a GAR Safety & Compliance Officer. Scorch nicknamed them Salt.) - Platonic-ish. Warnings: No warnings. Some spoilers of RepCom game and Triple Zero novel. Bureaucratic hell. Summary: Your job is simple: keep the Grand Army of the Republic compliant, make sure every demolition, crash, and casualty is neatly logged, and pray the Repubic Oversight Committee doesn’t slash the budget because one commando thought the only way to solve problems is using explosives.

Taglist: @orangez3st

For the record, you never signed up for this.

“You’re not supposed to write kaboom,” you slammed the flimsi back on your desk. The little clone trooper bobblehead one of the shinies had left you bobbled its ridiculously big head in silent mockery. “How the hell am I supposed to explain to the Republic Oversight Committee that Sector G6, Level 3761 was partly demolished because one commando decided ‘kaboom’ was a sufficient justification? That was messy.”

RC-1262 stretched in the chair he’d dragged into your cubicle, helmet propped on his knee, grin plastered across his heavily scarred face, a fresh cut slicing the left corner of his mouth. “Well, it was accurate, wasn’t it?”

You pressed your fingers into your temples, picturing Senate auditors tearing into your unit’s quarterly report. The reparations bill for G6 would be astronomical. Worse, it was in the underworld - meaning months of subcontractor corruption, workers bribed or bullied into silence, citizens filing claims that the Republic would drag its feet on settling. Not that Coruscant’s lower levels ever believed the Republic gave a damn about them anyway. Well, that part was true, the Republic gives no shit, but that was beside the point.

“Accurate isn’t the same as professional,” you bit out. “There’s a reason the template asks for structural damage estimates, blast radius, munition type—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Scorch twirled a stylus between his trigger fingers. “But you’d rather I wrote a novel? ‘Dear bureaucrats, today’s fireworks were brought to you by one well-placed thermal detonator and my sparkling personality.’”

You leveled a flat stare at him. “Honestly? That would’ve been better than ‘kaboom.’ At least then I’d have a word count.”

He barked a laugh, leaning forward onto your desk so abruptly the bobblehead toppled over. “Careful, sweetheart, I might just drag you on our next underworld op so you can see for yourself how fantastic my explosion is. Soooooo good it doesn’t need justification.” He shoved the flimsi back towards you with one finger. “Next one’s Benduday. Like Skirata says, we’re not stopping until every last seppie cell is dust.”

“Sweetheart?” you scoffed, jabbing a finger at the flimsi. “The only thing you’re getting from me is a rewritten report that won’t have the Oversight Committee slashing our budget in half.”

“Oh, come on,” he drawled. “You’d miss me if I stopped turning them in like this. Admit it. Gives you something to yell about.”

Before you could retort, a head appeared around the cubicle wall. Fixer. Somehow the only reasonable man in that squad. The one who didn’t act like (1) an edgelord sociopath, (2) a hyperactive kid high on detonator fumes, or (3) an unhinged trash-talking sergeant whose only contribution during his rare visits to your office was to stand stiffly in the corner and mutter “fuck me, not again.” Not what again? You’d never know.

Fixer looked between you and Scorch with a pair of dead bored eyes. “Scorch,” he said flatly. “Stop flirting with the officer and finish your paperwork. Boss wanted us to be done with it yesterday.”

“We’re not flirting,” you and Scorch said in unison.

Fixer sighed, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “kill me now,” and disappeared behind the manual sliding door that separated your cubicle from the rest of the office. Not that you’d ever demanded exclusivity, but apparently being the Safety and Compliance Officer (temporarily covering Risk Assessment too, since the sleemo who held the post resigned last quarter to become a holonet fashion influencer) meant your desk had turned into a revolving door of frontline troopers and spec-ops. It had gotten bad enough that upper management finally decided your constant parade of armour-plated visitors was “disruptive to the peace and productivity of the workplace.” Their solution was to wall you off and install a door. A flimsy little thing, manual slide, but it did the job. Honestly? You were grateful for the privacy.

“Fine,” you sighed. “Twenty-four hours. I want it in my inbox. Written in your own words. Not churned out by those automated generators you troopers love so much. They strip context, blur accountability, and interfere with transparency. The Senate committee will gut us if they think frontline reports are being fabricated by software instead of actual operators.”

“Last time I checked,” Scorch scoffed, “I’m not one of the GAR’s comm officers. So if I want to use those automated tools, I will. Not a part of my job des—”

“Or I’ll personally call your Mandalorian handler and get you disciplined.”

That shut him up for a second before he leaned in and hissed through a grin, “Oh, you would never. Because if you did, I’d call your—”

“SCORCH.” The bark came from behind your door. You both turned to see another figure behind the frosted transparisteel window in orange-and-white armour, and a standard regulation cut. “We were supposed to be at Qibbu’s an hour ago,” Boss snapped.

Scorch winced as he rose, helmet under his arm. “Guess I’ll have to finish threatening you later, sweetheart.”

You groaned and immediately grabbed the little bottle of overpriced “relaxing” room spray you’d panic-bought from some wellness shop at the Embassy Mall. One quick spritz, two, three - still not enough to kill the smell of armour, sweat, and whatever seppie-fueled hell Delta Squad had just crawled out of. When was the last time they showered? You didn’t even want to know.

Sinking back into your chair, you pulled the flimsi towards you and forced yourself to reread the report.

GAR Incident Report Filed by: RC-1262, “Scorch” Mission Code: [Redacted] Sector: G6, Level 3761 Objective: Root out separatist cell. Blow stuff up. Actions Taken: Kaboom. Threw thermal (bigger boom). Collateral Damage: Approx. 1/3 of the block is now “modern open-plan design.” G6 train station maybe offline. Check with locals? Civilian casualties: none witnessed. Notes: Explosion was fantastic. Recommend giving me more thermals for future ops. Blast radius: “big enough.” Structural damage: “see attached doodle.”

You pulled out an attachment with a crude sketch of a building with little “boom” clouds drawn in, and a stick figure (labeled “ME”) holding what looked like a thermal detonator.

Conclusion: Kaboom. 🎉

The flimsi fluttered as you let it drop back onto your desk. You stared at the stick figure drawing hoping it might spontaneously combust and put you out of your misery. Somewhere out in the office, someone’s caf machine hissed. You pressed your forehead to the desk.

“I’ve told you to ask for a transfer if this job frustrates you so much,” Besany from the Logistics Center said as she slid a tray across to you, steam rising from the white ceramic bowl of dumpling soup and a rice noodle on the side. She’d been your only semi-sane friend in the building since last year, which meant she’d appointed herself your unofficial career counselor.

“Go apply to the Republic Science and Technical Center,” she continued, unwrapping her burger and squeezed out a sachet of spicy condiment. “I heard they’ve got a compliance officer vacancy. And you know how those scientists are, they’ll happily push a prototype into testing without documenting blast limits or failure contingencies. Someone has to babysit their ‘brilliant’ ideas before they vaporise half a lab.”

“Eh. I’m good here.” You shrugged, picking up your spoon. “Besides, the pay’s decent. I’m on a permanent contract now. Don’t feel like starting over in a quarterly contract at the Science and Tech Center. Yes, I saw the ad.”

“I mean, you always complain about troopers, especially commandos, not giving you a proper compliance report after finishing high-stakes missions.” She bit into her burger, muffling her next words. “Funny. Guess these lot are better as friends, not colleagues.”

“To be fair,” you stirred your soup, “maybe a select few would make good colleagues. I’ve never heard Zita complain. That guy works with the Corries at the Senate Building, and apparently his desk is blissfully quiet. No commandos barging in, no stick-figure doodles attached to reports.”

“Is this about Scorch again?” Besany perked up immediately. “I swear to whoever created this wretched galaxy, you always have a problem with that one! I thought the edgy one would be trouble.” She barked a laugh. “You know, I saw him zoning out in one of the hangar lifts once. I asked him what was wrong, and he simply said, ‘Oh right, forgot to push the buttons,’ and walked straight out. Didn’t even look embarrassed.” She cackled, shaking her head. “Those commandos are such a riot.”

“Oh, of course,” you murmured. “You’re biased. You’re dating one of them.” Chuckling quietly, you kept your volume low so the analysts at the next table wouldn’t overhear.

Besany almost choked on her nerf burger. “Excuse me? There is nothing between me and Ordo.”

“Nobody said anything about Ordo,” you laughed, pointing at her with your spoon. “Oooooh—unless…”

Her cheeks flushed the faintest pink, and she jabbed her straw into her drink. “Don’t start,”

“Maker, I knew it. All this time you’ve been lecturing me about my so-called commando problem, and you’ve been sneaking off for caf with ‘one of the most esteemed ARCs’ himself.”

“It was one time,” she whispered fiercely. “One caf. For work.”

“Uh huh. Sure. Totally professional. Just like my office smells totally professional after Scorch drags in half the underworld with him.”

Besany groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “Stars, you’re insufferable.”

“I better see Scorch’s revision in my inbox before sunrise tomorrow. Otherwise it’s over for him and his—ooh, wait.” Your datapad pinged, cutting you off. “It’s only been six hours?”

The sender glowed in bold blue text: [email protected]

“That was… surprisingly fast.”

You opened the mail. No attachment. Only a single line in the body text:

Subject: (no subject) Message: kaboom

Underneath, he’d slapped in a blurry photograph of himself giving a thumbs-up with a half-eaten ration bar hanging out of his mouth. Behind him was Sector G6, judging from the cracked street sign hanging at an angle,a blast site he was supposed to report properly.

You unceremoniously flipped your datapad to Besany.

Across the table, Besany nearly spat her drink. “Oh my stars, is that what counts as work correspondence with him?”

“I… hate him. I really do.” You stared at the screen, equal parts furious and begrudgingly amused.

Your datapad pinged again.

Second message from [email protected]

Subject: addendum Message: pls tell the oversight committee the blast radius was ‘yay big’ (see attached) and literally zero casualties.

You opened the attachment and groaned. A photo of Boss and Sev, standing at the centre of the blast site, both pointing vaguely at the background. Nothing in the frame except scorched duracrete, shattered piping, and a blackened transit sign. The entire sector was scorched, pun fully intended.

Sighing, you turned back to Besany. “He says ‘literally zero casualties.’ Which means I now need to triple-check it with Civilian Affairs for property claims, Health and Welfare for casualty cross-reference, and the bloody Coruscant Guard Incident Registry in case the CSF down there already filed complaints. And then I have to do the Risk Assessment report with all three reconciled before I can even draft my compliance note for the Oversight Committee.”

Besany winced. “That’s like… five offices.”

“Six if Infrastructure and Utilities decides to scream about the train station.” You jabbed your spoon into your soup. “Scorch gets to write ‘kaboom,’ and I get to chase down hundreds of divisions and a thousand subcommittees for the next two weeks.”

“If I were you, I’d just take him out for a caf and ask him nicely.” Besany finished the last of her meal. “Sometimes it’s the only way to get through to them. You know how the Republic treats them. Their BAS is abysmal, their rations are worse, and on top of that, they’re expected to blow things up and do paperwork afterward? I understand compliance is important, but stars, it must be exhausting for them.” She sighed, softening for a moment.

You rolled your eyes as you chug down your soup. “Boss and Fixer never complained. Sev either, oh especially Sev, he gets very descriptive. It’s scary how detailed his reports are sometimes. He once wrote two pages on what a body looked like after a flamethrower exposure.” You shuddered. “The Omega Squad’s been compliant too, and they’re deployed out of system most cycles. So no, I don’t think this is about exhaustion.”

“Mm.” Besany chewed thoughtfully, eyes narrowing. “So it’s just him.”

“No. Don’t.” You pointed your spoon in her direction. “Hardcase from the 501st also behaves the same way, but—”

“But he’s not like Scorch?” Besany’s smile curved.

You ignored it, plowing on. “But his captain and lieutenant actually review everything before submitting in bulk to me.”

“Really? An entire legion? Rex and Jesse do that?”

“No, just Torrent Company,” you muttered. “Anyway, that’s beside—”

“I still think a caf is on the table,” Besany interrupted smoothly, leaning back with that maddeningly smug look.

“You’re supposed to be on my side.” You groaned, dragging a hand down your face.

“I am,” she said sweetly. “And my side says, stop drowning in subcommittees and bribe him with caf.”

To his credit, Scorch did eventually submit a revised report before the deadline. It wasn’t good, but it was legible. Well, legible enough that you could scrape together actual data points and build a compliance file that wouldn’t get shredded by the Oversight Committee. Of course, that meant you had to spend the next few days chasing down Civilian Affairs for casualty verification, cross-referencing the Coruscant Guard’s incident logs, and pulling in Infrastructure and Utilities to sign off that the transit lines were “structurally compromised but not a total write-off.” By the time you packaged the whole thing into a neat document, you were running on two hours of sleep, three cups of strong black caf, and the faint hope that your inbox wouldn’t ping with another disaster before noon.

So when Delta Squad’s next mission file hit your desk, you braced for more flames, rubble, and the usual stick-figure doodles. Instead, you got Boss himself dropping a stack of flimsi on your desk.

“No detonation this time?” you asked warily, flipping through the report. “No broken infrastructure?”

Boss scratched his jaw. “Well… our sniper shot down two speeders when they started tailing him. Had to, or we’d be fucking toast.” He pointed a finger at the report. “Double-check with Jusik if you don’t believe me. Fi was there too. Recon mission was ass. Boring as fuck.”

“Boss.”

“Minimal damage,” he said quickly, holding up a hand. “Couple engines slagged, one karking crash into a kriffing wall. Building didn’t fall down, so that’s a fucking win in my book.” He scowled. “Do you know how fucking hard it is to haul a team of commandos through the underworld without blowing the place sky-high? It’s like sneaking a herd of rancors into a civilian speeder. Filthy, heavy, smells like shit. And the higher ups still expect us to write a polite little fucking compliance report about it?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Boss—”

“Look,” he huffed, planting his hands on your desk, “you’ll get your compliance forms, love, but don’t you dare tell me we didn’t do the galaxy a favour by not turning half the district into scrap metal. That’s me behaving, in case you missed it. So stamp it, sign it, send it, whatever the fuck you do back here, and let me get the hell out before my boys throw a house party at Qibbu's.”

He turned towards the door before he paused to look over his shoulder. “Oh, and Scorch said something about sending you proof there were no explosions this mission. Expect it by noon. Kid’s floating in bacta right now, pulled a couple muscles. Fucking hilarious. Let him loose with a satchel of thermals and he’s skipping like a fucking cadet, but tell him to sneak around quietly and he injured himself.”

You spent the better part of the morning scanning the paperwork Boss had submitted, and filed them one by one to the laggy GAR intranet system. It was the kind of thing that made you want to file another report directed at the HR division for subjecting you to psychological torture. Every line had to be combed over at least three times. For instance, Boss had written “minimal damage” in three separate places, but in one section he also admitted that “a rowdy speeder chase was happening in the Entertainment District.” He’d called it “on-site improv,” which you had to rewrite into “counter-surveillance measures taken to prevent compromise of mission objectives.” Then there was the line where he described the local gang who’d been doing some intel work for the Separatists as “shit-for-brains street scum.” That one, you spent an entire ten minutes debating how to sanitise into acceptable language before finally settling on “local non-state actors engaged in obstructive activities.” By the time you reached the conclusion section, where Boss had simply written ‘job’s done, fuck off,’ you had your head in your hands and the beginnings of a headache behind your eyes.

So when your datapad pinged again with a message from [email protected], you knew, deep in your bones, that you were about to regret opening it.

Subject: proof no kaboom Message: told ya. zero explosions. all stealth. 10/10 would do it again.

Attached was not, as you desperately hoped, a proper incident log or even a schematic showing zero detonation evidence. It was another blurry bacta tank selfie of himself, submerged up to his neck in bacta fluid, giving a smug thumbs-up with one hand whilst the other floated limp in its waterproof sling. Behind him, Sev peeked behind the tub with his sniper rifle, and Boss’ and Fixer’s reflection could be seen in the mirror behind Sev with their middle fingers raised directly at the camera.

You stared at it in silence for a long moment before you locked your datapad and let your forehead rest against your cold metal desk.

The datapad pinged again, and you lifted it lazily to see a follow-up message.

Subject: addendum Message: see?? no kaboom but my body’s cracked (because no kaboom).

You closed your eyes, and prayed for patience. Sitting up straighter, you cracked your knuckles before typing the driest, most by-the-book soul-sucking response you could muster.

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: Re: proof no kaboom Dear RC-1262, Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately, the attachment provided does not constitute acceptable compliance documentation under Republic Oversight Committee standards. As per GAR Compliance Directive 14-C, missions where no detonations are used must still include proof of compliance. Minimum documentation required: - Ordnance Inventory Log signed by your squad’s quartermaster (to confirm no issued explosives were deployed). - Weapons Discharge Record (to verify engagements were limited to small arms/sniper fire as reported). - Structural Integrity Clearance from the local Infrastructure and Utilities division (to confirm no damage to public works). - Civilian Casualty Cross-Check with Civilian Affairs/Coruscant Guard (to verify zero civilian injuries or fatalities). - After-Action Statement from your squad leader, in full sentences, detailing operational measures taken in place of demolition. Please revise and resubmit within 12 standard hours. A photo of yourself in a bacta tank does not qualify as acceptable evidence. Regards, Safety & Compliance Officer 894 GAR Risk and Compliance Division Commlink Code: 990808

You sent it off, satisfied at the blunt professionalism. For all of thirty seconds.

Your datapad pinged again.

Subject: Re: proof no kaboom Message: rude. that bacta selfie took effort. had to hold my breath so the bubbles wouldn’t ruin it.

You let out the longest sigh of the week as you massaged your temples. You told yourself not to reply, though your fingers had brains on their own.

Subject: Re: proof no kaboom Message: Effort would have been filling out the form correctly the first time. Best.

Ping.

Subject: Re: proof no kaboom Message: i’m injured, you know. you’re bullying a wounded soldier.

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt and hammered back a reply.

Subject: Re: proof no kaboom Message: I will gladly call your CO and ask him to discipline you if you keep misusing government email.

Barely a minute later—

Subject: Re: proof no kaboom Message: do it. boss loves when you call him. says your voice makes you sound like you’re about to strangle someone. he’s into it.

“For fuck’s sake.” You shut off your datapad before you could throw it across the cubicle, and forced yourself back to the stack of work on your desk. Grabbing your desk comlink, you punched in the line for the Coruscant Guard’s admin desk to double-check incident filings before you even thought about finalising Delta’s compliance package.

Next to their ever-growing pile was Omega Squad’s, not much better, though at least Niner could string together coherent sentences. Beside that sat a smaller pile from Ordo and Mereel. All three groups had been tied up in the same underworld op, which meant triple-checking overlapping claims, reconciling their different reports, and trying to build one consistent narrative the Oversight Committee wouldn’t laugh you out of the chamber for.

In your inbox, another mountain waited for you. Wolfpack’s compliance from a joint sweep, plus a possible bundle from the 212th’s spec-op squad once they got back from their deployment in the neighbouring system. Which meant your week was about to dissolve into a carousel of “urgent” cross-checks and signatures from people who’d rather eat their expired rations than fill in a Form-62B.

You scrolled down the shared staff directory, debating who you could bother to make your life easier. Risk & Compliance was technically a division, not just you, but after the last round of budget cuts, most of the junior staff had been shuffled to other offices. You still had Leebee, your long-suffering data clerk, who could chase casualty records and fast-track other clearances if you bribed him with decent lunch. Ravi handled Policy and Procedures, half the time they answered your pings, half the time they ignored you until you showed up at their desk in person with that nice caf from Fabosi District. Investigation and Resolution had their own rep, a tired middle-aged officer named Colin, who was usually willing to fast-track your requests if you’re willing to sit and listen to him yap for two hours. For cross-system missions, you sometimes had to lean on Regional Oversight liaisons, poor bastards stuck parsing comms reports from across Mid Rim and Outer Rim. And when things got really bad, you had a list of rotating interns from the Administrative Office who could be worked into data entry shifts.

The quick call with the Corries confirmed it - no explosions, no secondary blasts, no panicked civvie complaints in their registry. Which was, frankly, a miracle. Great. Wonderful. That meant you could strike one nightmare off your list which was you didn’t have to draft a ten-page letter to the Ethics Office of the Republic and the Republic Oversight Committee explaining why a thermal detonator had been “operationally necessary”. No tedious citations of tactical plan, no rehearsed lines about “minimising civilian risk.” No having to attach a signed memo about why blowing a hole in a water main was actually essential to rooting out a Separatist cell. Stars, you could cry from relief.

Still, you had no idea how the other Safety and Compliance officers spread across the GAR handled their workloads. Were they all drowning in the same endless tide of half-assed reports, conflicting testimonies, and “oops, the building collapsed, but don’t worry, minimal casualties”? Or had you just been cursed by some cruel twist of fate to be assigned to every spec-ops lunatic in rotation? You had the pick of the litter: the 501st’s Torrent Company and their stray tookas; the 212th, who had a charming habit of “redecorating” entire sectors in pursuit of one droid nest; the 104th, steady but prone to sudden wolfpack rampages that left you reconciling insurance claims from an entire district; and, of course, the commandos. Delta, Omega, the strays that answered to Mandalorian handlers - all funneled their paperwork disasters directly into your inbox.

Some days you daydreamed about packing up, sneaking aboard the next supply shuttle headed for the Unknown Regions, and vanishing without a trace. No datapad, no flimsis, no reports stamped URGENT. Quiet. Stars, even a primitive outpost with no comms relay would be better than filing one more compliance memo defending the use of military-grade explosives inside city limits.

Later that evening, you packed up like it was any other bland Coruscant evening. Datapad powered down, flimsis stacked into a neat “tomorrow’s problem” pile, the office lights dimming to that corporate-sterile glow that meant the night shift droids were clocking in. You swiped your ID, rode the lift down, and did the exact same thing you did every night when the day finally let you go - stopped by the bodega tucked into the corner of the plaza. The clerk didn’t even look at you as you grabbed a pre-packaged dinner from the warmer, a sad excuse for bantha steak, an overly-salted protato mash, and a small chocolate brownie.

You trudged the familiar walk back to Tomkip Towers, the same old high-rise packed with other tired non-clone GAR employees pretending not to notice each other in the lift. In your flat, you tossed your bag on the counter, peeled off your jacket, and collapsed onto the couch. Holovision flickered to life with its usual cycle. The evening news showing the same war footage and Senate updates you already heard at work, followed by some aggressively stupid holo sitcom about smugglers running a café on Tatooine. You forked down the steak without tasting it, mind blissfully numbed out.

Then your comlink pinged with an unknown code plastered on the screen. You frowned, thumb hovering, before curiosity got the better of you.

Unknown: hey, i got some nice snacks from kal. i will bring it up for you on my next visit so you wont be such an angy officer

Your brow furrowed.

You: Who is this?

The answer came almost instantly.

Unknown: it’s scorch dummy. before you ask, you had your number in your email signature. i’m not being creepy. yes something poofed again. can you believe that?”

You groaned. Of course. Of course he’d find a way to invade your off-hours. The comlink buzzed again before you even put it down.

Scorch: i’m injured and DID A KABOOM. ISN’T THAT BADASS?

You set the tray aside, threw your commlink on the sofa behind you, buried your face in your hands, and seriously considered whether flinging yourself out of Tomkip Towers’ thirty-second floor window would be less painful than dealing with this man.

Still, your fingers itched, because if you didn’t reply he’d probably spam your inbox until morning. You snatched the commlink back up with a sigh.

You: That will be your next visit’s problem. I’m trying to enjoy dinner now.

It was strange, really. No trooper ever texted you personally. Not unless it was a commanding officer chasing paperwork on behalf of his company. Jesse and Rex sometimes, Cody when he didn’t trust his lieutenants, Wolffe once or twice. They were the ones who had enough responsibility to care about compliance deadlines. The only real exception was Fox, the poor marshal commander of the Coruscant Guard, who had an alarming habit of messaging you at three in the morning with things like “please confirm: do demolitions count as collateral if the Corries did it to defend Republic’s sector in level 4781?” or “delta squad in your office again? tell me everything.” He never admitted it, but most of his messages were just gossip under the pretense of “coordination.” You always entertained them, partly because you needed the Guard on your side for smooth verification, and partly because you pitied the man. Fox worked twenty-four hours a day, five days a week. Sometimes you wondered if he even remembered what sleep felt like.

Your commlink buzzed again.

Scorch: snacks are worth texting abt. kal got some nice ones this week he’s such a nice dad. u like sweet or salty? You: I like compliance reports that don’t make me want to strangle someone.

Ping.

Scorch: salty then. also you ever notice how your texts read like email? “i like compliance reports” who even talks like that 🤓

You sank deeper into the couch.

You: This is harassment of a government employee. I can and will file a report. Scorch: oh please. you love it. if i didn’t text you’d be bored watching whatever garbage holo u got on right now

Your eyes turned guiltily to the holovision, where a laugh track blared over the sitcom that was, in fact, absolute garbage.

You: I’d prefer garbage holos to your selfies, thanks. Scorch: liar. you saved that selfie didn’t u You: I DID NOT Scorch: liar again. bet it’s in your “important documents” folder 🤣

Setting your commlink down, you exhaled sharply through your mouth before picking your device up again, because you knew if you didn’t shut him down properly he’d keep going.

You: If you ever send me another selfie instead of an actual revised report, I will personally request the Ethics Office to draft a new policy banning you from GAR communications. Scorch: worth iiiiittttt

“I told you I’d bring snacks!” The demolition expert gave you a shit-eating grin as he dropped a cardboard box full of things you’d never seen before. Crisps in transparent no-brand bags, nuna jerkies, protato crips covered in cheesy dust and supposedly barbecue powder in questionable neon packaging. Most of them you vaguely remembered spotting in markets buried in the lower levels. “All salty! For the salty compliance officer,” he added smugly.

“You bleached your hair.” You squinted up at him. The roots were still dark, but the rest was uneven - some toned to a nice cool shade, the other half brassy yellow.

“Why didn’t you reply to my last text?” He only grinned wider.

“Because you asked me how to bypass the reporting system if you hypothetically destroyed an entire city block in Sector C97, Southern Underground. Did you actually?”

“I would,” he shrugged as if it wasn’t worth the effort, “but of course I didn’t. That place is crawling with seppie hideouts. Southern Underground’s vile. I’d rather be stationed in the Outer Rim.” He said it so casually you almost missed the important part, which was the fact that he hadn’t denied considering it.

Sighing, you dragged the flimsi across your desk and pointed a stylus at the worst of it. “You actually wrote more than kaboom this time, so I’ll give you that. But I still need clarity here—” you tapped the line item, “Section 4B: Munition Type, Quantity, and Serial Registration. You put ‘two thermals, both compact.’”

The commando gasped.

You tapped your stylus lower. “And here, Section 5C: Collateral Damage Assessment. You wrote ‘building now has big window’ I need confirmation, was the wall load-bearing or not?”

“It was a load-bearing wall. But the seppies were behind it. So… better no wall than more clankers, right?” Scorch leaned over the desk.

You closed your eyes and counted to three, imagining the Senate Oversight Committee tearing this flimsi apart line by line whilst the man in front of you popped open one of the mystery snack bags without asking, “See, you’re making it sound worse than it was.”

“Because you wrote it worse than it was,” you muttered and yanked the snack from his hand.

“Relax, angy officer.” He reached into a pouch that he had been carrying to pull out his datapad, and started swiping through his gallery with greasy cheesy fingers. “I got proof. Look—see? This one’s the wall before.”

He shoved the datapad across your desk. Grainy picture of a dingy underworld corridor, mouldy grey wall intact, and then he swiped to the next picture. “And this one’s after. See? Barely a boom. Clean breach. Load-bearing? Sure. Catastrophic collapse? Nah. Building’s still standing. Bit more… breezy, that’s all.”

The corridor was now open-air rubble, at least that’s what you could see from your seat, with thick dust covering its surroundings. “Barely a boom? Scorch, that’s structural damage.”

“Destructive? Sure. But not catastrophic. That’s compliance-friendly, yeah?” He waved it off, digging another handful of chips.

“Just show me the damage report from the other site.”

Scorch simply chewed his crisps, and swiped his datapad. Suddenly, a picture of Sev deadpanning into the camera while Scorch himself posed behind him with two dead battle droids’ heads. Another swipe, Fixer, caught unflatteringly with his mouth wide open, datapad in hand. Another swipe, and it was a picture of Boss sleeping upright in a chair, helmet propped on top of his head like a hat.

“Compliance documentation, huh?”

His cheek flushed red, thumb fumbling as he swiped too fast. “Uh. Fun shots. Y’know. Internal use only.”

“Right.”

Grinning again, he finally landed back on the proper documentation. At least a metre tall pile of battle droid limbs, and the ‘barely a boom’ breach expanding wide behind them. “See? Totally minimal.”

“Minimal. Uh huh. I’ll be sure to phrase it exactly like that in my summary for the Senate Oversight Committee.”

“Oh, come on.”

You ignored him and quickly finished typing the last of the clarifications into your computer, cross-checking the photo against the flimsis until it was at least borderline acceptable. Scorch, meanwhile, was still munching happily, easily sweeping the crumbs collecting on the edge of your desk to the floor.

“You are dismissed. Why are you still here?” You hit the enter button with a force.

“Dunno. Got nowhere to be right now.”

“You don’t have drills? Debriefs? A whole entire block of city to blow up, maybe?”

“Nah,” he said easily, kicking his boots up onto the corner of your desk. “Meeting with Skirata and his boys isn’t until Primeday. My brothers are busy running laps around the BlasTech Gikosphere.” He made a disgusted face. “I don’t like running. Prefer classic PT. Weights. Push-ups. Y’know, real exercise. Not chasing your own ass around a track like some fresh-off-Kamino cadet.”

You glared at his boots, nudged them off your desk with your stylus, and sighed. “This is an office, not your barracks. And not a gym. I’m not here to babysit you when you’re bored.”

“Eh, I didn’t ask.”

“So?” You shooed him towards the door.

“Umm. No thanks?” He popped another crisp into his mouth. “Oh stars, this is so good. Think it’s the spice powder. Whatever it is, fits me. Salty, addictive, bad for your health.”

“That’s the most accurate self-assessment you’ve ever made. Actually…” you gave him a look over your monitors“...probably the only accurate self-assessment you’ve ever made.”

“Whatever,” he said around another mouthful. “I’m starving. Could go for lunch right now, and no, not the mess hall.” He punctuated it with a sudden loud and unapologetic burp.

“Ugh. Then go, Scorch. No one’s keeping you here.” You wrinkled your nose.

“Don’t pretend I didn’t hear your stomach growl back there,” he cackled. “Come on, it’s almost twelve.”

“Are you serious?” You stared at him flatly.

“Duh,” he said, smiling from ear to ear. “Because you work too much, and because I know you’re dying for something better than whatever sad microwave slop you eat every night.”

“I don’t—”

“I know where you live.”

“That’s fucking creepy.” You blinked.

“Well,” he said with a shrug, crumpling the crisp packaging into a ball and tossed it to the rubbish bin, “to be honest, Boss told me not to say that to you. But I promise it was strictly professional intel. We were investigating a GAR officer running double as a Separatist agent—” He paused, his grin faltering for a split second. “Oop. I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

“Scorch.”

“Forget I said it. Totally classified. You never heard it.” He held up both hands.

“Maker, give me strength.”

“Please just go for lunch,” he picked the clone trooper bobblehead and shoved it in your face. “I’m starving. And if I’m starved, technically you’d be responsible for starving a child cause I’m eleven.”

You gave him a long, dead-eyed look. “You’re eleven in clone years. You’re twenty four in natborn years.”

“Heh. Natborn,” he repeated, chuckling to himself. “You mean randomly ejected individuals?”

“I don’t care,” you said again.

“Well, tough luck. I’m not leaving until you get your ass up and eat lunch with me.” He leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed, and crumbs dusting his fitted black undershirt.

With your head buried in your hands, you tried to go back to your flimsis, forcing your eyes onto Section 6A. You could almost make sense of the nonsense Scorch had scrawled there, something about “local criminals discouraged by intimidation (see attached doodle).” You silently told yourself if you ignored him long enough, he’d get bored and leave.

But no. Of course not. Every time you moved in your chair, you heard the obnoxious crunch of another crisp, the rustle of foil packaging, the occasional satisfied hum as if he was intentionally testing your patience. And when you risked a glance, he was still there, eating the snacks he had given to you happily, completely immovable. You realised, with a sinking feeling, that he wasn’t bluffing. He could sit here for hours, perfectly content to snack his way through your workday, derailing your schedule, driving you insane until you cracked.

“Okay, fine,” you groaned, kicking your chair back so hard it screeched against the floor. You stood, grabbed your jacket in one angry motion, and stomped towards the door.

Behind you, Scorch popped up immediately. “Knew you’d see reason.”

“This is not reason. This is giving up.”

“Eh, same difference.” He followed you out.

The walk didn’t take long, Scorch seemed to know every shortcut through the military district, cutting your route past uniformed officers, military barracks blocks, and supply depots until you ended up in a shadowed corner behind a supermarket. A literal hole carved into the duracrete wall of the parking structure, no signage, no tables, only a couple of greasy counters wedged in the wall, some plastic chairs, and a thin haze of steam curling out. A man stood behind it, ladling broth into white bowls with vintage nuna illustrations. A cluster of troopers loitered nearby with plates in one hand, eating like this was the finest dining Coruscant had to offer.

“This,” Scorch announced proudly as he grabbed his order, “is where the boys like to eat.” His eyes lit up as the vendor handed him a steaming bowl piled high with noodles and meatballs, which he dug in immediately. “So? What’d you order?” He glanced at you over the rim of the bowl.

You held up your plate when the server handed it over. Not noodles, not soup. Just a heaping plate of rice, doused in broth, with two slabs of fried soy-cakes stacked on top, a ladle of curried greens on the side, and some fried gluten crisps thrown in for good measure. Cheap, fast, greasy, exactly the kind of meal you’d lived on since moving to the capital of the Galaxy.

Scorch paused to gawk at your plate. “Heh. You know your stuff. Most Republic officers wander up and order noodles cause it looks safe. You went straight for the soy-cakes.”

“You know this place isn’t a novelty, right? There’s one under my apartment. Their soy-cakes taste better than this, spicier too. This one’s good,” you admitted, taking a bite, “but the one near mine? Heavenly. Proper kick that makes you sweat.”

“Heavenly soy-cakes, huh? Subtly offering to take me there, or am I supposed to show up under your apartment and guess which stall sells ‘em?”

Rolling your eyes, you shoved a spoonful of rice into your mouth to avoid answering.

“Yeah, thought so.” He cackled as he pointed his chopsticks at your tray. “Still. Respect. You climbed about three ranks up the cool people hierarchy.”

Both of you ate in silence for a few moments, letting the grease and spice work their magic, watching the line of troopers in plain fatigues and various coloured armours filtering into the hidden corner. They clustered in twos and threes, laughing with their mouths full. The air was filled with the scent of the steaming broth, the clatter of cutlery, the background noise of a dozen conversations you weren’t supposed to overhear.

Scorch gestured with his chopsticks towards the little crowd. “This is why we eat here. Mess hall’s efficient, sure. Ration bars, protein cubes, vegetable soup, choice of carbohydrates, all very nutritionally balanced, but it tastes like kriffing plastoid. We feel more like people here. Nobody checks your portion, nobody times how fast you eat. You pay the guy a few credits, get your food, and sit or stand where you like. No saluting, no marching, no eyes up your ass.”

It was true. None of them looked like soldiers here, only a bunch of identical young men with different haircuts wolfing down cheap food in the middle of a long shift.

“Guess that explains why this place is packed.” You picked at your soy-cake, chewing thoughtfully. Before you could stop yourself, the question slipped out. “So why do you commandos always look… bigger? Broader? Everyone else is built lean, but you lot walk in like you’ve been hoarding growth serums.”

Scorch snorted into his broth, coughing before he could answer. “Hoarding growth serums… Hah, that’s a new one.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still chuckling. “We’re bigger cause they made us that way. Different program. Heavier PT, higher-calorie rations. They wanted us bulked up to carry twice the gear, smash through twice the doors, take twice the hits. Supposed to look scarier for ‘intimidation factor,’ too, I think that’s what Fi called it.” He jabbed a chopstick at his own chest. “Which basically means more food, more weights, more bruises. You should’ve seen our intake while the CTs and CCs were running obstacle courses, we were hauling massive cannons till our arms gave out. Push-ups till we puked, then another set because according to Vau, we should never give up even if our guts hate it.”

“That’s brutal.” You winced, setting your spoon down.

“Eh,” he shrugged. “Built me into this fine specimen, didn’t it? Salty, addictive, bad for your health. Remember?”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t miss the way he was watching you as he said it. “Whatever. I have to finish this fast and be back in my office in less than thirty minutes. And you… You will go back to your pack.”

“No,” he immediately refused.

“No?”

“I will go back to your office too.”

“No, you will not.”

“Yes, I will.” He slurped another mouthful of noodles, finishing it. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to do my job properly.”

You stared at him, waiting.

“Because my mission logs are in my datapad, which I, uh…” He waved his chopsticks vaguely. “…left in your office.”

“You what?” your face was a study in both offence and confusion.

“Left it in your office,” he repeated. “See? I gotta come back. Can’t log a mission without my datapad.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You can’t get rid of me.”

And from then on, it became a habit. Somehow, Scorch decided he was the one who would deliver Delta Squad’s paperwork instead of Boss. At first you fought it, insisted the squad leader was supposed to handle formal submissions, and he could only be there to give clarity to his otherwise blank reports, but eventually you gave up because every time Scorch sauntered in, he carried not only the flimsi but the entire story of the mission in his mouth. Where Boss would’ve written “mission completed, minimal interference,” Scorch would yap with his mouth full of snack, describing exactly which stairwell they’d taken, which civilians ran screaming, how many times Sev acted like a smartass, how Fixer suddenly became a maniac in the field. He’d tell the story, and you’d take notes, piecing together actual compliance-friendly language from his rambling.

Once the report was patched and filed, he’d drag you out to eat. Always. You stopped pretending you could say no. It was easier to let him talk you into whatever hidden stall or hole-in-the-wall he’d discovered than to fight him whilst he laughed like he knew you’d cave anyway. Lunch with Scorch became part of your calendar, sandwiched between audits and verification calls, an annoying interruption that you found yourself looking forward to in spite of yourself.

The routine bled wider than you meant it to. You learnt the ins and outs of Delta without ever trying. Who did what in the field, which ops went sideways, almost-confidential details about the infamous Triple Zero mission. He didn’t even realise how much he was giving away. He would just sit in your office chair, recounting how Walon Vau screamed at Kal Skirata for having different ways of raising the soldiers, or how Sev and Atin are in this perpetual beef. You weren’t supposed to know these things, but you did, and it felt oddly intimate.

And then came the texts. At first it was an extension of work, “kaboom happened again, i’ll bring proof” or “boss says send in a good example for form 98-A or he’ll strangle someone.” But soon it changed into absolute nonsense - from tooka memes pulled from the holonet, group selfies of Delta Squad crammed into a speeder, Fixer sleeping under his bunk, Sev flipping the camera off with dead eyes. Half the time the photos were useless, grainy, badly lit, but they made you laugh anyway. He’d double text, triple text, no shame whatsoever. Your commlink became a dumping ground for his stream-of-consciousness nonsense, and somehow, you didn’t mind.

Scorch: hey. Scorch: u awake? Scorch: [attached image: tooka with its face smashed against transparisteel] me waiting outside your office You: It’s 1am. I am not awake. Scorch: ooo. are your pants on fire? Scorch: [attached image: Fixer asleep at his datapad] this man has been talking abt hacking and encryption for 6 hrs Scorch: should i draw a dick on his helmet You: If you do, I’ll make you write a 40-page memo on vandalism of GAR equipment. Scorch: [attached image: Sev with both middle fingers raised] he loves me. You: Tell Sev I’ll approve his request to have you gagged during debriefs Scorch: wow betrayal Scorch: anyway just wanted to say your dumpling place recommendation near the republic mil base >>> the noodle place. i owe u. You: Finally, something we agree on. Now sleep. Scorch: k night salty ❤️

One fine morning you trudged into the office expecting your inbox to have at least 89 unread compliance updates, a red URGENT flag from Infrastructure, and a polite but passive-aggressive reminder from the Oversight Committee about “timely submission of finalised reports.” Business as usual.

You grabbed a mug of caf from the mess hall before clocking in, the bitter sludge enough to make your brain semi-functional. By the time you dropped into the chair, you were already scrolling through the day’s firestorm in your datapad when your commlink buzzed.

Scorch: [attached image: a bowl of stir fried soy-cakes drenched in chili oil] breakfast of champions. bet you can’t handle this heat

You snorted into your caf, almost spilling it on your desk. Another buzz.

Scorch: forget it, my stomach just gave up on me

That brought a laugh out of you, which you immediately stifled, but it was too late. Besany appeared out of nowhere with her caf in hand, and eyes narrowed in. “What,” she sank into the chair in front of you, “is making you smile before nine in the morning?”

“Nothing,” You said quickly, flipping the commlink face down on the desk. “Work.”

“Uh-huh.” She leaned over, sipping her caf, gaze locked on you. “Work doesn’t make you laugh like that. What was it? Another message from your favourite demolition expert?”

“Besany.” Heat crept up your neck.

Besany’s eyebrows shot up as she beamed. “Oh my stars. He’s already trained you to smile at your commlink like a lovesick shiny at 79’s.”

“I am not lovesick!” you snatched the commlink up to silence it. “I’m just managing him.”

“Mmhm.” She gave you a wicked smile. “Well, from where I’m sitting, it looks like he’s managing you.”

“Hey.” You rolled your eyes. “That’s more like what Ordo does to you.”

Her smirk faltered for a second. “That’s unfair. Besides, I’ve admitted to you that yes, Ordo and I have gone on a couple of dates. At least I admit it.”

“They’re wrapping up their missions here by the way. So that means your man is also leaving?” You leaned back in your chair, victorious for all of three seconds.

That wiped the smirk clean off her face. Besany glanced away, fiddling with the handle of her caf cup. “It’s not—he’s not—” She sighed, the bravado draining out of her. “Yeah. Probably. Soon.”

Tilting your head, you watched her carefully. It wasn’t often Besany Wennen went soft; usually she carried the hard edge of someone who’d survived years in the Republic Treasury Audit Division. Yeah, not Logistics like she let most people assume. A few days ago, as the Triple Zero mission wrapped up, you’d learned the truth, that she’d been posing as a Logistics officer all along to investigate Vinna Jiss. But now, for once, she looked more human. “…You’ll miss him,” you said.

“Maybe.” She said quietly before aiming her finger at you. “But don’t change the subject. You and Scorch. Admit it.”

“Literally nothing.” You pressed your datapad to your chest and stood up. “Lunch later?”

Besany smirked. “Only if a certain RC isn’t kidnapping you.”

You groaned, tugging your jacket straighter. “He doesn’t kidnap me. He… ambushes me.”

“Ambush or ambush?” She stretched her arms upwards before sipping her caf with infuriating calm. “Well, if you disappear around noon, I’ll know who dragged you into some back-alley food stall again.”

“Stars help me,”

Behind you, Besany’s voice piped up the empty mess hall. “It’s a date, whether you admit it or not!”

“One, two, three. Gotcha—not a couple. I win again.” You pointed your spoon, triumphant even with your mouth still full of rice. Across the restaurant’s corner, two massive Nautolan men sat shoulder-to-shoulder, hunched over steaming bowls of curry, chatting animatedly with their head-tendrils moving in sync.

Scorch threw his hands up. “How the hell are you so good at this? They look like a couple. Beefy, cute, sitting close. If this was a holoseries, they’d be sharing noodles by now.”

“Nope. Brothers. Cousins, maybe. Look how they mirror each other when they eat? That’s family, not date, fraternal twins possibly. Pay attention.”

He squinted, following your line of sight. “Kriff. You’re right. They both sip at the same time.”

“Mmhm. Synchronised slurping, familial trait.” You shoveled another bite into your mouth.

Scorch slapped his chopsticks on the rims of his bowl. “Fine. But that one—” he pointed at a table by the far wall where a human woman was leaning across to fix her companion’s collar, “is definitely a couple. Look at that. Intimate grooming!”

“Intimate grooming? You make it sound like they’re tookas licking each other’s ears. That’s her coworker, Scorch. She’s fixing his uniform because he clearly can’t keep a proper fold.” A scoff escaped your lips.

“What kind of monster helps a coworker fix their collar if it’s not romantic?”

“The kind who cares enough so the other doesn’t get chewed out in inspection,” you shot back.

“AH HA!” His voice shot up loud enough that two nearby troopers looked over. “They kissed!” He slapped a hand over his own mouth so fast it was almost comical. “I knew I’d win one day,” he hissed through his fingers.

“Congratulations. You identified a couple in a food court. Would you like me to draft you a commendation?”

“Yes, please. Make it official. To whom it may concern, RC-1262 is an expert in guessing game, please promote him immediately.” He propped his elbows on the table, grinning like an idiot.

“Right.” You checked your chrono and pushed your tray away. “I have a meeting at two, which means I have to sprint back. You good?”

“Yeah,” he said with a shrug, still chewing on the last of his meal. “Oh, almost forgot. They’re shipping us out to the Chaykin Cluster. Some ghost ship thing. The briefing note said it’s an assault ship that went missing months ago and then just, poof, reappeared. We’re supposed to get the data core.”

Your eyebrows touched a stray fringe. “Sounds simple.”

“Simple, sure,” he gave a sheepish smile. “Except ships don’t just wander off into the void and stroll back on their own. So, naturally, they’re sending us.”

Filing away the mental note that if Delta came back in one piece, you’d be drowning in more illegible reports for safety and compliance. “And you’re telling me this because?”

“Because you’ll miss me,” he said immediately. “And also because when I get back, I expect deep fried soy-cakes with that umami batter. The spicy ones from your apartment block.”

“You’re not dragging me to lunch the minute you return from a mission,” you warned.

“Wrong,” he said cheerfully, standing to dump his tray. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. Call it part of the routine.”

By the third day without a single ping from RC-1262, you told yourself it was peace. Your inbox was quiet, free of incoherent reports about accidental destruction of city infrastructures, no late-night memes, no interruptions at your desk. You had time to clear Omega’s tidy paperwork, process Wolfpack’s accident reports, and even file a full 212th compliance bundle without once being forced into a hole-in-the-wall lunch. The silence should have been a blessing.

By the fifth day, it started gnawing at you. Every time your datapad and commlink chimed you checked them too fast, and every time it wasn’t him you shoved it aside.

By the seventh, you’d convinced yourself you didn’t think about it anymore until your inbox finally pinged with a message from [email protected]

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: still alive Message: hey salt, in case you miss me (you do), i’m still alive. turns out the Prosecutor is a real piece of work. we boarded fine, then all hell broke loose. comms cut, we had to split our way. boss went aft, fixer to the port, sev is retrieving the sensor logs. i ended up searching for the bio metric logs. haven’t linked back up yet. ship’s half alive and it's eating our signals on purpose. been living on ration bars and whatever the galley didn’t rot. fun times! datapad’s running low but figured i’d check in, cause i know if i don’t you’ll miss me! anyway, yell at me so i know you got this. – scorch

The message caught you off guard. You knew how these commandos were, you knew the risks, the endless dangers written into every deployment. Hell, you were the one filing safety and compliance reports based on their flimsi scribbles, the one measuring the damage they caused and the injuries they sustained. You knew, better than anyone, how dangerous the missions were that they were sent on. And never, not once, had you let yourself hesitate over them. They were just names on your desk, soldiers you worked with, nothing more.

So why was this different?

You typed slower than usual, forcing your brain to think of an appropriate reply.

Subject: Re: still alive Message: No need to report to me as no Republic-owned infrastructure is broken in this mission. Therefore, there is no compliance assessment required on my end.

You paused, staring at the blinking cursor. A single bead of sweat slid down your temple, and you wiped it away with the back of your hand. Another sigh escaped you, and before you could stop yourself, you added:

But feel free to send me your status update anyway.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath before finally hitting transmit.

The message left your outbox with a soft ping, and you closed your datapad shut, sighing long and heavy, already hating yourself for cracking first.

The reply didn’t take long. Your datapad buzzed with a new message.

Subject: re: still alive Message: ha! knew it. you said no need to report but then said i could anyway. don’t worry salt, i’ll keep u updated. better than yelling into the void. heading for the forward data core now. i’m pinging advisor and the boys too so everyone’s in the loop but comms still choppy as hell, lots of static. it’s kinda cool that my message found you! sev says the ship is haunted. fixer says i’m an idiot. boss says both of us are idiots.

anyway. i’ll grab the logs, link back up, and send you something funny so you don’t look so grumpy at your desk.

p.s. miss me yet?

You stared at the screen, lips pressed tight, before giving him a quick ‘good luck’ reply. According to your services, it was sent, but not delivered.

And that was the last you heard.

No pings. No blurry selfies. No smug “kaboom” updates. Silence, for days.

Things like this happened often, the communications officers reminded you when you finally caved and asked. Signal traffic was their wheelhouse, not yours. Operations and Communications clerks in the command center, Signal Intelligence techs on the fleet side, even the Advisor staff who monitored spec ops comm channels. They were used to it. A mission went dark, signals dropped, sometimes for days. You knew the routine. You knew the systems. And you had never once worried before, because it wasn’t your business. Above your pay grade. Not your fight.

But curiosity clawed its way past your good sense. So you asked again, and this time, someone gave you the answer.

A Trandoshan dropship had been spotted squatting in one of the Prosecutor’s hangars, scavengers planning to sell the cruiser to the Separatists in exchange for battle droids. Delta Squad was ordered to destroy the dropship and eliminate the Trandoshan threat. Standard sweep-and-clear. Except somewhere along the line, Scorch had been cut off from the rest. You barely absorbed the rest of the briefing your colleague rattled off. Just fragments. Within moments of the Trandoshan ship’s destruction, a Droid Control Ship arrived to claim the Prosecutor. Advisor sent a distress signal. The Republic starship Arrestor is en route to assist.

The gnawing anxiety slowly consumed you, biting at the edges of your thoughts, disturbing your sleep. You told yourself it wasn’t about him, you disputed it every time the idea crept in. Your worry did not stem from growing care for what you used to call the most annoying clone in the galaxy. No, it was just the silence. The absence of noise in your inbox. That was all.

Days went by, and still no news. If there were updates, they were highly confidential. You knew your place in the Republic war machine - you weren’t Intelligence, you weren’t Operations Command, you weren’t even Fleet Comms. Who were you, really, in the grand scheme of a galactic war? Just a paper pusher.

A Safety and Compliance Officer. You took the reports others dashed off in frustration or exhaustion and rewrote them into neat, audit-ready documents that the Oversight Committee could parse without triggering a headache. You chased signatures, logged structural assessments, confirmed casualty numbers. And because the officer who handled Risk Assessment had quit to become some kind of holonet influencer, you covered that too. Which meant you also drafted impact statements, ran cost estimates for collateral damage, and flagged repeat safety violations for internal review. You were there to make sure the Republic’s own war didn’t bankrupt itself in insurance claims and repair bills.

It was unglamorous work. Necessary, but invisible.Your name never left the paperwork, and nobody thanked you for doing it right. The only time you got noticed was when you failed to catch something and the Senate committees were very good at noticing failures.

So no, you weren’t supposed to care whether an RC operator you’d threatened with disciplinary review every other day was alive or dead on some derelict assault ship in the Chaykin Cluster. It wasn’t your business. It wasn’t your responsibility. It wasn’t your place.

And yet, there he was, living rent-free in your head.

Days turned into weeks, and you shoved that gnawing curiosity deep down where it couldn’t eat you alive. Back to work, back to being the corporate slave you were. Wolfpack casualties to process, 212th spec-ops damage reports, Torrent Company once again doing something so reckless that left a crater in some backwater planet and a furious senator filing a complaint. You grumbled your way through it, quietly grateful you were only assigned to a handful of elite companies and special operations units. You couldn’t imagine handling an entire legion or battalion’s worth of damage reports. No wonder GAR had opened another vacancy for Safety and Compliance last week.

Usually, you barely left your wing in that massive Republic Military Base. Your cubicle, your files, your inbox. But lately, you’d caught yourself wandering farther than you needed to. Drifting towards the main buildings, the hangars, even the crowded main mess hall. Telling yourself it was just to avoid another sad canteen lunch, when really it was just… searching. Hoping to catch a glimpse of—

Knock. Knock.

Your head snapped up. “Come in,” you called.

“BET YOU THOUGHT YOU’D SEEN THE LAST OF ME!” That obnoxiously cheery voice filled your office, bouncing off the walls.

There he was. Helmet under one arm, armour still scuffed and battered, hair a mess and overgrown, grin wide as ever. RC-1262. Scorch.

You blinked at him, heart beating faster than you cared to admit, but you would never, never in a million years say that you—

“Why are you still alive?” you snapped, regaining composure, clinging to the only defense you had - sarcasm. You had to hold back the conflicting urge to punch him and hug him at the same time.

“Oh, you think you can get rid of me that easily?” the commando flashed his teeth. “The answer is no. Also, cool thing, after we finished that ghost ship mission, we answered a distress call!”

“Oh god,” you groaned, burying your face in your hand at the dangerous level of excitement in his voice. That tone only meant that he was about to yap for days. Stars, you’d missed it.

“Uh huh! A Red Zero distress signal, no less. Sent out by none other than Omega Squad!” He plunked his helmet on your desk, squeezing himself - armour and all - into the chair across from you until it squealed. “Of course, hah, they’d be helpless without us - the superior squad. So we grabbed a Neimoidian shuttle we’d found aboard the Prosecutor, flew it right into the mess, and pulled them out.” He mimed piloting with one hand as he relieved every moment.

You stared at him, equal parts exhausted and relieved. “And somehow, no one’s dead.”

“Exactly!” He beamed. “Anyway, hi!”

“So… no public infrastructure damage for me to explain to the Republic Oversight Committee this time, right?”

“Nope,” he said cheerfully, popping the p for emphasis. “Ghost ship, remember?”

You frowned. “Then why are you here?”

Scorch shrugged. “Dunno. Thought I’d stop by. Say hi. Annoy you. Keep you company while you do all that boring paper stuff.”

“So you’re wasting my time.” With arms folded, you groaned.

“Exactly,” he grinned, utterly unrepentant.

You huffed, trying to summon your usual exasperation, but it came out softer than you meant. “…You’re insufferable.”

“And yet.” He propped his elbows on his knees. “You didn’t tell me to leave.”

The inbox pinged with another details of the compliance report you were working on, Foxtrot Group this time. They’d been newly assigned to you just last week, fresh from their posting on some Outer Rim campaign. Their captain, Gregor, had already managed to charm the entire office when he first dropped off their compliance report, all easy smiles, great hair and polite words, as if he hadn’t just survived a brutal frontline assignment.

When you looked up again, Scorch was still there, in the chair across from you. Still beaming like he’d never left. His hands were busy toying with the handmade clone trooper bobblehead perched on your desk.

You rolled your eyes, fighting a smile of your own. “Fine. If you’re going to loiter, at least make yourself useful. Hand me that flimsi stack.”

Scorch picked it up obediently. “See? You would miss me.”

You ignored him but the warmth blooming in your chest betrayed the mask. The silence that had haunted you for weeks finally shuddered apart under his presence.

“Ooh, Foxtrot!” he blurted suddenly, pointing at the header of the flimsi you’d just opened. “They’ve got cool armour, you know? But a completely different function since they’re attached to battalions. Do you even know how that works?”

A content sigh came out of you as you braced yourself for the incoming lecture, but there was no hiding the small smile tugging at your mouth.

Scorch’s voice faltered for a moment. He tilted his head, watching you with that mischievous glint in his eyes. “…You’re smiling again.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are.” He grinned wider. “Maybe we should go for dinner later tonight.”

“Maybe.” You shrugged.

“It’s a date then!” He smiled brightly, hands waving animatedly as he continued with his stories about armour upgrades, and way too many inside jokes you couldn’t follow. You let him yap, stylus scratching half-heartedly at your notes, listening more than you wrote. The inbox in your computer pinged again with another incoming report, and you didn’t bother to check it.

It was just you, and Scorch, and his endless chatter. The world outside could wait.

#scorch x reader #scorch x gn!reader

31 notes · View notes

hellfiresky · 3 days ago

Text

Voood, I love your platonic fics sm and I guess this one just became my favourite 😭

I can only imagine his nice-smelling aftershave every time I look at pics of him now. I MEAN judging from his well kept hair he must smells good. Anyway, not the point. THAT WAS SO FLUFFY AND I LOVED IT. Great writing as always!!

Loyal Roommate

Clone Commando Gregor × GN!Reader

✢ 𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 ✢ ↤ Prev | Next ↦

✧ Prompt: #2) Forced to go to school/work while sick

✧ Summary: You pressed yourself too far that you fainted during class. Your roommate, Gregor, comes to pick you up and take you home.

✧ Tags & Warnings: platonic, roommate au, O66 didn't happen, reader is a uni student, platonic fluff, reassurances, hc: GAR-grade medical supplies are limited to civilians

✧ Word Count: 1.6k

✧ A/N: Another platonic one that has similar vibes with this one with Fives! Stuff like this, really really fun to write. War’s over sorta thing and everything's good and dandy and normal 😊 so here's my second entry for Sicktember this year. Enjoy this one vode! 💛

Main Masterlist | Read on AO3 | dividers by me

“I’m their roommate, ma'am.”

“Oh really?”

Gregor decides right there he doesn't like that tone. “Yeah,” he says toward the front desk admin, already feeling a bit of headache himself while pressing on, “Sorry, but in case you aren't aware… clones can bunk up with civilians in the meantime the Senate is taking care of several bills that would allow us actual living arrangements in our name.”

The Duros lady spares him a bored look. “Heard that in the news.”

“Yeah. So, that means I'm bunking with them. I'm their roommate, and that means I can fetch them and take them home with me for proper rest, since they're not listed in any of your campus dormitories.” Gregor breathes deeply. “With your medical officer's permission, of course.”

His fists are clenched, holding in his frustrations, but of course unseen by whoever's behind the desk. That lady included. Anyone passing by the infirmary entrance could've seen that. Is she always like this? He could've walked in with his usual charms, but the lady isn't even vibing. Why does it have to be a grumpy middle-age Duros lady who probably couldn't tell the difference between spreadsheet column and spreadsheet row?

He gets that. The look. It's no different than what he received from civilians during the war. The galaxy now has a new Supreme Chancellor after they won the war but its residents have not changed for the better. What lurks in Coruscant hasn't changed at all. The upbringing from that time stays.

Usually he wouldn't be bothered. He's never bothered. He's living the life and that's the plan indefinitely, but that obstacle prevents him from reaching out to you. You need help, but he can't—

“Gregor?”

Your voice comes the corridor on his left, and a big sigh of relief blows through his mouth as he jogs in your direction. “Hey,” he breathes, observing your slow blinks and weak smile, your bag sagged from your hand. Gregor approaches you with careful steps and gently grabs your shoulders to observe you closer. “Stars, aren't you a delight to see.”

A small laugh escapes you. You don't certainly look like a delight to see, but Gregor’s relief is written all over his face. The former commando cares about you so much. His warm hand gently presses against your forehead to feel your temperature. “You feeling okay?”

You nod, seizing the chance of his proximity to speak in a smaller volume. Talking out loud makes you more exhausted, for gods’ sake. “Better now,” you murmur, peering up at him. “Can we go home?”

Gregor smiles warmly. “That's why I'm here, vod’ika.” Thumb stroking your shoulder momentarily, he then wordlessly takes your bag and slings it over his shoulder. “Can you walk? They told me you fainted.”

You nod weakly. You wish you could answer everything with a nod and a shake of the head, but Gregor has come all this way, cutting his part-time work shift down. Might as well owing a few phrases to stow his concerns. “I'll be okay,” you spare a smile, “You'll catch me though, right?”

Gregor lets out a laugh. “Always.” He looks at you with determination. “Now let's get out of this place.”

You scoff, letting him gently drag you toward the entrance, your hand in his. “Foul place, yeah?”

“Oh yeah.” Gregor glares at the front desk as you pass. “And I'm not talking about the smell.”

You and Gregor walk side by side at a slow pace. He doesn't seem to mind. It feels like you're walking on air, and Gregor's warm hand in yours is the only anchor you have. Your fatigue takes over your gait that he can't help but realize that you probably won't survive the journey to the speeder lot awake.

Gregor squeezes your hand. You meet his gaze, warm brown eyes gentle. “Do you mind if I carry you?” your roommate asks. “You look like you're going to faint again, cyar'ika.”

Your exhaustion doubles and you can feel it and if you turn around you can even still see the infirmary behind you. You haven't walked that far.

So you just nod, not having the strength to argue or care enough that other people would see—hence proves him right. Gregor smiles at you reassuringly, a gesture that reminds you of an older sibling you've never had, before shifting your bag to the front of his chest and kneeling in front of you, his back to you.

“It’s okay,” he assures you, when you very carefully try not to slump your entire weight on him. “Just lean on me. You'll be fine.”

You manage a hum as you wrap your arms around his neck, the smell of aftershave and his cologne filling your nose. Gregor slips his hands under your knees and lifts himself up, your body snug and safe against his firm back. His body heat feels amazing.

“Good?” he checks in with you.

You purr and snuggle into his warm shoulder. “Good.”

“Okay.” You can hear the friendly smile in his voice. “Off we go!”

Now his walk is much firmer and faster, the eagerness to get you home so you can rest and sleep the entire day and the next permeating through and through. Sadly he's not fast enough to the point that the interior of your campus blurs as you pass through vast hallways and a series of floor-to-ceiling windows off one side through which Coruscant Prime shines through. It's good weather today, but your exhaustion knows no bounds.

“So what happened?” Gregor asks, cutting through your fatigue as you recall your memories.

“Been feeling terrible this morning,” you mumble.

“This morning—seriously? Stars you're so stubborn, aren't ya?” His tone spikes in disbelief. You can feel the rumble of his voice on his throat. “You couldn't take a day off instead, and tell your friends?”

“Can't day off,” you grunt, “Credits. Presence. Need to pass.”

Gregor sighs. “Guess it's fair enough.” He swerves around a crowd of students who definitely give both of you a long curious look. “But you wanna know something else you could've done?”

“What?”

“You could've told me,” he hums. “Before I leave for work. Comm me or something if you weren't able to wake up. I could help you, y'know.”

When you were lying in the infirmary you thought about that. The regret blooms even further. “Sorry.”

Gregor grunts in disagreement, gently and momentarily leaning his head against yours to reassure you. “Don't be, okay?”

“But it's my fault.”

“It's not your fault that you got sick,” he goes on to argue, but his tone isn't venomous. Brotherly, more like. “Your assignments were piling, your deadlines are approaching while your projects are barely half done, plus your finals.” He may not know what it feels like but he gets the general idea. Missions after missions that they just wouldn't stop. “Cyar'ika, I know you went to sleep at 0500 three times last week. The consequences were just about time, and you've had that just today.”

“I don't need you to nag an overstimulated ill person, Gregor.”

“Okay, sorry.” An ‘ow’ escapes him when you lay a weak slam of your fist onto his chest. “But the point is, you gotta know when to take a break,” Gregor says to you gently. “Multitasking is great, but your body sometimes can't oblige what your mind and your urges want you to do.”

You let the word stew. You would never throw advice from a war veteran out of the airlock. Gregor has seen a lot, and suffered a lot. He told you his story once; the time when he was stranded and suffered amnesia, got blown up and survived although his old armor paid the price, and since then you've been taking care of each other. Being roommates helps to check in on one another. Not one of you would ever want to leave the other behind.

You finally reach the speeder lot, an open area right under the sun. Turns out the wind is quite chilly today, so you're grateful for the absence of potential heatstroke. Instead you're grateful for Gregor's body heat against you keeping you warm.

“So next time, if it's urgent—and I mean only if it's really urgent,” he tells you, “I'll give you something from my medpack. It'll help.”

“You really would sacrifice your rationed stimshots?”

“Darling, it's not just stimshots. Flu shots, immune shots, every kind of shots that we take routinely.”

“Yeah, but… for me?” Your bewildered tone urges him to be even more determined about his decision. He only smiles along as you attempt to reject him. “It's yours, Gregor. You don't need to.”

“And you have lots to do. More than what I have to do daily.” He gently taps his head against yours again. His hands squeeze your legs reassuringly. “You’re growing, you're dreaming—you're in uni. You need all the energy, rest, and support that you can get. Okay?”

You're silent again, but not minding at all if you accidentally fall asleep on him. It'd be great, actually, since the argument would end there and his decision is final. “Okay,” you concede, snuggling into his neck again. “Thanks, Gregor. Really mean it.”

“Don't mention it,” he chuckles fondly. Your speeder is in view. “You become a huge sap when you're sick. It's cute.”

“Only if it's with you,” you mumble tiredly, but you can't resist a smile. “And you like hugs.”

His chest rumbles with laughter. “No wrong in that, vod'ika. No wrong in that.”

Thanks for reading! Taglist is moved to event masterlist.

A/N: You can request for x reader in my askbox! If you're interested in my clone x reader oneshots you can sign up as well to be tagged of future works. (Link provided ⬆️)

#sicktember 2025 #clone commando gregor #tbb gregor #clone commando gregor x reader #z3st reader fics

39 notes · View notes

hellfiresky · 4 days ago

Text

Was supposed to go to a protest today but I couldn’t escape four back to back meetings. So, here’s the sign I was planning to print.

#hellfiresky #star wars #hellfiresky art #rebellions are built on hope #procreate #acab #restartindonesia

4 notes · View notes

hellfiresky · 4 days ago

Text

couple o cowboys?? How ’bout it!

#jango fett #cade bane #yeehaw

3K notes · View notes

hellfiresky · 4 days ago

Photo

We all know wrecker can punch things, but man what I would give to see hm in the ring with boxing gloves on!

996 notes · View notes

hellfiresky · 4 days ago

Text

Part 1 of the Known Marshal Commanders Series: Bacara

Bacara | Bly | Cody | Fox | Neyo

#hellooooooo #marshal commander bacara #star wars #the clone wars

538 notes · View notes

hellfiresky · 5 days ago

Text

autistic clone

Like imagine there as a clone (not tech) who was just just really autistic.

like for example some clone mentions Wookiee and said clone just starts yapping like really random facts about Wookiee’s and the other clone is line “to do you know that” and the clones just “idk I really like wookies”

#i hc Jesse as autistic #the autism in me recognises the autism in him

8 notes · View notes

hellfiresky · 5 days ago

Text

Okay, I have to confess that I’m not really a big Howzer guy (I love him, but I don’t think about him very often!) but HELLOOOOO. He’s very sweet here, vod. This is exactly how I pictured him to be! And very polite too aaaaaa 😭😭😭

I love this so much. Great writing as always!

Tell Me What's on Your Mind

Captain Howzer × GN!Reader

✢ 𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 ✢ Next ↦

✧ Prompt: #1) “It's in the middle of the night, why are you up?”

✧ Summary: You're having a midnight melancholy. Howzer accompanies you, and the moment leads to a confession.

✧ Tags & Warnings: pining, comfort, soft, fluff, shy(ish) and broody reader, reader is called “sir” (bcs as far as i know it's gn), love confession, kissing

✧ Word Count: 2.7k

✧ A/N: Welcome to my very first entry for Sicktember 2025! Starting with Howzer just feels right 🩵 (you can just tell I wrote this in between doing chapters of my fic in the other fandom). Anyway, hope you enjoy! 💛🌌

Main Masterlist | Read on AO3 | dividers by me

Desert planets like Ryloth tend to sneer at its residents, honestly. Playing around with nearly insufferable heat during the day and only getting to have barely warm air at night? Or maybe that's a you problem. The Twi'leks seem to have no issue with it, and you hate how it makes you look. You're always squinting and scowling at the glaring sun, while you don't want to look like their climate offends your situation. They're your host, after all.

The Syndulla family has been kind. You have already been their ward before the war begins, and they really seem to make sure that you're not treated differently in society. But for you, it feels like a long time already. Alas, till now you remain struggling with the heat and the sand beneath your boots that gets everywhere, so you relish the night where everything is… much less chaotic.

Inside the Syndulla compound is an open courtyard. Cobblestones line the entirety of it, having no natural vegetation to grow since the maintenance would be quite challenging—but at least they have a small, decorative water fountain, right in the middle. Hera used to toss credits into it until Eleni scolded her off.

At night, while gazing up at the indigo skies above, you find one of the courtyard benches your preferred place to sit in solitude.

There are clones stationed around the compound. Even a full squad of nine guarding the courtyard, as it is an open, vulnerable place for someone finding Cham’s cause unfavorable to drop an ambush.

So that's when Howzer finds you, a figure brooding on the bench with shadow and the dark enveloping most of their appearance. Had he not aware of what you look like he'd mistaken you as an intruder. The muscle on his arm was already twitching to reach for his Deece and rounding his men up through internal comm.

At the apparent sight of you, unaware of him just coming in from that one doorway in the farthest corner, Howzer allows some ease into his shoulders. You're alone, it's dark, and you're supposed to be resting. It's in the middle of the night, so why are you still up? Yes, it should be safe with security all around, but one can't let down their guard, no matter where. Your safety matters, just as your wellbeing matters.

And Prime, he's got a little thing for you. Your safety is everything to him.

With barely silent, measured steps, Howzer approaches you. He takes off his bucket then, the teal markings of his armor blending with the dark and instead have a purplish hue. He runs a hand through his hair and ruffles them a little to relieve his scalp from sweat and grease from being under the damn thing for hours.

He watches you then as he walks, no longer looking at the path beneath him as sure as he is. Your brilliant eyes are dead set upon the fountain, its water trickling gently like the softest of songs. You seem troubled, that Howzer can see. The way your brows knit in the middle, just slightly and not too deeply that you probably don't even realize you're doing so, gives it away. You're perching your elbows on your knees, placing your jaws in your joined palms.

Howzer stops merely three feet away from you—a respectable distance; neither forcing himself into your space or needing to speak loudly to inquire your needs if you have one. You don't seem to notice his presence yet, so deep now in your thoughts, so he tries clearing his throat.

“Sir.”

And you're wrenched back into reality from whatever it is plaguing your mind, eyelashes fluttering rapidly as you attempt to register your surroundings, as if your consciousness had been gone for a while until Howzer calls you. Your eyes meet his amber ones, inquiring and concerned.

“Captain,” you return with a nod of greeting. You shift slightly and check over yourself before offering a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry. What can I do for you?”

“Sir, it’s late.” Internally Howzer tries to stow down the strange flutters inside his stomach at your adorable polite tone. He did it successfully. So far. “You should return to your quarters and get some proper rest.”

“I wish I could do that.” Your voice turns somber quickly, and Howzer fears right away if he'd said something wrong. Swear that he's just trying to be as polite as possible.

You sigh wistfully, and your gaze shifts away from him. Back to the dark before your eyes. The comfortable, familiar darkness of the night that becomes the very fresh air of solitude as you breathe. Back to the night sky. It's not very clear today, unfortunately. You've only seen a couple of stars, weakly blinking at you. One of those rare nights.

Howzer takes in your state of melancholy—if it's what you're really experiencing at the moment. “Can't sleep, then?”

“I could, if I wanna,” you reply, humming in thought, trying to compromise. Your brilliant gaze swings back to him again, and you grant him a warm smile, patting on the empty spot next to you. “Maybe you can escort me back in five minutes?”

Howzer glances at your invitation. Your direct request presses a sweet, insufferable weight against his chest as if he's being teased by himself. A low, airy chuckle slips past his lips instead to cover his fluster. “Sounds like an order, sir.”

“It's an offer,” you banter, as he clips his helmet to his belt.

“Rhymes just the same,” Howzer muses again, his lips pulling a grin. “But yeah, I will certainly do that.”

You chuckle warmly at Howzer's unmistakable ease. He sits down next to you, his armor pieces softly clacking against each other as he does, and only then he looks much younger than he usually seems. Stress melting from his youthful, beautiful tan complexion and warm amber eyes, ever vigilant, piercing through the dark. Piercing through you as he dares to meet your gaze, his eyes gentle.

“You were thinking,” Howzer says plainly, leaning on his knees with his elbows. He observes the patch of skin in between your eyebrows where he finds the crinkling whenever you're deep in thought adorable. Now, you are clear of it.

You shrug, your lips form a determined smile. “It's a good place to think.”

“And what were you thinking about?”

He's expected you would go back and recount what has passed through your head moments ago, and then recite it back to him. Perhaps adding a few additional commentaries as you go. But no. You let out this sweet sound, an adorable awkward chuckle as you try to look at anywhere but his eyes.

“I, just—” you sigh, your shoulders slumping and you begin to weave your fingers together. Howzer takes it in, too. You're nervous. “You know,” you continue, evidently trying to get some words out, “I… thought about everything.”

“Did it…” Howzer tries to make something else on your face besides your nervousness. “Does it make you sad?”

You merely smile, and it's a wet kind of smile that plays with his thought that you're actually on the edge of crying, the sight nearly breaks his heart. “As a matter of fact, yeah, it does,” you answer him.

There's a million scenarios going through his head. Your head. You could be thinking about the war, the galaxy, the exploding and dying stars, even. You seem to place a great love to the sky at night. The dark becomes your friend and it brings out the melancholy from inside you. And to his eyes you look… beautiful, like a weeping celestial being over the cruelness of worlds, in such a state.

“I know it's not my place to impose, but…” Howzer swallows his hesitance. You hold his gaze, waiting, enough to make him tremble inside and juggle his calmness. “I could be your listening ear… if you want.”

Your lashes perk as your eyes turn hopeful, grateful even. Howzer feels his own heartbeat slowing and succumbing to cool calmness at the sight of you… relieved. “You're not imposing at all,” you reassure him, smiling softly, thankful for his promise of company. “And that's very kind, Howzer. Thanks.”

Howzer nods once, the movement contains the determination of a soldier yet gentle as he preserves it just for you. And there you remain beholding him with eyes that gleam with whatever hope you throw in the fountain for the peace of the galaxy, nebulae swirling inside your irises that he adores. Howzer then remembers the time, and reluctantly allows the soldier inside him to take over.

“Five minutes up,” he says, getting up with a slight grunt. Howzer holds out his gloved hand to you. “On your feet, sir. You need to rest.”

The moment you lay your hand in his, he sadly wishes he could feel your warm skin against his instead. You stand, and gaze skywards longingly then, not ready to be parted so early with the lone, peace-inducing darkness, and the Captain notices that.

“The sky won't leave even when you're gone. They would just… change colors,” Howzer says, referring to the break of dawn that would occur in several hours.

You find his words comforting. “Won't be the same.”

“No,” he agrees, relishing your small, wistful smile. “It won't.”

Howzer leads you inside the compound with the knowledge of every single room of the place and thus knows where your quarters are. It's peacefully quiet, safe for a couple of Twi'leks on patrol, who chatter among themselves in equally quiet voices. Howzer didn't clasp his helmet back on, his scarred face bare and plain for anyone to see, but not that he minds, only familiar and deems it safe to do so indoors.

You're walking next to him, exhaustion barely seeping into your body but you know that the moment you lie down on your mattress, you'd give in to drowsiness within minutes. Sleep would envelop you and your memory of the dark sky that night, and Howzer's willing company to reminisce fondly about.

“I was thinking,” you suddenly say, lowering your voice so that the echo in the corridor won't carry it far from you, “If this war would ever end in peace at all.”

Howzer switches his full attention to you again, warm amber eyes set upon you, intensely attentive as if he's a twitch of a muscle away to fulfill your needs. A risky, lower-his-guard behavior—but not a tough decision for him to make. He regards you with the gentlest compassion that he'd thought he'd never had—but with you beside him, it exists somehow.

Your fingers lace together. “Just afraid if…” you exhale, releasing your anxiety from your mouth. “If I don't get to do things I’ve been wanting to do.”

“I'm sure you'll get around to that,” Howzer says to you, carving his own confidence into you so you'd be hopeful and gleaming again, just as the state where he loves to see you in. “You aren't… a soldier of war. Like me. That's your advantage, and leave the war to me and my men. I imagine you'd have plenty to do in order to fulfill your dreams.”

“That’s what I'm afraid of exactly,” you agree with him delicately, your tone spiking a barely discernible protest. The door to your quarters is already in sight, just tucked in the farthest side of the dead-end corridor. “We're in a war. And I don't want to… lose someone that I've grown very fond of in it.”

Howzer positively feels his heart drop. He can even feel its weight in the pit of his stomach. Disappointment floods him, but also understanding. “Someone?” he dares to ask, barely managing to utter the word without a quivering tone.

“Yeah,” you blush, rubbing your arm to ease yourself. Both of you then arrive in front of the end of the road. You haven't keyed in your code to open the door—you haven't even turned away from him, as if waiting for something, or nothing. “Is it silly, in your opinion?”

Howzer frowns. “What's silly?”

“This feeling…” You blush even deeper, turning away from his scrutiny. Howzer sincerely wishes you're blushing about him but stars, it could only be a wish. “It's intense. I think I've gone too deep. I love his company, his understanding… I just don't know if he loves me back.”

You dare to meet his gaze, cheeks still flushed with color, and there it is. Your eyes, hopeful again, as clear and glittering as stars that he's seen on some fortunate nights. He feels his heartbeat picking up again, soaring through the sky with the highest hope along with you.

“So is it silly?” you ask again. “That I even used the ‘L’ word?”

Howzer approaches you by one step, facing you. You don't back away to keep your distance. And then his heart stops altogether as he reaches for you, gloved knuckles softly caressing your cheek and jaw. You can feel the fabric brushing softly along your skin, and your eyes flutter close to relish in the feeling, committing your closeness and the feel of his gloves to memory, the closest Howzer has ever touched you.

And then you feel it; his warm breath against your face, just briefly. His nose nuzzles against yours and already you're feeling fuzzy from his proximity that your fists curl onto his chest plate, clinging onto him. Howzer then closes the distance between you, stealing your breath away from your lungs as he delicately presses his lips against yours. You return the gesture immediately, not allowing your mind to go blank for even a second, brushing your lips, moist to his chapped ones, with a gentleness on par with every gesture he's shown and given you.

Howzer thinks about pulling away, but this is what both of you have been wanting. And your presence is so addicting he doesn't ever want to let go. His other hand now rests on your waist, pulling you much closer to his armored body as he continues to lay onto your lips endless soft kisses that convey every single moment of longing and pining for you. Gentle movement, each one reciprocated, none of them fueled by force as his last intention is to ever hurt you.

With this in mind Howzer reluctantly draws away from you, creating that distance again before he'd stepped into your space—but warmth and something else entirely, unexplainable and powerful, seeping into the space between you and him.

“It's not silly at all,” he then says with a small grin, admiring your flushed cheeks and eyes that shine impossibly brighter after the, perhaps, long-awaited kiss. “On the other hand, I had no idea… I'm sorry.”

You shake your head. “Don’t be sorry.” You reach for his hand and brush your thumb across his gloved knuckles, avoiding his gaze on purpose as your cheeks still burn like fire. “I am really happy it happened.”

Howzer releases a hushed, relieved laugh. He runs his hand through his hair, and more relief melts off of him. His other hand squeezes yours, and you blush again as he grants you another charming laugh, dimples and crow's feet showing and gracing his features, making him impossibly more handsome.

“I should…” You turn for the door, determined to release a long, silent scream into your pillow. “I should go. It's late.”

Howzer chuckles quietly at your abrupt shyness in action. “Yeah, go. Get some rest.” He's never bid a sweet good night before, and probably it's coming back to bite him in the shebs. He'd expected this, but not as soon as this. “Good night, and um… dream of all the good things that would make you happy.”

Your door sliding open after you unlocked it, it's your turn to let out a laugh of your own. You share a look with Howzer, who’s probably still daydreaming about the feel of your soft lips against his in the midst of this conversation, and you can't help but to beam widely as you say, butterflies fluttering inside your stomach; "One of them just came true tonight.”

Thanks for reading! Taglist is moved to event masterlist.

A/N: You can request for x reader in my askbox! If you're interested in my clone x reader oneshots you can sign up as well to be tagged of future works. (Link provided ⬆️)

#PLEASE READ THIS #this feels like a warm hug #captain howzer #sicktember 2025 #captain howzer x reader #z3st reader fics

30 notes · View notes