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leiopython-rat · 1 month ago

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RAHHHH BOSS IN HIS NATURAL HABITAT AS A CONCERNED BOYFRIEND 😭😭😭

I'm so in love with this Zest 😭😭😭 gonna have to reread when I'm sick!

New Orders Just Came In

Clone Commando Boss × GN!Reader

✧ Summary: Boss loves to take care of you, especially when you're sick—even if you put up a fight.

✧ Tags & Warnings: sickfic, eepyfic, established relationship, domestic fluff (these four are deadly fluff combination I daresay)

✧ Word Count: 1.9k

✧ A/N: Woe Boss sickfic be upon ye. If you're feeling under the weather as you're reading this, I hope you get to feel better soon! Stay hydrated and don't forget some calories in. Man I miss writing short fics like this, it took less than 24 hours. Anyway, enjoy my second Boss fluff, exclusively for prompt day 6 "where's my caf?" of @deltasquadweek! 🧡🧡

Masterlist | Read on AO3 | Boss (in-header image)

Once upon a time he'd promised he would never complain about the mattress in his squad's barracks. The two-inch bare-minimum necessity to catch 8 hours of sleep at most on a good day. He even has to fluff his pillow every damn day, or every hour when they're just hanging out in the barracks waiting for what's next.

He's top bunk, just so Fixer who's sleeping under him gets to shove his mechanic tools and knickknacks under the bed. Also because Sev literally sleeps with one eye open and that creeps the kriff out of his second-in-command. Scorch hates Fixer's snores, but everybody's gotta lose something.

But at your house, though…

Everything is perfect. The couch they don't have. The bean bags that aren't busted and terribly patched up. The amount of natural light pouring in from the rustic-style windows. It's lived in, the same as his barracks, but just not the same way. It's warm, it's cozy. It's everything he could've wanted for a livable living area.

Now he's complaining.

Put that aside. Boss is lucky to have you. He's lucky that he'd won you over all those months ago even though the first date was far from perfect, but you were so willing to accept what he lacks and believe in what he's capable of and in his aspirations, and still are. You are perfect.

When he's planetside, he excuses himself from the barracks and stays over at your house. Often comes unannounced to surprise you, and it works every time. Your joyous smiles and your tight hugs are such treasures—he would literally shoot someone to see them again. And anyway, that's what his mission, his duties, are for. Coming home to you and enjoying everything you both have to share, the domestic bits and pieces of it, after every of those mandatory debriefs, on-call duties.

In the kitchen, Boss stirs your herbal tea, the spoon clinking against the porcelain mug as he's incorporated a tiny bit of sugar in there. His caf's brewing. The packet herby nuna cream soup he's discovered in the pantry is simmering in a pot behind him, while the toaster next to it automatically turns off as the bread slices pop up loudly.

Apparently and eventually the noise in the kitchen wakes you up, not long after your boyfriend. Still in your sock-clad feet and Boss’ worn bodysuit top, you're rubbing your eyes as you pad into the kitchen. Boss smiles at the sight of you.

“Hey.” Chuckling, the commando wraps his bare, strong arms around you as you crash into his chest. “Good morning.”

“Mornin’,” you mumble airily, but you sound very much awake. You peel yourself off of him, peering into the simmering pot and smiling at the sight of toast. “A really nice view to wake up to.”

Standing bare chested with only just black sweatpants in the middle of your kitchen, Boss looks at you teasingly.

“Dork,” you rasp, trying to laugh but your sore, painful throat prevents you to. “I'm talking about the food.”

“Trust me, I know,” Boss says, nodding to himself in confirmation. He then quickly rinses the teaspoon he used to stir the tea. “Am I not food?”

“Sometimes,” you answer, distracted by stirring the pot with the ladle.

Boss glances down as he leans back against the counter. He watches you for a moment. You usually hum. This morning you don’t, and he knows why. Last night you complained about the dinner you had with your friends that you might or might have not overconsumed the food your friends warned you about. His last night's concern skyrockets this morning. “Cyar'ika,” he begins carefully, “If I ask you not to talk too much, will you listen?”

You turn the stove off. “Hm?”

“Your throat's hurting.”

“Yeah,” you rasp, not even bothering to hide your wheeze.

“Okay, stop talking.” Your boyfriend holds a hand up almost sternly. “That's an order, cyar'ika.”

“But how am I supposed to wor—” you're cut off in surprise when Boss pushes the mug of tea he's been stirring for five minutes to make sure the small amount of sugar dissolves into your hands. You melt at the warmth in your palm, but you complain just as fast. “Um. Why is this tea?”

Boss shrugs. “It's for you.”

“I want caf. Where's my caf? I need one.”

He sighs. “You don't need it.”

“Excuse me?”

“You complained about your throat last night. And you were shivering. I lowered the temp in the bedroom and I consulted. This morning you must be feeling terrible, worse than last night.”

Every bit of his words ring true. You look at him suspiciously, but you lift the mug to your lips anyway. “Who are you consulting with?”

“A trained medic,” Boss says as you sip on your tea, “He dropped some of our top-shelf med supply this morning. That tea is one of them, to soothe your throat first thing. And this.” He shows you a tube of tablets that he draws out of nowhere—you’re feeling it's getting difficult to keep up, it's not good. “For your flu symptoms.”

Relief washes over you. Boss has always been very kind, and he loves taking care of you. And your house. And your needs. Basically he cares about everything about you.

“Okay,” you smile gratefully, gulping the last of your tea. “Um, tell my thanks to your medic. And thank you.” You hug and kiss his cheek before turning around for the stairs. “I'll go shower and head out.”

Boss sighs. It's one of those sighs that goes out of him when Fixer breaks into another argument with either Sev or Scorch. "Cyar'ika, you can be very adorable sometimes."

You grin widely as your cheeks flush in his praise. You turn slightly to glance over your shoulder. "Sometimes?"

"You're not feeling well," he says, ignoring your teasing. "You're staying home."

"What?! No—aherm.” You wheeze again, your voice now barely coming out. “Oh bugger…”

He raises an eyebrow challengingly. "No?"

You roll your eyes, switching to whispering. "Boss, honey, I've got deadlines and I have to be in office."

"No, I've checked your work progress and everything can be done remotely from home.” He approaches you, swiftly crowding you with his ridiculously built, strong body and his equally strong arms. Despite your protests, you can't help but melt as he cages you in them again, wrapped around your waist very snugly. "You're going to have breakfast, take your meds, wrap yourself in blanket, and sleep in.”

You look horrified. "Sleep in?"

"Sleep in," Boss nods, undeterred. "Or I'll take you upstairs myself and make a ronto roll out of you, sweetheart. Your choice."

You shuffle your feet in hesitance. It does sound tempting, and Boss knows your resolve is falling apart.

In the end, he ends up smiling so smugly. You don't say it, but he knows what you're thinking—you’re persuaded; you can't resist his charms and his unshakable duty to take care of you. Especially his charms. You know Boss as a soft-spoken person but also in a way stern about duty and orders. Plus, his thick unique accent is your sole weakness.

And then you're truly persuaded to eat the hot packet soup that you can't taste at all, with the dry toast—no butter in order not to make your strep throat worse. Boss pointedly sips on his fresh caf in front of you while having the same meal as you, yet innocently evading your ‘envious verbal attacks’ by saying that he has to be on-call at 1500, so he's got to be at HQ before that time.

And then to email your team leader and human resources to tell them you're really, really sick with the official doctor's orders in writing coming in hot soon on another email.

Boss literally nags at you when you even try to load the dishes into the washer, says he'll do it later after you're asleep—he’ll take care of the house and make sure to have lunch ready for you before he departs.

Now you're sitting with a glass of water and the tablets on the table, Boss snapping the tube close as he half-sits on the table. He looks at you, zoning out, and drags you back in by loosely brushing your hair with his fingers and pushing them away from your face so you don't look really terrible.

Grateful for everything he's done, you look up to meet his gaze. “I love you, you know that?”

Boss smiles, his dimples showing and making the hummingbirds in your stomach flutter. “Love you too.” He leans in and kisses your head. “You'll always have me,” he mumbles to your hair, rubbing your arm. “Whatever you need. I'll do it for you.”

You grab his hand and squeeze, wishing you could kiss it but you don't want to risk infection—it’s the last thing he needs. Him being close is hazardous enough for him, but he insists on clone metabolism and stuff. So you just squish your cheek into his palm, your eyelashes flutter against his skin and make his chest flooded with warmth.

“Come on,” Boss urges you again, right after you take your meds. “Let's get you to bed.”

You squeal and giggle hoarsely as he hoists you up by the back of your knees, your chest meeting his while having your arms wrapped around his neck, and shuffle upstairs to your shared bedroom. A commando like him is strong, no doubt—admiring his strength, you always love it when he carries you.

Boss gently drops you on your side of the bed with a slight groan. He smiles at you, brushing your hair away from your face once again before tucking you in and slipping behind you above the covers.

“Best day ever,” you mumble into your pillow.

“Don't say that. You're ill,” Boss playfully chides, pulling you close to his chest and throwing his leg over yours. “Best day would be to see you up and about again. Tirelessly chirping. Active, adorable. Like a little porg.”

You coo, not knowing what to say. “Thank you.”

Boss hums, gently rubbing your arms above the covers.

It's the comfortable silence and lazy atmosphere that make this almost like a Benduday morning. Soon enough, not within five minutes or so you think, your eyes droop heavily.

"Oh, you drugged that tea, didn't you."

Boss bites down on his lip to resist his amused smile at your tone. "You'll be fine. Just sleepy. Fi prescribed it for you."

You hum in question. "Fixer?"

"Fi," Boss insists, "From Omega. He's the squad medic. I consulted him."

"Oh." You don't know who it is. "Prescribed? For all I know you dumped the whole bottle in there."

"Now why would I do that?"

"Because you don't want me to work.”

“No,” Boss corrects you, "Because I know you are so exhausted that your immune system drops, so I want you to catch a lot of rest.”

You yawn, turning around, and curl your body above his chest. Boss releases a deep sigh as he feels your feverish body, and tugs you closer. His warm body makes you purr beneath the covers, wishing that it could swallow you alive. "Well, it's working,” you murmur, gour consciousness slipping out of you and for once it feels blissful.

"Good," Boss smiles into your hair, his arms snug around your cocooned body. "I'll stay, cyar'ika. Get some rest.”

divider by me!

Taglist: @yoursrosie @hellfiresky @filamentlights @heidnspeak @lucyysthings @emmaw18 @leiopython-rat

Delta Squad Taglist (lmk to join!): @mutilatemyheart @alor-ika

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 ⬆️)

#sickfic #clone commando boss #rc 1138 #clone commando boss x reader #boss x reader #star wars #republic commando #delta squad #the clone wars #tcw #delta squad x reader #clone x reader #x reader #z3st reader fics

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leiopython-rat · 1 month ago

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ZEST THIS IS SO CUTE WTF?!!!

Fireball being adorably awkward wasn't something I knew I needed, but damn, now I need more!!!

Warm Hands

Clone Trooper Fireball × F!Reader

✧ Summary: It's that time of the month again.

✧ Tags & Warnings: sickfic, eepyfic, established relationship, domestic fluff (again and so soon?!) (I wrote this after the Boss sickfic), periodfic (more like luteal phase fic), period symptoms, boob pain, boob talk, NSFW but no smut (you're too resigned for that—thank you hormones), dirty jokes, easy banters between lovers

✧ Word Count: 1.8k

✧ A/N: This goes to all the ladies and AFAB out there (who's still got uterus that bleeds every month)! Also because the breast tenderness is going so hard on me these past few days 😭😭😭 (lol sorry if this fact is disturbing). I can't lie down sideways so I need something to cope with 🤞🏼 Enjoy this one vode! 💛

Masterlist | Read on AO3 | divider by elleisdesigning

You've been trying to sleep.

It's just unfortunate that you're hitting your period again at this time of the month. The luteal phase, to be exact. Everything just turns sour and boring, you feel like a walking tired shell of a human, and your hair just refuses to cooperate with your brush. But you're too tired to be frustrated either, so you just. Give in.

You roll around in your bed, refusing to open your eyes. Not realizing that the spot beside you now has the weight of a certain someone on it, you whimper again as the pain shoots up in your chest. “Ow.”

“Mesh’la?” a voice sounds, concerned as if the sky would suddenly burst hot inferno air. “You okay?”

Your eyes shoot open, your lungs suddenly craving air and once you inhale deeply, it's a brief moment of satisfaction as you come fully awake, though the remnants of sleep still eludes you. An arm suddenly snags around your waist and pulls you back into a warm, bare chest. The heat radiates even through your shirt, and the change in temperature, even though you're buried in your blankets, makes you purr and tempted by slumber again.

It's Fireball; your lovely and perhaps a little goofy trooper who's made himself your boyfriend for the last couple of months. To be wrapped in his strong arms always makes it to your list of luteal phase cravings, and it seems like he's home after deployment. You don't wanna guess the time—your energy has already been spent—since you know he always makes it home to you late in the early hours of the morning.

“Baby,” he pleads again. You can feel his warm breath against the shell of your ear. “I know you're awake.”

“Mmh.”

“You said ‘ow’.” For a moment, his arm around you loosens, and then Fireball tenderly brushes your hair away from your face. “Are you in pain?”

You can feel his shadow crouching over you, and you're picturing his warm brown eyes trying to get a look of your face and make an analysis out of it.

You sigh into your pillow, your voice turns into a barely-there murmur. “Just hug me again.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he obliges, and you can hear the smile in his voice. There's a clatter of datapad against the surface of the bedside table before he slips behind you and resumes his position. You melt again in his arms, against his chest. “So?” Fireball prompts hopefully, “You gonna tell me?”

“M’tired, Fire.”

“I know. Which is why I'm asking. I wasn't here for the past couple of weeks, so I think you owe me some explanation. And a little confirmation,” he says, pressing kisses into your hair and inhaling your sweet shampoo off of it. “Please?”

He's about eight seconds away to point out his findings. Not because he works in a science division in the Grand Army (he really doesn't) but Fireball really is an observant man, and you love him for such trait. He’s probably already clocked your insomnia and the irritating pain of your luteal phase.

“Yeah,” you mutter.

“Hurt?” Fireball inquires softly, his fingers already rubbing and softly massaging your stomach.

You nod.

“Oh poor baby,” he coos, and you burrow deeper into him. Trying to live inside his skin, even, if possible. Seeing you like this makes something inside him that loves you ache, but it's the course of nature. He can't do anything to intercept, only providing you comfort and company that you need.

“My boobs.”

“What?”

“My breasts,” you say again firmly. This time you open your eyes, greeted by the low-powered amber light from the bedside lamp behind you at Fireball's side. “They're sensitive. Tender. Hurts. Sore. Can't sleep on my side.”

Fireball tenses for a second. “Oh then why are you?” he chides you softly, turning you over with a nudge of his strong arm. Your eyes are still watery from lack of sleep, your hair a mess, but he gasps a little seeing you looking at him. A grin splits his lips and makes his handsome face light up, his eyes full of adoration and sparkling in the dim lights. “Hi, pretty girl.”

You smile despite your fatigue. “Hi.”

“Now you stay here and don't go anywhere.” Fireball presses a kiss to your forehead. “I'll get you some warm water, okay? Then I'll try to get you to sleep.”

“Mmkay.”

Your heart warms at the sight of him hopping off the bed and out the door in a matter of seconds, his datapad gone with him. Within five minutes, Fireball returns with a relieved smile on his face with not only a glass of warm water and his datapad in each hand, and your smaller heat packs under each arm.

“There we go,” he muses, letting the door sliding close behind him and carefully sits back down on the bed with a slight groan. You watch him closely as he fishes out your painkillers from his sweatpants pocket before turning to you with a soft smile. “Think you can get up for a bit?”

“Mhm.” You banish the last of your sleep and scoot your body near him at the edge of the bed, already making grabby hands at one of the packs. Fireball chuckles at your quiet antics, handing you one and helping you lift your shirt to place it right under your breast. Your sigh of relief is a music to his ears. “I don't know what I'd do without you.”

“That's why I'm here,” your boyfriend indulges, pressing a wet kiss to your cheek that has you squealing. His laugh deepens. “Right right, okay. You're sensitive right now. Do you still even want me to be near you?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” you chuckle, drinking the warm water and painkiller pill he's handed to you. Immediately, you feel your body feeling a lot better already. Eventually your water runs out, and you resist to pout.

“More?” Of course Fireball notices your needs. He always does.

You nod quietly, and he's already out the door with the empty glass. You don't realize you've been so parched, but the moment Fireball returns with another glass full of warm water, you don't get to bottom up. He is now massaging your shoulders. You peer at the chrono to find out it's about 0400. You resist asking about his latest mission, and instead enjoy his company and his massage.

“I looked up in the holonet, y'know,” he cheekily says, after a moment.

You chuckle again, his thumbs putting marvelous pressure on your shoulders. “My heroic problem-solver.”

“A bit surprised it's common. They didn't actually teach us this in Kamino. Just the wham bam process in a super methodical textbook that sounds almost robotic,” he chuckles. He might want to read you that textbook for the laugh, but that'll be later. Pressing a kiss to your shoulder, Fireball smiles against your skin, hopeful. “You feeling better?”

You nod, sleepily, the heat packs under your breasts doing their jobs. “Much.”

There's an idea swimming inside his head. The very thing that interrupted his pace when getting you the things you needed earlier while reading the holonet article about breast soreness.

“I, um.” Fireball's voice is low to offer his proposal, his arms snaking around your waist and drifting slightly upwards. “I think a massage there would do you a little better.”

And then he can feel you tense for a nanosecond before relaxing entirely, but he can hear the teasing in your voice. “Fireball, baby, are you implying something?”

“No!” He sounds offended, so you look over your shoulder only to find him blushing deeply while defending himself. “No, I mean, I wouldn't be able to stop my boner once I get to touch them, but I read—really read—that a little boob massage might lessen the pain.”

You let out a giggle. “Well, I won't mind trying.”

“Uh, okay.”

“You're so cute, y'know that? Reminds me of our first meeting where you were really really shy—”

“Yeah yeah okay, shut.” He pinches your lips with his forefinger and thumb, yet still unable to contain your full giggle from erupting. How could you not? His cheeks are so flushed as if he's never touched your breasts or slept with you before. The man who loves taking care of you rolls his eyes and gets behind you with a couple of purpose, one of them is hiding his darkening cheeks.

You quietly rest your body back against him, a silent invitation for him to begin if he wants to. A small gasp escapes you as Fireball carefully slips his hands under your shirt, his trimmed fingernails skimming your skin and his palms warm, removing the heat packs and slowly but surely cupping your underboobs.

“You need to wear your bra, too. A supportive one.”

“But you are my support.”

“Hush. Where?” He asks for your guidance—it’s really adorable of him that he tries to focus so hard, and you poorly stifle your laughter for the joke dismissal. He shifts around with his fingers, touching your firm flesh lightly. “Right here?”

“Mmm, maybe.” And once he starts to press gently while moving around experimentally little by little, you melt back into his arms, and by process pressing against his crotch. “Yep. Yeah, start there.”

Fireball tries to concentrate. For the sake of you. For the sake of his beloved girlfriend, swear to gods or Manda or whatever rules the cosmos. He's trying so hard to think about anything else but that while his hands are sliding and softly pressing against the mounds of flesh that he loves to tend to during every lovemaking between the two of you.

His hard-on is pressing against your lower back.

“You're so cute,” you giggle, barely managing to refrain yourself from pressing back against him.

“Shut up,” Fireball grumbles. Playfully. For all you know it’s full of adoration. “This is natural, mesh'la.”

“Just don't do anything with my nipples or I'll do something about your boner.”

“I mean I won't mind,” he teases back flawlessly. You thrust an elbow into him. “Ow! Baby, that hurts!”

“No it doesn't,” you laugh, fully knowing that his strong build would withstand anything like your weakly-delivered elbow nudge. “It's about me tonight.”

“And you're right.” He grins. “You can surprise me in the morning if you want. As a reward, y'know? You love me, right?”

Your laugh rings louder. “Shut up, you're insufferable.”

Now that's an I love you too in his ears. A wide grin smears across his face as he buries himself into your hair, trying to contain all the heat with all his patience inside him. The last of your laughter has taken another spot in his brain for a permanent memory.

“We'll see,” you end up saying, and his grin widens accompanied with the deep impish chuckles that you love.

Taglist: @yoursrosie @hellfiresky @filamentlights @msmeredithrose @heidnspeak @lucyysthings @emmaw18 @leiopython-rat

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 ⬆️)

#clone trooper fireball #tbb fireball #fireball x reader #star wars #the bad batch #tbb #the clone wars #tcw #tbb x reader #clone x reader #x reader #z3st reader fics

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leiopython-rat · 2 months ago

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SCREAMING??? BOTTOM SCORCH??

Zey this is absolutely AWESOME!! Thank you so much for tagging me! (Hi it's me, Carbon, just my main blog 🤣) This was so insanely cute and fluffy but also super romantic and well written. I absolutely adore the dynamic between Pella and Scorch; keep it coming!! 🥰🥰

Delta Squad Week Day 2: Scars

Title: Sex Education Rating/Warnings: Explicit Word Count: 3.7k Special Guest Appearances: Mereel Skirata, Kom'rk Skirata Summary: Sometime after the war, Scorch caves and asks Mereel and Kom'rk everything they know about dating and having sex. He finds a partner in Pella - but can he overcome his self-consciousness about his scarred body? Read it on AO3

My notes for this fic:

This all started because of the fanon that Scorch is scarred from an explosion. I headcanon that his injuries went beyond some burn scars and affected his dick, too, which resulted in my discord profile name becoming "scorch's messed up balls." This makes me laugh. A lot. But hold on. I'm being serious!

I looked at no less than three (3) scientific articles to understand the challenges in OEF/OIF veterans with genitourinary injuries. I'd heard that living with injuries like this are more common now that field medicine is better. So I thought - what if this happened to Scorch on Kamino? In my research I found there are a lot of struggles with sexual dysfunction (and PTSD), so I wanted to convey some of the struggle here for Scorch Day and the "Scars" prompt.

I looped in Mereel and Kom'rk because they are responsible for the "rich social education" of the commandos. And Delta Squad is hopeless when it comes to relationship advice. Sorry boys, you'll have to ask the Nulls for help too!

I wrote this smut thinking it would be my usual brand of nastiness and then it turned into something kind of sweet and funny so, uh, enjoy!

His breath caught in his throat as soft hands traveled underneath his shirt. As her hands explored, she reached the etched, scarred skin on his side, and her touch disappeared from his senses. He knew she was there by the slightest pressure tracing the scars, but he no longer felt it so clearly.

Her smile fell, only a little. “You were young when this happened.”

“Uh-huh.” The fire she set off inside him started to shrink.

“Let’s get this off.”

Relief trickled into his tense shoulders as she pulled his flightsuit off his shoulders, leaving him in a sleeveless shirt. His unzipped flightsuit fell and hung around his waist. She stayed close, soaking up his body heat. In all the lead up to this, she’d been confident and careful, and now she was…

Scorch tilted his head at her, catching a shy smile. “What?”

“You’re very good-looking,” she said, staring into his chest.

“Oh yeah?” Whatever had charmed her into kissing him seemed lost to him now. Should he lean in to the comment, make a self-deprecating joke, or be demure? (Definitely not the last one.) “Speak for yourself, mesh’la.”

His fingers curled around her chin and directed her to look up at him. Purple markings speckled along her hairline, dotted with small, curved horns. Her hair was the same color purple, long and braided and pinned, showing off a short undercut around the base of her head. She inhaled in a quick breath, letting him hold her face while she looked up at his face.

“Scorch.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to come inside?”

“Uh—“ He flushed a deep crimson and broke out into a sweat.

“My ship?” she clarified, her nose wrinkled, cheeks pink.

Scorch thought she looked rather cute like that, slightly flustered and annoyed. He could probably do that again if they had more privacy. Mereel and Kom’rk were right—offering to walk her back to her ship got him an invite inside. They also told him to keep an open mind, that nothing was a done deal until they both indicated what they wanted. Scorch already knew where he wanted this to go, all he needed to know was if Pella felt the same way. No matter what happened, he’d successfully met someone at a cantina and kissed her. That meant he could at least get that far, and he wasn’t a lost cause.

“Yeah,” he said, smiling. “I’d like that.”

She took him by the hand and led him up the ramp of her ship.

“Come sit in the galley, I need a moment to tidy up,” Pella said, motioning for Scorch to sit at a bench in the galley. “Want a beer?”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

Pella bent over to the conservator and took out a beer for Scorch. While she searched for a bottle opener, Scorch popped the cap off on the edge of the table.

That got her attention. Scorch tossed her the cap, and she caught it, grinning. “Look at you.”

“Look at me,” he grinned.

Pella leaned over him, braced against the table and the back of the bench. “I am.” She stuck the bottle cap to his nose and headed for the door. “I’ll be right back. Don’t wander off.”

He got up to throw the bottlecap away and stood looking at the row of cabinets in the galley. The temptation to open them and snoop around was tempered by the fact that he was a guest, and anyway, he had no idea what kind of security measures were on her ship. He wanted to be on his best behavior—so he sat back down at the table and waited.

Scorch shot a quick message to Mereel and Kom’rk to tell them where he’d gone. All the precautions were in place—Scorch had a tracker on him, too, in case this five-foot-nothing Theelin decided to try and kidnap him.

Scorch couldn’t think of too many scenarios where he’d be upset about being this girl’s kept man. His imagination about what she could possibly do to him couldn’t conjure anything that wasn’t comically horrific. And he’d explored many, many topics with the Nulls before he went out with them to the cantina.

Kom’rk and Mereel were the self-appointed Skirata clan matchmakers, which was a strong word for their expertise in what Scorch had heard phrased as a hit and run.

“Don’t get too cozy,” Mereel cautioned.

“You need to be ready to get dressed and leave at the first opportunity.” Kom’rk was just as cagey as Mereel about the question of Should I spend the night?

“Got it.” He didn’t really want to spend the night in a stranger’s bed, anyway. “What if they come back to mine?”

“Whatever you do, avoid that. Neutral locations are best,” Mereel said. “It’s a lot more awkward to make someone leave if they want to stay. You need to be the one to leave.”

“If they come back to yours,” Kom’rk said (which was pure speculation because Scorch’s place was currently a room at Kyrimorut that he shared with the rest of Delta), “and they end up staying, you need to be gone when they wake up. Leave a note that says have a nice day, and they’ll get out of your hair.”

“And if they don’t?” Scorch asked, brow raised.

“Call us,” Mereel grinned, wicked.

Scorch scoffed. No way he’d do that. “Okay, well, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“So you should only go with somebody if they seem trustworthy, or you could take them in a fight,” Kom’rk said. Scorch didn’t anticipate wooing anyone who could physically overtake him. Who could even do that? A Wookiee? He did consider the possibility for a moment. If a Wookiee was into him…?

But Pella wasn’t a Wookiee. Scorch still couldn’t put together how he’d attracted her attention. It was a couple of hours ago when he saw her go up to the bar while he was talking to Mereel and Kom’rk. She ordered a dark amber liquor over ice, and when she turned to leave, she looked at him.

Her eyes were inky black and mesmerizing. She wore a green utility jacket over a slinky black outfit with combat boots. When she looked his way, she smiled. Scorch’s mouth dropped open and he nearly said hi, but it suddenly occurred to him she might not have even noticed him.

And just like that, she disappeared into the crowded cantina.

Scorch could have sworn she was looking at Mereel. But Mereel and Kom’rk noticed her, too, and confirmed she was looking at him.

Whether that was teasing or over-compensating camaraderie from the Nulls remained to be seen. Well, Scorch was the one sitting in Pella’s ship galley while she… did whatever she was doing. Making her bed. Putting on lingerie. Readying a conc rifle.

“Sorry about that.” Pella came back into the galley. Her jacket was off, and so were her boots, leaving her in a backless halter top and tight black shorts. Scorch stared openly at the purple markings on her shoulders and the outsides of her thighs.

“Well? Do you want to see my bedroom?” she asked, holding out her hands to him.

“Yeah. I do.” Scorch figured Pella has done this before. He took her hands, and she pulled him out of the booth. Not an easy feat for someone her size. She led him out of the galley and down a narrow hallway into the ship’s crew quarters.

That shy smile returned to her face. “Scorch, I don’t… do this very often. I don’t mean to be awkward.”

“It’s not awkward.” The way Pella peered up at him and chewed on the inside of her lip was cute. He didn’t know he could feel a certain way about a woman without even being touched. Scorch swallowed, every voice inside his head yelling at him not to say it, but finding if he says nothing, it’ll bug him the whole time. “I’ve never done this before.”

Pella tilted her head like she misheard him. “O-oh,” she said, the words sinking in. “You’ve never done—any of this?”

Scorch’s shoulders slumped and he let out a heavy sigh. “No. Nothing. Never kissed anybody, either, but I—know how it all works.”

“I never said you didn’t,” Pella murmured. Her dark eyes bore through him, searching his face for any signs of discomfort as she placed her hands on his sides. “Do you want me to show you?”

“Yeah.” Scorch could barely breathe, staring down the neckline of her shirt. “Just to be sure I understand. In case I—“ He gasped as she slipped her hand underneath his shirt again. “Missed something.”

“Okay.” And Pella pushed herself onto her toes to kiss him. “I’ll show you everything I know until you want me to stop.”

“I won’t want you to stop,” he said against her lips, leaning his weight over her, until she took enough steps backward to reach her bed.

She kissed him hard, yanking him back onto the bed on top of her. A sound caught deep in his throat as her teeth scraped against his lower lip. She kept kissing him, her mouth sweet, her tongue soft as velvet exploring his mouth, her hands making quick work of the rest of his flightsuit. He kicked it off along with his boots, leaving him in just his undershirt and shorts.

Pella smiled up at him, feeling his stomach, his back, his chest, while her hands pushed up the hem of his shirt. Scorch felt his skin catching fire even as the cold room air reached him. He pulled his shirt off, noting the way Pella looked him over like she was ready to eat him.

And he’d let her.

They kissed again, Pella still licking and nipping at him, her mouth so eager to be against his, it was like she needed to kiss him more than she needed to breathe. He felt lightheaded–it was good to be touched and wanted.

Her hands slipped under his shorts, cupping his ass and squeezing. He pulled back to catch his breath and look at her. His hand grazed over her face. Then she raised her leg, thigh grazing the front of his shorts “Good?” she whispered.

“Keep doing that,” he said raggedly, breathless at the pressure on his hard on.

Her wrists tightened the waistband of his shorts around him as she gripped lower and harder over his ass. Scorch didn’t realize how quickly his senses would disappear the moment he felt someone else touch him. He thought he’d be calm, in control, instead he was—

Making a strange sound in the back of his throat as she rubbed her thigh against him, insistent and harder with each pass.

“Scorch, take off my shirt.”

The shirt seemed… complicated, even if he wasn’t being caressed and having his ass grabbed. But he wasn’t going to make an idiot of himself and ask for help. Leaning down, he kissed her to distract from his fumbling at the bottom hem. It was so tight.

“Untie it. My neck,” she said against the kiss.

“Mmph.” Scorch made another one of those sounds, and then Pella sighed, a bit of a whine in her breath. Oh. He liked it when she did that. Did she like it when he did that?

Her hands left his pants and found his wrists, guiding them to her neck where her shirt tied. Scorch could figure out a simple knot—the fabric fell away from her chest.

There was a whole discussion about women’s undergarments with Mereel and Kom’rk. Lucky for him, Pella was not wearing a bra.

Scorch stared, watched her breathe.

“Touch, if you want,” Pella whispered.

All Scorch could feel was his pulse going straight to his core in anticipation. Pella telling him what to do helped, because right then, all he could think about was… Breasts.

His hand closed over her chest, thumb grazing over the softness, and he squeezed, caressed, did whatever came to mind in the moment. Pella’s hand landed on top of his and held him there, letting him do as he pleased.

“You’re pretty.” Scorch had been told to say that, and he had no idea he’d wholeheartedly agree when it came out of his mouth.

Her face flushed, but her grin was all confidence. “Thanks.” Then she bit down on her lip. “You’re hot.”

“I know,” Scorch whispered, clinging to what little wits about him he had left. “I was on fire, once.”

“Shut up,” she said, unserious and grinning. Her fingers once again traced the scattered scars and uneven skin, and all he could do was imagine what that would feel like, until her other hand mirrored the touch on his left side. He sighed with relief, and her leg rubbed against him again.

“Mm, let me…” Pella readjusted herself on the bed and sat up. She removed her top completely and reached for Scorch’s face to pull him in for another kiss. Now his hands roamed, following the curves of her sides and back up to her breasts, so soft and supple against his palms. As the kiss deepened, Pella urged Scorch to follow her back onto the bed so that he was fully laying on top of her.

Scorch was on some sort of autopilot now, his singular focus to touch and be touched. The feeling of his bare skin against hers was intoxicating. His kisses trailed down to her neck, low sounds rumbling in his throat as she wrapped her legs around him. The faint scent of something floral and utterly foreign and feminine caught his attention as he kissed and experimentally licked the side of her neck. Pella whined, clinging to the back of his head, holding him in place by the hair. Oh, he thought, even like this, she still had him doing what she wanted.

That’s hot.

Now that he was used to this position and could have an uninterrupted thought, he realized this was foreplay. The instructions were to kiss and touch anywhere and everywhere, and remove clothing as needed. This had been discussed over beers in near-clinical terms, like a flash training about diffusing a bomb.

Scorch felt more like he was the bomb about to go off. Pella’s grip around his neck tightened, her legs spread and thighs against his hips, and with a hard tug, she pulled his hips forward into her. Scorch gasped when he felt her rutting against him, layers of fabric still between them, but the motion and pressure enough to blank out every thought and doubt.

With a small push, Pella urged Scorch to shift onto his side so she could roll on top of him. This new angle was fantastic, and he stared openly at her as she straddled his hips and reached back to start undoing her hair.

“Scorch…” Pella’s purple hair fell around her shoulders, and she leaned over, letting it curtain around his head. “I’m going to wreck you. How does that sound?”

Scorch nodded, enthusiastic, and for one of the few times in his life, speechless. “Please,” he whispered. Pella kissed down Scorch’s chest, fingers twisting around his nipples and causing him to gasp and whine.

Her hands dipped beneath the waistband of his shorts, and she pulled down, exposing him. Scorch braced himself.

—

“What do I tell them about my dick?” Scorch asked.

Kom’rk and Mereel stared blankly at him, and then the recognition crossed their faces. They leaned in, absolutely focused on Scorch.

Rumors about injuries, especially like the kind that happened to Scorch, spread quickly on Kamino. 6-2 from Delta got himself blown up reached the Nulls before Scorch even got to the infirmary.

Everyone else remembered it in vivid detail. When Scorch tried to joke about it, the squad would turn pale and tell him to shut up. All he remembered was the sound of the explosion, pain, and being in bacta.

Not even Vau would talk about it.

Mereel brought a hand to his jaw, almost studious. “Can we see it?”

Scorch grimaced. Things he would have started a fight over with the Nulls no longer seemed that pressing. The war was over. They made it out. And Mereel and Kom’rk were being helpful, which was more than he could say about his own squad. (Not that any of Delta had the know-how to pick up a date.)

“Fine.”

They all piled into a ‘fresher stall.

“Huh,” said Kom’rk.

“Not bad.” Mereel was contemplative. “Based on your…” He motioned to Scorch’s entire person, the scarred side of his body apparent from his head all the way down to his toes. “That’s not much of a surprise.”

“I thought it got blown clean off, to be honest,” Kom’rk leaned against the side of the stall like they were having a chat about bollo ball scores.

“That was the rumor,” Scorch grumbled. “No, I lost a testicle, needed some skin grafts, and… Yeah.” They’d already talked about the medication Gilamar started giving him after he worked up the courage to ask. “Do I say ta-da when it comes out?”

“No!” Mereel laughed, and so did Kom’rk. “You’ll be fine.”

“If they balk at your war wounds enough to make it uncomfortable, hit the bricks,” said Kom’rk.

—

Scorch squeezed his eyes shut so he didn’t have to see Pella’s face when she looked down at his dick. He reminded himself that, hey, it’s not so bad–everything seemed to be working properly. If Pella didn’t want to continue, he could just… try again with someone else.

But he really, really wanted to do this with Pella, and if he disappointed her now, he wasn’t sure when he’d work up the courage to find someone else.

“Scorch?” she whispered. “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to rush–”

“I’m okay.” Scorch forced his eyes open. She looked concerned, but not about his dick. He flushed. “I’m great, actually.”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” she whispered. “Can I touch you?”

“Yeah.” Scorch felt relieved–elated, even. And way more aware now of how hard he was. Pella wasted no time circling her fingers around his length, causing him to flinch and gasp.

“Easy now, big boy,” Pella purred.

His body felt hot, a red flush spreading down from his face to his chest. “I think,” Scorched rasped, already panting. “I’m being pretty easy.”

“Yes, you are.” Her thumb brushed experimentally over the tip of his cock so she could watch him squirm.

Scorch hissed, tensing in her grip, as she continued to work him over. He chanced a look at her, straddling his legs, topless and watching him struggle against his touch. A small voice in his head was screaming at him to take control, get on top, and show her who was boss.

But Scorch didn’t want to be the boss right now.

He didn’t ask Mereel and Kom’rk what to expect in the event he lost his footing. It never occurred to him that he wouldn’t be in full control over the situation. He knew what to do–he knew all the flirting, the foreplay, how to seal the deal. But as it turned out, he had no idea how to accomplish any of that with finesse.

And Pella knew what she was doing. Who was he to interrupt her?

Pella took off her shorts and tossed them over the bed. Scorch wanted to touch her more (how to pleasure a woman had been more than half of his entire conversation with the Nulls), but it was clear that wasn’t up to him.

“Scorch, baby,” Pella murmured, positioning herself over him. “I’m going to take care of you.”

“I trust,” Scorch whispered, his hands finding her thighs and holding on, “you will, Pel–”

She sank down over him, and then it was her turn to gasp. Scorch watched her, memorizing the way her mouth dropped open and her brow creased as she took him in. She was so warm, so tight, and when she started to move, he thought he might lose himself right then and there.

A moan tore out of his chest, his back arching and his hips pulsing once, twice inside of her. Pella’s hands latched onto his chest and dug her nails into his skin. The sharp pinpricks played against the absolute bliss of her riding him, and he was so far gone with pleasure, he thought if she smacked him right now, he’d thank her.

Pella’s breaths came quick and heavy, little moans seeping past her lips as she let Scorch take control of the thrusts. She leaned forward onto him, finding a new angle, and he pulled her down to kiss her. He was greedy, biting her lower lip, soaking up the shared pleasure between them.

“Pella–Pella–” Scorch’s voice was hoarse, his muscles tight and legs shaking.

“Yes, baby, yes–” Pella kissed him as he came. His desperate moans melded into her own until he was spent and breathless.

The galaxy started to come back to him, little by little, and Pella laid at his side, brushing his hair off his forehead. “Wait,” he said, stricken. “You didn’t–”

“Shssh, that was good.” Pella pressed a kiss to his temple. “We’ve got all night, don’t we?”

Scorch did not know the rules for staying the night if it didn’t mean sleeping. He decided to make up his own rules because there was no way he was leaving.

—

Scorch slid into the seat across from Mereel and Kom’rk at the diner booth. He felt great. Refreshed, even. He hadn’t felt so satisfyingly exhausted in a long, long time.

“You two look hungover.”

Mereel shot him a glare and Kom’rk folded his arms. “Nevermind that. Dish.”

“It was good.” Scorch picked up the mug of caf after it was delivered by the server droid and took a sip.

“That’s it?” Mereel asked. “Not even going to throw us a crumb for all our help?”

“I don’t kiss and tell.”

The Nulls grinned. “So there was kissing,” Kom’rk said.

“Yep.”

“And the…” Mereel nodded below the table. “Went okay?”

“Oh, yeah. It works. Three times, in fact.”

Kom’rk made a victorious oooh sound and rapped Mereel in the chest with his knuckles. Mereel did it right back to him, and then they leaned over the table and shoved Scorch’s shoulders.

“Oya, Scorch. That’s how it’s done.”

Scorch couldn’t help but grin. He’d taken the plunge, so to speak, and now he could rest easy knowing he could go all night if he wanted to.

And he wanted to. That’s why he got Pella’s com number.

—

Tagging: @orangez3st and @carbon-corrie 🫶

#nsfw #scorch #clone commando scorch #deltasquadweek #delta squad

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leiopython-rat · 2 months ago

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DELTA AND CORRIE RIVALRY I didn't know I needed this 😭😭

Drabble Challenge May 2025 by @thedrabblecollective Day 7: Lotion | Masterpost

coruscant guard, the true professionals

✧ Star Wars | CG Commanders & Delta Squad | 20 BBY ✧

Inside the briefing room, Stone gestures to Sev’s DC-17m. “That kinda Deece ever jammed in the middle of a firefight?”

“Never,” Sev answers.

“Never?”

“Dismantling and cleaning your Deece is therapeutic. You should try it sometimes.”

Thire rolls his eyes. “You’re saying as if we don't do that.”

“Tell you what,” Thorn grins mischievously, “If you ran out of lube, lotion is your to-go.”

Scorch chokes on his spit.

Sev snorts. “You tell Fixer that. He'll go on a rampage.”

“Tell me what?” Fixer marches in, with Boss.

“Oh kriff,” Thorn cringes, hiding behind Thire.

Fox facepalms. “Stop embarrassing us.”

Credit: bottom divider by @/enchanthings

A/N: Awh you know me I'm predictable. I haven't exactly written the Corries before! I'm afraid that if these guys met, the level of silliness in that room can't be helped 😭 and I have to use one of the prompts for the upcoming event. Will reblog by that time!

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leiopython-rat · 2 months ago

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RAHHHHHH ZESTxTBB ITS EVERYTHING I'VE EVER NEEDED 😭😭😍

Drabble Challenge May 2025 by @thedrabblecollective Day 26: Narrow | Masterpost

back to where i was confined

✧ Star Wars | Tech (CT-9902) & Echo (CT-1409) | 19 BBY ✧

cw: one character experiences claustrophobia and PTSD symptoms

“Echo.” Tech is watching him, apparently stopping up front to worry about his apparent anxiety. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” the former ARC grumbles. He can't move. His breathing is shallow. “A-actually… The space… Too narrow. Too dark.”

“We must carry on with our task. The others are waiting.” Tech is suddenly in front of him. “You can hold onto my shoulder if you want. I'll walk us carefully.”

He has no other choice.

“Once we're past this walkway, we will stop and take a necessary break.”

“But the mission—”

“Your wellbeing is of utmost concern,” Tech insists. “Echo. It's alright.”

A/N: TBB GURLIES (gn) THIS IS FOR YOU!!! I've always wanted to write TBB but I'm afraid I'm not confident or committed enough for thousands of words. Let's hope I get there one day! And for the love of Manda don't tag this as cloneshipping.

Credit: bottom divider by @/enchanthings

#drabblechallengemay2025 #star wars #the bad batch #tbb #tbb tech #tbb echo #star wars drabble #star wars fanfiction #z3st drabbles

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leiopython-rat · 2 months ago

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WOLFFFFFEEEEEEEE

(again)

Angelica's cast released a new version AND I LOVE IT TO BITS 😭❤️ does this mean another hamilton star wars songfic is in order?

The question:

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leiopython-rat · 2 months ago

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Morally grey Sev my beloved 😭😭

This was so good and such a unique story! Thank you for blessing us with your amazing writing once more 🥰

How Do You Explain Unsolved Murders by Plasma Bolt?!

Clone Commando Sev × GN!Reader

Season: Autumn - Clone × Reader Prompt-a-thon ✧ @cloneficgiftexchange

✧ Prompt: Monster!Clone

✧ Summary: You always get away from the mysterious deaths of the people who bully you, only because of this dead dude from another galaxy who names himself Sev acting as your avenging angel, if that even exists.

✧ Tags & Warnings: set on our planet earth in the year of our lord, bullying and the classic neglect of some people with position, curse words, mentioned suicide attempt, implied attempt of rape, Sev murders people and is enjoying it.

✧ Word Count: 5.3k

✧ A/N: Heyo and welcome to my first ghost!clone AU 👻 and yeah uh that basically means this is a Sev Dies AU. This may not be my best writing for now, but I really do hope you guys enjoy it still 🫶🏼 thanks for being here, and have a good one!

Masterlist | Read on AO3

“You want me to drive you back?”

“No that's fine, I got it,” you refuse to the detective as he walks you along one of the corridors of the police station. You shrug. “I'll just Uber myself out of here.”

He studies you for a moment, a little hesitant at your decision. You kinda don't remember his name—maybe it's Jarrick or something, a thirty something year old man of lanky build with a faint cigarette smell coming from his jacket and a solid, grounding tone of voice.

“Okay,” he says, “Let me fetch your things back from evidence.”

“Okay.”

The detective leaves you in the middle of a bustling office workroom that smells heavily like coffee, exhaustion, and neverending paperwork. Around you are officers and detectives alike shuffling through case files, pens scribbling down details, and parental figures breaking down crying upon learning their loved ones are either incarcerated and charged or murdered.

You're having one of those.

Not willing to stand around and disrupt people's pace working their way through crimes, you shuffle your feet towards an empty couch near the door and sit down, the leaves of some real and typical strangely well-cared office plant brushing against your arm. You sigh deeply, planning. Maybe not going home yet. Some burritos to reward yourself after going through a hassle of a criminal investigation that you certainly didn't do, but always finding yourself in it.

“Hey.” The detective walks toward you in long strides, your backpack in one hand and your phone still inside the evidence zip bag. “Here's your stuff, all cleared. If you could sign this one first, here…”

You nod sort of exhaustedly, going through the supposedly last errand quickly and not really bothering to read the last half of the clearance document. He presents you the bag, unzipped, the content free for you to take.

“Thank you,” he says, slipping the clipboard underneath his arm and fishing a business card out of his pocket. With a tight smile, perhaps out of sympathy, he offers it to you. “If something else turns up, or if you need any help at all, you can call me. Okay?”

Det. William Jarrick

Oh, that's indeed his name after all. You take a few seconds to absorb the police logo, your city and state, and his official phone number. He's new, you heard, taking over the case—the previous one apparently is in jail for DUI.

“Understood,” you say, carefully pocketing the card. Jarrick opens the door for you, and you don't look back to the office. “See ya, Detective.”

He waves you goodbye. “Don’t get yourself into trouble again, kiddo.”

With a deep breath, you happily march out of the police station, willing to put it all behind you. There's nothing more stressful than a busy police station, even though you did absolutely nothing wrong. It's the walls, painted muted dark blue, and just… crowded spaces and coffee machine underneath a low lighting of the cabinet and paperwork scattered all over those desks.

The day is particularly chilly today. It's fall. Northern hemisphere autumn is never boring, you always like the cool air and warm color palette slapped across any surface either man-made or natural—trees, shop decorations, unraked leaves, shawls and jackets, thematic discount labels, video thumbnails.

“How's the new guy?”

If you hadn't known Sev and his tendency to quite literally pop up next to you with his oh-so-intimidating phone-scammer deep voice for the last six months, you'd jump and shriek at his sudden presence.

“He's okay,” you sigh, lowering your voice under your breath and digging for your handsfree in your bag. “Less annoying, more understanding. He's younger. Younger than the old frog who can't tell the difference between talking in a closed space and standing by a running jet engine.”

He snorts. “Where'd he go?”

You stick the device in your ear, running on a pretense that you're on a call whereas you're actually talking to a ghost that no one else can see but you.

“Jail, can you believe it? DUI.” You stretch your arms with a weary yawn before walking off the threshold and the entire vicinity, your pack now secured behind you on your back. “Wait, you've got DUI in your homeworld, right?”

He shrugs. “DUI, public indecency, vandalism, auto theft. You name it, Buggy.”

Buggy. Only Sev calls you that because you refused to tell you his name during your first run-ins with each other. You were too busy screaming and muttering incoherent prayers to the top manager of your belief system, or whatever gods above.

Sev follows you along the pavement, sparse of people, his translucent bluish white form floating above the ground, although he’s practically marching. There isn't any hesitation in his steps as he bears a soldier's stance. Intimidating. How could he not, with all that bulky armor set on him? He dwarfs you easily, and he finds it hilarious that he knows you're feeling kind of safe that he's unable to tackle you. Not that he'd want to. Not without reason, anyway.

“So where are we headed?” he asks from behind you.

“Stress-eating,” you say, laughing awkwardly to yourself. To calm your post-police interview jitters, more like. “I was in that stuffy room for like, two hours.”

“One and a half,” Sev corrects.

“Right.”

“You ain't scared that they'd find you suspicious ‘cause you're walking instead of taking a cab like what you told the new case detective?”

“So you were listening all along,” you muse, ducking into your usual small dine-in burrito place. You exclaim your usuals to the cashier and slide into one of the shabby booths. “To answer your question, it's not their business.”

“Could be,” Sev says, his ghostly (heh) form already slipping into the seat opposite you. His pack is already disengaged. “If there's another murder.”

“You wouldn't.”

“What?”

“Doing another murder.”

“Don't know what you're talking about.”

“Sev,” you groan, “I don't want you to—” you cut yourself off, remembering you're practically in public space. You sigh. “Don't slot anyone again.”

Sev smirks behind his helmet. It's a vocabulary he taught you. “They're bullying the kriff out of you.”

“Ever, Sev.”

“Can’t stand aside and let you be trampled like that. Like you're a useless piece of shit. You're bright. And you're still a person, Buggy.”

“You’re putting dead bodies in my name and making me the prime suspect every time!” you whisper-shout.

“Person of interest,” he corrects you.

You slowly close your eyes.

Sev looks at you. His sniper rifle is leaning casually against the back of his seat. “Can't do much while being a ghost of a soldier with unfinished business, doncha think?”

Before you can retort, your order is slid to the table in front of you, all warm and spicy and invoking the monsters in the depths of your belly. Spicy chicken burrito, ranch and extra pico de gallo, crisps, and cookies ‘n cream milkshake.

“Rough day?” the server, Caleb, asks you.

You blink. “Huh?”

He taps his ear, referring to your handsfree and how you've been talking excessively. “Another murder that frames you or is that your Slovakian ex girlfriend?”

You let out a dry laugh, your fingers toying with the still-warm crisps. “I don't have a Slovakian ex girlfriend.”

“Boyfriend?”

You kick at his feet. Lucky bastard swerves away cackling. “Shut up, Caleb!”

“Yeah yeah anyway,” he chuckles, his gaze clearly holding some genuine sympathy at you, “Hope you get through it and catch the guy. Mustn't be easy for you.”

“Heard that before,” you mutter, glancing down at your lap before smiling at him anyway. “Thanks, Caleb.”

Caleb offers you a smile and a shoulder pat before sauntering someplace else.

Sev scoffs at your meal as you start to dig in. “Scorch would huff that down.”

You slurp on your shake. “Y'all can handle spice?”

“Loved it, even,” he says fondly, which is a strange sight to you still even though you've known each other for roughly six months. “He handled it better than I do.”

It's sensible to talk about people in past tense when you don't know if they're still alive or not. For Sev, he's lost them anyway. He died. In his past life, in some place called Kashyyyk.

Or in another universe or something, because there were no known previous civilizations on Earth rocking the apparatus that he carries with him.

And he just happened to… land into your life as a ghost tied to you. Wherever you go, he follows. It had been hard to live with that, especially when you couldn't handle his dark gloomy jokes some time in the beginning of your acquaintanceship. Friendship. It's easier now. You're considering him a friend. You're stuck with each other, after all.

“Do you think you really have unfinished business?” you suddenly ask.

Sev blinks hard underneath his helmet to digest your question and, ah, it's poking his private compartment again. Why he's here, how he came here—does it matter? He's stuck as a ghost without so much as a memory about the manuals if they even gave him one somewhere in the limbo.

You continue studying him, placing down your ronto roll ripoff and absentmindedly poking at your crisps. “Like a mission? To complete?”

“Does it matter?” It's not usual for him to defy a question from someone other than a clone.

“It might,” you shrug, mid-chew. Sev is used to it. “We should… find out why you're sent here, right?”

“I lived in a different galaxy than yours, Buggy. Why I'm here is up to whoever's in charge of both yours and mine.”

You scrutinize him. Like, actually putting him under an interrogative pressure. You seem not to care about other people in the tiny diner looking. “You don't wanna find out why? Ever?”

There's something else he hides. Something about ‘unfinished business’? It does feel like that. He's a soldier. A hunter. An accomplisher. Those traits drive him to his goals with utter ambition and, sometimes, sadistic hunger. Hunger to get the job done. Hunger to anticipate what comes next after that job is done. He chases after these things. It satisfies him—the success, the crudeness, the raw elements he gets himself high on.

Then he died and he met you. Poor, unsuspecting and unlikely scrawny kid who's doing whatever they can to sustain their ranks in school. Apparently being too ambitious achieving a goal is a crime because it invites envy and jealousy of others. Now that, he can't comprehend. You're only doing your job, you want the best for yourself.

But your classmates attack you. Calling you names, banging at the locker next to yours just to startle the shit out of you, the cold shoulders, the belittling stares. Your teachers don't feel like intervening. You're used to it, but you're tired. Your utter surrender attracted him somehow, that when you actually really attempted to test how good your belt is using the railings on the second floor of your mother's house, the downstairs phone rang.

It was the news of the sudden death of a student in your school. Bertrand Wilson. He was the one who banged the locker every damn day. “We thought you should know,” your principal had said, before ending the line.

Three days later, Jackie Lombardini. She called you names. Next week; Kellan Peterson. He pushed you into a lake once. That Friday, Melinda Brewster—dunked your head in the toilet. The same day, Lucas Martinez—emptying your locker and setting the contents on fire in the dumpster. The next day; Naomi and Hans Grant, twins. They literally continuously threatened to kill you just because you caught them in the act in the lab after hours.

Everything was a mystery. No one knows what hit them. Cameras never caught the perp; no vehicles, no mysterious figure walking by. No blood. Just bodies dropping to the ground with a scorching hole in the middle of their forehead, smoke rising above it. Everything connects to one thing; you. Motive? Vengeance.

But that's the problem. The police can't place you in any of the crime scenes. It's a variety of places you'd never have the intention to go to—bars, shabby diners, rooftops, dingy hotel rooms, biker lot, or hell, their own house. Your alibis checked out—always. It's fortunate that the local police are immune to local media pressure—they stay on the lane. You're always cleared. You always walk away fine, undamaged, and perhaps, albeit a little guiltily…

Satisfied.

They deserve it.

Sev literally grinned down at you—behind his bucket, of course—when he first manifested in front of you. After every phone call, because the killings are always consistent. After hours. Evening. PM. You stopped testing the belt. You chilled out in your room and you were screaming to death while Sev came forward for the first time and asked you things.

“How do you do?”

“Did you like it?”

“What do you think?”

“I wish I could give them the old shank in the kidney like I did to those ugly lizards, but my Deece is all I've got. And I'm an excellent shot.”

“Taken care of.”

“Don’t have to worry about them anymore, Buggy.”

“I've got you, don't worry. I've got ‘em, too. Went out with a pew.”

It takes some time for you to adjust. Sometimes you're wondering if you still have the right to be called ‘victim’. They bullied you, after all. They bullied you first. They started it.

They deserve it. Sev finishes them. Lessons exhibited to everyone in your school. The aftermath? No friends at all, having absolutely nobody to talk to, and a new sick urban legend circulating around mentioning your name seeking refuge to the devil. What bullshit. Except if they want to call a living dead bloodthirsty psycho sniper from another galaxy the devil. Picking victims and taking them out in your name. It's fitting and eerily beautiful at the same time. At least that's what Sev thinks about.

Sev sighs. “Don't need to find out why,” he says gruffly.

You stare at him. “Um… why?”

He tilts his helmet back at you. “I know why I'm here.”

It's to hunt them down. Those who hurt you. He can feel it in his incorporeal body. Every time he lays on his belly on the next building over with a nice vantage point, every time pulls that trigger, every time he watches the body drop. He's never hesitant with his shots, he's always confident. All that, put into a shaker and poured into a fine, cold cocktail glass for him to enjoy.

You play with your straw as you lower your voice, “It's to kill them, isn't it?”

“I got off on it,” Sev admits shamelessly—but not, at all, in a sexual sense. “And it feels like the right thing to do.”

The corner of your lips twitch. Maybe you're just as sick as him, handling that much pressure and suddenly that pressure is ripped away from you without resolve nor closure. “So,” you muse, “Acting as my guardian angel who brutally kills people?”

“Don't see me doing anything else, do you?”

You look down somewhat guiltily. “I never saw you.”

Sev tears his focus away from you and stares into the plain fucking wall. He won't let himself be seen as soft, at least not now, although it's too late. Something is provoking the guess what I actually fucking care bone inside him. You're being vulnerable, so he can't be, too. At least one of you has to look alive.

“It’s for the best,” he says eventually, “You wouldn't like it—”

“Well, look who it is! My sweet darling baby!”

You’ve never turned around so fast. After one and a half hour being interviewed by a detective who's genuinely trying to help your tired hardass, that voice turns this day boring to plain shitty—a familiar assface with a Canadian accent bursting through the door with his sickening grin and, can you fucking believe it, blond pompadour hair.

“Who the kriff is this?” Sev asks aloud, his hand steadying on his rifle.

“Raph?” you gape, ignoring him, “The hell you doing here?”

Sev watches this Raph dude interrupting his intense conversation and sauntering toward your table with a happy skip in his step with a smile that even Scorch would've slapped away. “Flew over for you.”

You shake your head and let out a dry laugh “Don’t be an asshole, Raphael. Seriously, what are you doing here?”

Raph looks at you offended. “Me? The asshole?” he snorts. He makes a shoo gesture at you and forcefully wedges himself into the booth before smiling his smackable smile again at you. Sev actually considers to punch him across the face—doesn’t matter if his fist and knuckle blade goes through. “Don't be silly, baby darling. You broke us up first.”

You stare at him, scooting to the other side until your back meets the wall. “Because reasons.”

“Aw, you couldn't handle me,” he teases.

“Understatement,” you mutter under your breath, throwing a glance at Sev with a sigh. “Raph, we already broke up. There's absolutely no reason for you to fly over and— and babying me!”

“Right, right, but I can look after you while still being friends, can't I?”

“I don't have friends,” you state firmly. Sev gives you a thumbs-up. You bite your lip to stifle a smile.

“Well, but I want to.” This chakaar actually… seems genuine. Sev relaxes. A bit. The boy sighs in resignation seeing your unconvinced expression. “Okay, you want honesty? I'm in town ‘cause my dad's having a board meeting with your city council. Told him I'm gonna drive around town and, well.” He gestures to you with a flashy smile. “See how you're holding up.”

Sev watches your expression carefully with his arms crossing his chest. It's been a hard month with all the murders around you, and he's not feeling sorry for even one. They deserve it. He can't explain it in words, but his intuition has helped him survive many times by identifying two-faced sha’buire before.

“Yeah, I don't know,” you shrug mindlessly, “This mysterious sniper guy is gonna get the second wave of FBI hounding on my back and that'll be bad for me.”

Raph seems taken aback. “Whoa. Second wave?”

“Yeah. They sent profilers, but they found nothing on the crime scenes—all six of them. Pulled out and been working on it remotely ever since so far. Or at least that's what I hear from the detectives.”

“Right, right,” Raph nods thoughtfully, seemingly taking it all in seriousness. “Want me to hire PI for you?”

You scoff. “Raph. The victim's parents literally unionized to hire a band of private investigators to look into me.”

“Are you serious? You don't seem scared.”

“I've got nothing to hide.”

Sev catches one look too long in the far corner of the diner. He perks up, and that slight gesture from him renders your attention at Raph crumbling for a moment. “One in that corner,” he informs you. Your head swivels following his direction.

“What?” Raph asks.

You roll your eyes. “Speak of the devil. One that's hoping I'm gonna buy that… I don't know, librarian persona.”

“Oh yeah,” Raph muses, nodding as if awed he's got to see a real PI for once. “Doesn't that bother you? I can make a call to ask one of my dad's counselor team—”

“Raph, stop,” you shake your head, “I appreciate it, but I don't need your help.”

“Time to go, Buggy.” Sev stands up. Awkward situation that normally could escalate into a varping shootout like this is something he always runs away from first thing, even in the Before where Fixer usually shouted after him, and he intends to drill this when to walk away lesson into you. He grabs his rifle readily, appearing as the cold and deadly sniper he is as if ready to put a nonchalant bolt through Raph's head right there and then. “I'm saving your shebs from this dumbass.”

You release a loud sigh as you begin to wrap the burrito with its own tin foil and shove the last of your crisps into your mouth quite unceremoniously that makes Raph blink in absolutely not amusement. Maybe disgust. Good. You've got enough eyes on you, you certainly don't need your ex boyfriend to poke around, too.

“Want me to drive you?” Raph tries again.

You stall by slurping your milkshake clean, noisily. “I got it, Raph.” You plot your escape, rather quickly, to the front door where Sev is already waiting for you, rifle raised as if Raph could see him then the kid should be scared.

Raph follows you outside, his steps are more hasty rather than concerned. You groan your frustrations, turning to give him a piece of your mind until he cuts you off.

“Hey, hey. Please. I really am concerned. What if they’ve been targeting you?”

“Targeting me?” “I've been bullied for most of high school for having top marks, Raph! If they were targeting me, why would they kill people around me who've been causing me pain and made me nearly hang myself in my own house?!”

“Maybe jealousy?” Of course he doesn't care about your suicide bit. “They're trying to intimidate you by killing people around you.”

You watch in silence as Sev comes up next to Raph, out on the sidewalk and under the autumn late afternoon sun. The commando you've known as a friend seizes your ex—panting and practically begging you to understand and to be on his page—up close and personal with a predator's prowess. His grip on his rifle may seem relaxed, but you know the finger on the trigger guard is itchy to press.

Sev looks at you. “Want me to shut his hole?”

“No!”

Raph looks at you in disbelief, unaware of your slip-up. “Are you serious?”

“Yes I'm serious!” You gain your focus back but already forget what he brought up. Sev nods grimly and steps back.

“Copy that.”

“Look, I care about you, okay?” Raph says, “Watching the news and your name popped up on screen, it's only just last week that it's now up by seven victims. Seven. I was always wondering if you're okay ‘cause these are people you know, people you went to class with, but what if they get to you finally—”

“Raph.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, and then level your gaze with him, giving in with what you hope is genuine plea. “I don't need your help.”

You turn around again, but Raph grabs your arm. “I get that,” he says, sighing. “Let me drive you home? Then I won't bother you again.”

“Promise?”

“You won't see my face again and you won't even know I'm leaving town.”

And that's how you find yourself in the passenger seat of Raph's car.

It smells rental and you try to focus on it instead of your ex’s presence just a mere feet away. Raph wasn't good to you—his dad being a member of Canadian parliament, all he cares about is himself. You were just an object of his love bombing for five months and you're still trying to pretend to ignore that at least a quarter of your belongings were his gifts to you.

So. Him being concerned about his ex partner who becomes a person of interest in their bullies’ strange murders? Even stranger.

Raph insists on a scenic route. Says he hadn't been here long before moving back to Canada—all those five months here were spent wooing you and bombing the lovesick person out of you, both with love and his pompous bullshit.

And now you’re letting him initiate conversations with you again. You let him steer the topic, because you're too tired to think of one, much less speaking about one to your ex. Sev is watching you and the interaction from the backseat, his quietness isn't unusual.

He can sense something's wrong. He’s certain you’ve noticed too, but what could you do in a moving vehicle, if not launching yourself out the door out of paranoia without injuring yourself? Call it his intuition. Out of his brothers, his intuition never went wrong. It’s his patience and attentiveness when he's locking in.

So when the chakaar pulls up in the seediest corner of a gas station after fueling up, all this poorly executed bullshit ends now.

The temperature surrounding his incorporeal body freefalls. Always, every time, when his trigger discipline can no longer be contained. It makes his head feel hot and crowded with utter focus, his attention fully locking into his new goal—his target.

The search for vantage point? He lets his body do it. Methodical, careful, as if someone ran the program inside his head to do just so, because he's used to moving so discreetly without risking being seen. Even a ghost now—he can't erase that away. He can't be careless, still. It's who he is. Remove that, and he'll be just a shell of RC-1207 who loses his kick.

He's found a tree, but he doesn't climb, so he covers himself behind the gigantic trunk. He wants to see the bolt penetration. He wants to watch his target's head loll sideways as it claims their life that's been spent on stooping so low belittling other human beings. He wants the thrill. He wants to smell burnt tibanna. He wants to smell the death.

Sev raises his rifle and aims. It's already dark outside, and he's surprised why you didn't choose to go on a screaming match with your ex already to demand to be taken home. Raph drives around, errands here and errands there, even taking his time on grocery shopping and delivering packages. He's already been waiting for the cover of darkness so he could lock the doors and turn off the lights in his car…

And pounce on you.

Once the moving shadows inside the car begin to show signs of resistance and oppression, he wastes no time.

He pulls the trigger.

The boom resonating out of his sniper attachment is followed by the sound of glass breaking. The bolt went through the car's rear window, the seat, and…

The head loll. And not a second later, the entire body, dead, flopping heavily onto you. Dead.

You scream.

You've obviously thought of being present in a crime scene. But you’ve never found yourself in it since it's probably for the best and yet; here you are.

It's just like what they say and what they show to you in pictures. No blood. Scorched bullet hole. Smell of foreign gas flooding your nostrils. Dead body. It's also what they don't show you that's overwhelming your senses. You think dead bodies are cold, but you have no idea they'd still be warm. Or maybe, deep down you knew but it's all happening so fast. Freshly dead bodies are still so warm that it makes you want to believe Raph is possibly still alive.

You push his body away from you. Raph’s dead weight slams against his side of the door with a loud thunk.

“Buggy! Hey!”

Sev is on the other side of your window, wishing on everything he could've done including rapping his knuckle plate against the window and hauling you out of there as fast as he could to get you to safety.

“Let's go. We should go.”

And then the fog clears. It's like you're waking up from a nightmare.

“Sev,” you breathe, finding consolation in the presence of his illuminating bluish white form before unlocking the door manually with shaky fingers. Sev arms go through your body in an attempt to catch you as you stumble out. You hit the asphalt and grass followed by Sev's frustrated grunt.

“Buggy,” he calls you, even crouching to meet your level, “Get up. You okay?”

Your sight blurs—it’s your tears pooling in your eyes, and you don't even realize you've been crying. Sev’s translucent rifle, the one he just shot Raph with, lays on the ground next to him. You're expecting to be eye to eye with Sev’s gruesomely painted helmet but the face behind it greets you instead, and it does seem like your questions about the color of his eyes and what kind of scars marring his face would remain unanswered. The frown between his eyebrows and concern reflecting in his gaze bring you into a shared space of vulnerability.

Your breath hitches.

“Sev…”

“You’re alright,” he soothes, voice softer than you've ever heard of him. Sev raises his hand to your head to push some of your hair away but pauses midair, again forgetting his current state. Glancing away in embarrassment, he turns back to you with sudden encouragement. “Come on. We gotta get moving.”

“My bag,” you manage to say, your voice barely a whisper as you try your best to get up even on your jelly-like limbs.

Sev nudges his head. “Go. We'll get out of here.”

You get on your feet with hardship and turn, and you're looking at the nightmare again.

Raph had suddenly become violent when you rejected his advances and landed a solid smack to your cheek. Not three seconds later, he flopped dead against you by Sev’s protective headshot.

“He—” you swallow thickly, “He tried to rape me—”

“What matters now is that you're safe, ad'ika,” Sev affirms behind you, his voice filtering through his helmet again. “He won't bother you anymore, that's what I know.”

It burns. The pain in your cheek has numbed but it still burns. You touch the reddened spot with the tip of your fingers and immediately cringe away—it’ll always be a reminder of a tragedy.

And your mistake.

You're here when he's murdered. You're present at the crime scene, your DNA is all over the place. Within a second, you feel like the best you could do right now is crying again and screaming as loud as you can.

“Buggy,” Sev urges you again.

“I'll never be safe, will I?” Your voice strains as you turn around, your tears hot in your eyes. “As long as this town hates me, I'll never be safe, and you'll never stop.”

“If that's what it takes.”

You know you're supposed to be taken aback by his words—Sev’s sole intention and belief that he should protect you, a vulnerable soul, at all costs. His calling, he called it. But you're not. Your shock has escaped you and you are so used to letting yourself be ushered under Sev’s protective wings that you no longer question his merciless actions. It scares you, your sanity—it scares the little sympathy that's just magically… still there.

After all seven, eight murders.

Have you always been this heartless? Ever since they turn to be so condescending and kick you into the ground that you've had a fair share of the vile earth yourself, and make you swallow what they've spat on?

Maybe they deserve this, after all.

You sniffle, harshly wiping the tears off your sad fucking face. Grabbing your bag to find your phone, there's only one fight left for you.

“Raph’s dad’s lawyers are going to kill me,” you mumble as you tap the three numbers for emergency services. “They're gonna make sure I'll be behind bars for this one. They're powerful people.”

Sev huffs almost boredly. “Then good thing there's a security camera right across from where you are.”

It's a good position, and it's on. It surely caught what had transpired beyond the windshield of the rental car, and all the windows aren't tinted.

“They won't touch you.” Sev raises his rifle again. “I’ll make sure of that.”

You release a breath of laughter—either for him always having your back or the fucking coping mechanism, you're letting the universe do whatever it wants with you, as long as they decree Sev to always protect you against the most vile evil that the world throws at you, at least.

Taglist: @yoursrosie @hellfiresky @filamentlights @heidnspeak @lucyysthings @emmaw18 @leiopython-rat

divider by me -> Delta Squad helmet PNG's by @/stars-n-spice

Delta Squad Taglist (lmk to join!): @mutilatemyheart @alor-ika

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 ⬆️)

#psycho sev my DARLING #god i love an unhinged man #clone commando sev #rc 1207 #clone commando sev x reader #sev x reader #star wars #republic commando #delta squad #the clone wars #tcw #clone x reader #delta squad x reader #z3st reader fics

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leiopython-rat · 2 months ago

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Zest stop I'm sobbing at work 😭😭 I just wanna give him a big hug 😭

Beautifully written as always though 🥰

Drabble Challenge May 2025 by @thedrabblecollective Day 2: Faceless | Masterpost

tortured even when i'm asleep

✧ Star Wars | Sev (RC-1207) | 19 BBY ✧

cw: character experiences PTSD symptoms

Sev used to like the cover of darkness.

He had advantage. His target couldn't see him under the ghillie suit while he was perched somewhere elevated, his rifle took aim, and his shots were always true.

Until his most feared nightmare came to life. He understood it's protocol, but still. It hurted. Something inside him was broken to shards, in its place now reigned fear. It keeps him awake at night, even now.

Because even the shadows of nightmares come in many forms. Sometimes they're faceless.

Sometimes they carry the traits of a ruthless humanoid lizard with long, jagged blades.

A/N: Implied he lives AU I guess 😎 what am I even doing with my life if I'm not writing Sev post-Kashyyyk angst? Also @leiopython-rat I know you'd want to suffer see this ❤️😈

Credit: bottom divider by @/enchanthings

#drabblechallengemay2025 #star wars #republic commando #delta squad #clone commando sev #star wars drabble #star wars fanfiction #z3st drabbles

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leiopython-rat · 2 months ago

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All Lost Time

Pairing: Gregor x fem!Reader

Words: 9,547

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! established relationship, fluff, a little hurt/comfort, smut, oral (f recieving), fingering, face sitting, unprotected sex, pinv, nipple play, multiple orgasms, edging, overstimulation, oral fixation?, marriage and kids talk but no pregnancy kink, Gregor is very chatty during sex but I think we all knew that, and he is head over heels obsessed with reader as he should be

Summary: After months away, Gregor is finally coming home to you. And he's made it his mission to make up for every second you've been apart.

A/N: I blame @cyaretra for this!! This is my first time writing Gregor so be nice to me okay thanks

Previous Work | Next Work | Masterlist

It’s silly, you think, that Gregor still makes you feel this way.

You’ve been together for nearly a year now, but every time you see him, the flutter in your stomach and the way your heart starts pounding are as strong as the first time he smiled at you and asked if you wanted to get dinner.

It was an instant attraction. And at first, you couldn’t understand why. You were a communications officer embedded in the Republic Navy, hopping ships month to month, and it wasn’t like you hadn’t been surrounded by clones day in and day out since the war began. You thought yourself immune to their good looks, their charming smiles, and their boyish humor.

But there was something different about Gregor. His eyes lit up when he talked. He had a sense of humor. He had a story. And when the stolen frigate he was on showed up out of the blue in the middle of a battle and fired a full salvo at the Separatist flagship, well...you were smitten. You couldn’t help but find his antics amusing, endearing, and downright attractive.

He asked you out the second time you saw him. The third time, you kissed him.

The fourth, well, things got a little out of control.

Now, standing here in your apartment, counting down the seconds until he arrives, you can hardly believe how quickly the last year has gone by. How, in spite of the constant threat of danger, and the never-ending war, and the fact that you rarely have the time to see each other, he’s still the person you want to spend your time with.

The one who makes you laugh, even in the darkest hours. The one who makes you want to fight just a little bit harder. The one you can call, no matter how late it is, just to hear the sound of his voice.

And the one who can make you feel this excited, this giddy, this happy, just by walking through the door.

The second you hear the soft beep that means someone has punched in the code to your apartment, your heart leaps. You take a deep breath, trying to calm yourself. It doesn't work.

Your heart jumps again when the door slides open.

Gregor steps inside, carrying a duffel bag over his shoulder and looking a bit sheepish. He gives you a shy grin.

You stand there, just staring at him, unsure what to do, afraid that the moment you move, he'll vanish like a mirage.

"Hi," he says softly.

"Hi."

There's a pause. A long one.

And then a huge grin spreads across his face, and a second later, the bag hits the floor with a thud. Gregor crosses the room in two quick strides, sweeping you into his arms. You let out a little yelp of surprise, and he laughs as he peppers your neck and face with kisses.

You can't help but laugh along with him, even as you tell him to stop. You try to wriggle free, but his hold on you is firm. Your squirming only makes him squeeze you tighter, his arms around your waist, his lips traveling up your neck and making you shudder.

"Stop, stop," you say, still laughing.

"Why?" he asks, his mouth pressed against your jaw. "I missed you."

"I can tell," you reply, and you tilt your head to give him better access. "Missed you too"

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and run your fingers through his hair. It's longer than the last time you saw him, and he groans appreciatively as you gently scratch his scalp. His kisses turn softer, more reverent, and a warm feeling spreads throughout your entire body.

"Welcome home," you whisper, and his hands move to your hips, pulling you closer.

"I could get used to hearing that," he murmurs.

He moves down to your neck again, and the warm feeling intensifies, turning into heat, burning hotter and hotter with each passing second. His fingers trail up the side of your ribs, leaving goosebumps in their wake. They come to rest on the bare skin of your lower back, and when his thumb begins tracing gentle circles, a soft moan escapes your throat.

You know that if you let this continue, you'll never get out of this entryway, but right now, you're not sure you care. All you know is that his hands and his lips are setting your skin on fire, and all you want is to feel him everywhere.

"Did you... have a good trip?" you ask, gasping a little as his teeth scrape over your skin.

"Mm-hmm," he mumbles. His lips find the spot under your ear and stay there. You squirm in his arms, but only because it's ticklish, not because you want him to stop.

"How was Felucia?" you ask, breathless.

"Fine." He sucks at the pulse point on your neck, and you whimper, tightening your grip on him. "I got to fire a few blasters, kick a few droids, save the day. The usual."

"So... you're... all in one piece?"

He pauses, pulls back a little, and looks down at you. His grin turns mischievous.

"What do you think?"

You bite your lip. Your hand trails down his chest and stomach, feeling the hard muscles beneath his shirt. You look back up at him, batting your lashes innocently before your hand slips lower. He catches his breath as you cup him through his pants, stroking lightly.

"You feel like one piece to me."

Gregor's mouth covers yours, and he kisses you deeply, his tongue teasing your bottom lip until you open your mouth and let him in. You're barely aware of him steering you toward the wall. It isn't until your back hits the cold, smooth metal that you realize how dizzy you are, how hot and needy you've gotten from nothing more than a few touches and his kisses.

He pins your hands above your head, and you feel the pressure of his thigh between your legs. You moan, arching up, and he moves against you, grinding slowly. His mouth leaves yours and moves to your throat, and you tilt your head back and close your eyes, letting him have his way with you.

"I've thought about doing this the entire trip home," he murmurs, his hands leaving yours. One of them finds your waist, holding you steady as he moves his leg back and forth. The other slips under your shirt, fingers splaying across the skin of your stomach. He pushes the fabric up, baring your chest. You gasp, shuddering, as the air cools your hot skin.

"You have?"

"Oh yeah." His mouth moves down, his lips closing around the tip of one breast, his tongue flicking out. "Had plenty of time to think."

You thread your fingers through his hair and hold him to you. He sucks and bites at you, sending sharp pangs of pleasure and pain through your body. Your hips rock against him, searching for relief.

"You don't think that's a little... unhealthy?" you ask. He chuckles, and the sound vibrates against your sensitive flesh. He lets go with a wet pop, and his lips ghost across the valley of your breasts and onto the other one. You shiver and press into him.

"Not at all."

You moan as his tongue slides along your skin, lapping and circling. He sucks, harder and harder, until the pressure is almost too much to bear. You cry out, and he stops, pressing a gentle kiss over the bruise that's already forming. He looks up at you, his pupils blown, his smile wicked.

"You know what I miss most when I'm away?" he asks, his words a whisper against your skin. His thumb circles your nipple, and you suck in a breath, squirming.

"What?"

"This," Gregor says. He presses a kiss to the top of your breast before his hand moves south, cupping you through your pants. "And this." He slips his fingers inside your waistband, finding the edge of your underwear. "And definitely this."

His thick fingers push under the thin cotton fabric and stroke through the slickness. He finds your clit and rubs, slowly and gently, and it takes everything in you not to fall apart right there.

"Mmmm," you moan. "That's a lot to miss."

He teases you a little, his fingers sliding lower, finding your opening and thrusting once, shallowly. You whimper, your legs trembling.

"Well," he replies, sliding one finger inside you, "it's a good thing I've got plenty of time to make up for it."

Your breath catches in your throat as his finger strokes the place deep inside you that makes you shudder and shake. He's got the perfect rhythm, and just the right amount of pressure. You close your eyes and tip your head back, arching against the wall as your mouth parts and little, high-pitched noises of pleasure escape.

"So beautiful," Gregor murmurs, his lips brushing against your neck. "So soft and warm. Like a little ray of sunshine in my otherwise miserable existence."

"Stop," you whisper, though it's the last thing you want him to do.

"Stop what?" he asks. "Stop calling you beautiful? I don't think so."

"But—"

"Oh, yes you are," he cuts you off.

Gregor takes a step back, removing his hand. You whimper at the loss, and he gives you a smile before dropping to his knees in front of you, looking up at you with an expression that can only be described as worshipful.

"In fact," he says, pulling your pants down, "let me show you how beautiful I think you are."

You have to bite your lip to keep from moaning. Gregor has a way of making you feel things that no one ever has before, and his words alone are enough to bring you to the edge. But when he looks at you like that, and when he speaks to you the way he does, all husky and low, it's hard not to let go.

As if he knows this, his eyes lock with yours, and his mouth curls into a smirk.

"I think I'd better take a closer look," he says, and his tongue slips out, tracing along his lower lip.

He grabs hold of your waistband and pulls, and your pants and underwear slide down your legs. You lift one foot, and then the other, stepping out of them, and he tosses them aside. He kisses the inside of your knee, and then slowly moves up, kissing his way along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Your legs tremble. Your hands shake.

He reaches the top of your leg, and then stops.

"Gregor?"

"I could stay here forever, you know," he says, pressing another kiss to the inside of your thigh. "It's my favorite place in the entire galaxy. So soft. So perfect."

You're about to protest, but before you can, he spreads your folds with his fingers. Your words come out as a cry, and your hands fly to his hair, clutching his head and pulling him closer.

“And this,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your clit, sending a jolt of electricity through you. Your knees buckle. Gregor steadies you, his laugh hot against your skin. "You know, it's really unfair that I don't get to do this nearly often enough."

"You do just fine," you breathe, "when you're here."

"Just fine isn't good enough," he replies. He leans in again, flicking his tongue over your clit. You gasp and arch toward him, and his arms slide around your waist, holding you tight against his face. "You deserve more than just fine.”

You have a feeling he's talking about more than just this, but before you can ask him, his mouth covers you, and any words that were going to come out turn into a long, drawn-out moan.

You close your eyes and tilt your head back, getting lost in the sensation of his tongue moving against you, licking, sucking, teasing. One of his hands finds yours and laces your fingers together, holding tight, grounding you, and reminding you that no matter where you are, no matter what else is going on in the galaxy, this is real. This is where you are. This is the only thing that matters.

Gregor's free hand moves to your thigh. He urges you to part your legs further, and you oblige, leaning back against the wall and sinking lower, letting him lift your leg and place it over his shoulder. His tongue laps at your entrance, teasing, and then moves higher, circling your clit again and again.

You gasp. Your toes curl. Heat builds between your legs, and every movement of his tongue makes you shiver and tremble. Gregor knows exactly how to play your body. He's mapped every inch of you. He knows the right amount of pressure, the exact movement that will send you careening over the edge.

And it makes it all the more frustrating that he seems determined to keep you hanging on, never quite pushing you over the cliff.

"Gregor, please," you moan.

"Please what, sunshine?" he asks with a laugh, and you whimper as his lips brush your clit.

"Don't make me say it," you whisper, heat creeping up your neck and into your cheeks.

"Oh, no, no, no," he replies, shaking his head. "You're not getting off that easy. I want to hear it."

You groan and drop your head forward, looking down at him. His eyes are bright, his smile is wicked, and his fingers are teasing your slit, not quite going in, but just enough to send a jolt of pleasure through you.

"I want you," you whisper, trying not to whine. "I want you to make me come. Please."

"Your wish," Gregor murmurs, his voice low and rough, "is my command."

His tongue finds your clit and stays there, stroking, teasing, flicking. His fingers slip inside you, first one, then two, and curl, stroking the spot deep inside that makes you scream.

The heat between your legs builds and builds until it becomes unbearable, until your thighs are shaking and your vision is blurring. You can't breathe, can't speak, all you can do is clutch his hand and moan, louder and louder as the pleasure swells.

"Yes," he whispers, his lips and his breath and his voice sending a cascade of shudders through your body.

Finally, his mouth covers your clit, and he sucks hard, his fingers thrusting deeper.

You come apart. Your body goes taut, your head tilts back, and a cry escapes from deep in your throat. Your orgasm rips through you, wave after wave, and you cling to Gregor's hand as if he's the only thing keeping you from being swept away.

He keeps going even after the spasms stop, and soon, you're building up to another peak. The intensity is too much, and you try to pull his head away, gasping his name. He doesn't stop. He holds you tighter and doubles his efforts, his tongue lapping and his fingers pumping.

"Oh, no," he says, holding fast. "I'm not done yet. I still have plenty more to make up for."

"Please," you moan, though whether it's because you can't stand any more or because you don't want him to stop is anyone's guess.

"I think..." Gregor murmurs, his fingers curling inside you. You buck against his hand, moaning loudly. "I think I might have to do this a few more times. Maybe all night."

His mouth covers you again, and you close your eyes, giving in to the sensations. Your whole body is trembling, every nerve is singing, and the pleasure is so intense, so overwhelming, that it almost hurts.

He takes you higher and higher until the heat and the need are unbearable. Little moans and noises escape him, and the way his tongue and lips move faster and faster against you let you know that he's just as excited by this as you are. He's just as aroused by giving you pleasure as you are by receiving it. And the thought that he gets so much enjoyment from this, and from knowing that he can make you feel this way, is what finally pushes you over the edge.

You scream, and your entire body shakes and spasms. Your nails dig into his hand, and he holds tight, letting you ride out the pleasure until the tremors finally subside and you collapse, boneless, against the wall.

Gregor's fingers slip out of you, and his mouth goes slack, letting go of your clit. He gently lowers your leg and stands, wrapping his arms around you, holding you close as the aftershocks make your body shudder and twitch.

"There," he murmurs, planting a soft kiss to the top of your head. "Much better."

You giggle, breathless.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Definitely," he says. He pulls back, just a bit, and cups your chin in his hand. His thumb runs along your lower lip, and you open your mouth, letting it slide in. He groans as your tongue flicks across his skin, his forehead falling forward and resting against yours. "That's one night's worth of missed opportunities. And there are... a lot of nights to make up for."

You grin, letting go of his thumb.

"Well, then, I suppose we'd better get started," you reply. Your hands move to his belt, fingers dancing across the cold metal. You look up at him through lowered lashes, biting your lip. "My turn?"

Gregor grabs your wrists, pulling them away. You whimper.

"No," he replies. He gathers your wrists in one hand, and the other lifts to stroke your cheek, his eyes darkening. "Tonight, I want to make love to my girlfriend. The way I've been wanting to the entire trip home. And that means I get to be the one taking care of you."

"Oh, come on, Gregor," you say, pouting. "Let me make you feel good too."

"Nope," he says. He steps back and starts pulling off his shirt. "This is a night of self-indulgence, and that means I'm going to take my time and do everything I've been fantasizing about doing since the last time I saw you."

"Is that right?" you hum, raising an eyebrow. You start to push off the wall, but his hand stops you, his palm flat against your chest. He shakes his head.

"Nuh-uh," he replies.

You groan. "Gregor, that's not fair."

He laughs and tosses his shirt aside, reaching for the buckle of his belt.

"It's plenty fair. I've been on Felucia for months, fighting hordes of vicious battle droids and trying not to die." He pulls the belt from his pants and tosses it aside. "It's been a stressful couple of weeks, and I think I've earned the chance to do whatever the hell I want."

"And what is it that you want?" you ask, crossing your arms.

He pauses, and his expression changes. His eyes darken, the black of his pupils swallowing the brown, and his grin fades. He looks at you like he wants nothing more than to devour you, and it sends a wave of heat over you so powerful you feel your knees weaken.

"Go get on the bed," he growls, "and I'll show you."

And oh, there's the tone that makes your heart beat faster and your stomach do flips. The tone that lets you know that, tonight, it's not just about the physical, but something so much deeper, and a thousand times more intimate.

You hesitate, and he takes a step forward, his eyes narrowing.

"I said..."

"Yes, sir."

Gregor grins, and his eyes light up.

"There's my girl," he murmurs.

You can't help the smile that comes to your face, or the way you blush and bite your lip, and Gregor's grin grows wider. He grabs your cheek, squishing them slightly as he pulls you in for a kiss, soft and gentle and sweet.

"Go," he says when he pulls away.

You nod.

He kisses you again, and then lets go. Gregor's hands find your hips, and he gives you a little shove forward, making you yelp and giggle. You hurry down the hall toward your bedroom, stripping off the rest of your clothes as you walk. Every step feels like you're walking through a haze, a dream, something surreal and wonderful.

By the time you reach the bed, you're naked. You throw yourself down and bounce a little on the mattress, feeling giddy. The bed is made, as always, but you grab the blankets and fling them back, creating a messy, rumpled mess that would ordinarily drive you crazy.

It's a few minutes before Gregor comes into the room, but when he does, the sight of him makes your heart leap.

He's still wearing his pants, but his feet are bare, and his shirt is gone, leaving his muscular torso completely exposed. There's a thin sheen of sweat on his skin, clinging to the thick lines of muscle and dark hairs that cover him. You can see the lines of a few fresh scars, and some older ones, but the thing that really gets you is the look on his face. He's trying to keep himself in check, to remain calm and controlled, but there's something behind his eyes that makes it obvious he's fighting to keep from jumping on top of you.

"So, how do you want me?" you ask, trying to keep the tremble from your voice.

Gregor walks slowly toward the bed, his hands behind his back. His eyes roam over your body, and his gaze burns hotter than a solar flare. His lips are parted, and his breathing is a little uneven, and the fact that this man, who has seen so many terrible things, and experienced so much death and destruction, has no trouble being completely undone by you, is intoxicating.

"Gregor?"

He takes a deep breath. His gaze meets yours, and his lips curl into a grin.

"Perfect," he says, smiling softly. "Exactly like that."

You're blushing furiously now, and the desire burning in his eyes is making it hard for you to catch your breath.

Gregor approaches the bed, his gaze never leaving yours. You can see the outline of his erection through his pants, and your fingers itch to grab hold of him, to stroke and tease and make him feel the way he made you feel. But as soon as you sit up and reach for him, he pushes your hands away and straddles you, pinning your arms at your sides. He leans down and kisses you, his tongue slipping past your lips and exploring your mouth.

"Tonight," he whispers, pulling back, "it's my turn to do all the work."

"I don't mind working," you say, arching your hips against his. He gasps and then chuckles.

"Next time," he replies. He plants a soft kiss to the end of your nose and presses his forehead to yours. "Next time, I'll let you do whatever you want. Tonight, it's just about me taking care of my girl."

"What if I don't want to be taken care of?"

"Hm..." Gregor hums, pretending to think. "Tough."

His lips meet yours again, and his kiss is hard, demanding. Your hands struggle against his grip, wanting to touch him, and when he finally lets go, they fly to his face, cupping his cheeks and pulling him closer. Your mouths open and tongues tangle, and he shifts, settling himself between your legs.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and arch up, trying to press your body against his. But he resists, keeping himself hovering over you, denying you the friction and pressure you desperately want. You can feel him through his pants, so close, but it's not enough, and you squirm, whimpering into his mouth.

"Not so fast, beautiful," Gregor says.

"You're teasing me."

"Yes," he replies, sliding a hand down between your legs. "Yes, I am."

"Gregor—"

He shushes you, slipping two fingers inside your entrance, and all other thoughts leave your mind.

His fingers curl and stroke, and you buck against his hand, whimpering. He knows your body almost as well as you do. He can bring you to the edge faster and with more intensity than you can yourself. And the fact that he's doing it without even touching your clit is driving you insane.

"How are we doing, sunshine?" Gregor asks, and the smugness in his voice making it obvious he already knows the answer.

"So... so good," you manage, biting your lip.

"Just good?" he teases, slowing his pace. You squirm, trying to get his fingers deeper, but he holds back. "Are you sure there isn't something more I can do to improve the experience?"

"Oh, stars, please, Gregor, please."

"That's what I thought."

His thumb brushes your clit, and a jolt of pleasure shoots through you. Your eyes fly open as you grab his shoulders, trying to pull him closer. He resists, and you moan in frustration.

"Gregor, please," you say again.

"Please what?"

"Touch me," you reply. "Kiss me. Make me come. Just, please, don't make me wait any longer."

"All in good time, my love," he murmurs. He kisses the base of your throat, sucking lightly at the spot just above your collarbone that makes you shiver and moan. "All in good time."

You bite your lip and hold on to his shoulders, waiting for him to continue. He kisses his way down your neck, pausing every so often to suck and bite and lick. Each touch sends little jolts of electricity through your body, making you hot and needy.

By the time he reaches the valley between your breasts, his fingers are moving deeper inside you, and the slow, steady strokes of his thumb against your clit are nudging you closer to the edge again. You arch your back, pressing your breasts closer to him, begging him to move his mouth lower. But instead of doing what you want, he turns his head and bites your nipple, sending a shockwave of pain and pleasure through your body.

"You are so beautiful," he whispers. He presses a kiss to the top of your breast, his tongue swirling over to soothe the sting. You cry out, arching up, and he laughs. "Every part of you."

His fingers curl inside you, stroking the spot deep inside, and your head tilts back. The pressure and the heat building between your legs are almost unbearable, and the only thing keeping you grounded is his free hand, stroking your hip and the crease where your thigh meets your body. He moves his thumb from your clit, and you whine in frustration.

"Look at me," he says, and when you glance down, his eyes lock with yours. They're dark and serious, the same way they were when he ordered you onto the bed. But now, the look on his face is full of affection and adoration, and it makes your heart melt.

"Do you know what I think about when I'm out there?" Gregor asks, his fingers still moving, and it takes everything in you to stay focused. "When I'm fighting those droids, and the shooting stops, and everything goes quiet?"

"W-what?"

"I think about this," he replies. "I think about coming home. About getting to be with you. About getting to make love to you. About getting to hold you, and kiss you, and taste you, and touch you."

"Oh, stars," you whisper, his words sending a fresh wave of heat over your skin. You arch up again, trying to press closer, and he chuckles.

"I think about how lucky I am," he says, leaning down and brushing his lips against yours. His hand fists in the sheets beside your head while the other continues to move, slow and steady, deep and intense. "I think about how much I love you."

"Gregor..."

You feel the tears stinging the backs of your eyes, and you pull him closer, kissing him deeply, your tongue sliding past his lips and meeting his. His thumb brushes your clit, and you let out a high-pitched whimper, your whole body going stiff.

"I love you," he murmurs against your lips. "And I will never get tired of showing you how much."

You cling to him, unable to speak, and he kisses you again, long and slow and sweet. He kisses his way down your chest, stopping to lavish attention on your breasts, sucking and nipping and swirling his tongue. He moves lower, and lower, kissing his way across your stomach and down your thigh.

"So beautiful," he whispers, pressing his lips to the spot right above your knee.

He lifts your leg, hooking it over his shoulder, and turns his head, kissing the sensitive skin on the inside of your thigh.

"I used to be afraid I'd forget," he says, his voice low and hoarse. His fingers curl inside you, and he kisses higher, closer, and closer. "You know. That my memory would go again, and I wouldn't remember you. Or us. Or the way it felt to be here with you."

You swallow hard. "Oh, Gregor, please, don't..."

"But it didn't," he says. He's still moving his fingers, slowly, almost lazily, and the sensation is driving you crazy. You rock your hips against him, trying to get him to go faster, but he stays in control, keeping his movements steady. "It didn't go. Because no matter what, no matter where I am, no matter how bad things get, you're the one thing that never left me."

"Good," you say, gasping. "Because I never want to leave."

Gregor kisses the inside of your thigh again, and then presses his face to the place where it meets your hip.

"I wish I could keep you with me," he murmurs, nuzzling and nipping and licking. "Everywhere I go, everywhere I am, all I want is you."

You feel the heat building between your legs, and the pleasure coiling deep inside. It's slow and intense, and the longer he goes on, the more desperate you get. You want to reach for him, to clutch at him, to pull him closer, but you're afraid of breaking his spell. He seems to be in a trance, his mouth moving over your skin as if he can't stop.

And if it means being this close, having him this near, having him this intimate, this passionate, this whole, then you will gladly let him do whatever he wants.

"I don't ever want to lose this," he says, kissing his way up the opposite thigh.

"You won't," you promise. "Never."

Gregor moves back to the spot on the inside of your thigh, biting down harder, sucking, licking. Your breath hitches as you feel the delicate veins burst, the skin bruising under his teeth. A few days, and it will fade, but for now, it will be a mark of his love, a reminder that you belong to him. That he belongs to you.

He pulls his mouth away and presses his face to your hip again. He's still stroking his fingers, slow and deep, and it's starting to become too much. It's becoming hard to think. Hard to breathe. You arch against him, but he keeps his rhythm, holding you down with the weight of his body.

“I want to stay like this forever," he says, kissing the space right below your navel. “Stars, sunshine, I want to devour every inch of you. Want to spend a week, a month, a year with my face between your legs, because that's the only place in the universe where I'm actually happy."

"Gregor—“

"I could live there, you know," he cuts you off. "Forever. Wouldn't even mind. Just you and me and a big bed and nothing else."

"But no food," you reply breathlessly, unable to resist the joke, your eyes squeezed shut.

"Don't need it."

"You'd get hungry."

"For you." He kisses his way back down the other thigh, leaving a trail of tiny bruises behind. "Nothing but you."

"Fuck, Gregor," you gasp as he sucks at the crease of your leg and your pelvis, his fingers still stroking, his other hand tightening its grip on the sheets.

"I love it here," he murmurs, his breath hot and humid against your skin. "Love the way you smell, and taste, and the noises you make when I kiss you here..." He trails off, and his tongue finds your slit.

You cry out, arching against him, and he pushes his face between your legs, lapping at the wetness.

"Oh, Gregor," you moan, grabbing his hair, pulling him closer. You can feel him grinning against you, and his laughter makes your toes curl.

His tongue moves in long, lazy strokes, and his fingers are still going, in and out, curling and twisting. You're panting, writhing beneath him, the heat creeping up your legs toward your core, and he holds firm, his mouth and his hands continuing their work.

"Gregor, please," you whisper, and he lifts his head.

"Please what?"

"Let me touch you."

"No."

He presses his lips to the place above your clit, sucking gently, and you whimper.

"Please."

"No," he says. "You don't need to touch me."

"But I want to," you protest.

"And I want to touch you."

You groan and let your head fall back, and he goes back to his task, his tongue finding your clit, licking and lapping, and his fingers speeding up, thrusting deep.

Your orgasm is building slowly, the heat and the tension growing more and more, and your entire body is trembling. Tears build in the corner of your eyes, your legs are shaking, and your toes are curling. You feel as if you're standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to fall. All you need is one more push, one more movement, and the wave will crest and the pleasure will spill over.

"Gregor, please, I can't," you whimper, your hand fisting tighter in his hair. He moans against you, and the sound reverberates through your body, sending a new wave of shudders over your skin. "Don't stop, please, don't stop, please..."

He doesn't say a word, but his hand grips your thigh tighter, and his fingers keep their steady pace, in and out, curving and stroking. His tongue dances along the length of your slit, teasing and licking, and finally, when you're sure you can't take any more, his lips cover your clit, and his tongue presses against it, circling slowly.

You break.

Your back arches, your toes curl, and a cry rips from your throat. White-hot pleasure floods your senses, and you grab the sheets, gripping them tight. The spasms spread from between your legs up your thighs, through your stomach, to your chest, and down your arms. Your thighs clamp down hard around his head, and he laughs, his breath warm against your wet skin.

"Yes," Gregor murmurs, his voice hoarse, and he grunts as you squeeze his head tighter. His hand grips your leg, holding fast. He continues his movements, slower now, letting the pleasure build and then fall, and his free hand slides up, finding your own and lacing his fingers through yours. Your hips rock, following his pace, and he doesn't stop until the aftershocks fade and you lie there, boneless, panting, and covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

You lie there, unable to move, unable to think. Your thighs fall open, releasing their grip on him, and Gregor kisses the inside of one leg and then the other, letting his lips linger before sitting up and stretching. You watch him through hooded eyes, a lazy smile playing across your lips.

"Wow," Gregor says, licking his lips. “That was a good one."

"Mmm," is all you can manage. You try to sit up, but your arms are still shaking, so you let yourself flop back down. Your hands reach blindly for him, and he laughs, catching one and pressing a kiss to the palm.

"Oh, no," he says. "Not yet."

"But you didn't—"

"Not yet," he repeats, his smile turning wicked.

He leans down, kissing you softly, and then moves off the bed. His hands find the waistband of his pants and slides them down, revealing the bulge of his cock, thick and heavy, straining against the fabric of his briefs. The sight of his erection makes your mouth water, and you reach for him again, but he shakes his head.

"Not. Yet."

You groan, frustrated, but Gregor just laughs. He drops his pants and steps out of them, his thumbs hooking in his underwear, pushing them down, and his erection springs free. His cock bobs, hard and red and dripping, and you bite your lip, waiting.

“How many more do you have in you?” he asks as his hand closes around his length and strokes slowly. He groans, his head tilting back, and your stomach tightens at the sound.

You blink hard, your brow furrowing. "How many what?"

"Orgasms," he replies, his hand still moving. Your eyes follow the movement, mesmerized by the way his palm and fingers wrap around his girth, the head appearing and disappearing through the ring of his thumb and forefinger. "How many more can you handle?"

"Um... I..."

You can't form words. Your brain feels fuzzy, and all you can focus on is the desire that's burning through your veins. Gregor's cock twitches, and a bead of pre-cum drips down the shaft. Your tongue darts out, wetting your lips, and his grin grows wider.

"Come on," he says. "Give me an answer. Four? Five? More?"

"Maybe three," you reply, still distracted by the movement of his hand.

"Three sounds good," he says, and the way his voice drops, low and rough, sends a shiver down your spine. "I can do three. Now..."

He lets go of his cock and crawls back onto the bed. You grab for him, but he bats your hand away, shaking his head.

"No, not like that," he says.

"Then... how?"

Gregor lies down, stretching his arms above his head, and you frown.

"What are you—"

"Come sit on my face."

Your jaw drops. Your eyes go wide.

"You're kidding."

"Nope," he replies. He grins, his gaze dropping lower, to where you're still wet and throbbing. He pats his shoulder. "Hop on."

"What? Why?"

"Because I said so."

"That's not an answer."

"Because I want you to ride my face until I've made up for the last three months," he replies, and his voice is low and thick, sending another shudder through you. "Now get over here."

You stare at him for a moment, stunned, and then slowly move, straddling him. You hover over him, your knees on either side of his shoulders, and his arms wrap around your thighs, holding you fast as you position yourself over his face. You feel a little ridiculous, but Gregor doesn't seem to mind. He simply grins up at you, and then, without any warning, his mouth covers you.

You cry out at the feeling of his mouth on your oversensitive flesh. It's almost too much, and the first swipe of his tongue has your legs trembling. But he's insistent, his hands tightening around your thighs, holding you in place as his mouth and tongue go to work.

"Gregor—"

He moans, and the vibrations travel through you, making your thighs tremble. You lean forward, bracing yourself on the wall, and his tongue darts out, swirling and swirling.

You let out a whimper. You're still sensitive, still coming down from the four orgasms he's already given you, and your body feels boneless and limp. But the way he's working, the way his mouth and tongue are moving against you, makes it hard to keep your thoughts straight.

You lean forward, resting your head against the wall, and your breathing becomes heavier and heavier. Your hips roll against him, and his hands grip your thighs, pulling you closer, keeping his face buried between your legs. You glance down to see his eyes are closed, his brows drawn together as he works, and the sight of him so focused, so intent, so hungry, sends a new wave of heat through you.

It's too much, but not enough. It's overwhelming, and yet, somehow, you want more. You need more. The heat is building in your belly, and you know it won't be long before you're right back where you were before, and yet, the intensity is a little frightening. He's not even touching you, not really, and the thought of what might happen if he does has you terrified.

"Gregor, please," you moan, reaching for him, but he shakes his head, not breaking his stride. His tongue swirls around and around, and the heat coils, tight and hot and unbearable. "I can't. I can't. Please, stop, it's too much."

He pulls back, and you gasp in relief.

"Do you really want me to stop?" he asks, panting. His lips are slick with your juices, and his chin is shining. His pupils are blown, his cheeks are flushed, and his hair is mussed. He's a complete wreck, and you've never seen anything sexier in your life. "Do you really want me to let you go?"

"No," you gasp, swallowing hard.

"Do you really want me to stop making up for all the nights I've been gone?"

"No."

"Good."

He grabs your hips and pulls you back down, his mouth covering you once again. You moan and squirm, your hand flying to the back of his head, fingers fisting in his hair. He hums his approval, and the vibrations make you gasp and buck against him.

"Oh, yes," you whimper, rolling your hips. You can feel his stubble rasping against the soft skin of your inner thighs, and his nose nudges the place just above your clit, making you squirm. "Please, don't stop."

He doesn't respond, but his hands slide up to cup your ass, squeezing gently as his tongue moves faster. You brace yourself on the wall and the headboard, grinding your hips against him, and he groans. You can hear him panting, can feel his chest rising and falling beneath your knees, and his eyes are squeezed shut, his brows drawn together.

The heat and the tension build, and soon, you're right on the edge again. He doesn’t keep you there this time, though. Instead, he takes you higher and higher, pushing you closer and closer, until you feel like you might explode. And when you think it can't get any better, he reaches up and slides his fingers inside you, pumping and curling.

Your entire body goes rigid, and a loud, long moan escapes your lips.

"Stars, yes," Gregor groans.

He keeps going, faster and harder, and you come, gasping and shuddering. He doesn't stop, just keeps moving, his tongue and his fingers bringing you to another peak before you've even finished the first. You're screaming, begging, and the world starts to go fuzzy. All you can feel is the pressure, the heat, the intensity, and all you can see is his face, buried between your legs.

By the time you peel yourself off him, Gregor is a mess. His face is covered in your slick, and his lips are red and swollen, his hair sticking to his forehead. He's breathing hard, and his chest is heaving, and when you manage to lift your head and meet his gaze, you can't help the giggle that escapes your throat.

"You look like a mess," you say.

"I'm not the only one," he replies, and the huskiness of his voice sends a shiver down your spine.

"I don't think I can do any more," you tell him.

"Sure you can," Gregor says, and he slides his hand up to rest on the small of your back. His fingers stroke the damp skin, and the heat and the electricity are still there, just below the surface. "Just give me a minute, and we'll try again."

"We will?" you ask, biting your lip.

He nods, grinning, and reaches up to wipe his face. His fingers find their way into his mouth, sucking and licking them clean. The sight of his lips wrapped around his fingers makes you shiver, and when he finishes, he lets out a satisfied sigh.

"Yeah," he replies. "We will."

"And what if I can't?"

"I think you can," he says. His hand moves lower, grabbing the base of your ass, and his fingers dig into the soft flesh, massaging and kneading.

"Oh," you breathe. "Okay. Um... how?"

"Just relax," Gregor replies. His hand squeezes tighter, and his thumb strokes the soft skin, sending a tingle through you. "Relax, and let me take care of you."

You nod and close your eyes, letting the feeling wash over you. He continues to rub, his movements slow and soothing, and you can feel the tension leaving your body. You’re boneless and liquid, and every time he touches you, a little shockwave travels up your spine, making you shudder.

He maneuvers you easily, flipping you over onto your back and pushing your legs apart. He settles between them, and his mouth finds yours, kissing you deeply.

You can taste yourself on him, and the sensation is enough to make you gasp and writhe. You're still sensitive and overstimulated, and every touch of his skin against yours is almost unbearable. You clutch at his shoulders, pulling him closer, and his lips leave yours, trailing kisses across your jaw and down your neck.

"Still alive?" Gregor asks, pulling back just enough to look at you.

"Barely."

He grins and kisses you again. His cock is pressed between your legs, hot and throbbing, and he grinds against you, moaning softly. The feeling of his shaft rubbing against your slick skin is intoxicating, and the desire begins to build again.

He's moving slower this time, his hands stroking and teasing, and he seems intent on touching every inch of you, making sure not a single part of you is neglected. He's everywhere, kissing and nipping, his fingers exploring and massaging. You cling to him, your hands roaming over his broad, muscular shoulders, his chest, and the thick muscles of his arms. Your nails dig into his skin, leaving scratches and welts, and the noises he makes send a wave of heat over you.

Gregor shifts, and the tip of his cock finds your entrance.

"You want more?" he asks. "Or are you done?"

"More," you whisper, clutching his shoulders, pulling him closer. "Please, I want to feel you."

"Are you sure?" he murmurs, though it's obvious that's what he wants, too.

"Positive."

He captures your lips in another heated kiss before he pushes your hand away and positions himself at your entrance. He teases a little, rubbing the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in your wetness.

"Because I can keep doing this," he says, "and just come like this. On you."

"Gregor, please," you groan, frustrated, and he laughs.

"Okay, okay," he says, and he shifts his hips, pressing forward, and he enters you.

The sensation of him stretching and filling you is exquisite, and you let out a long, low moan, wrapping your legs around his waist. He groans and pushes deeper, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His stubble scratches at the sensitive skin, and his teeth find the place where your neck and shoulder meet, sucking hard as he starts to move.

His pace is slow and steady, and his lips and teeth are on your neck, leaving bruises, marking you, claiming you. You wrap your arms and legs around him, pulling him closer, deeper, and he groans, his hand fisting in your hair.

"Stars, I've missed you," Gregor murmurs, his voice muffled against your skin.

"I've missed you, too," you reply, arching up, meeting him thrust for thrust.

"Never going this long again," he continues, his voice ragged. "Can't stand it."

"Me neither."

He kisses his way up your neck and along your jaw, finally finding your mouth. You kiss him, long and deep, and his hand leaves your hair, moving to the side of your face, cupping your cheek. He's being gentle now, the urgency and desperation replaced by tenderness and love. You kiss him harder, clinging to him, and he moans, thrusting deep until his pelvis is flush against yours.

"I love you," you whisper, and Gregor lets out a soft sigh.

"Love you, too, sunshine," he replies. "Love you more than anything."

You close your eyes and hold him close, relishing the feeling of his body on top of yours. You're hot and sticky, and you can taste the sweat on his skin. You're tired, and spent, and a little sore. But it feels so good to have him here, inside you, with nothing between you. Nothing except love. And that's enough.

"Tell me again," Gregor whispers, his hand slipping between your bodies. His thumb finds your clit and strokes slowly, and you arch, whimpering. "Tell me again."

"I love you."

He groans, burying his face in your neck again, and his pace picks up, his fingers circling your clit faster. You wrap your arms around him, clinging tight. The pleasure builds slowly, but it's there, and it's getting stronger with every thrust.

"Again."

"I love you, Gregor."

A tiny gasp escapes him, and he pulls back, looking down at you. His eyes are bright, and he's smiling, his hair damp with sweat. You reach up, cupping his cheek, and he turns his head, kissing the center of your palm.

"Good?” you ask.

"So good," he murmurs. "Too good."

"Too good?"

"Yeah," Gregor says, his laugh shaky, and his head drops down, his forehead touching yours. "If I had known it would be this good, I'd have run away from the GAR as soon as I found you and never looked back."

"You wouldn't," you reply, smiling and running a hand over his hair.

"For you?" he asks. "Absolutely. Just ask. I'd walk across the galaxy if you wanted. Take on the whole kriffing Separatist army. Slay a dragon. Whatever you want."

"You don't need to slay a dragon for me, Gregor," you say with a laugh.

"Fine. A dragon, a rancor, a Dathomirian devil-bat. Whatever. You name it, and I'll do it."

"Gregor."

"I'm serious, sunshine." His pace is speeding up, his thrusts getting deeper, and the pressure of his thumb is getting harder. You moan and arch, and he grins, nuzzling his nose against yours. "Whatever you want, whenever you want it. Just say the word."

"Gregor," you breathe, gasping as his hand slips down, finding the spot behind your knee and urging your leg up. "I don't need anything but you."

He smiles, the look on his face one of pure adoration, and it makes your heart skip a beat.

"Oh, sunshine," he says, leaning down and kissing you softly. "I am going to marry the hell out of you."

The words surprise you. It's not the first time he's said it, but each time feels like a little thrill. A reminder that, even though your life is full of uncertainty and danger, you have someone who loves you, and would do anything to keep you safe, and would never leave you. It's a promise that, someday, all of this will be over, and you'll have a home and a family and a place in the world, together.

"Is that a promise?" you ask, unable to keep from smiling.

"Damn right it is."

He kisses you again, deeper, harder, and his hand finds yours, lacing his fingers through yours and pressing your palms together. You clutch his hand and close your eyes, lost in the moment, the heat and the desire and the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter.

Gregor's breath is coming faster now, his thrusts a little rougher, and the way his hand is moving between your legs is sending sparks of electricity through you. He's so close, and you can feel him starting to lose control. You cling to him, wrapping your arms and legs around him and holding tight, and he buries his face in your neck. His hips start to move erratically, the sounds he's making driving you wild.

"We'll get married. As soon as the war's over. Or before, if you want,” he mutters into your skin. "Have a whole bunch of kids. Be a real family."

"Yes," you agree, gasping, the pressure between your legs building to an almost unbearable point. "A huge family. Enough kids to start our own squad."

"Stars, yes," he murmurs, his teeth nipping at the base of your throat. “Lots of kids. And lots of grandkids. And I'll be there for all of it. And we'll be happy and safe. And... oh, fuck, sunshine, I'm not gonna last much longer."

"Neither am I."

He groans, and his hand moves faster, stroking you harder, and the spasms are so close. You're right on the edge, and when Gregor pulls back, looking down at you and giving you that soft smile, it sends you careening over.

You come with a scream, clutching his hand and pulling him closer. The tremors rip through you, and he follows, crying out your name as his body goes rigid and his hips jerk and stutter. His release spills into you, hot and thick, and you shudder, riding out the waves of pleasure. Your eyes squeeze shut as you feel him grind deeper, his hips pressing hard against yours, and he lets out a low moan as his cock twitches and pulses inside you.

Finally, the spasms stop, and the two of you collapse, breathing hard, clinging to each other. You lie like that for a long time, holding him close, enjoying the feeling of his body pressed against yours, the aftershocks making you tremble and shake.

The muscles in your stomach and thighs are burning, and Gregor's weight on top of you is a little uncomfortable, but it feels good, and you don't want him to go anywhere. You never do. You wish you could stay like this forever. Just the two of you, safe and sound and far, far away from the rest of the galaxy.

"Wow," you murmur.

"Yeah," he agrees with a sigh.

You're quiet for a moment, and then, Gregor lifts his head.

"One more?" he asks, his eyes hopeful.

You laugh and shake your head, pushing his hair back off his forehead. He grins, and you cup his cheeks, pulling him down and kissing him gently.

“Maybe after dinner,” you say, and Gregor laughs.

"Fair enough."

He leans down, pressing a kiss to the space between your breasts, and then rolls onto his side, pulling you against him and kissing the top of your head. You snuggle against him, resting your head on his chest and listening to the sound of his heart beating. The feeling of being in his arms, safe and loved, is better than any orgasm, and you feel yourself relaxing, drifting toward sleep.

You're nearly there when he speaks again.

"What do you think? Is a spring wedding okay with you?"

"Hmm?" you hum, forcing your eyes open and looking up at him.

"For our wedding. It's my favorite time of year,” he replies, tracing his fingers lightly across your back. "When everything comes back to life. And I think you'd look really good in a flower crown."

You chuckle and press a kiss to his shoulder. Your lips trail across the scar there, and his arms tighten around you, squeezing a little.

"Sure, Gregor. A spring wedding sounds wonderful."

"Oh, good," he says. "And maybe, if we can talk Cody into taking a few days off, we can have him marry us."

“Does he have the authority to do that?”

"I think so. I've never asked him, but it doesn't hurt to check. If not, I bet General Kenobi would do it. He likes you. Plus, it would be a nice gesture to show him that we appreciate all he's done for us."

"Okay, yeah," you grin. "We can ask them."

"Perfect," he says, his hand traveling up your back and over your neck, and his fingers tangle in your hair. He tilts your head back, and kisses you softly. "I can't wait."

"Neither can I."

Gregor grins, and he pulls back, resting his head on the pillow and closing his eyes. You settle in next to him, and a wave of peace washes over you. For the first time in three months, you're completely at ease.

All the fear, the worry, the anxiety that's been weighing on your shoulders is gone, and in its place is a sense of rightness and contentment. It's like everything has clicked into place. Like you've been floating, lost in a storm, and the anchor has finally hit the ground, holding fast.

It's not the perfect ending. But it's close. And it's what you've needed.

"I love you, Gregor," you whisper.

He doesn't answer. His chest is rising and falling steadily, and his face is relaxed. You smile and press a kiss to his chest.

It's just as well. There will be plenty of time to tell him.

taglist: @covert1ntrovert @stellarbit @spicy-clones @kindalonleystars @totallyunidentified @lovelytech9902 @frozenreptile @etod @puppetscenario @umekohiganbana @resistantecho @dindjarins1ut @tech-aficionado @aynavaano @burningnerdchild @ihatesaaand @lolwey @chocolatewastelandtriumph @hobbititties @mere-bear @thegreatpipster @lordofthenerds97 @notslaybabes @ayyyy-le-simp @mali-777 @megmegalodondon @dangraccoon @heavenseed76 @bimboshaggy @bunny7567 @lostqueenofegypt @anything-forourmoony @9902sgirl @jedi-dreea @salaminus @ghostymarni @gottalovehistory @mrcaptainrex @maniacalbooper @burningnerdchild @callsign-denmark @julli-bee @moonychicky @sonicrainbooms @captn-trex @feral-ferrule @webslinger-holland @marchingviolist @deerspringdreams

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leiopython-rat · 2 months ago

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Drabble Challenge May 2025 by @thedrabblecollective Day 23: Workshop | Masterpost

clones & insurgences

✧ Star Wars | Gregor (CC-5576) & Kleya Marki | 6 BBY ✧

“Either you're stupid enough to come to a speeder workshop without the damn speeder or you're coming for something else.”

Kleya nearly flinches. A man, taller than her and bulkier with a rag on his shoulder, approaches with a curious knit of dark eyebrows.

“You might be needed somewhere else,” Kleya mutters, eyes sweeping around the vicinity. “War isn't over yet.”

Recognition and preparedness flash across his amber eyes. “Name's Gregor.”

“I know who you are.”

“Charmed,” he quips, giggling oddly. “So. Wanna point me where the insurgence is supposed to be or d’ya just wanna stand there looking stupid?”

A/N: Accelerated aging in clones ran out of juice once they're 10 (20 y/o in standard) something something which supposedly makes them about 39 during Andor also what in the rarepair have I created. Uh. Greya, anyone?

Credit: bottom divider by @/enchanthings

#gregor my beloved #his little giggles make me kick my feet and grin #i love him so much #star wars #andor #the clone wars #kleya marki #clone commando gregor #greya #gregor x kleya #clones in rebellion alliance au #star wars drabble #star wars fanfiction #z3st drabbles

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leiopython-rat · 2 months ago

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FIVES BEING WITH ECHO IN THE REBELLION IS GOOD AND RIGHT

oh my heart 😭💙💙

Drabble Challenge May 2025 by @thedrabblecollective Day 22: Tenacity | Masterpost

even in the (official) rebellion

✧ Star Wars | Echo & Fives | 1 BBY ✧

Echo gazes into the skyline of Yavin IV. “Feels right to be here.”

“Always.” Fives rolls himself out of the starship part he's welding. He looks at his twin, who excellently mirrors his own aging face lines. “Still dealing with senators, but fine.”

Echo laughs, offering him revnog. “The good ones.”

Fives hums, chugging before studying his vod fondly. “We’ve come a long way from Rishi. Citadel. Bracca. Teth. It's your tenacity, vod—always find myself admiring ‘em.”

Echo looks away blinking.

“Aw, love you too, vod'ika.”

His twin snorts. “You're an idiot.”

Fives raises a toast. “But you love me.”

A/N: Can't move on from Andor yet and I just rewatched Rogue One yesterday so naturally I wanna put the boys somewhere in that scenario 💙💙 also @aknightreaderr this is for you!! Hope you like it 🫶🏼

Also from this fluff prompt

Divider Credits: [1] by @/plum98 - [2] by @/enchanthings

#drabblechallengemay2025 #star wars #tbb echo #arc trooper echo #arc trooper fives #clones in rebellion alliance au #star wars drabble #star wars fanfiction #z3st drabbles

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leiopython-rat · 2 months ago

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This prompt didn’t specify which clones to draw in a ‘draw the squad’ meme, so I went the Republic Commando route. Delta Squad livin’ it up a la Hamilton (pose referenced here).

They’ve been drinking juice. Really.

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leiopython-rat · 2 months ago

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NOT SPINDER 😭😭😭

Fixer you HARLOT (my beloved)

Drabble Challenge May 2025 by @thedrabblecollective Day 21: Choices

swipe left, swipe right

✧ Star Wars | Rex, Fives, Hardcase, Jesse, Delta Squad | 20 BBY ✧

“What in Prime’s name are you doing with commandos—” Rex pauses, blinking. “Deltas.”

“Rex'ika,” Scorch beams, smacking his back so hard that it almost sends him flying across the room.

“Teaching Sev how to use Spinder,” Fives announces with a massive grin.

“Swipe left if you no likey, swipe right if you likey,” Hardcase explains to the sniper commando.

“Won't that offend someone?” Boss asks.

“Nope, that's how that works!... Sarge,” Jesse clears his throat, “It’s everybody's choice. No one'll be offended.”

Fixer watches on. Fives notices his silence. “You?”

“No need! He gets laid every week.”

“Shut up, Six-Two.”

A/N: Inspired by bits and pieces of @hellfiresky’s stuff 😭😭 their latest update on Seeing Red involves Triple Zero plot! Oh, truly the happiest day of my life. Spinder is space tinder or something.

Divider Credits: [1] by @/plum98 - [2] by @/enchanthings

#star wars #the clone wars #captain rex #arc trooper fives #clone trooper hardcase #arc trooper jesse #delta squad #star wars drabble #star wars fanfiction #z3st drabbles

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leiopython-rat · 2 months ago

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Vod. This entire thing was SO well written, but I actually forgot I was reading a fic in the beginning - I could've sworn it was official star wars literature! You're so amazingly talented - I can't get enough of your writing!

Wolffe was absolutely perfect here. I just want to give him a big hug 😭😭

I Know Who I Married

Commander Wolffe × F!Reader

✧ Summary: Wolffe, a commander of his men and your husband, finds himself trapped between two conflicts. And yet, the ending involves you being your forgiving self, followed by good news.

✧ Tags & Warnings: pregnant reader, songfic, forbidden marriage, a little angsty, domestic fluff, words of affirmation, one (1) mention of sex, maybe inaccurate pregnancy things, oops look at that word count my hand slipped, PLO'BUIR

✧ Word Count: 6.8k

✧ A/N: Please accept this angsty-wholesome (and finally non-Delta!) fic bcs it'd be the last one for now! Delta Squad Week is drawing closer and I wanna focus on that, and then I'll get through the piling fic requests. Enjoy this one! (Also did I accidentally lorebuild the 104th and make a new clone OC out of this? Yes.)

Masterlist | Read on AO3

𝑳𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚 𝒘𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒘

— That Would Be Enough - Philippa Soo, Lin-Manuel Miranda [X]

Wolffe swallows heavily as his footsteps, heavy, carry him to the war room. The grey of the venator’s hallways are neverending and ever gloomy as the distance between him and his destination draws closer. The overbearing burden as a leader has never felt so great after the recent campaign. He's lost so many men over false intel that neither he or his captains bothered to reassess.

His fault. He called the shots, even reassured his general that the campaign would run smoothly as planned. As usual. Then he became reckless. He wants to scream until his throat is scratchy and punch the wall until he crushes his knuckles. The warmth of the blood and the pain that'd occur and scratch along his skin would be worth it. Or maybe not even close—to the lives lost.

So many of his men. Wolffe is still able to recall their screams and desperate call for help over the comms as they were ambushed from all sides—and every time, he blinked and breathed through it as he covered the others in his radius to retreat. To fight for another day.

Until then, he must face whatever awaits him, his boots steadily and almost rhythmically resound across durasteel flooring of the ship, as if nothing's different. As if it's just the usual. Oh how he wishes it's the usual.

Two of his men adorned in 104th grey who guard the entrance to the war room spares him a glance, and a nod of respect about a second too late. Hesitance. Hesitance over his authority. Over his competence to lead. Fighting not to tilt his helmet away, Wolffe manages to tilt his focus away instead. He's lost so many men, but never because of his recklessness.

“Commander,” one of them greets, either with the usual respect or to defuse the disregarded tension. Wolffe bets on the latter as he strides past them, taking off his helmet in the process, and into the center of the room.

The holotable glows with field schematics of their next campaign. Wolffe has expected the Admiral, but now the man is nowhere around. Plo Koon always carries a strong presence in the room with his wisdom and perseverance, standing on one side of the table. The High Jedi General is trading a quiet discussion with someone—Wolffe notices the unmistakable ARC get-up and extra belt pouches, said attributes in 104th grey, with a marshal commander rank plaque on his left chest.

Wolffe snaps into attention, his helmet tucked under his arm. “General Plo Koon. Marshal Commander Brontes.” He's managed to quench his shock about three seconds before he spoke. What Brontes is doing here doubles and triples his anxiousness. Steeling himself still even after the Generals waves at ease, he swallows again, tipping his chin a little higher. “You summoned me, General?”

“Yes, Commander,” addresses Plo Koon, turning away from the holotable to face Wolffe. Blue light reflects on his features and his mask. “I wish not to waste your time. We'll be discussing the aftermath of our latest campaign.”

Shit. Direct reprimand. His worst nightmare. In front of Brontes, technically and structurally highest in command, only second after Plo Koon in the 14th Storm Corps? Even worse—much worse. He'd rather have a broken arm. At least he can still put up a fight equally well with the other one. But this? This is a fight he's never going to win in any time, in any scenario.

The General is waiting for him to speak.

“I…” Wolffe can't quite find his own words. Chaos that ensued in the comms a little over one rotation ago still haunts his mind, leaving it blank.

“Sir.” Brontes steps in. “Permission for a private talk with Commander Wolffe for a minute.”

Plo Koon trades a long look with the clone marshal commander that grows softer over time. Wolffe swears he can spot a slightest slump of the Kel Dor’s shoulders, and maybe a sigh that's rattling quietly out of his mask. “Granted.”

And with that, the Jedi marches away to the furthest viewport in the room, hands behind his back, watching the blur of hyperspace in uncharacteristically stiff posture that just settles more self-hatred inside Wolffe.

“Vod.” Brontes' voice next to him pulls him out of his stupor. Wolffe turns to the marshal commander with a look of dread that he doesn't realize himself wearing, until Brontes’ countenance visibly softens. “Wolffe, talk to me. As brothers. I know you're upset.”

“Seems like word travels fast, doesn't it?”

“Wolffe.” A look of warning. “Don’t deflect. You know better than that.”

“Everything that happened is purely my fault, Brontes. M’not even gonna defend myself. I'm ready to take the beating out of this.”

“Are you, really?” Brontes' scarred eyebrow lifts skeptically as he crosses his arms. “Because you look like you're about to burst off at the seams, vod.”

“Oh I didn't know that,” Wolffe grits his teeth.

Brontes sighs. “Save your shebs from blurting emotional and uncontrollable nonsense to the General by talking to me first.” He steps closer, voice lowered and mismatched brown and blue eyes sharp. “What the hell happened? You've never done reckless shit like this. You're always careful. I know you, ner vod. We ran into each other Kamino so many times that I actually lost count.”

Wolffe has come prepared for the speech. “I wasn't careful,” he relents with a sigh, “The war. It never ends. I just…”

Your luminous smile slips to the forefront of his mind. Then your sweet giggle, at something he said. An image where you are truly happy. The sun behind your head makes you glow and grants you a divine halo—an image committed to his memory while you glide through a warm and colorful meadow of beautiful Nabooian flowers. And yet, next to this graceful dance you commence for him, is your steadfast presence in his life. Your beautiful friendship with him, your kindness, and last but never the least, your loyalty.

Once upon a time it led to a secret ceremony of the bonding of two living souls. Marriage. It was done by Mandalorian customs. After uttering the riduurok and trading a kiss as husband and wife, you took him on this quirky yet meaningful idea to get inked around the base of both of your left ring fingers to mimic a wedding ring. Wolffe has your name on his, and you have his. It was perfect. A newfound bliss with a newfound meaning—this world now belongs to you both, and you will do anything to find yourself back in each other's arms despite the circumstances.

After all, you're a civilian. Wolffe is a soldier. His true duty is someplace else and anywhere else at the same time—anywhere in the galaxy where conflict breaks and harms like glass.

“...I just wish this'll be over soon,” Wolffe says somberly, longing for you terribly all of a sudden following those thoughts, that he has to keep the dam from overflowing.

But Brontes stares at him, all deadpan and unamused. “So you thought maybe you'd just chuck a live det in the dark and charge head on even though you know you're probably blasting at an absolute unit of a mutated rancor, which puts all your trigger-happy efforts as useless.”

Wolffe slowly closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. “It was false intel.”

“That you failed to reassess!” Brontes hisses, “Our comms and intelligence are perfectly capable—they literally kill time by reassessing intel over and over again because that's what they do, but you didn't give the word! It was fatal, Wolffe!”

“We all know we shouldn't trust intel!”

“Doesn't mean to go completely ignored!” Brontes scrubs both hands down his face. “Prime help me. You sure we decanted in the same batch? And neighbors?”

“Wish we weren't, Three-Five.”

“The hell you meant by that, Three-Six?”

Wolffe looks down. “You're a lot more capable in various different fields including emotional control than I am, Marshal.”

The man snorts. “That your best attempt at I don't deserve it this week? Bantha shit. And you take that back.” Brontes points at him. Wolffe says nothing, his gaze secured on his boots still. Brontes sighs, firmly grabbing the other's shoulders. “Wolffe, vod, you're a good man. If you want this war to end as quickly as you prefer it to be, then do things the right way—the way you've always done it. Careful, methodical. Branch out your thoughts, make backups for backup, and most importantly; think about your men. They're your brothers. Cuun vode. They want this war to be over soon, like you do, too.”

He knows how to do it, goddamn it. He was only distracted by the thought of you. Actually no; the thought of sweeping the field as swiftly as possible in that fateful campaign—which was somewhat of a nuisance at the time than you are, occupying his mind—resulted in his apparent recklessness.

“And what are you doing here?” Wolffe asks.

Brontes shrugs. Wolffe quietly, defeatedly, observes the look of guilt in the other's eyes that slips through. “The General requested for me himself. So I took a fighter with me, left my battalion somewhere in Derilyn, and hit hyperspace the next hour.”

“Commander Wolffe,” Plo Koon’s voice booms in the midst of their sudden silence, “May I have a word with you, please.”

Both clones trade a look. Wordlessly, Brontes pats Wolffe in the back, even offering a barely-there smile, before marching to the door. When Wolffe makes his way up to the platform to meet his General, Brontes is already gone, leaving his mind once again preoccupied with haunting errors, along with the cries of his men that had echoed in the comms.

Wolffe lets out a breath. “General Koon,” he begins, “I am fully aware of my tactical incompetence in our last campaign. I'll be very careful that there will be no repetition. The party to blame is no one else but me, and I’m ready to receive punishment.”

The Kel Dor turns to face him. Nearly every time, his expression is completely unreadable. Though over time since Abregado, Wolffe finds comfort in both that—helps with his brutal objectiveness—and the constant presence of his reassurance.

“I’ve been aware of the uneasiness that’s been inside you for so long, Wolffe. Even now.” The sudden sidestep off the topic baffles the commander. Not even a direct nudge about the campaign. This is personal. “You're thinking about the future. About what, or who, awaits back home—awaits you.”

Your smile flits past his mind again.

“Yes, General,” Wolffe confesses, “But my sole focus is on this war.”

Your smile again. This time it's bittersweet, a little somber, but with immeasurable patience full to the brim in your eyes, your lips uttering how much you believe in him that he'll come home. Bidding your goodbyes as early as 0200 before he left for deployment in two hours. Your husband can only imagine you solemnly trying to catch your sleep again without worrying too much about him. He's a commander after all—surely he knows how to avoid death and ensure the best strategy applied in his battles.

“I don't doubt you, son—I never do.” Plo Koon places a gentle hand on Wolffe's shoulder, the weight only reminds him of the unnecessary death of his men. “And yet you let your inner turmoil overtook your judgement, and your actions afterward.”

Following such words, a hushed whisper ghosts his ear in your voice, “And look at the cost.”

Nearly flinching, Wolffe shakes it away. “Yes, sir,” he says firmly, his eyes holding so much shame, “I won't deny it.”

The General quietly watches him. “How long has it been since you last saw your dear wife?”

“It was during our last shore leave, sir.” Wolffe steels himself, trying not to crumble in the face of reality that feels heavier than mere moments ago. “Three months.”

The other man hums. “Then three months is enough.”

Wolffe's mismatched eyes snap up. “Sir?”

“I’m certain she longs for you very much. You need to be there for your wife.” Plo Koon turns around, facing the viewport once more, as if unable to bear the weight of the incoming decision. The azure lights of hyperspace make his earthy complexion shine in contrast. “You are granted one month of shore leave and will board a shuttle back to Coruscant.”

“What?” Wolffe can feel his heart drop to his stomach. Panic. Fright. There's nothing more that scares him than being sidebenched officially under order. “One month—?!”

“Take your mind off the battlefield, son. Recuperate, and reevaluate. You will be reinstated back on duty in exactly one month.”

Wolffe lets the silence slowly kill him. When no other words come from the Jedi, he takes a deep breath and gambles his chances. “General, with all due respect, my duty as commanding officer of the 104th—”

“Will be temporarily taken over by Marshal Commander Brontes per my request. That is why he's here.”

“But sir, please, my duty—”

He closes his mouth when the General raises a hand.

“Your duty now,” Plo Koon says, with a gentleness of a parent, “is to be with your family. You have a home that's waiting for you. A wife who's waiting for you to return home. The decision is final, Commander Wolffe, and the approval is already given directly from me. I issued the order myself. As soon as we leave hyperspace, you will be boarding the shuttle.”

It feels numb afterwards.

It feels like being stripped of everything he's known. His ranks, his purpose, his life. The thought of desertion has never even once crossed his mind. Battlefield is his home.

But… you are his home, too.

“Cease fighting today. Your wife needs you alive, son. She needs your care. She needs your presence.”

Marching out of the room with a new direction that is his quarters, he refrains saying a thing to Brontes. His helmet hides his expression as he merely nods in respectful greeting, but seemingly isn't enough—Brontes gives him a look that he despises so much. Pity. He doesn't need it. He doesn't need anybody else reminding him of his faults. It's embarrassing enough.

What would he tell you?

That he'd had his own men killed? His own brothers? Because he was distracted… by you?

No. He can't say that.

That he'd failed? Faulted, condemned, punished… blamed? His own men looked at him as if he's someone else. The respect remains—visible to the naked eye, stripped to merely ranks—and yet the reverence…

You'd see him as a failure too. The fear has a good, relentless grip on his heart. It aches. It aches to tell you. It aches to be confused.

“I find no comfort if one day I have to be the one knocking on her door to deliver the news that her beloved husband had perished on the battlefield.”

The ride to Coruscant is as quiet as it can be, save for the hum of hyperdrive. A squad of his men escorts him. Wolffe deems the space beyond the confines of his helmet lethal, as if the recycled air of the transport shuttle would destroy his airway and leave his lungs rotten by the time they arrive planetside. His own breath is hot with shame, his fists clenched, failure failure failure repeatedly ringing in his own ears, loud.

Everything makes him feel like a prisoner. A criminal on parole. The feeling worsens when the shuttle breaches atmo.

One month away from the war. A small part of him rejoices to see your smile again, to feel the reunion that would leave his body buzzing from pure happiness to day's end.

The circumstances, however…

“It’ll destroy her,” he’d said, unable to bear the thought of you mourning him. The thought of him leaving you, all alone.

Then the cab ride is just as quiet. The droid driver doesn't bother him—good. The state of the city around him beyond the filmed glass windows is the exact opposite. It's loud. Wolffe sits back, his helmet still on, his fear and utter shame still have a hold on him that if he takes it off it would become real. Too real for him to accept.

He brings nothing with him but armor on his back. He didn't even get to change, but at least he'd spent hours himself mourning in his flagship quarters while mindlessly rubbing over the same spot on his shin plate over and over again.

Just like how they cried over and over again in the comms.

“Love is a powerful motivation to one's spirit—to move them in a certain direction. If one takes it away, that person will never be the same again.”

Before your marriage, Wolffe spares his downtime growing stress lines on his face. He knew he had to provide for you but alas; he is what he is. His weekly stipend barely covers your daily meal, and that's just the sad truth. And yet the other side of such truth is a bright world filled with hope and everlasting joy where you truly want him—to be with him.

So you put your foot down; “This is my own dwelling, I have a steady job where people are constantly dependent on my industry, I love you and I want to be with you, so let's get married.”

It wasn't impatience. It was the fruit of his labor and yours working the relationship through regardless of any differences, the big one is of him being a clone—oftentimes looked down upon, deemed as nothing but patriotic wet droids that die for the people of a republic of nations they never personally know. But not you. Never you.

“Let's get married,” you'd said again—a soft smile, almost pleading and demanding for him to say yes, on your face. “With your customs, if you don't mind. I think I'd love that.”

Wolffe was dumbstruck by your flash decisions. “Are you sure?”

Your smile brightened. “Yes I'm sure.”

Something comes over him as the door of your—and his—dwelling comes into view.

A little different from the typical housing in Coruscant topside, the apartment is tucked away behind a series of office buildings and skyscraper shopping centers. It's a suitable place—perfect, even—for a couple married in secret, and that's all Wolffe would say if someone asks him. Not that he'd rat his own marriage out.

But.

Home.

“And I'm sure you love her very much—and she, you. Dedicate your time for your family, son. Just as much as you do, for the war.”

This place is where you and him make your pleasant memories. Some of them are first-times, some involving hot screaming matches. But you and Wolffe always make it through. Your patience and his resilience. It leads you, him, to all this.

He knows the key code. But he hasn't been home for a very long time, and all your work is done from home.

And now it just strikes him how much pain you're in, living in the void around you. The other side of your bed empty, the other dining chair empty, and even the little space in the shower stall where you take morning showers—empty.

“Because you have one to go home to.”

He rings the bell.

He waits, hands behind his back in a parade rest to formally accept your lash-outs. Your piling frustrations in the form of solid angry hits to his chest, and your tears. Three months is a long time, after all.

No answer. You usually don't take a long time to answer the door. You always refuse to wear earplugs when you're working, so that's not the case. His hand instinctively flies to his pistol.

He rings again.

“One moment!” Your voice. Oh, your voice. You're safe. You're inside.

The door finally slides open.

“Hi, sorry to keep you waiting—” You look up to be met with his gaze—or at least, his visor. But he's certain you’re piercing right through, and gone are his anxieties as if someone is pulling up the blinds. You always do, even since you first met each other.

You stand there just behind the doorway. Wolffe has already expected a slap to the face or hot tears streaming down your cheeks.

But you're… you're radiant. Always are. Your lips widen and stretch into the most beautiful smile he's ever seen—one of the reasons he let himself fall in love with you, willing to sacrifice his all and split his focus on you and the war efforts.

“Wolffe,” you breathe a laugh, stepping over the threshold to relieve him of the soldier's stance. “You’re home.”

It's when you grunt as you stretch your back before placing your hand over your belly briefly that he notices.

Your… inflated… huge belly.

Before he can get any word out, you embrace him, wrapping your arms around his neck and breathing his scent.

Your husband reeks of sweat, fuel, and exhaustion, but the smell is intoxicating and tickling some parts of your brain. It's giving happy sensations for you, but the pregnancy hormones make the sight of him finally home and in your arms irks you greatly.

“Get this blasted helmet off your head, Wolffe,” you seethe, slapping his chest in the process. The mood shifts so quickly it makes him flinch. He quickly obliges, his head nods almost frantic, his defensive walls crumble and sink to the bottom of his stomach.

And now the reality is out to get him. It's all becoming real.

His misery and grief don't even get the chance to surface again the moment you rip his bucket out of his grasp. He catches a glimpse of you biting your lip as you chuck the blasted plastoid piece somewhere behind you before suddenly a sharp, burning pain erupts on the side of his face. His cheek. You just slapped him.

“You were taking too long,” you grit out. Wolffe can feel his heart shattering even more as he listens to your broken voice lashing out at him. “Forgot you're married and have a wife at home?!”

“I'm sorry,” he immediately says, looking away in shame. The shame, the guilt, the pain—it’s all gaining on him again.

“Doesn't cut it,” you hiss, tears brimming in your eyes. “Three months. Every time I called you, you always had the perfect reason to end it early—”

“I’ve always been occupied aboard the fleet—”

“It was just a single holocall!”

“Intragalactic transmission during a period of war campaigns for private fulfillment is supposedly forbidden—”

“YOUR GENERAL ALLOWED IT!” you shout at him, letting a single sob come out but as a strong woman that you are in his eyes, you hold on, taking deep breaths and wiping your fallen tears away. “He covered for you and you know it.”

You're right. He does know.

More added to the blame, and he only gets to hang on this far. He wonders when the dam would break, but… you can't see it. You're in too much pain already because of him. In this state, with such many burdens, he'd prefer grief in quiet.

“Cyare.” He tries—he wants to try. He has to win you back, even though you're still angry at him. “I know it doesn't cut it, but I really am sorry.”

You sniffle, wiping away a stray tear again with the back of your hand before taking his hand in yours. His knees almost buckle at your soft touch, even so since he's still wearing his gloves. “Come inside. You can explain yourself then.”

The warmth of your home engulfs him like a snug blanket and makes him want to sink right there on the couch in the living area. He could ask you to join him there, or in the shower. Domesticity and love call for him as if this place, with you in it, is the only place he should've belonged, not the battlefield.

Alas.

“I… was too ambitious.” He doesn't wait until you've sat down. Wolffe ignores your invitation—a single, loud, demanding pat of the hand on the other side of the couch—and lets his fumes run dry as he desperately tries to still the anxious soldier inside him. This is worse than being confronted by his general.

“There’s always an end to a war and we’re only doing everything we can to erase the distance between us and that ending. I put my dedication and time in that war room with my superiors to ensure our future.”

“Apparently too much time.” You scoff. “Don't be a soldier, Wolffe,” you say almost boredly, glancing away from his rapid-fire reasoning. “You’re home. Be a husband.”

Wolffe shakes his head. “I stand by what I said. It's the truth. I know it's been three months and sometimes… sometimes I ignored that. I've been ignoring you.” His voice cracks. Your heart breaks a little more at that, your fists scrunching the fabric of your loose sweater. “But I'm here now, cyare,” Wolffe says again, “They sent me home because I made a fatal decision.”

You sigh shakily, pushing your forehead to the heel of your hand. “Good.”

Wolffe freezes. “Good?”

“When all means of good communication with you became outrageously impossible, I turned to your general instead,” you glower at him. Wolffe’s eyes shut, his chest heavy—blame blame blame. “I messaged him, begging him to send you home because I needed you here, Wolffe. Seems like he's found a way how to, and I'm thankful for that.”

Wolffe looks at you in disbelief, another fault added to his plate. Plo Koon might care greatly about his commander's secret relationship, but the fact you directly contacted his general without telling him first… you've crossed a line. There's a chain of command one is supposed to go through first, and you’re in violation of that.

“You did what?!”

“I'M NOT SORRY, WOLFFE!”

He watches you, eyes widened. Your hand falls to your belly again, taking deep breaths to steady yourself.

“I needed you, but you were so far away,” you mourn, tears brimming in your eyes again, “I needed you and you weren't responding to my needs, and so I had to do something. I'm your wife.” Wolffe flinches at the way you say the word as your voice cracks with emotion. You take a faltering breath—your gaze, sharp and deadly, and yet hopeful for him to understand under such scrutiny. “And you're a commander in the army. You're driven, you're ambitious—as you said—and that's good. Really,” you continue, cadence growing mournful and sarcastic and disappointed the longer you go. “But you'll always fight until the war is done.”

Wolffe sighs. “The war’s not done—”

“And yet, here you are,” you cut him off, swallowing your mood swing again.

He closes his eyes. His throat bobs as he swallows. “It's a punishment.”

There's silence at first before your surprised tone, almost guilty, cuts through the tension. “What?”

“Plo Koon sent me away from the war.” He doesn't want to open his eyes. It'd be real—too real for him to relive it all over again. The burden is his and his alone, no one else's and especially not yours. Even though you had been the one constantly on his mind. “I was distracted in the last campaign and it was my reckless decisions and executions that… that killed so many of my men on the field.”

“Oh, love…”

“We lost. The cost was too great, it was entirely my fault. He sent me home and my marshal commander took my place. For a month.”

He looks at you. He's not even angry anymore. Resigned. “Did you have a say in that?”

“I did,” you murmur, “But I had no idea…”

The moment your frown fades out from between your brows and your expression softens, Wolffe releases a long breath, sounding almost like relief, as he carefully approaches you and kneels by your feet. “Don’t apologize. You have the right.”

Then, he looks into your eyes. Really looks. Your swollen lids for shedding tears at his unavailability, his failure as a husband. You're in so much pain—that, he is now aware of. The sight simply despairs him, breaking him over and over again, as if taking preparations to haunt him in his sleep.

Slowly, hesitantly and almost shakily as if he doesn't deserve it, he takes your hand and lifts it to his lips. Your knuckles are smooth along his chapped lips, the sensation of finally touching you—his beloved wife—is enlightening.

“Forgive me, ner cyare riduur,” Wolffe murmurs, softly pressing his lips onto your skin in-between phrases. “I've been horrible to you these past few months. You're always on my mind. I love you—always, you must know—and I hope… I hope you can forgive me.” His warm amber brown eyes that you love are glistening with unshed tears. Remorse. “I don't know what I'd do if you can't.”

His heart flutters as he witnesses a smile slowly pulling at your lips. “We’re married, Wolffe.” You squeeze his hand. “And even if we aren't, I can't, for the life of me, not forgive you.”

He kisses your knuckles again. “There's always a line.”

“Then let's hope we won't cross it.”

It brings a soft chuckle out of him—content, confident, safe. Your husband is famously known for his ultra rare smile, and seeing them so often in every moment you spend time together feels like an absolute honor.

You touch his hair at first, longing the feel of it in the tender palm of your hand. But he doesn't want to let you steal his opportunity—because he could enjoy your soft touches further and fall asleep right there and then—so he rises to meet you, still on his knees, leaning into you and props his forearm next to your head on the back of the couch.

Wolffe breathes in the sight of you. You, smiling up at him, your eyes still shining with remaining tears—happy tears. He caresses your cheek softly with his gloved knuckles before nearing your lips, testing the waters. Your smile broadens, accepting his kiss—a long-awaited one, one that both of you deserve all after those painful months of separation.

“Missed you,” Wolffe whispers against your lips, gently taking it again between his before leaning his forehead against yours. “So, so much. I'm so sorry.”

Your eyelashes flutter against his cheek. “I'm sorry, too. For your loss. Your brothers. But you're here now, Wolffe. That's what matters right now. I’m so happy you're here, really am,” you say to him. Wolffe leans against your touch, your thumb brushing along his cheekbone. “And I'm sorry I slapped you,” you pout, “My hormones are all messed up.”

He shakes his head in dismissal. “I deserved it.”

“Want me to kiss it better, love?”

“If I ever refuse, I want you to beat me to death.”

A small giggle erupts from your lips before you pepper his cheek with apologetic kisses, leaving no inch of skin untouched with your love. It's glaring red from when you slapped him, blame the estrogen and cortisol ganging up on your sanity.

Wolffe shifts his attention from you to your pregnant belly. It's been… lovely. All the pain and illness you've gone through seem worth it knowing that it's his children you're carrying. You hadn't found out until 8 weeks. You'd wished he was there at your first ultrasound when your doctor announced you're pregnant with twins.

“Are you feeling okay?” He places his hands gently on your belly. “This looks… painful.”

You stare at him in disbelief. Does he really not know? “This looks—” you parrot him but get cut off.

“Are you, cyare?” Wolffe asks again, firmer this time, and even more serious. “In pain?”

You stifle your smile. Gods, this man.

“Not really. For now.” And thus you roll out a new impish scenario, wondering how it'd go, and how long it'd go. “Well, okay; sometimes.”

“The diagnosis?”

“It’s fine, my love. Nothing's wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong?!”

You bite the inside of your lip, preventing a laugh coming out.

He goes on, eyes sweeping over your body. Your cheeks seem fuller, you gained weight. Other than that, you're healthy. You're glowing. But he can't seem to find out why. “Did you go to your usual doctor?”

“Yes,” you nod, “And um, another kind of doctor.”

Your husband frowns, hard, at your grin. “Another… kind?”

“Wolffe, for the love of gods.” He blinks cluelessly as you pry his gloves off him before dragging his now bare hands beneath your sweater and placing them firmly against your belly. “Here. Feel.”

He sighs at the warmth of your skin, his thumb having the mind of its own caressing them.

You scrutinize him. “Do you have any idea of what might be happening?”

“You don't look sick,” Wolffe analyzes, mismatched eyes meeting your gaze. “You look healthy, in fact.”

“Wolffe,” you giggle, clutching onto his hand, “I’m pregnant.”

In an instant, his eyes flash with clarity and total adoration. His lips part to gasp, the entire focus in his body now directed at your pregnant belly. In the joyful realization and perhaps feeling a little stupid for not clocking it earlier, Wolffe pours all his love into his touches, lifting your sweater to finally look at you. At first you hear what may be a sob, but his sniffle confirms it anyway. The joy of a father.

“So,” Wolffe sniffs again, “So this was when you complained about your late period before I got shipped off…”

“Yeah,” you chuckle, moving your hands into his hair and slowly scratching his scalp. “Y'know what, I think they might be afternoon delight kitchen counter babies. I couldn't forget that one.”

There's so much of that to digest, especially a comeback with that last one—which may be true because he couldn't either. He can't even let out a laugh, his ears already stopped listening at the plural word that you just said.

“Babies?” Wolffe marvels, “Twins?”

You smile, nodding. “Twins.”

And only then he finally laughs. It's not his usual boisterous one when you crack your lamest stupidest dad joke—it sounds wet, relieved, happy, and full of hope. You've talked about this—both of you have been wanting this for quite a long time. Wolffe’s thumb repeatedly brushes over your belly, as if caressing his babies’ heads through the flesh, and his face is leaning closer.

And now your wish is finally granted with not only one but two sweetlings. You've spent day and night thinking what traits they would take once you give birth to them, and once they grow up. Strong and resilient just like their father, you hope.

“Su'cuy, ad’ike. Ner kih’verde,” he murmurs against your skin, “I'm your buir. I’m sorry we're only meeting just now.” Wolffe presses a long kiss to your belly, and another. There are two of them, after all. You feel wetness—your husband's first tears upon knowing that he'll be a father to his own children growing in your womb.

You slip your fingers in between his face and your skin to wipe the trail of tears away from his cheek. “I think they'd understand that their father is fighting to secure their future.”

Wolffe nods weakly, contently. “That's right,” he says, resting his chin on you while meeting your gaze again, his expression curious and helpful. “So is it—are they… Boys? Girls? Both? Have you found out yet?”

You chuckle at his enthusiasm. “Maybe we can find out together this week or next, if you want?”

So you've been waiting for him. His heart aches again—imagine if he refused to come home, ever. “Of course. I'll be there with you,” Wolffe says, a breathy chuckle falling off his lips. “How far along are you?”

“16 weeks.”

“Sixteen. 4 months.”

“Mhm.”

“A month before my deployment,” he repeats, and you nod, humming your affirmation again.

A small part of him that hasn't found resolve cringes—horrified. His previous thoughts are coming back to haunt him—the what-ifs.

“Hey,” calls your voice, cutting through the haze. Wolffe relishes the gentle smile that graces your lips, relishing how fortunate he is to have you. “I know what's going through your head right now.”

The weight in his chest has been crying out to be released. And you're his wife. His worries, his fears and anxieties, become yours, too.

“If only I threw a fit,” he slowly confesses, “I refused to come home, cyare. I would've fought the decision and convinced my general. But then, I wouldn't have known.” He could've flown too close to the sun. He could've died in future campaigns, leaving you alone with… with his babies. His children. They'd be fatherless, and you'd be exhausted to death caring for them alone without him. And they wouldn't know who their father was.

And he wouldn't know he'd be charging head on in the front lines for his children. He wouldn't know.

But then there's your presence again, so bright in his life. You lift his chin with a touch of your fingers so you can pull him out of the abyss of his past thoughts that are looming over him, and so there will only be you—his present and future—to gaze upon, to look at. Not the abyss.

“You're my husband,” you say softly, your thumb caressing his cheek again. “Val buir—their father, Wolffe. And I know that… every regulation out there isn't in our favor, especially now that we're having children—”

He looks guilty. “I’m sorry if this isn't what you imagined.”

Sighing, you pinch his cheek. “I'm not done yet, love. Stop apologizing about stuff that I already know, and I knew I'd go through this before I decided to be married to you. I love you for who you are.”

Wolffe blinks quickly—the corners of his eyes sting. You just… always know what to say. You're always confident, and he loves that.

“And that means I know who you are,” you continue, “I know where your heart and your spirit is. I'm not afraid, Wolffe.”

He sighs heavily. “I don't know—you don't know—if that's the right thing you should've said,” he says, “Don't want you to say empty promises, cyare. You know they do nothing to me.”

“These are all facts, Wolffe. They all came from here.” You grab his hand and place it over your heart. “You are a soldier, love, I can't take the battlefield away from you. But as long as you come home when I need you—for me, that would be enough.”

It's like fire. It's like love renewed, and it's burning bright, the light cleanses the dark in his heart—every strand that pulses insecurities and anxieties that shouldn't even be there.

“I promise,” your husband then vows, “I won't miss something like this ever again. You have my word.”

You grin teasingly. “Again? I haven't even given birth yet. Just how many do you want, Commander?”

Wolffe rolls his eyes. The gesture always makes you laugh, and he knows it. “Cyare, you know what I'm talking about.”

“I know,” you giggle, “Icebreaker.”

Wolffe’s smile is stretched so wide on his lips that he can feel it ache—his cheeks ache. He rarely smiles like this even in the presence of his brothers, but he doesn't hold back with you. He rises slightly to meet your lips, silently wishing to listen and relish your laugh. “I love you,” he mutters, pecking your lips in between phrases, “I love you. So much. So much, cyare, you have no idea.”

You laugh softly. “I know, my love.”

“I'll be here for you,” Wolffe says enthusiastically, and your smile grows even wider as you listen along. “Until you give birth. Maybe I can talk to my general to temporarily put Brontes on my post while I'm away—”

“Wolffe, udesii. It's okay,” you interrupt with a laugh, “I’ll need you more after I give birth. When I get into labor, too.”

He nods, your plea sounding like a superior’s command to him—heck, he almost said yes sir. “I’ll be there. No matter what. We'll do this together, I promise.”

Wolffe lets out a breath. His mind is already forming to-do lists that involve research and possible timestamps and predictions and scenarios to lie his way through military assignments just so he could be there for you, or in case anything happens to you. Maybe he could gamble his lucky attempts with his general.

He leans in to kiss your lips again. “In the meantime, you're gonna tell me everything you've been doing for the past three months?”

You smile. “The good and the bad.”

“Every bit of it?”

“Yes.”

Wolffe then kisses your knuckles, a hint of a smile gracing his lips. “Promise?”

Your giggle is a ripe melody in his ears. His source of joy. You lay your hand on top of his, still resting on your belly—both of your beloved children inside. “Yes I promise.”

Some backstory I didn't get to include: Sha Koon, Plo’s niece, regularly checks in on you so she could relay the information to her uncle because both Kel Dor care so much about your and Wolffe's wellbeing 🩷

Taglist: @yoursrosie @hellfiresky @filamentlights @heidnspeak @lucyysthings @emmaw18 @leiopython-rat

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 ⬆️)

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