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asukamood · 5 months

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In the Snow (Cold Front)

***

This fandom does not have enough fanfiction for what the game is worth so have this to try and make up for it.

This game was developed by @racheldrawsthis and it’s completely free, I highly recommend you try it out!

Link to the game

***

Warnings: Bullying??, minor violence

Ships: Romantic or Platonic Winnie x Augustine (Though considering they are still children; it would probably be better to see it as platonic.)

Synopsis: “Come on Winnie!” A young Augustine exclaimed as he tugged Winnie out of his front door by the sleeve. “It has not snowed in ages here; we have to enjoy it as much as we can!”

“I don’t want to!” The poor boy whined, resisting him as much as he could and holding onto the doorway like his life depended on it. “The others would not want to play with me!”

***

“Come on Winnie!” A young Augustine exclaimed as he tugged Winnie out of his front door by the sleeve. “It has not snowed in ages here; we have to enjoy it as much as we can!”

“I don’t want to!” The poor boy whined, resisting him as much as he could and holding onto the doorway like his life depended on it. “The others would not want to play with me!”

Augustine pouted at that, his eyes narrowing in a cute frown as he suddenly let the other boy go who, not expecting that, yelped as he ended up falling backwards. Thankfully though, any major incident was prevented as the culprit caught Winnie into a hug.

“How can you be so sure when you didn’t even try?” Augustine questioned, turning the other around before grabbing his cheeks and squishing them. “We talked about that yesterday you know!”

Winnie looked down, one of his hands on Augustine’s wrists. If he had any plan to push the other child away, it was soon abandoned as he stared at the ground, eyes filled with potential tears.

“I know...” He sniffled. “But I can’t help it, I don’t want to be alone, but I don’t want to impose either--”

“You won’t be, I’m telling you!” Augustine sighed as he let the other’s face alone. “But if you’re that scared, I guess we can try it another time. We can just spend some time together.”

Winnie looked up, bighting up. “Really? That doesn’t bother you? I mean, I wouldn’t want to prevent you from playing with your friends--”

Before he could go on any further, he jolted as he felt the other flick his forehead.

“I told you, if you want me to be your friend, you’re going to have to make me want to be your friend and so far, you haven’t had the opportunity to do that so today is the day!” He then pointed his finger toward Winnie. “You better put in your best effort because I only make friends with cool people!”

Winnie blinked his tears away, smiling as his traits adjusted to the determination burning in his soul. “I will do my best!” He exclaimed, earning a nod of approval from the other boy.

“Good good, that’s the spirit!” He grabbed one of Winnie’s gloved hands before pointing to the horizon. “Let’s go on an adventure then! We’re going to save and give the snowmen the land they rightfully deserve!”

Winnie titled his head to the side. “What does that mean though?”

“I have no clue!” Augustine proudly said, his free hand on his hip. “It sounded cool though, so I said it!”

“It did.” Winnie enthusiastically agreed, letting himself be dragged by the other to the nearest park.

As they walked, a few of Augustine’s friends waved at them to which he responded by waving back and having Winnie do so as well. A sigh of relief left the other boy as the other children did not seem to react badly to it, simply going back to their own activities with a smile.

The two of them arrived near a frozen lake, a giant tree hiding them from sight. Once they reached that spot, Augustine let go of Winnie’s hand and face planted into the snow, waving his arms and legs around to make a snow angel.

Winnie blinked, chuckling before joining him, the silhouettes of the angel seeming to merge with one another near their arm.

Winnie was the first to stand up again to admire their work, smiling brightly. “I’ve never done a snow angel before.” He admitted, the other boy, who was still on the ground, gasping from shock.

“You haven’t? You missed half of what is good in life then!” Augustine stood up as well, watching Winnie curiously.

“Well, where I’m from it never really snowed so...” He pat him on the back, before running off to another spot.

Winnie followed him, albeit a bit slower than him. “Does that mean you’ve never done a snowman as well?” Augustine asked, already gathering snow chunks for the construction of a new being.

Winnie shook his head, crouching next to him and watching what he was doing. “I’ve never made one.”

Augustine thought hard for a bit before speaking up again. “In that case, I’ll teach you! Better follow what I do well!”

Winnie saluted. “Sir, yes sir!”

The other boy tilted his head to the side, his confusion so clear it would be easy to imagine a question mark drawn next to his head.

“The people in the TV always do that.” Winnie explained sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. “Was that weird?”

The two stared into each other’s eyes in silence for a solid three seconds before bursting out laughing together.

“Alright, no more joking around!” Augustine stated, still laughing in between his words. “We still have many people to make with the snow!”

“Sorry!” Winnie apologized, quickly getting into position.

***

“Augustine?” His mother’s voice suddenly reached his ears, interrupting the two children in their endeavour. “Where are you?”

“Oh no!” Said child whispered, face palming. “I totally forgot to tell Mom we were going to the park!” He turned to look at his companion. “Winnie, can you keep guard for me? I won’t take long, I promise!”

Said boy nodded, his hands still in the snow trying to make a good base. “You can count on me!”

“Thank you, I’ll be right back!” With that, Augustine ran off toward his mother to explain their disappearance, leaving Winnie with their snowman friends, not suspecting that anything would happen.

***

‘Wow, it took more time than I thought to calm Mom down!’ The boy thought to himself as he walked back behind the tree. Just as he was about to step in though, he suddenly stopped in his tracks as he heard a sob.

He ran there, worried in his tone as he passed the tree. “Winnie? Are you o--”

His eyebrows furrowed at the sight in front of him. Their snowmen were gone, most of their parts lying miserably on the ground and even their snow angels disappeared, their forms having been deformed because of being trampled. Footsteps covered them and were oriented toward the weeping Winnie in the middle of the snowmen graveyard, missing his winter outfit and left in his indoor clothes.

Having heard him, the other child turned in his direction and just cried harder upon seeing him.

“I’m sorry!” He cried out, burying his face in his hands. “I really tried to protect the snowmen; I really did! But--”

“Hey hey, calm down!” He crouched to his level, his hands in front of him to show he was not angry. “What happened? And where is your coat?”

Winnie sniffled, shaking. “These tall people came in and destroyed everything!” He made big gestures with his hands as if to show the other the difference in height between him and them. “And when I tried to stop them, they slapped me and took my clothes!” He wept as indignation passed through the other boy’s face.

He was about to insult them, most probably, but then he took notice of how red Winnie’s face looked and realized that he must have been freezing there. Just to make sure, he grabbed one of Winnie’s hands in his own and even through the fabric, he could feel how cold the limb was.

“You’re so cold!” He remarked, standing up and pulling the other on his two legs as well. “We have to go back inside before you get a cold!”

“But--” Winnie looked back at the snowmen carcass.

“No but, come on!” He took off one of his gloves and handed it to the other boy. “Here take this one!”

Winnie frowned. “But what about your other hand?”

“It’s fine,” he reassured, taking one of Winnie's freezing hands in his warm ones. “See?”

The boy finally nodded, slipping the glove on. They began walking toward the entrance of the park before they were stopped by the other children who noticed the unusual state of the newcomer.

“Augustine!” One of them called out, his eyes darting back and forth between said child and Winnie. “Why is your friend crying?”

With encouragement from him, Winnie started explaining what happened during Augustine’s absence, a small group of children forming around them.

“That’s horrible!” A girl exclaimed before unwrapping her scarf and handing it to him. “Here, you can have that for now! I have a hood anyway, I’ll be fine!”

“O-oh-” Winnie stuttered, taking it, and thanking her quietly. He looked surprised at how kind the other children were being to him right now. Turning to Augustine, he noticed the way the other looked at him as if saying ‘I told you they would like you.’

“Do you remember what the bad guys looked like?” One of the boys suddenly asked, gaining everyone’s attention.

“They were two.” He began, looking up at the sky. “One of them was really tall with orange hair and freckles on his face and the other had dark hair and brown glasses--”

“With a line across his cheek, right?” Said boy finished, Winnie looking up at him in surprise.

“Yes... how did you know?”

“My father told me about them.” He responded. “Apparently, they are in middle school and are well-known for causing trouble.”

“We can’t let them get away with this!” Augustine suddenly exclaimed, making Winnie jump in surprise. “Do you know where they could have gone?”

As the group all thought deeply, one girl suddenly pointed toward the entrance. “Look, they’re the bad guys, right?”

“Wow, it’s really them!” Another guy said. “We should get the adul--”

But he did not have the time to finish his sentence, Augustine already running toward them. Since they were holding hands, Winnie was brought along as well, their two silhouettes leaving the area as the other children sighed and ran in the opposite direction to get their parents.

***

“Hey you!” Augustine called out, pointing at the ginger person, who was holding Winnie’s bright blue coat in his hands. “Give Winnie his coat back!”

His friend scoffed at him. “You should go home kid; your parents must be so worried about you.” The other snickered, not paying any attention to the two children.

“Not until you give it back and apologize!” He stood firmly in place as Winnie’s face paled seeing the reaction of the two others at the last word. He attempted to drag him to safety but the other would not budge.

“Apologize?” The taller one repeated before laughing as he gripped the child by the collar. “Now listen here--”

“Put him down!” Winnie shouted, grabbing the attention of the other guy.

“Ah for fuck’s sake, do they not know how to shut up?” He groaned, walking menacingly toward Winnie.

The boy froze, looking around in panic. His eyes landed on Augustine who still looked as brave as ever despite being in a very disadvantageous position. He wanted to run away but that expression stopped him.

He was there because of him; it was not right for him to just run now!

He noticed a little rock by his feet and without thinking grabbed it, along with a ball of snow before chucking one at the middle schooler walking toward him and the other at the one holding Augustine captive.

The rock landed on the guy’s cheek, making him take a step back and reached the other in the eye, making him yelp in pain as he released both Augustine and Winnie’s coat.

“You’re gonna pay for that!” The one with the glasses yelled as he sprinted toward Winnie, fist raised. The child braced himself for the impact, raising his arms to protect himself but it was in vain as an adult voice came from behind.

“Stephen!” The teenager froze in shock. “How many times have I told you to stop bothering the other children?!” The woman yelled, freezing the two.

“But Mom-”

“No but!” She replied, grabbing both teenagers by the ear, and dragging them somewhere else to scold them. Their father stayed behind, reaching for Winnie’s coat, and handing it back to him.

“I’m sorry for my sons’ behavior.” He sighed, helping Augustine. “Were you two hurt?” They both shook their heads, making the man heave in a sigh of relief.

“Thank the stars, I’ll make sure this never happens again, you can count on me for that.” The two children nodded as the adult walked away toward his wife.

Winnie played with his fingers, feeling too guilty about putting Augustine in danger to look him in the eyes. “I...”

“That was so cool!” The other exclaimed, snapping the other into focus. Augustine had stars in his eyes as he shook the other child. “The way you just went peeew with the rock and snow was awesome!” He praised, rendering the other speechless.

He was finally released, the other grinning from ear to ear as he extended his fist toward him. “I’ve made my decision; I want to be your friend!”

Winnie’s eyes sparkled at that as he fist bumped him. “Thank you, Auggie!”

The other tilted his head. “Auggie?”

“Ah-” Winnie’s cheecks flushed in embarrassment. “I’m sorry I uh... that came out of nowhere!”

“It’s fine, it sounds cool! You can keep calling me that.” He shook his hand. “Happy to be your friend, Winnie.”

***

“Well, someone seems to be in a good mood!” Winnie’s mother remarked as she put the plate on the table. “What happened?”

“I made a friend.” The boy with a wide grin replied.

#cold front #cold front game #cold front winnie #cold front augustine #winnie bosko #augustine orlov #fanfic #fanfiction #this game is so underrated hello??#ngl I’ve been having ideas of writing the game events but through Winnie’s POV but school is kicking my ass as we speak #i hope no one has done this yet #I would be devastated #fluff #angst #ship?#ship? maybe #platonic or romantic

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amywritesthings · 1 year

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about you. (cassian x you)

Pairing: Cassian Andor x F!Reader

Word Count: 5.6K

Summary: You are a rebel spy working as an escort at Canto Bight's cliffside casino. When Luthen cannot meet you for an intel exchange on New Year's Eve, he sends his best asset. Never in your wildest dreams did you think that meant you'd reunite with your former childhood best friend, Cassian Andor.

Warnings: New Year's Eve, Spy Thriller, Escort Service, Romantic Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Friends, Reunions, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Mentions of Sex Work, Wall Pinning, New Year's Eve Kiss

A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! I had a fun holiday one shot idea and wanted to try my hand at writing Cassian Andor. I am wishing you all a happy & healthy new year, and I can't wait to continue writing in 2023.

( Read on AO3 )

Canto Bight is always bustling at New Year’s Eve.

It’s why Luthen Rael has shown up on your doorstep for the first time in months. In his not-so subtle way, the man requests (see: demands) that you float back to your old haunt, the one within the glittering halls of their monument cliffside casino, and do what you do you best: entertain as a partner experience escort for the rich and powerful.

The partner experience operation has been your designation from the very beginning of this rebellious calling. Your contribution to the rebellion, as he claims, is valuable — because the whispers in the night by decorated Imperials that feel safe in your company are priceless.

Whispers bring intel, and not even gold is as priceless as Imperial intel.

Luthen claims he knew of your potential the moment he laid eyes on you in a seedy dive bar on an Outer Rim moon. The little lamb far from her home planet Ferrix, looking fearful yet enraged all the same; starved, but most importantly willing to do anything to take down the Empire one domino at a time.

It was the type of spunk the older man needed in a claustrophobic world.

So you struck a deal: under trained supervision, you would run the casino circuits and red districts — never quite getting close enough to sleeping with the enemy (who knew the Empire thrived on humiliation and edging?) but enough to drug them, learn from them, then report back to him for the next move.

Rinse and repeat for six successful years.

And right now, you were supposed to be done. Find a small shack in the middle of nowhere knowing you did your part in the small but mighty agenda. Perhaps, eventually, you would find a way to make peace with your past and your present.

Then Luthen fucking Rael shows up at the stoop of said shack only six months later with a new opportunity.

A new strategy on the chess board.

(The rebellion, as he so candidly puts it, is never final.)

“Did you hear about what’s going on with Life Day this year on Canto Bight?” Luthen grunts, opting to stand by the doorway rather than a seat at your makeshift kitchen table.

You drop down unceremoniously with your arms at your sides. You know — and you know he knows — there is a blaster taped on the belly of the steel table should this be an unpleasant visit.

“You mean the Wookie holiday?”

“Hmm,” Luthen sounds, caught between a yes and a no. “Supposed to be the Wookie holiday, but it seems the Empire has allowed the casino a profitable chance to participate until the new year.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” you muse in return, surveying him. “When you say profitable, you mean—”

“Everyone who is anyone will be visiting.” Luthen never makes any sudden movements; always trapped sounding bored with this life he leads. It’s also a tactic not to play his cards too far from his chest. “They’ll be running the gambit for paid time off.”

Smile bland, you nod once. “Which is code for… you need someone on the inside.”

“For the season,” he agrees, shifting his weight. “A gift to the faces who may have missed you.”

“Missed me?”

“I hear about the Diamond quite a lot.”

Their precious Diamond.

Maker, that nickname always made your skin crawl.

You huff, rubbing your nose with the back of your thumb. “Flattery gets you nowhere with me, Luthen, you know that.”

He takes a pause, small eyes observing everything that you do. Updating a mental database logging your quirks and your discomfort to cipher for a later date — that’s all he’s ever done, study and download people, and he’s done so without error yet.

(It’s why he’s never been caught.)

“It isn’t flattery,” he finally says. “It’s an opportunity.”

To do everything we couldn’t the first time, is what he really implies.

It’s feeding an addiction no amount of dead fascists will be able to quench.

“And how do I tell them why I want the job back after I quit?”

“Your mother was very ill. You needed to help with her expenses,” Luthen fabricates from thin air. “It was easiest to part ways without the low note on your record. But the credits have dried up, and their clientele will be thankful of the casino’s decision to allow you back on the floor.”

It’s your turn to pause — to study. He gives away nothing. You lean forward to rest your elbows on the tops of your thighs.

“You think that’ll work?”

“You’ll sell it,” is all he gives back like you’ve already said yes.

You’re supposed to be out.

(Do you want to be out?)

No.

No, you don’t.

Getting the job back at the casino as a specialized escort is easy. The difficulty lies in remembering how to fall into old, subtle habits when all you want to do is cause chaos. Staying engaged while chatting up Imperial scum as they spittle in their expensive liquors and moan about the woes of their occupations and agenda can only go on for so long.

Yet you laugh with the rest of them once they’re kissing your feet and your hands, because everyone in this rebellion has a part to play.

(Our loveliest of diamonds, back to see us once again.)

Luthen, of course, never leaves you to your own devices for long. Gifting a hefty sum of credits and a bag of dissolvable sedatives every time he passes through Canto Bight as his alter ego is about as noble as the illusive man gets.

You fill small briefcases with voice memos and holovideos of nightly conversations, drunken manifestos and slippery plans.

It works.

By some miracle, you have never been caught.

New Year’s Eve is filled to the brim with Imperial guards enjoying time off from their grueling schedules. Some of the higher commanding officers already have their arms draped over people inviting them to a great time. Others chase after the debauchery promised by scantily clad creatures inviting them into the halls and out of their money.

You? Have a booking in advance: a high-ranking officer, but not within the Inner Circle.

According to Luther, he’s a valuable asset double-crossing their superiors.

A plant.

You are to deliver the intel to him under Luthen’s command and trust.

(Ironic. You always believed Luthen trusted no one.)

At the final half hour of the year’s end, you round the corner from the main entertainment room and down the hallway towards the private event spaces. A multitude of sounds are muffled by the doors — some good, some not so. Your focus is set on the twelfth door where your officer awaits, and suddenly you feel nervous all over again.

Meeting one of Luthen’s other operatives feels all too daunting.

After a moment, you place your code into the code box by the door and wait for the durasteel to slide, revealing the plush crimson meeting space. It's staged with a convenient king-sized bed and a vanity for refreshment, inviting comfort and suggesting the obvious.

What greets you as the door opens — a silhouette at the edge of the bed, dressed in Imperial formals — is not what you envisioned.

The man’s hair is what you notice first: disheveled brown locks are combed back neatly, smoothed by gel to keep the unruliness at bay. The jacket’s shoulders are a little too pointed, as if he’s not grown into his uniform quite yet — or like he’d stolen it on his way into the venue. The lines on his faces aren’t new, but aren’t old. He’s tired — so fucking tired, but he sits taller the second the door opens.

The blank expression on his face is purposeful, almost doe-eyed, with a feigned, smug-like innocence only an Imperial officer would wear.

Then his gaze travels from your open-toed shoes, up your bodysuit dress of sequins, and locks onto your face.

Just like that, the façade is broken.

What once was blank now hardens, wholly confused, before the lines on his prominent brow smooth with recognition.

Cassian.

Of all the idiots in all the galaxy, Cassian Andor is dressed as an Imp in your meeting space on the eve of the new year.

And you thought, with this rebellion, that you’d seen everything.

While the officer in disguise is much older than what your memory recalls, you could never forget that face even if the Empire tried. The feeling of dirt under your fingernails, the scent of rubber burning, the spark of an electric charge from a stolen piece of property — it all floods back in a tidal wave, almost knocking you a step back into the hallway.

On Ferrix, Cassian Andor always ran around with different people — sometimes it was Bix when she wasn’t punished for entertaining teen scoundrels; sometimes it was other boys in scrappy brawls and mended machinery; most of the time, however, it was you.

Hand and hand, causing mayhem in the bright suns and the full moons. He'd shown you what it meant to stand up for yourself. To want what you want and not apologize for it. To be bold, even at the expense of disruption.

And then he’d pummel whatever wayward eye looked at you the wrong way.

Trouble.

Cassian Andor was so much trouble, and you were mad for it.

Your last memory of him is as vivid as the neon lights lining the ceiling: you're both sixteen years old and shoulder-to-shoulder on an inclined metal slab, staring up at the stars. He's wearing that jacket from his father and hasn't combed his hair in days. You're lost in telling him about your dreams of a better tomorrow, of one day leaving Ferrix for good and making a difference in the vastness of the galaxy despite how small you feel. He laughs, a hum more than anything else, and takes your hand in his.

You're too afraid to squeeze back.

Having Cassian poke fun of the idea of doing much of anything in the galaxy never felt like he mocked you for wanting to try. More than anything, his laugh was one of envy: he couldn’t afford dreams, so you dreamt for the both of you. He couldn’t handle intimacy, so you were satisfied with resting your hand in his the entire night.

Nothing was said. Nothing had changed.

He gave what he could, and you understood.

Childhood friendship has a funny way of feeling that simple.

Cassian, however, never truly chose to change with you. He never truly chose anyone, not really, not when he had so much to give — to his mother, to his scrapyard confidantes, to Bix.

You fit somewhere in the chapters of his life, but Cassian Andor could never tell you which ones. He could not, and would not, promise someone tomorrow.

An unfinished book.

You never did tell him where you were going after hitching a ride on that stock transport to get the hell out of Ferrix for good. Not a single holocard or a note.

Just… gone, into the galaxy, to dream.

Now he sits in front of you at the edge of your meeting space bed, threatening to ruin your calculated cover in one-fell swoop.

Before Cassian can implode your operation, you turn on the mask: with a bright smile and squared shoulders, you gesture to the plush furniture of the room. “Is it to your liking, Mr. —?”

You trail off on your question to give him a chance to speak.

Cassian blinks a few times, only to remember himself.

“Raoul,” he blurts without dismissing his accent, eyes widening with an unspoken question: what are you doing here? “Sargeant Murl Raoul.”

Maker, you haven’t heard that voice in so long.

It’s deeper now. Rusty. Scratched.

“Sargeant,” you correct pleasantly, taking a step into the bedroom to toe the perimeter. Cassian pulls the geometric gray hat clear from his head, balling it in his fist, but you raise a palm at the hip when his mouth opens: don’t.

He listens, pressing his lips together with purpose.

“I asked if this room was to your liking," you repeat.

Cassian struggles with an answer, studying you with concern. You hate it. You hated it back on Ferrix when he tried to play protector, and a decade and a half apart doesn’t dilute the emotion.

Your brows rise, and he clears his throat. “I— yes, I am quite comfortable.”

“Good,” you conclude with a small nod. “Now before I join you and get more comfortable, do you have any questions for me?”

“More comfortable?” he asks a little too fast, so you recover with a glide of your hand along your sparkling thigh.

“Can’t do much when I’m in this old thing,” you coo, that stage performer voice now sounding so phony to your ears with a known audience. “Shouldn’t take long.”

Cassian runs the tip of his tongue along the seam off his lips, shifting his seat on the mattress. “I suppose I could ask how… uh, how long have you been doing… this?”

You don’t know if he’s asking about the escort arrangement or the Informant position, which further complicates the game. The odds of Cassian showing up on Canto Bight should be slim. Cassian wearing an Imperial outfit on his own ought to be slim to none.

But appearing in your private meeting space, fake alias and all?

Your blood runs cold with truth between the lines.

(Luthen never does anything by accident.)

This meeting — reuniting Cassian and yourself — is his test, a judgment call, but you refuse to let Luthen win the game with this surprise hand.

“Years,” you answer honestly, to both.

You continue to face him as you skirt around the left side of the sparkling vanity, not taking any chances with your former friend. Your manicured fingers glide along the mirror’s back, searching for the planted Imperial wire.

(Not only are they cruel, but perverted in their efforts to catch spies.)

“So then you are... experienced?” The question comes out rougher than you believe he intends. Gruff, like he’s embarrassed to even ask.

(The question almost — almost — makes your face burn.)

“If you’re worried that you won’t have a good time, Sergeant, then I promise they sent you to me for a reason. I’m going to take great care of you.”

Cassian’s expression darkens at this as he rises to his feet with purpose.

You rip the microphone from the back of the mirror, holding the device between your index and middle finger for show.

This stops him from moving ahead, eyes locked on the microphone before flickering back to you. You shake your head.

I said don’t.

He nods once, and you take the microphone between your hands. With two clicks, the wire cover pops open, displaying a multitude of tiny wires. You fidget between two, pulling, until the red eye at the center of the device dissolves into black.

The room is blanketed with silence.

Now it’s just you and a ghost here.

“We’re clear,” you tell him after another beat, dropping the seductive aloofness in your tone.

Cassian’s shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. “That was fast.”

Your brow picks up that fraction, raising high. “You have to dismantle them fast."

“Let me take a look at it,” Cassian replies, tossing the hat twisted in his hands to the mattress. "Are you certain it's off?"

“Positive,” you say, sheltering the item closer to your chest. “You don't need to look at it. Easy to disable and reassemble at a moment’s notice, so I’ll turn it back on when you depart.”

“What about lost footage?”

“Chalk it up as faulty equipment they’re too stubborn to replace in a shithole like this.”

Cassian mulls over your answer, taking a cautious few steps forward to observe the small device in your hand. “Imperial-grade wires are tough to work with. A five-second warning doesn’t give many people time to disable the alarm,” he informs in a whispered afterthought. “Where did you learn to do that?”

In your bones, you know it’s a trick question.

Fifteen-something years of reuniting in a moment like this comes with immense drawbacks. When he asks, it is not out of curiosity — it is out of the desire to see if you are truly you.

(Because he remembers your face, too.)

“On Ferrix,” you reply.

He gives no reaction, continuing to deadpan. “Where on Ferrix?”

“You want me to remember from that long ago?” you laugh, placing the microphone on the vanity’s surface and following up with a thick blue cloth to drape over top of it.

“Humor me,” he reasons, flexing his leather-clad fingers at his sides. Now that he doesn’t have a distraction, Cassian doesn’t stop looking at your face.

(The same intensity as the boy without dreams.)

“The old Slavyard. There was that one incredibly rainy month when those prim and proper freaks—”

“—installed the spyware on the back door in the middle of the night,” he interrupts, finishing the story with a misplaced awe under his breath. “You played lookout while I disabled the devices.”

You don’t answer, not really, as you offer a half-hearted smile. “Say what you want about that place, but you learn a lot of things when you watch restless boys who never know when to stop getting in trouble.”

The return smile is small and fleeting, but the corner of Cassian’s lip upticks. His brows knit together, contemplating before a huff of a laugh exits. “Not a very good lookout, then, if you were so busy watching me.”

“You never got caught, though, did you?” you joke.

You swear he almost laughs.

The silence settles at your ankles and rises with each passing second, encompassing you both in a shroud of possibilities: pleasantries are nice, but the popping of bottles and shouts of celebration passing by your room brings you both back to a reality where you’re playing pretend.

Cassian huffs once more, running a hand down his face and around his neck before dropping it in a gesture towards you. “He cannot be serious.”

He.

You catch that pronoun with intrigue and tilt your chin.

“Serious about what? Who’s ‘he’?”

His voice softens, shrinking in size, as he nears half a step closer and into your bubble. “Don’t tell me it’s you.” You maintain eye contact — maintain dominance of this situation — and stay in place. “When he said to wait…”

“...for the Informer, you didn’t think you’d run into a ghost?” you finish, and he’s polite enough not to nod. “He only told me the person he was sending in his stead was one of his best assets. This reunion isn’t my doing.”

“No,” Cassian agrees, low and certain. “It isn’t.”

Because Luthen knows.

Luthen knows, and that’s dangerous in and of itself: his little lamb on Ferrix knew his most trusted asset long before the mastermind was in the picture, and this sabotage is meant to figure you out.

(To figure you both out for his own gain: to make sure you were both up for the task, history aside.)

Your jaw clenches as you nod with assertion, mindful of the train of your body-tight dress when you shift around Cassian to create some space. He turns his torso, following.

“Did he force you to do this?” When you pause in your steps to quirk a brow, he struggles with verbalizing what this means. “Entertaining these low lives while they piss their credits away.”

“Very strong words for someone dressed as an Imp.”

He completely ignores you, hyper in his budding rage. “Because if anyone has touched you—”

“No one’s forcing me to do anything, Cass,” you reply, hateful that the former nickname leaves your lips so fluidly; as if no time has passed. “We’re all cogs working for the same machine.”

“That doesn’t mean he should be having you do this on your own,” the man argues. “He’s not even on the planet, for fuck’s sake. This is dangerous work.”

“You keep saying this or that, but you’re not really asking the real question.” Your nose scrunches, maliciously playful. “I don’t fuck them. It’s pretend, Cassian. My honor is intact.”

Cassian squints with a scoff. “That isn’t what I meant—”

“It isn’t?” you challenge.

“No,” he responds just as fast and just as intense. A smirk plays on your lips, slow and growing. “Fuck whoever you’d like to fuck. One or a dozen, I don’t care, but not them. They don’t deserve you.”

“And who does?”

“I don’t know, but not Luthen or the pieces of shit out there or anyone on this planet.”

“Not even you, right?”

He stares down at you, hard. You snort in disbelief.

“I never thought I’d see the day where Cassian Andor is jealous of a body count, but I guess stranger things have happened for both of us.”

Cassian’s jaw sets, nostrils flaring with an anger he refuses to bury completely. He searches your face, lost on a response, before sharply inhaling through his nose.

“I need information on your regulars.”

Ah.

No more games.

You roll your eyes, absently waving him off as you turn to walk towards the crate-like nightstand. “I have the files on a drive.”

No more games, or so you thought — Cassian follows close behind. “Drives are easily corruptible or lost or stolen. You could just tell me.”

Your hand hovers on the drawer when you turn your chin to look at him. “Yeah, sure, let me just… tell you about a mission I’ve spent years finessing so you can get the details wrong when you relay with Luthen.”

“Do you think so little of my memory skills?” he says and it’s a joke, but it teeters on the edge of an argument.

Just like old times.

You don’t need this type of deja vu before the new year.

“Whisper down the lane only goes so far,” you answer, turning back to the drawer in front of you. Your hand lifts the edge of the bottom plate, removing a small box from the center of the hidden compartment.

You only pause when you feel his presence right behind you as soft puffs of air tickle the back of your exposed neck.

He says nothing, not at first, in this proximity. Then a syllable sounds:

“Why?”

The question is a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it whisper. His voice flutters along your skin, causing a shiver down your spine. Deep down you know he’s not asking about the drive or your distaste for his preferred method of relay. Why — the one word you hoped to never face.

If you concentrate hard enough, you can smell the scent of his cologne.

It smells nothing like Cassian.

You stay focused on a miniscule dot on the wall, too afraid to turn around.

“We can’t do this here,” you murmur, barely audible in return.

“I paid for the hour,” he replies. “If I were to leave ten minutes into your company, then there would be questions.”

(He’s right. As much as you hate it, your former friend is right.)

You raise your chin to the ceiling, closing your eyes. Contemplating. Seeking anything, everything, to say to avoid what’s to come.

You open your mouth to speak, but Cassian gets there first.

“I looked for you.” A vulnerable statement from an impenetrable man. His chin leans forward, the warmth of him spreading to your aura. “In dozens of quadrants—”

“Cassian.”

“—and about a hundred planets—”

“Stop.”

“—but you left nothing.” The final word emphasizes with raw emotion, causing your throat to swell. His gloved hand rests on your tricep, but you turn to finally face him. The closeness of him is a surprise — piercing brown eyes meet yours with mere centimeters between noses. “No note, no goodbye, no telling where you might have headed. Nothing.”

Frowning, you don’t realize that you’re shaking your head. The lines on his face are too distracting. He is distracting.

“You were never supposed to see me again.”

“And I never understood why.” He steps forward. You step back. When you think he won’t advance, he continues to step once, twice, until the third lands your back to the corner of the room. “So I am asking — now — while I can still have you: why?”

While I can still have you. You know the implication isn’t there, not truly, but your heart aches for it. The tension makes you feel so small, as if you’re eighteen and flying all over again.

You’re supposed to be over this; over him.

“I had to start new,” you answer after a considerable pause, forcing yourself to look him in the eye in what little space is held between you. “I was always going to leave Ferrix.”

“I knew that,” he argues softly. “I was never going to deter you from—”

“No. No, you were never going to,” you agree, nodding. “But you were always off and on the planet, doing what you had to for everyone else. If I didn’t cut Ferrix out of my life, then I wonder if I would have had the same fate as my parents or my friends: getting stuck there. And not just getting stuck, but waiting.”

“Waiting?” Cassian asks with confusion, brows knit.

You relax against the wall with a humorless laugh. “How did you not see it? The way I always waited for you.” Anxious, you turn your cheek to check the main door as you mull over your next few words. “I would have waited my whole life for you.”

The air in the room shifts.

Although he remains in your peripheral vision, the man stays staring at you without a discernible expression. The gravity of what you’re admitting drags lower, lower, until he says something that forces you to look at him head-on:

“I thought you were indifferent to me.”

Your eyes widen. “Indifferent?”

Cassian nods, short and quick. “You had all these big plans. I listened for hours. Not one of them involved me.”

“Because I didn’t think you’d want to be a part of those plans.”

“Maybe I didn’t think I couldn’t make a difference, not in a… rebellion, though the irony is not lost on me now,” he admits with a huff of a laugh, “but I wanted to be a part of you. I didn’t care what it was, so long as I still had you.”

You stare at him as he stares back at you, totally dumbfounded with this brand new information. Cassian swallows thickly, shifting his weight yet again from one leg to another. The loud party continues outside of your room, drowning these confessions in the excitement for a nearing midnight.

You had all these big plans.

Memories warp at a second’s notice as your brain tries to understand what he’s laid at your altar.

Not one of them involved me.

He shouldn’t be saying this.

He shouldn’t be saying any of this.

Closing your eyes to find a pause in your racing thoughts, you try — try to find where perhaps this is fabricated, designed to see if you’re easily swayed by the past that you so desperately let die in this rebellion.

Slowly, your eyelids flutter open. Cassian is watching with something close to concern.

(Something, maybe, closer to fear.)

You gently shake your head. “This is a test.”

“I know.”

“Luthen did this—”

“Fuck Luthen,” he breathes out, eyes dropping to stare at your lips, and your heartbeat quickens.

His brows meet in the middle, concentrated yet lost — as if he’s back on Ferrix, scrawny and scrappy and calculating the gravity of the risk should he decide to steal or trespass —

Or do something he wasn’t supposed to.

“Cassian.”

Your voice is gentle with a warning. His eyes do not raise, but he does answer.

“What?”

“You have that look on your face.”

“I have a look?”

“When you’re contemplating doing something stupid? Yes.”

He snorts, amused. “You remember what that looks like after fifteen years?”

“It's very hard to forget it.”

He mulls the moment over, flickering his attention back up to your eyes and nodding.

“You’re right. I am thinking of doing something stupid.”

“How stupid?”

“Incredibly.”

A beat passes.

Finally he blinks up to your eyes, searching for an answer to a question he hasn’t asked yet. You wait, just as you’ve always waited, to hear his voice.

“It’s almost midnight,” he says, flexing the leather gloved hand at his side. “I should go.”

Everything sinks.

The crowd outside grows louder as people depart from their private rooms to celebrate in the middle of the casino. Everyone begins the unison countdown of the final minute until the new year rings out.

The device in your hand grows heavy — a reminder of why he’s here in the first place, what Luthen will be looking for, yet your arm cannot rise to give it over.

(A few more minutes and he’ll be gone.)

To find a reason to keep him here with you would be selfish.

Instead of protesting, you nod.

“Yeah. You should go.”

He nods, too, and his throat bobs with a swallow.

Outside your door, their laughter and shouts reach a collective ten, nine, eight, seven…

Yet he doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

Six, five, four, three…

“Cass?”

Two.

Cassian speaks with broken finality, rushed and wanting. “I can't go without—”

You beat him to it.

Canto Bight’s cliffside casino roars with excitement of the new year while you grab the lapel of his Imperial uniform, dragging him in as he simultaneously launches his lips to yours.

The force of him smacks your head into the wall, but the stars behind your eyes aren’t from impact. It’s from the way he presses his mouth to yours, desperate to pour years of frustration and wonder into a long-awaited kiss. You whimper into it, eager to dissolve any space between you.

Cassian Andor cages your head into the palms of his gloved hands, holding you with a tenderness and strength only he can have. He groans into your mouth when he tastes you, tongue dragging along your lower lip — the neediness of it is enough to make your knees give out.

Except he drops his hands to your shoulders and spins you, pressing your chest into the wall. Using your hands to balance yourself, Cassian wastes not a second more to place his hands over yours, pinning you in place.

“We should have — opened with a fight,” he murmurs breathlessly into your ear, kissing your earlobe before bringing it into his mouth.

You bite back a moan, dropping your forehead to the wall. “If I'd known you wanted to kiss me after all this time, Cass, then I would have — gone straight past a fight and went for it.”

He chuckles behind you, letting go of your earlobe to travel kisses down the side of your neck.

“There is a lot I wanted to do back then, but I was too chickenshit to try it.”

The imagery of a lot burns into the back of your skull.

“And now?” you ask, but it’s wavered.

Cassian slows down, but his lips remain against the crook of your neck. You mourn the loss of speed, pushing your hips back to connect with his.

A hand shoots down to still your waist as his thumb runs soothing strokes into the skintight dress.

“Not here,” he decides, but it isn’t regretful. It’s determined. “When I see you again—”

“When?” you interrupt.

“When,” he enforces, squeezing your waist, “I see you again, I’ll do what I’ve been too chickenshit to do and it won’t be under a watchful eye.”

When I see you again.

You smile small, delirious in the haze of him.

“Is that a promise?”

“As good as I can make one,” he responds in earnest, turning to leave a small kiss on your cheek. “You’re not losing me so easily this time.”

And you believe him.

Misunderstandings, miscommunications — all of that hardship to end up here, of all places.

You have so much to learn.

(He has so much to hear.)

Even if this was Luthen’s doing, even if this was a test of faith, you cannot find a reason to care. Not when your lips still tingle with the kiss you’d only dreamt about your entire life.

Reaching for his arm, you gently bring his free hand to yours and place the small drive in the middle of his palm. Cassian’s chin drops to observe the tiny metal, jaw setting to its unreadable clench.

Because at the end of the night, you both still have jobs to do.

A new year.

(A new horizon.)

“Until next time,” you say, removing your hand from his.

Cassian curls his fingers over the drive, shoving the small device in his coat pocket. He flexes and raises his hand to bring it up to your cheek, cradling your face once more as he leans in for one final kiss. This time it’s softer. Timid.

The closest Cassian Andor can ever get to a promise.

He pulls away, nose to nose, and mirrors in reply.

“Until next time.”

#andor #cassian andor #cassian andor x reader #cassian andor x you #cassian andor x female reader #cassian andor x f!reader #andor tv #andor tv series #star wars fanfic #star wars fanfiction #star wars #andor fanfiction #cassian andor fanfiction #luthen rael #female reader #reader insert #new years eve #about you #amywritesthings

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theidiotwhowritesthings · 1 year

Text

INEVITABLE [7]

din djarin x female!reader

warnings: language, discussion of illegal trade goods

word count: 2,600

Summary: It was like fate or destiny had planned from the beginning for you to be on the run from the law. With the words ‘I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold’ adorning your rib cage you always wondered what was worse: Knowing you were bound to being wanted or realizing your soulmate was a cursed bounty hunter. You had a mission to finish and no bounty hunter, soulmate or not, was going to stop you.

[a/n: the next one is gonna be much longer than these short updates im sorry]

[previous][next]

07: A FAVOR FOR A FRIEND

"fortune favors the bold."

“Din, this place is a shit hole.”

He couldn’t find the words to reply, and it wasn’t because he didn’t agree. Thyreps was a shit hole. Nobody came to this world because they wanted to⏤ it was a world of poor convenience. Din was speechless because every time he heard you say his name it felt like his heart would get stuck in his throat. A pathetic and sad reaction that he wished he could get over, but even after two days of traveling to Thyreps he had not. In fact, since he was already being pathetic, Din could admit that with every single time he heard you say it he grew more obsessed with the sound of it leaving your lips.

“Din?”

“Yeah.” Din grunted out. He cleared his throat and gave a small nod as the two of you stared out of the ship's glass to the orange and red world below. “You’re not wrong. Imagine Jakku, but worse.”

“Maker.” You scoffed and leaned back in your seat. “I didn’t think a place worse than Jakku existed.”

“Unfortunately, there is.”

“Gross.”

Din chuckled under his breath at your obvious disgust at the world. He couldn’t even offer comfort because your reaction had been entirely accurate. Din hated Thyreps. The last time he had visited had been ages ago, before Grogu even, and it was because he had followed a quarry there. He navigated the Razor Crest down to the capital city’s main tarmac. It wasn’t overly large or busy, but that’s because Thyreps wasn’t overly large or busy.

“What exactly will the Reaper be able to give you?” Din asked as he rose from the pilot chair and hit a few buttons to lock up the Crest’s console. “Viktor’s location?”

“Nah. Viktor is in Canto Bight.” You replied.

Din’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He shook his head. “Then why don’t I just take you there? We can do what needs to be done.”

There was a pause of silence that made him nervous. He watched as you pasted on a false smile before responding. “He’s not where we can reach him. Viktor is hiding underground with the 1% of the galaxy that’s escaping trouble. You need a pass to get in and only a few souls have access to that sort of thing. That’s what the Reaper is gonna give me. Information on how to get one so I can sneak in and kill Viktor.” Briefly, your voice steeled. “And I meant that. Me. I will sneak in, and I will kill Viktor. Not us.” Din realized the mistake he had made with his words and he stiffened. “I appreciate your help with this, Din, but I’ve come too far to let someone else cut in and pull the trigger before I can.”

“Right. I didn’t mean⏤”

“Viktor is my monster to get rid of.” You finished then turned to leave the cockpit.

Din hesitated to allow you the space to slip away into the cargo hold alone. That was stupid and reckless of him. The atmosphere with you had gotten so comfortable, especially with you using his name, that Din forgot that you were still skittish with this topic. He meant his words. There was nothing he wanted more than to rip Viktor to shreds with his bare hands. It had been a long time since a person evoked such a visceral rage in him, but this stranger had. Despite that, Din knew what this journey meant to you. He would never take that closure from you.

After another beat, Din followed after you and climbed down into the cargo hold. The ramp had been opened and he saw you lift a groggy Grogu from the hammock to hold. The boy had been sleeping and with the way he curled into your arms, Din could tell he was still far from fully awake. Din would be lying if he said he didn’t like seeing you and Grogu together. The boy was growing more and more attached to you, and you seemed so good with him. Din’s only fear was that Grogu was getting too attached. When the mission ended, Viktor was dead, and you left it would be devastating to the boy. Din had already stupidly gotten more attached to you than he should.

“Hey⏤” He began.

You cut in first. “I’m sorry.” Grogu was resting his head on your shoulder and you were rubbing his back while you spoke. “I didn’t mean to snap at you like that. I know what you meant in general, and I really do appreciate your help.” You twisted your lips and gave him a small shrug. “My first instinct tends to be either sarcasm or hostility.”

Din let out a soft laugh. “No. It’s fine. I…I should have worded that better.” He came closer at the sound of his voice made Grogu turn with grabby hands. You chuckled at the sight and met him halfway so Din could scoop the boy out of your arms and cradle him to his own chest. “I know how much this means to you. I do. I’d never take it from you, mirdala runi.”

“I know.” You nodded and he could feel the sincerity in your words followed by an awkward shift where you tried to backpedal. You rubbed the back of your neck and began to walk to the ramp. “So, uh, what are we waiting for? Let’s go explore this garbage planet and find this guy, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Din chuckled. With Grogu in one arm, he rooted through his weapon closet to arm himself. A few steps away you were playing with the strap of your bag and waiting. When he finished, he nodded for you to follow and once the two of you were out in the heat of Thyreps on the tarmac rather than the Crest he hit a button on his vambrance to lift the ramp and lock it. “If we find my source then she can tell us where the Reaper is right now.”

“I can’t imagine this city has many cantinas.” You replied then chuckled. “Hell, there can’t be many on the entire planet.”

“No, but I thought we might save ourselves the time of sitting in every single one for a few hours.” Din teased with a small smile.

You lightly shoved your shoulder into his, “Ha. Funny, bucket head.” Din glanced over at you in amusement. Your smile had taken that very real quality to it that he loved to see. “The Mandalorian has jokes. What a riot.”

“You’re not the only one with a sense of humor.” Din hummed.

“I never said I was. I just said my sense of humor was funnier than yours.”

“I’m pretty sure there’s a difference between being funnier and being less humble.”

You laughed in response and Din knew that sound was in tough competition with hearing you say his name. Din had never prided himself on being funny. He tended to be dry with his humor and people either got that or they didn’t. Being able to make you laugh, his soulmate, made his heart hum in content.

Din led you into the city and as they walked down the mildly crowded city streets, Grogu began to rouse and wake up more. Now he spun his gaze in different directions to curiously take in their surroundings. As the three of them passed a few market stands, you paused to buy two kabobs with an unfamiliar meat and vegetable on it. You handed one to Grogu who didn’t hesitate to dig in while nibbling on the other yourself.

There was an old boxing gym near the center of the city. It was one of the only buildings Din was familiar with so finding it hadn’t been too difficult. Leading you inside, Din scanned the room for a familiar face. The gym was filled with people training or working out, but off to the side leaning against the wall was his old friend. Though the term ‘friend’ was technically relative.

“Ari.” He called out and the woman’s head snapped to meet him with a curious gaze. However, her dark eyebrows furrowed at the sight of him. “I need a favor.”

Ari’s blue eyes suddenly widened in recognition and she pushed off the wall to approach. Her dark hair was messily pulled up into a ponytail and she clapped her hands with a laugh. “Mando! Maker, how the hell are ya?” She continued to drift closer until she stood not too far away. Ari motioned to him. “I like this new look. Shiny.”

“I need a favor.” Din repeated.

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time. Geez, always business with this one.” Ari snickered. She glanced at you and Din quickly made introductions. Ari gave him a skeptical look, “I never had you pegged as the type to indulge in the slave trade, Mando.”

Din felt the blood leave his face at even the thought of what Ari was thinking. He spluttered to explain, but you let out a sharp laugh and shook your head. “He isn’t. I’m just a tag along he picked up.”

“Good. I don’t tolerate that kind of shit in my house.” Ari nodded. She pointed to Grogu next. “And what the fuck is that?”

Din bristled at the tone, but he bit back on his temper. He knew Ari didn’t mean harm. She was just blunt and crass and a giant pain in his ass on the best of days. “This is Grogu.” At his name, Grogu turned and offered the woman a small wave as he finished off the last of his kabob. “He’s my son.”

“That’s not a real name, but sure.” Ari raised an eyebrow at him. “I thought you were human though, weren't you? What the hell did you fuck to get⏤”

“Ari.” Din snapped. “The favor.”

Ari rolled her eyes and motioned for them to follow her. Din blew out a sigh, and you leaned in closer to speak. “So, she’s…interesting.”

“She’s a smuggler. Runs her crew from this place.” Din explained.

“How’d you meet her?”

“She was a quarry.” Din said. He met her long before he crossed paths with Grogu. Din had picked her up with full intentions to turn her in, but the woman offered him an ingot of beskar for a ride to Jakku. Knowing she picked places like Jakku and Thyreps to reside made him question her already questionable sanity.

You chuckled and he watched as you pointed to yourself, then to Grogu, then to Ari who walked a few feet ahead. “Do you ever actually turn in any of your quarries?” Din laughed and ignored the surprised look that Ari threw over her shoulder at him. “I’m kind of serious.”

The Ari woman had led them into what looked like a small back office. She sat behind the desk and Din motioned for you to take the only seat in front of the desk. Din. It still felt unusual to know his name even days after he gave it. You fell into the seat, and Din lowered Grogu to rest in your lap while he rested his hands on the chair’s back so he could lean there.

“Alright. Favor?” Ari asked.

Din nodded once and you let him take the lead since he knew this woman better than you did. “Yes. We need to find the Reaper.”

“Ew.” Ari blanched. “Who the hell wants to find him?”

You lifted a hand with a sheepish smile. “That’s me, I suppose. I need info from him.” Ari paused and motioned to you with her hand obviously fishing for more. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat before nodding. “Well, I need a pass in order to get into Canto Bight’s underground.”

“The Golden Ring?” Ari scoffed. “Yeah, okay, you do need Reaper for that. Unfortunately for you.” She leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms. “You need to go to Reti.”

You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion, and apparently Din was equally as confused by this information. He spoke up from behind you. “Why do we need to go there? I thought the Reaper hangs around in one of the cantinas here. There’s nothing on Thyrep’s moon but dust and trouble.”

“Correct.” Ari nodded. “However, if you want a favor from me then I need a favor from you.”

“You owe me one.” Din scoffed.

“No.” She dragged the word out. “We became even when I gave sent you a message on that one quarry you were searching for way back.” You glanced over your shoulder at Din whose shoulders seemed to slump in realization. “Exactly. This’ll be easy though. Tit for tat.”

Din sighed irritably, “What do you want?”

“There’s a smuggling camp on Reti. A Twi’lek named Dorsil stole some goods I planned to fence myself. I want my stuff back, is all.”

“What stuff?”

“Just some weaponry parts.”

You could feel Din stiffen behind you as he repeated his words once more. “What stuff?”

Ari shot both of you a sheepish smile. “Disruptor cores.”

“Are you out of your kriffing mind?” Din snapped. You didn’t know enough about the weapon parts to understand the issue. Din shifted so he stood behind you rather than behind as he continued to argue. “Cores don’t travel well.”

“Yeah, I’m fully aware of that, Mando.” Ari scoffed. “I’d go get them myself, but…”

You raised an eyebrow, “But what?”

“But I don’t wanna, and I got you two here looking for a favor.” Ari replied. “It’s like kismet.” Her eyes glanced back to Din and a grin adorned her features. “So? How bad do you need the Reaper?”

Din was silent for a moment before he nodded once. “Get me the coordinates.”

Ari pumped her fist once before rifling through her desk looking for something. You stood up and set a hand on Din’s arm. Grogu squirmed to be let down so you set him on the chair before pushing Din aside. “How dangerous is this?”

“It’s risky, but if done right everything will be fine.”

“You could say that about literally anything, bucket head.” You replied. “Give it to me straight.”

Din blew out a soft sigh, “Cores are highly volatile before they’re built into the weapon. It’s like carrying around a box of explosives. In theory, it should be fine, but under the right conditions⏤ or wrong conditions, I guess I should say⏤ they’re quick to ignite.”

You twisted your lips. “If you think it’s too dangerous⏤”

“No. We’re getting you the Reaper’s location.”

“I don’t want to put you or Grogu at risk for this.” You argued back and surprisingly it tasted of the truth. For so long, you assumed there wasn’t a price you wouldn’t be willing to pay for the information, but it seemed you had been wrong. You found the line in the sand you couldn’t cross.

Din set his gloved hand over yours on his arm and shook his head. “Everything is going to be alright. I promise, ner mirdala runi. I will get you the Reaper’s location.”

Ari called out that she had the information on hand, and he turned his attention back to her. You crossed your arms in thought. Of course you wanted to know where this man was. He was the next step in getting to Viktor. However, you couldn’t shake this foreboding feeling in your stomach that this was a bad idea.

mando'a translations

ner mirdala runi: my clever soul

taglist:

@onceinamando @hrtsforpascal @lil-dragon-draws @harriedandharassed @aheadfullofsteverogers @elfamosotoga @the-anchored-sailor-girl @garbo-lesbo @moonlqghts @stokeholdsblog @morks-watermelon @http-onie @chonkercatto @xalphafox @pedrojoe @zarahbronstein @cockscombkingdom @ale0m @shelbyteller @fallinallinmendes @grandtheoristpeach @perilous-pasta @love-the-abyss @kneelforloki @insomniac-nerd-posts-things @marvelouslytrekking @lady-winchester @liadamerondjarin @vampseddie @guccistardust @smexy-bucky-waifu @mayaaaaah @theway-thisis @keepingitlokiii @catharinaroxastova @andreasworlsboring101 @theclassicvinyldragon @your-slutty-gf @i-cant-write-for-shit @ponyboys-sunsets @honeybug-victoria @godesspsyche @cookielovesbook-akie @adoringanakin

#the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mando x reader #mando x you #reader insert #female reader #inevitable #soulmate!din djarin #soulmate!au

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twyftwyt · 6 months

Text

a little Noah imagine I wrote last night, so enjoy

warnings: smut

“Did you miss me?”

We hadn’t seen each other in over a month until I decided to go surprise him on tour. He had a few more shows before the end but I just couldn’t wait any longer. I had been touch and love deprived for a month now and I needed to see the only man that could ever make me crawl out of my skin. So I took the first flight to Toronto, where they were playing tonight and landed a bit dizzy but ready to surprise the hell out of him. I had previously called Jesse to let him know I’m coming and he made to sure to send me an AAA pass, so I could access the venue before they even got to it themselves.

I put my bags down in one of the green rooms and got a bottle of a water from the mini fridge. 12:30, they should be here any minute now. My phone, discarded on the leather couch I was sitting on currently, came to life with a buzz.

“Just got here. Where are you?” - Jesse

“Third green room to the left once you enter from the back.”

“Cool. I’ll send him there.” - Jesse

Jesse was a top tier friend for keeping my secrets and helping me with the execution of all the little, sinister plans I had for Noah. Like that one time I surprised him with a trip to New Zealand for his birthday but had to make up a story that the AC in his room broke down and he couldn’t use his room for a few days, so essentially Jesse sent him to my place.

I heard the knob of the door and my eyes immediately shot at the tall, lean figure that entered the dim lit room.

“Hi, handsome.”

His eyes pierced mine the moment my voice danced around his ears. He was wearing his Naruto hoodie, a pair of black shorts and a black Omens cap. And damn, did he look good.

“What the–“ was all he could mutter

“Surprised to see me, baby?”

I got up and started walking over to him slowly. He was still looking at me in disbelief. The moment I reached him and locked my fingers behind his neck, I felt his muscles tense. Our bodies responded in such a way every time we were around each other and it was fucking epic every single time. Like electricity but worse.

“I sure am, so give me a fucking minute, please.”

I was already on my tippy toes grinning up at him. My eyes lingered from his eyes down to his lips and back up to his eyes.

“You’re not gonna give me a little smooch?”

I puckered my lips at him and he showed me his pearly whites, grinning back at me.

“I’ll give you a fucking beating, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Mmh–“

My moan was cut short by his hungry mouth. I felt his tongue slip inside and trace my own before getting into a little fight with it. He was cute like that but I quickly felt him turn primal.

“I’ve a sound check in 30.”

“30’s a solid number. We can do 30.” I moaned into his mouth.

“Then let’s do fucking 30.”

I felt his hands around my waist, guiding me backwards until my knees hit the couch. He pushed me onto it and took his sweatshirt off along with the shirt he had underneath. I wasted no time tugging at the hem of his shorts, pulling them down until I freed one my favorite things about him. Looking up at him, I wet my right hand and gripped him firmly.

“Fuck–”

“Did you miss me?”

“Almost every fucking bight, babe.”

#noah sebastian #bad omens #bad omens cult #noah sebastian fic

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hugemilkshake · 3 months

Note

A continuation idea for the clotted cream thing;

Clotted cream cuddles please!

I hope you enjoy your milkshake! Now this art was NOT arting like I had to redo it like 3 times. Now since you said it was a continuation I will do just that

-Platonic or Romantic scenario-

After walking around for a while, Clotted Cream took you back to his office just to make some small talk and to give you both a break from the bight sunshine.

Once you two got to his office Clotted Cream embraced you and spoke in a soft tone “Thank you for being my friend”

First part

#crk #cookie run #crk x reader #clotted cream cookie

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vibrantbirdy · 1 year

Note

Hey lovely!! Could you do a Cassian Andor x (f) reader? I’m a sucker for enemies to lovers. I like the whole “you annoy me and piss me off” relationship that ends up in a situation where they are stuck together for something and end up in a fight where they suddenly realize they have feelings! I love allowing creators to have their own space to create, so if you wanna do something else entirely, please feel free too!!

❤️ take care of yourself

Thank you SO much, this is a great request! I am a sucker for enemies to lovers too. I hope you don't mind, but I had a similar Cassian request from Anon at the same time about Cassian x Reader having to go undercover to Canto Bight as a couple which I thought would work well with yours so I merged them. (Anon, I also hope you don't mind the merging and that you can find this ok as I don't know if/how I can reply to two asks in the same post?)

Also, I want to thank everyone who has interacted with my writing so far.

Requests for Character x Reader fics are currently open in my Asks. Please read the guidelines first. Keep 'em coming.

-Birdy

Title: Charade Fandom: Star Wars Setting: Between Andor and Rogue One Genres: Sci-fi; Romance; Enemies to lovers; Action/adventure; Fluff Warnings: Moderate sexuality; moderate swearing; mild violence/peril; brief mentions of loss of family/friends by Reader. Pairing: Cassian Andor x Female Reader Chapters: 1/1 (Complete) Word Count: approx 10k (oops)

Summary: You and Captain Cassian Andor have to negotiate your personal differences and difficult history when you are both assigned to go on an undercover operation to the Galaxy's playground for the super-rich, Canto Bight, as a married couple.

Prologue

Your first mission as a spy for the Rebel Alliance has taken you to Carida. The objective; to infiltrate and sabotage the Imperial Naval Yard there then get out as quickly and quietly as possible.

As it turns out, the mission is doomed from the outset. An Imperial mole who somehow dug their way into the very heart of Rebel Command on Yavin 4 has alerted the Empire to your plans.

Your team of six hardly made it five kilometers from the rust-bucket of a ship Rebel Leadership had assigned to you when you were intercepted by an Imperial patrol.

The firefight was brief. The Stormtroopers were green, even more so than you. You wondered with a pang of unexpected sympathy whether they'd come fresh from the Imperial Academy which was also based on Carida. There were far more seasoned combatants amongst your own unit and the fight was over before it had really began.

Still, that's when you'd lost poor Lily to a Trooper's blaster bolt. You're not even sure he was aiming at her. She'd fallen against you and you'd twisted your ankle as you'd spun to the ground following a futile attempt to hold her upright as if that would negate the fatal injury she'd just sustained.

Now, as you limp up the ridge of the hill you feel a swell of relief as you see that you are almost back to the clearing where the ship is stowed. But as you catch a glimpse of the hunk of old metal, you realise with horror that you are not out of the woods yet.

The Empire uses decrepit shuttles just like this one for for training cadets at the Academy. That's why High Command had insisted you take it - to blend in. You'd nicknamed it Tenacity because the old girl just wouldn't die and the name had stuck.

The ancient vessel doesn't do anything quickly until it's up in the air. Then she's sharp as a razor. But she has a complicated manual override for emergency take-offs whereby the crew need pump fuel round the engines a few times using an externally stowed generator.

Good for training Imperial cadets for problem solving and how to make the best of old tech. Not so good for spies who need a quick exit.

You're the engineer, it should have been you who hooked the ship up to the generator. But with your injury you are too slow and so the others went on ahead to start without you. You are sure you gave correct and clear instructions, but in his panic, it looks like Rogdul has connected the ports up all wrong. Dangerously so.

Overhead, you hear the scream of Imperial TIE fighters and you launch yourself into the nearby undergrowth. You count them. Four. They are searching the valley for you. They pass, but they'll be back in less than a minute. It's impossible that they haven't spotted the ship in the forest clearing.

From your hiding place you hear the ship's engines burst into life. Inside, you imagine Rogdul and Anya carrying out hurried pre-flight checks. Baslin is probably taking up position in the gunner's hatch, hoping to see some action.

No, you think. Not like this.

But you can reach the ship and fix the problem. You know you can. The whole thing will blow if you don't and that's not an option.

You dart out towards the Tenacity, but someone intercepts you, slamming into you with a body tackle and dragging you roughly back to cover through the mud. Soon, you're seated up against them, your back pressed into their chest, their arms and legs wrapped around you like a vice.

It's Captain Cassian Andor, you realise, your superior officer and the lead operative on this mission. You'd completely forgotten that he was even further behind the hasty retreat than you, taking up the rear and keeping watch for more Imperial patrols on your tail.

You don't care who it is. You struggle and writhe furiously against him, desperate to get away and stop the impending disaster you can see unfolding before your eyes. But Andor holds you fast against him as if you were a child having a tantrum.

"Let me go, I can fix it!" you scream over the howl of the returning TIEs.

"You can't, it's too late!" Andor shouts back into your ear.

As if on cue, the generator connected to the side of the ship starts to spark wildly, just as you knew it would. You watch helplessly as the fuel cells hidden within the Tenacity ignite with a deafening bang and whoosh of flame as the ship goes up in a hellish fireball.

A second later, the TIEs make their second pass. There's no need for them to bother firing their weapons. The devastation from the explosion is catastrophic.

They do it anyway.

Two years later

You are on approach to Canto Bight, Cantonica's capital city - the Galaxy's playground for the wealthy.

Captain Cassian Andor is in the pilot's seat, following instructions from the flight control tower. You'll sit down in a moment, but right now, you are desperately trying to sort the sticking-up collar of his cream shirt which is made of expensive looking silk.

Irritated, he tries to bat your hand away, but you are persistent.

"Kriff's sake, Andor, just let me do it," you mutter.

"I'm not a child," he says petulantly, but he relents.

There. Now he looks the part in his fine clothes. He's tidied his short beard and moustache so that the stubble is cropped neatly to the sharp contours of his chiselled face. His dark brown hair is neatly parted at the side, although it's perhaps still a little long...

You don't look too shabby either, bedecked in a knee-length silk day dress of sky blue, accompanied by a cloak of dusky purple which is draped elegantly across your shoulders. The Rebellion went to great lengths to fund this operation and they certainly didn't skimp on the provision of suitable attire. It's essential that you fit in.

"I look fine, you look fine, stop fussing," Andor says dismissively, noticing as you smooth out a couple of annoying wrinkles in your dress and swish out the skirt to make sure the fabric is lying properly.

"I think you look lovely," K-2SO, Andor's droid and almost constant companion, pipes up from the co-pilot's chair, "and that Cassian looks like he's swallowed an Endor fire hornet."

"You don't think," Andor retorts, "That's just circuits misfiring randomly in your head..."

K-2 turns to you with a mechanical whirr, and if he had the ability to conjure expressions, this one would read:

See? I told you.

You stifle a laugh and drop down into the passenger seat behind the droid.

The first time you'd met the hulking re-programmed Imperial security droid had been that fateful day on Carida. You and Andor had shivered miserably in silence for hours by the wreckage of the Tenacity as the rain lashed down, making little difference to the fearsome fuel-accelerated flames which devoured the ship. The Empire, in their arrogance, didn't bother to send out a patrol to check the site.

Then, late into the night, K-2 had finally arrived in Cassian's own ship under cover of darkness. With your injured ankle having swollen to twice its usual size, the gargantuan droid had lumbered over, scooped you up, and carried you with surprising gentleness into the vessel. Ever since, you've always enjoyed his company and his sardonic wit.

Your relationship with Andor, on the other hand, has been tumultuous since its inception. He's always been frosty and stand-offish with you. You sometimes wonder if your presence reminds him of the disaster on Carida the way his does to you.

Whatever his reasoning, his uncompromising demeanour has always brought out your worst qualities when you're around him, especially your stubbornness and your dislike of being told what to do. You've never gone so far as insubordination under his command, but when you disagree with him, you have a unique knack for finding your own way to interpret his orders. This always has the infinitely satisfying effect of winding him up.

Anyway, this time won't be like Carida. And despite your personal differences, you and Andor have worked together successfully - though admittedly never harmoniously - many times since.

Your objective is simple enough. You're looking for a business man, Dreylan Balgo. He's not yet thirty, but he's the biggest supplier of Imperial weapons in the Galaxy. You need to obtain his biometric signature and transmit it back to Alliance High Command. They'll then use it to access the designs and blueprints of the weapons his company is designing for the Empire and eventually send agents in as factory workers to sabotage various key elements.

As Andor and K-2 make the final approach to Canto Bight you look out the window. Below you, the dark sea glitters and ahead, the shining spires of the beautiful city glow golden in the evening sun.

You close your eyes as a flash of a childhood memory dances across your brain. You came here with your parents once when you were nine or ten. That's partly why you've been chosen for this mission. You used to move in these circles.

K-2 drops the shuttle neatly on to the landing pad which juts out over the water.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," the droid quips as you exit.

It's winter on Cantonica. As you step out onto the platform, the breeze is chilly but pleasantly fresh and you can hear the steady crash of waves against the cliffs below you.

At the entrance to the structure, you pause a minute to take in the monolithic doors, ornately carved and inlaid with beautiful coloured glass which catches the light of the setting sun with dazzling beauty. The doors open and you and Andor step into the elaborate marble halls of Canto Bight's most luxurious resort as newlyweds Mr and Mrs Race Pax.

**************************************************

The suite you are staying in is as lavish as the rest of the place, but it is small. The coiffeurs of the Rebel Alliance do have their limits.

"What are you doing?" You ask, suddenly stopping your own unpacking to observe Andor throwing an assortment of pillows and blankets onto the ground.

"I'm taking the floor like a gentleman."

"Don't be stupid," you snort, "What if the maid comes in and sees this..." you gesture to the collection of blankets on the floor, searching for a fitting description "...gentleman's pillow fort?"

The most important thing on this mission is that your cover needs to be believable. And, perhaps tantamount to that, if Andor is tired, he'll be even grumpier than usual and you don't think you could deal with that.

He straightens and sighs, repeatedly slapping the cushion he has been plumping with unnecessary force.

One thing you and Andor have never been around each other is shy. Having spent weeks at a time together in miserable, hastily erected camps, cramped transports, and underground bunkers in the service of the Alliance, the necessity of living in close quarters with him stamped that out quick. You've learned to move in each other's personal space with ease and usually without any awkwardness, so you can't fathom why he's making a meal of it now.

He looks at you defiantly for a moment longer before accepting defeat.

"Fine," he says, as he starts to pick up the elements of his makeshift camp bed and throwing them back on the bed, "Fine, but if you snore, I won't hesitate to kick you out."

"If I snore?!"

That was rich.

*******************************************

You and Andor are attending one of Canto Bight's seemingly infinite evening soirees for the rich and powerful. A colourful sea of people in lavish dress are engaged in polite conversation and enjoying expensive beverages in one of the grandest ballrooms you've ever seen.

Dreylan Balgo is here, somewhere. Tonight is a chance to observe his behaviour, get to know his habits and make an initial introduction if possible. Anything that could help you create an opportunity to obtain his biometrics over the next few days.

You are wearing a teal halter-neck gown, a drink in one hand while the other rests elegantly on top of Andor's arm. The silk of his plush evening jacket is smooth under your fingertips and you absent-mindedly fuss with it as you scan the crowd for your target.

Someone says your name. Your real name.

Andor stiffens next to you.

Trying to keep your composure you turn and relief floods through you as you realise it's one of your mother's oldest friends, Lady Sen Prya. It's been years since you've seen her and she must be in her eighties by now, but she hasn't changed one bit. She is adorned in the most grandiose yellow satin gown you've ever seen, complete with matching gloves. Her long white hair falls, twisted in an elaborate braid, all the way down to her waist.

Quickly, you take her gloved hand and squeeze it gently, a subtle message you hope she can read.

"Oh I'm sorry you must be mistaken," you say politely and introduce yourself as Mrs Pax.

Understanding flickers across Prya's face. She always was sharp as a knife and time doesn't seem to have dulled that characteristic one jot.

"Ah of course, child. Forgive me," she says tactfully with all the grace and ease you remember from your childhood, "You look very like a dear old friend of mine. It's nice to meet you. I am Lady Sen Prya."

She reaches a hand up and touches your cheek affectionately with a twinkle in her golden eyes. Then, she reaches out to Andor who brings her hand up to his mouth and kisses it gently.

"Race Pax, it's a pleasure," he says, and there is a genuine warmth in his voice.

He appears to have relaxed somewhat and you are sure it's because he probably recognises Prya's name. She has been funding various elements of the Rebellion for years.

"Now, is there anyone you need an introduction to, before I retire to bed like the old woman I am?"

Prya stresses introduction as if its a code word. And it is.

You look up at Andor questioningly. You hate to ask his permission for anything, but he is the senior operative here. He nods once in ascent.

"Dreylan Balgo," you say.

Lady Prya's eyes light up and you can tell that she is delighted to learn who your indented mark is.

"Well then, follow me, young lovers."

Andor gives that rare smile of his, the one you see so infrequently which reaches all the way up to his eyes where they crinkle at the corners. He likes Prya. Everyone does. That's what makes her so dangerous for the Empire.

You wind through the crowd, following Prya as if she is golden star leading you to your destination. You're suddenly nervous and although you'd never admit it, there is something comforting about how Andor's large hand entwines with your own as he follows your lead through the busy party.

"Dreylan! My boy!" Prya's voice is clear as crystal and cuts through the party hubbub with ease.

Balgo turns from a conversation he is having with several other men. He is a handsome man, dressed in an evening suit of black velvet. He is tall and elegant with piercing blue eyes and a mop of sandy blonde curls.

"Ah! Lady Prya! What a delight to see you," he says gregariously, stooping low to kiss the older woman's cheek.

"And you, my lad," she replies with gracious ease, "Now, I want you to meet a couple of newly weds, Mr and Mrs Pax. I'm certain young Pax here would be interested in discussing business with you boys, although I, for one, find it all very dull."

There is a ripple of smug, amused laughter from the circle of men, and you join in only because you know Prya could negotiate most of these idiots out of any of business asset of theirs she chose to.

Balgo turns his attention to you first, appraising you thoroughly before taking your hand and kissing it with an elaborate flourish. You let out a silly little laugh, ensuring your voice carries an appropriate blend of affluence and air headedness.

Less than a minute you've been in this man's company and you can already read him like a holo novel.

He then greets Andor with boisterous joviality.

"Congratulations, Pax, what a stunning creature you have caught in your net."

Andor chuckles amiably, shaking Balgo's hand.

"It's good to meet you," he says warmly.

This time, his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes and you notice that his hand, which has been sitting lightly round your waist, shifts down to just under your hip.

Lady Prya retires to bed soon after, flashing you a wink and a dazzling smile as she sweeps from the room, an ageless vision in yellow.

The conversation and drinks flow. All night, you sense Balgo's eyes on you. Alliance High Command don't officially approve of so-called "honey-traps," and neither do you, but you see no harm in cultivating Balgo's delusion if it opens another window of opportunity. You don't discourage him, directly meeting the furtive glances he casts your way when he thinks Andor isn't looking.

Throughout the evening Andor proves why he is so good at his job. His ability to observe and imitate behaviour is uncanny. He adopts with ease that careless, raucous affectation that only young, wealthy men seem to possess. He hasn't taken more than a few sips of his wine, but he mirrors Balgo's increasingly boisterous body language and bawdy humour expertly.

By the end of the night the two are stomping around the dwindling party with their arms slung around each other's shoulders, swaying and laughing and singing like idiots.

The night has been a success. You've created a rapport with Balgo.

*******************************************

"Prya was a friend of your family's?" Andor's voice comes unexpectedly from the darkness, "What happened to them?"

It's very late - or early, depending on how your look at it - and you and Andor have just fallen, exhausted, into bed.

You are resting on your left side, as always, and you hear him roll over beside you, so that he is looking at your back.

You are surprised by how accurately Andor has read into the situation with so little information. You don't see any harm in telling him.

"My father owned an agricultural engineering works. One day the Empire came to his factory and asked him to design and build components for some machine they were building, probably a weapon. He refused. They executed him on the spot and took the factory anyway. I did my best, but we struggled and my mother died a few years after of a broken heart. That's when I left to join the Rebellion."

Andor shuffles, the bed shifting beneath you both and you can tell that he's propped himself up on his elbow. You feel his eyes boring into the back of your head.

"You've never told me that before."

"You never bothered to ask," you reply defensively, "I know what you think, what you all think. That I'm a rich brat who ran off to join the Rebellion just to piss off her wealthy parents."

There's a silence.

"Turns out you're only half right..." you finish with a rather bitter self-deprecating chuckle.

To your surprise, Andor puts a comforting hand on your shoulder. You hesitate for a moment, before you reach across your body to place your hand on top of his, just for a second.

"Goodnight, Cassian," you say.

You rarely use his first name and it feels odd, but not unnatural on your tongue.

"Goodnight."

He rolls back over and is soon snoring softly. You don't fall asleep for a long while, not until you hear the birds begin their morning chorus and the light of dawn starts to creep through the open window with the sea breeze.

********************************************************

You and Andor spend the next morning trying to locate Balgo but he's nowhere to be found. You suspect he is probably in his bed nursing a very sore head.

The last place you try is the Fathier racetrack, although you know there are no races on today. You are glad. You can't stand to see these magnificent animals forced to run like that.

Even so, you are unable to refrain from grabbing Andor's hand in excitement and dragging him over to the nearest pen where a mother and foal are resting in a patch of sunshine.

"A baby," you find yourself saying, stupidly.

Andor laughs quietly at the ridiculous, breathless joy in your voice. You wonder if he's making fun of you, but when you turn to him his eyes are sparkling with a mischievous light.

He gestures to a nearby handler, adopting Pax's air of arrogant entitlement with frightening ease.

"My wife would like to see the animal."

"Of course, sir."

The handler coaxes the foal over and it's tall enough already to reach other the fence. You pat the creature on its nose and between its ridiculously long ears and it nuzzles sweetly into your hand.

"Mr Pax?" You say as you turn to Andor and realise he's hovering a few feet back from the fence.

You gesticulate to him to come over. When else will he get the opportunity to interact with such an animal?

"Oh no, I can see fine from here," he replies with a shake of his head.

Surely not, you think, and you feel your mouth twist into a devilish smirk.

"Are you scared?" You tease.

You sidle up to him and entwine your arm in his before stretching up to whisper into his ear so that only he can hear you.

"Captain Andor?"

Unable to resist your direct challenge he offers you his hand with a resigned, slightly nervous grin. You take it, leading him back to the fence. You guide his palm up to the baby Fathier's nose and the creature sniffs it curiously. You then press it gently against the animal's long forehead. When you let go, Andor continues to stroke the animal softly, his face lit up with an expression of childish wonder.

"Thank you, husband," you say when you both turn to leave.

He gives you a subtle wink and you feel a sudden rush of something close to fondness for him.

********************************************

That afternoon is spent sneaking around the resort's service corridors. You are right at the top of the building and the corridors are narrow and low. It's ridiculously hot and you feel stupid carrying out serious espionage in yet another one of the seemingly endless supply of dresses you've been provided. This one is a horrible pink colour that clings all over and you hate it which is why you've chosen it for this dirty, sweaty work. You know you need to wear something suitable for Canto Bight's grand halls in case anyone sees you on your way to or from the job, but it just feels so unnatural.

Hopefully this shouldn't take too long. All you need to do is wire in a small signal booster to the resort's communications lines. Then, when you obtain Balgo's biometric signature, the data pad can send a transmission to a commandeered, disused Republic satellite to confirm that the sample has been collected successfully.

Actually transmitting the scrambled data to the Rebel base on Yavin 4 needs considerably more power which means, at some point, you and Andor are going to have to hike out to Cantonica's main transmitter mast and send the signal manually from there.

You'd flown past the huge pylon on your way in to land at the resort. It's a monumental thing and you feel a rush of nausea at the very thought of having to climb it...but that's a problem for another day, you decide.

Your head is buried in a control panel, and you're trying to explain to Andor why you need to use a slightly different width of cable than originally planned but he interrupts you mid-flow.

"Can you do it, or can't you?"

"I can do it," you snap back.

"Then just do it, I don't care how."

Charming as ever, the morning's hard won truce between you apparently forgotten. He's nervous and so are you, so you try not to hold it against him. He just wants to get out of here quickly.

There's a sound, and with horror, you realise it's the service elevator doors hissing open. A stern male voice follows soon after.

"Lars, If you're up here slouching again, I'm going to dock your pay."

You and Andor both freeze, staring at each other like Loth cats caught in the headlights of a speeder. Then, without warning he grabs you at the back of your knee, hitching your leg up to rest on his hip, his hand travelling further up the underside of your thigh and underneath your dress as he shoves you against the wall and pushes his body firmly against yours. The other hand flies up to your face, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone.

Your gasp of surprise is muffled as he crashes his lips hard against yours. It takes you only a millisecond to understand what he's doing and you kiss him back, twisting your fingers tightly through the locks of dark hair at the back of his head.

At this, a soft groan resonates in his throat and you are almost certain this is unintended. You feel a flash of satisfaction that you've managed to affect him in such a way, then scold yourself for being unable to refrain from point scoring with him, even now.

"Get out of here," Andor growls at the hapless employee, pretending he has only just noticed the man's presence.

His voice is low and husky. As he speaks, you feel his fingertips press into the flesh your thigh. Suddenly, the combination of his proximity and his heady, masculine, familiar scent is overwhelming, and you feel something hot and fierce coil in the pit of your abdomen.

Andor - Pax - has broken away from your lips to berate the man, but he hardly deigns to turn his head to look at the unfortunate employee. You take a moment to study the fine details of his face up close. His pupils are dilated, making his dark eyes gleam like midnight. His nostrils flare slightly with heightened breathing. An uncharacteristic blush is travelling up his neck into his cheeks. You can feel his heart slamming against his chest and your own.

"Oh, uhh... yes...of course," the poor employee sounds terribly embarrassed and all the previous managerial authority has vanished entirely from his voice.

"My apologies sir..."

The man actually stands on his tiptoes and cranes his neck to see your face through the tousled mess you've made of Andor's hair before addressing you directly with a courteous nod of his head.

"Madam."

You raise your eyebrows at him politely and give him a ridiculous little wave with your free hand, the one that's not woven through Andor's hair.

You hear the employee blundering off back to the service elevator and the machinery clunks as the doors close and he disappears.

Andor's forehead is gracing your own and neither you nor he move for a moment. It's just long enough to catch the slow glint of recognition in each other's eyes that something new has passed between you and you both know it.

"Sorry," he mumbles as he finally breaks away, running a hand through his hair as if to sweep away the feel of your fingers there, "I didn't have time to ask nicely."

"It's fine," you say, smoothing your stupid dress down and clearing your throat, "Good thinking."

He leans against the opposite wall, arms crossed, as you return to your work in silence.

*******************************************

Evening has fallen and Andor and Balgo are talking animatedly at the bar. The resort is hosting another of its grand parties. You sit with Lady Prya at a nearby table. You don't talk about your new life and she doesn't ask, but the conversation is easy and comfortable and you feel a rush of gratitude that your paths have crossed again.

Once Balgo has left to mingle with other guests, you give Prya an apologetic smile and cross over to the bar where you drape yourself around Andor's shoulders. You lean in to kiss him on the cheek. To anyone else, these merely look to be the actions of a young couple.

In reality, you are providing cover as Andor works quickly with Balgo's empty glass. Earlier, he'd lined the outside of the receptacle with a special gel that picks up biometric data. Once settled on a surface, it is almost imperceptible to the touch.

Andor attaches, then tears away the transfer strip from the glass and quickly places it down on the data pad's receiver. A rather sad and weary boop from the device confirms that it hasn't picked up Balgo's fingerprints.

"Kriff," Andor curses quietly in frustration, a muscle working in his jaw.

"Give it to me."

"What?"

"Give it," you hiss.

Uncertainly, Andor passes the various components of the device to you. You snatch them from his hand, shoving the bits and bobs into your pockets and stride away before he can stop you. The satin of your dress swishes a melody to the click of your heels. You hear Andor swear under his breath.

As you walk, your eyes scan the room, searching for your target. There. A flash of golden hair at the other side of the room. You stalk Balgo through the crowd, waiting for the right moment.

You make your approach, taking out a small mirror from your pocket and quickly squeezing a blob of the clear transfer gel onto your finger before making a performance of patting the strange substance on your mouth like lipstick. You snap the mirror closed and move in for the kill.

"Oh Mr Balgo, I am so sorry!" you exclaim, feigning embarrassment as you collide with his shoulder, jolting him arm so that he spills red wine all down the front of his pristine, white suit jacket.

"Please, Mrs Pax, it's no matter, really," he says as he stays your pawing hands and swoops down to greet you with a peck you on the cheek.

"I really am sorry, Dreylan, I will pay for the damage."

"Nonsense," he scoffs amicably, his chest visibly puffing out as you address him familiarly by his first name, "Now, where has your husband of yours got to? The fool surely hasn't let you out of his sight in that dress?"

Balgo is right, it is a nice dress. Your favourite so far in fact. It is tailored in beautiful crimson satin with a full skirt, off the shoulder sleeves, and a plunging neckline.

"Oh, he's around somewhere, I'm sure."

You lean in and whisper in his ear.

"But he's not here."

He smirks back at you and you see his icy blue eyes light up.

"Shall we get some air on the balcony?" He suggests.

Well, what an unexpected turn of events, you think sarcastically as you accept the proposal with an external show of flirtatious grace.

Out on the ballroom's grandiose veranda with Balgo, you look across Cantonica's seemingly endless, dark waters. The sea breeze is cold, and the businessman drapes his jacket round your shoulders. You laugh at the right times, interject an asinine comment here and there as Balgo talks about business, and allow him to explain things to you that you already know without complaint.

When the timing feels apt, and the balcony is otherwise deserted, you reach up and plant a kiss on his lips. He returns it, placing his hands on your hips. Balgo is attractive enough, there's no doubt about that, and the kiss is far from unpleasant... but it's only a means to an end. There's no passion to it, and you can't help but compare it against the ardent fervour of Andor's embrace. The heat of it.

As you pull back from Balgo with a suitably flushed smile, the gossamer curtains behind him shift in the breeze and over his shoulder you catch a glimpse of Andor across the cavernous ballroom.

He's so far away, but you see him clear as day. His eyes are searing holes in Balgo's back before meeting yours with a look of disdain. He downs his drink and slams the glass on the bar's marble counter-top, stalking off towards the elevator.

You suddenly feel a pang of irrational guilt which makes you furious with him. You're doing your job. The one he failed to do.

Balgo's self-satisfied look of victory does nothing for your vexed and flustered disposition. He offers to go and source a drink for you both. Keeping your composure - you are a spy after all - you smile sweetly at him and agree.

When he is gone, you make sure no one else is around before you take out the transfer paper from your pocket and subtly dab it on your lips. Surreptitiously, you whip the data pad out of your other pocket - thank the stars you'd insisted on dresses with pockets - and press the paper against the reader.

You wait, visualising what the signal might look like if it was something tangible and visible. A little bolt of lightning, perhaps, arcing to the closest service hatch, climbing its way up wires and cables, escaping out into the cold night and up into orbit and the decrepit Republic satellite.

Finally, the device gives you a cheerful bleep and lights up green.

Success.

You'd like to see Balgo's smug face fall when he returns to find you've disappeared, but you don't want this to go any further than necessary. You've got what you need and your sudden absence can easily be explained away as a young wife's crisis of conscience. You leave his jacket on a nearby chair and make your way up to your suite.

*****************************************

When you get back to the room, you can practically feel the heat radiating off Andor as he rips his shirt over his head dramatically in the process of undressing for bed.

Trying to ignore his silent seething, you turn away from him and lift your hair away from the nape of your neck. He automatically moves behind you to help you unzip your dress and, despite his clear agitation, his hands are gentle. The red gown drops to the floor, leaving you standing in your flimsy under-slip.

You turn back to look at Andor, taking in the familiar outline of his body. He's not a huge man, but the muscles are strong and taut in his torso, back and arms. Littered here and there are scars, testament to a hard life lived dangerously. The moonlight streaming through the bedroom window gives his tan skin an ethereal glow and illuminates the sharp, handsome features of his face.

It's not that you don't find each other attractive. You both know that there's always been some unspoken tension between you. But the tempestuousness of your personal and working relationship has always prevented you from falling into anything that might be a mistake.

You are suddenly keenly aware of the obviousness your own form as your underdress clings to the curves and planes of your body. You can sense Andor's eyes roaming across it in a way you're sure they never have before.

You think - maybe - something changed with that kiss you shared this afternoon. An embrace which began as a charade and ended as something else.

"That was a stupid, reckless, dangerous thing to do!" he finally explodes, interrupting your reverie and bringing you back down to reality with a thud.

"It was a calculated risk," you retort, furious with him and internally embarrassed by your silly romantic notions.

"And," you stretch across to the nearby dresser to pick up the data pad where Balgo's biometric data is safely stored to brandish it under Andor's nose, "And it worked."

"In case you'd forgotten, Balgo thinks you're here with your husband..."

"That's why it worked!" You exclaim, "By the Force, men know so little about their own species..."

"You could have blown our cover, the whole operation!"

That riles you. Why can't he just congratulate you on a job well done? You've just saved this damn operation. You have what you need now. All you need to do is transmit the data and you can both get out of here.

"I know what this is," you say, your voice rising in chorus with your anger.

"Oh please, please enlighten me."

"You're jealous."

There's a heavy silence.

"Jealous?!" Andor scoffs finally, but the strength of his conviction has faded from his voice, "Of what?"

"You can't stand that I kissed him."

Andor steps towards you, brows furrowed, eyes alight with something that's not quite anger.

"He's welcome to you," he seethes, "The last thing I need is some highly strung rich girl playing at being a spy."

The words sting, especially after you opened up to him about your parents the other night. Even as the vague idea of restraint flashes through your mind, impulsion compels you to raise a hand to strike him across the face.

He catches you by the wrist as you lash out, pulling you even closer to him so that his sharp nose is almost touching yours.

"And so what if I am?" He continues and the change in direction is so unexpected that you are rendered speechless.

His tone is low and dangerous and his deep, brown eyes are wild, roaming your face desperately for an answer that never comes.

"What if I am jealous? What if I don't want his filthy, Imperial hands all over you? So what?"

Andor's face suddenly softens, his eyebrows knitting together in an expression of genuine turmoil. It's a display of vulnerability you've never seen from him before. His grip on your wrist loosens slightly but he doesn't let go.

When he speaks again, his voice is barely a whisper.

"What difference does it make to you? Ever since Carida... You despise me."

It's not true, you suddenly realise. It's never been true. Not really.

You want to tell him you've never blamed him for what happened on Carida. The actions of the mole? Not his fault. The failure of that sorry excuse for a ship? Not him either. Somewhere along the way, your perception of him became warped and refracted through the prism of your own feelings of guilt.

You know he saved your life that day. He must have gone through hell in the aftermath too, dragged up in front of various different elements of High Command to explain why only two of his six operatives made it back alive over and over and over again.

More than this, you want to explain that while you were kissing Balgo tonight, you were thinking only of him. You want to say how when you took a shower earlier and caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror you'd seen the faint, red imprints of his fingertips still lingering like little tattoos on your skin and that you hope they never fade.

But you're just so angry with him for always having to be such a stubborn, patronising, hard-nosed bastard. So you say none of these things.

You know how much it must have taken for him to admit feelings for you, no matter how clumsy and ill-timed the execution. This man who always holds his cards so close to his chest has shown you his hand. He's given you ammunition and all you can think of in this moment is shooting him down with it.

"That's right," you say, leaning in close and whispering spitefully into his ear, "I despise you Cassian Andor."

You regret it immediately. Andor drops your wrist as if he's been burned. As he steps away from you, he looks completely lost. His eyes are cast down at the floor, full of humiliation and hurt. By the time they return to your face, they have darkened like storm clouds.

"Then, I'm glad we understand each other."

You open your mouth to say something, to take back your words and undo the damage you've wrought with your temper. Nothing comes out.

As Andor turns away, you reach out for him, try to catch him by the elbow. He shrugs you off angrily and storms out of the room.

He doesn't come back until late. You pretend to be asleep as he quietly slips into the bed beside you.

********************************************

When dusk falls the next evening, and with Balgo's biometric stored safely on the data pad in your pocket, you and Andor set out for Cantonica's main transmitter.

You want to use the journey time to explain yourself, to apologise to him and admit your own feelings. But you are so ashamed of your careless words the night before that you don't even know how to begin.

Continuing the trend of the day, you walk the ten kilometers together in almost complete silence, trudging in single file along the rocky coastline.

Even so, being out in nature and away from the city feels almost healing to you. Most tourists only see the rugged countryside of Cantonica from the confines of a shuttle. It has a wild, mountainous, windswept type of beauty that you find exhilarating. After days stuck inside the gilded cage of Canto Bight, it is wonderful to be out in the elements, even if it is rather cold and damp.

Night has decsended by the time you reach the transmitter. It is set precariously on the cliff edge, so close to the tumultuous waters below, it seems like a freak wave could wash it away at any moment.

It looks even more imposing than you remember. A huge durasteel spike with a narrow, fragile looking caged ladder stretching up into the sky leading to a high metal gangway which looks just as ancient.

You go first, and as you climb higher, your hands and feet start to feel fuzzy and your breathing becomes rapid, escaping through your lips in short, sharp pants. You've never been good with heights.

The icy wind starts to whip unpleasantly around you and you grip the ladder fiercely with each laboured step. The damp air has made the metal slick and you gasp as your boot slips on one of the rungs.

You catch yourself before you fall, but even so, you are relieved when Andor comes up behind you and positions himself so that his solid chest presses reassuringly against your back as you take a moment to steady yourself.

"Take your time," he says and his tone is gentle, "You're ok."

You nod and exhale deeply. Steeling yourself, you continue your ascent. You can do this.

You finally reach the top of the ladder and crawl up onto the round platform which encircles the pylon of the transmitter to provide access to where the mechanics of the structure are stored.

You think for a moment that this experience is going to be marginally better than the climb up the rickety ladder. That foolish hope is soon proven mistaken. The durasteel grating beneath your feet feels precarious. There are rusted gaps in the metal here and there and your stomach flips every time you look down. The wind is stronger up here, wild and blustery, and you feel horrendously vulnerable. You just want to get the job done and get down from this death trap as soon as possible.

Andor helps you lift the heavy panel off the front of the control box. You sigh with relief. It's a standard set up, one you've seen hundreds of times before and it's easy to bypass. You set to work infiltrating the system and once you're done, you wait in suspense as the data pad blinks text at you.

TRANSMITTING, TRANSMITTING, TRANSMITTING....

TRANSMISSION SENT.

"It's gone!"

Instinctively, you turn to flash a smile of triumph towards Andor, and you are relieved when one corner of his mouth twitches upwards ever so slightly in return. You wonder if, on the way back to the city, you might find the courage to try and make amends for your rough words the previous night.

Your hopeful thoughts are rudely interrupted when, without warning, the gangway you are standing on shifts violently under your feet. The whole structure lets out an ominous and eerie metallic groan and you realise with dread that the platform is tearing itself away from the pylon.

You have no doubt that you and Andor are the first people up here in years, and that your presence has disturbed the structure from its hibernation and reminded it of its decrepit, fragile state.

You grab at one of the rungs affixed to the main pylon intended for servicing the internal mechanisms, but Andor is too far away to reach. As the walkway peels away, he falls with it. The huge hunk of metal stops suddenly at a right angle to the structure, and the now horizontal guard railings catch Andor as he slams into them with a sickening clang.

There's a brief moment of relief when you think the worst is over, but then the structure jerks violently again as another metal bolt fails, and it tilts just enough to send Andor somersaulting over the top of the railing.

Desperately, he scrambles for something to purchase, and he manages to grasp at the guard rail with the fingertips of one hand as he rolls over it, leaving him dangling helplessly over the roaring water below.

Closing your eyes, you let yourself drop down towards him and your body hits the metal railings agonisingly hard. You ignore the pain and, praying that the railings will hold you, you scrabble to grab at Andor, your hands clutching at a handful of material at the front of his shirt just as his own grip fails.

Unexpectedly finding himself suspended in the air, Andor looks up at you in abject surprise. He assesses the situation and his eyes lock on to yours in alarm as he understands what you've done.

Your shoulders feel like they are slowly pulling themselves out of their sockets and your fingers, numb and white, are twisted up painfully in the material of Andor's shirt. You can't breathe properly, the air in your lungs being crushed out of you as you are pressed into the railings by the pull of Andor's bodyweight below you.

You are terrified that at any moment the guardrail will collapse and you'll both plummet together into the angry sea which seems to wait with open maw like a predator beneath you. But you don't know what else to do, and you refuse to let him fall, so you cling on to him in utter desperation.

"Let go!" Andor shouts up at you, and you can tell it's an order.

"No!" You yell back.

Suddenly, the front of his shirt rips and he drops away so that he is now hanging, almost literally, by a thread. The abrupt and unexpected motion causes you to lose balance and you have to let go of him with one hand to steady yourself on the railings and stop yourself from almost flipping over them to join him.

Andor's eyes are wild and fraught now, flicking between the failing structure and your overwrought face.

"Damn you," he growls with renewed urgency, "let go!"

Your whole body is screaming at you to do as he says, but you won't. Tears sting your eyes, whether from pain or fear, you're not sure. You clench your jaw and shake your head at him.

Andor snarls with effort as he reaches behind him and into his back pocket, pulling out his flip knife. He wrenches it open with his teeth.

"Don't you dare, you stupid bastard!" you scream down at him as you realise with what he intends to do.

He looks at you for one final moment and the world seems to stop. His expression is completely open and readable to you, perhaps for the very first time. His dark eyes glint with a fear that you suddenly realise is as much for you as it is for himself.

Then, he sets his face into a mask of grim determination and with one swift motion, he severs the flimsy cord of fabric tying you together and cuts himself loose.

"Cassian!" The vague outline of his name is torn ragged from your throat in an incomprehensible shriek of despair.

Helpless, you watch as he falls, limbs flailing, down, down, down, until he hits the water below with a sickening crash and disappears into the black, unforgiving waves.

*********************************************

Unbeknownst to you, the Rebel Alliance have successfully received Dreylan Balgo's biometric signature and K-2SO is already on his way to extract you and Cassian from Canto Bight.

By his calculations, K-2 should reach Cantonica in twelve hours, twenty-nine minutes and seven seconds. Plenty of time to mull over the conversation he'd had with Murdo the flight technician before he'd left the hanger.

"Maybe this time, eh K-2?" Murdo had quipped as he unhooked the re-fuelling nozzle from Cassian's ship.

"Maybe this time, what?"

"Maybe this time they'll finally have admitted their feelings for each other."

"That is a ridiculous observation," K-2 had said confidently, "They dislike each other immensely."

Murdo had laughed and made a comment about the droid having a lot to learn about human relationships which K-2 had thought was quite rude.

But as he barrels through the hyperspace lanes in Cassian's ship towards the Outer Rim and Cantonica, K-2 has time to mull things over.

He thinks about how on missions when the unit has to set up camp on some remote world, Cassian always leaves your meat rations on the fire just a little longer than everyone else's because he knows you like them so crispy that they're almost burnt.

Then he thinks about how whenever he and Cassian return from a mission you're not assigned to, yours is always the first face the droid spots in the hanger when they arrive back, and that once your eyes land on Cassian, you always walk away without a word, seemingly satisfied.

Now that K-2 really uses his circuits to process it, Murdo's conclusion doesn't seem quite so ridiculous after all.

"Humans," the droid muses to himself with an exasperated shake of his mechanical head.

**********************************************

Somehow, you manage to descend the transmitter, climbing and clambering down the structure in a daze. You don't bother even trying to mask your shouts of distress and frustration as your feet and hands slip on the blasted, kriffing, cursed metal all the way down.

You stagger the ten kilometers back to Canto Bight in something resembling a fugue state. When you reach the resort, you sneak through the back entry port you and Andor left through and wind your way through the maze of service passages and elevators back to your suite.

You are as bedraggled looking as you are distraught and you are glad that the corridors are as deserted as they were when you departed. You don't feel you could negotiate your way out of anything right now, despite all your training.

Once you've climbed out of your damp and dirty clothes you fall into bed. Andor's absence beside you is a stark, raw reminder of what's just happened and you finally allow yourself to cry. Somehow, at some point, as you wallow in your anguish, fatigue takes over and you fall into a torrid sleep.

When you awake, it's still dark and you have the distinct impression that you're being watched. There's someone else in the room with you. You bolt upright and almost cry out as your eyes take in the silhouette of a person in the moonlight.

The ghost of Cassian Andor is standing at the foot of the bed.

Except he's not a spectre, you realise. His outline, though swaying, is solid. He's flesh and blood. He's alive.

Once you've recover from the initial shock, you don't think you've ever felt relief like it in your whole life. You leap up out of the bed and fly to him, just as he starts to crumple to the floor. You grab for him, but too weak to moderate his own movements, he drops like a stone and his momentum pulls you crashing down on top of him.

He's all sand and salt and seawater and he is shivering violently. His eyes are heavy, like he's struggling to keep them open. You touch his face and his skin ice cold. His clothes are wet through and you're suddenly struck by the urgency of the situation. You need to get him warm. Now.

With great effort, you manage to half drag, half shove Andor towards the shower room. He's so exhausted and disoriented that even this appears to be an insurmountable task for him.

When you finally get him there, you bundle him into the shower, fully clothed. He slumps against the wall as you turn the warm water on. You start peeling off the sodden, freezing layers of his clothing.

He hisses through his teeth as you remove what remains of his shredded shirt and you see that the skin on his torso and back is blossoming here and there in vibrant shades of black and blue. You're not surprised, a fall from that height, these are probably bruises from hitting the water hard. You try to be more gentle.

Once he's free of all his clothing, you slide down behind him so that you are against the wall, and he's sat between your legs with his back pressed against your torso. You guide him to bring his knees up to his chest and he wraps his arms around himself pliantly, curling into a tight ball. He's still shaking uncontrollably.

You ignore your own discomfort as the warm water plasters your nightdress to your body like a second skin.

Trying desperately to aid the shower in its work of returning some of his body heat to him, you rub his back, his arms, and his chest vigorously. Every so often he rests his head on the bridge he's created with his forearms across his knees and you have to coax him gently to sit up.

"Stay awake," you plead, "You need to stay awake for me."

Finally, his shivering subsides and you sit in exhausted silence as the warm water continues to pour over both of you. Your chin is resting on his shoulder.

"Cassian," you finally say into his ear, tucking a stray lock behind it as if that will allow him to heed your words better.

He leans back into you, tilting his head up towards your face, to show he is listening.

"I don't....I don't despise you, I don't..." you trail off, silent tears suddenly mingling with the spray from the shower as they start to fall from your eyes.

Slowly, Cassian turns to you. He rolls on to his knees, and sits upright on his heels. You mirror his movements so that you are face to face and your foreheads come to rest against each other's.

"I know," he whispers, bringing a hand to your cheek, his expression soft and full of tenderness, "I know that."

He trails a series of soft kisses down your face, touching his lips to your forehead, then to the tip of your nose, and finally down until they reach your own. You melt into him.

This kiss is not like the first you shared, hasty and hurried and fuelled by external forces. This is deep and languid and deliberate, as if you are the only two in existence and you have all the time in the Galaxy to spend in this moment.

One of Andor's hands tangles up in your wet hair, the other presses against the small of your back as if willing you closer to him. You can feel his urgency increasing now. His movements are definite and purposeful as he caresses and kisses your skin.

Selfishly, you want him to continue, need him to never stop. But you also know this might not be the wisest way for him to recover.

"Cassian..."

"You told me I need to stay awake," he argues as if he already knows what you're about to say, now tracing kisses along your collarbone, "I'm awake."

"This isn't exactly what I had in mind..." you protest weakly, but the breathy desire in your own voice betrays you.

"Liar," he mumbles as he nuzzles into your neck and you feel him grin against your skin.

The movement of his lips makes his short beard tickle your flesh and the feeling forces a raucous laugh from your chest. It's a loud, unrestrained, joyful sound.

Cassian pulls away to look at you, wearing an expression of wonder. You realise he's probably never heard you laugh like that before. In fact, you can't remember the last time you heard it yourself.

His eyes crease at the corners and dimples appear in his cheeks as he smiles widely at you. That smile, the one you realise you've adored all along. And this one is only for you.

"You're infuriating," you scold, but your voice is light and full of heady exhilaration.

You wrap yourself around him and kiss him hard, realising, finally, that it is impossible to deny yourself the joy of him any longer.

**********************************************

You and Andor step off the landing platform of the resort and up into his ship. K-2 wastes no time in piloting the vessel up and away from the city.

Compared to the sumptuous surroundings of Canto Bight, the interior of the ship looks admittedly a little dreary by comparison, but you won't miss life within those opulent walls. Not when you now know just how many of its inhabitants are within the insidious clutches of the Empire.

"Well, I hope you two behaved yourselves," K-2 greets you as you both enter the cockpit.

You and Cassian exchange a glance. He winks at you and you actually giggle, the internal glow of happiness you feel manifesting itself in an embarrassing little laugh.

"I'm taking that as a no," K-2 says, "Murdo will be pleased."

"Who the hell is Murdo?" Cassian asks and he drops into the pilot's chair beside his faithful droid.

#cassian andor x reader #cassian andor x female reader #star wars fanfiction #star wars fanfic #cassian andor fanfiction

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gffa · 1 year

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Hi! I'm not sure how much help I'm going to be because my view of the sequel trilogy lives in kind of a nebulous space, where I really like the characters and I actually like a lot of the potential of the storyline, but I dislike TFA, greatly dislike TLJ, and was actually pretty okay with TROS all things considered. I don't want to dig too deep into the negativity of my feelings but they're basically - TFA was too much of a repainting of ANH for me, the initial shine of it was through its potential, but when that didn't pay off in the other movies, the shine came off TFA, too. - TLJ was set too close to TFA, Finn's character should have been tied into the Canto Bight plot (which was exhausting as it was), as a stolen child soldier he has the most reason to hate the rich, but absolutely nothing was done with him, Luke being on that island for that long was out of character for him, Rey's entire story became wrapped up in Kylo Ren, neither of those characters had nearly enough connections with others despite having very good reasons to, like why do we not spend more time on Luke & Kylo?? and it played at being subversive but it absolutely was not, it's all been done before (and I really hated the way Force abilities worked in the movie) and killing off your main villain in the second act was a baffling decision - TROS' biggest problem is that it should have been two movies instead of one, it was a series of trailers rather than a story with breathing room, and it suffered the most from the lack of planning + the main villain being killed off in the second movie But here's why I still like The Rise of Skywalker the best: The bones of what's there are a pretty good Star Wars story! Yes, Rey Palpatine came out of nowhere and was very silly, but if you can't handle silly, I don't know how you can make it as a Star Wars fan, it's such a silly franchise! I'm not afraid to love a scene I laugh out loud at--and, yeah, I laughed RIGHT OUT LOUD the first time Kylo dramatically said, "You're a Palpatine." I laughed so hard I had tears in my eyes and let me tell you, I fucking LOVE that scene now. Or how the last words of any Skywalker, the last word Ben Solo/Kylo Ren ever says in the movies' franchise is, "Ow." I am laughing RIGHT NOW, please, p l e a s e, that is so on-brand, I can't handle it, it's too funny. But I also like the basic storyline because Rey's story in TROS is her struggling with her own inner darkness, that she feels there's something dark in her soul because she's Palpatine's granddaughter. The movie isn't saying that's true, but that Rey struggles with thinking it's true, and she has to wrestle with her dark side, just like every Jedi before her has as they're coming into their power. Anakin wrestled with his dark side and lost in Attack of the Clones and even worse in Revenge of the Sith. Luke wrestled with his dark side in the vision he sees of himself in Vader's helmet in the cave in ESB and in the climactic scene of ROTJ, where he nearly hacks his father's arm off in rage after his sister and friends are threatened. He has to claw his way back out of that. Ezra Bridger struggles with the dark side in Rebels as he comes into his power and he has to claw his way out of it as well. Rey has to struggle with her own lure towards the dark side as she comes into her power--she rips a ship apart in the sky because she was so determined that Chewie was hers, she was so angry at Kylo that Force lightning burst out of her. She's seeing Sith visions of herself on the wreckage of the Death Star. This is a theme that has been there since the very beginning, that Jedi have to struggle through a temptation to the dark, and her relation to Palpatine preys on that. That's kind of why I wound up loving Ben's scene with Han as well, because that was an entirely imagined scene, but it represents that the way the Force works, you have to dig yourself out of the hole you're in, that Ben using the memory of his father, the last moments of connection he had with his mother, to pull himself out of the dark, really worked for me. And I'm okay with his death, because this is Star Wars, people die before they should all the time. I even liked the political message of the final movie, yes, Rey vs Palpatine was the big Jedi vs Sith showdown, but the main galactic battle? Had people showing up. Just... people. One of the themes I've talked a lot about, especially because The Clone Wars kind of has it as a running theme is that the average galactic citizen doesn't do jack shit about the state of the galaxy they live in. The Rebellion had people starting to stand up, but it was an organized effort, it recruited people. TROS had just people showing up, that Leia and the Resistance had been trying to rally the cause, but ultimately it was the galactic public finally, finally saying, "We have to stand up and fight for ourselves, not depend on other people to do it." Was it ham-fisted and not nearly as polished as it should have been? Oh, no doubt. But the message. Just people showing up to fight against the First Order that was trying to bring back the Empire. That meant a lot to me. And I loved Luke's character here, that he admitted when he was wrong, and gave us that banger line that's spot on: "Confronting fear is the destiny of a Jedi." Yes. Yes. FUCKING YES. LUKE SKYWALKER AND JEDI PHILOSOPHY. MY HEART. Nailed it. Does this movie hang together as well as it should? Absolutely not. It needed a stronger writer, it needed more time than it got, and it needed better build-up. But the bones of what was there were actually pretty good and, man, any movie that has Daisy Ridley in that white outfit with the hood where she looked practically ethereal cannot be all bad, in my opinion.

#rey #the rise of skywalker #meta

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lamaenthel · 28 days

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Winner Takes All

[read on a03]

"It's a dangerous thing, poking your nose in other people's business." Boba sauntered forward slowly—dick first, like always—until he was only a foot away. He tilted Cal's chin up with the tip of his silver blaster. "You can get hurt asking the wrong person that kind of question, cuntling." And just like that, Cal was as hard as a karking rock. He flicked his eyes down with a smirk; so was Boba, he'd bet his saberstaff on it. He licked his dry lips. "Are you gonna hurt me?" Boba chuckled, dark and wicked. "Would you like me to?"

When Cal offers to help out an old friend of Greez get her ship back in a high stakes sabacc game, the last person he expected to show up joins the game and raises the stakes.

Pairing: Boba Fett/Cal Kestis

Wordcount: 10,093

Rating: Explicit, Minors DNI

Warnings: Public Sex, Harassment, Discussion of sex as payment, humiliation/degradation (consensual) (it's their thing)

The glittering facade of the capital city of Cantonica was like a membrane barely holding back a tidal wave of shit; Cal couldn't even take his gloves off, every surface of the gambler's haven stained with a psychometric echo of someone losing their life savings, the deed to their home, their last chance at buying their child from the bonds of slavery. And to think, all he could ever think about as a kid was how cool it would be to see the racing fathiers of Canto Bight up close.

"You are sure I don't look ridiculous?" The florescent lights of the elevator made the light green tint of Merrin's cheeks look striking as she smoothed the front of her new black dress down with a nervous hand. It was short and silky and clung to every curve, one silver shoulder left bare. Her golden talisman was striking and looked like an expensive statement piece rather than a handcrafted artifact of a Dathomiri Nightsister. She had her silver hair hanging loose around her face; it made her look younger.

"You look beautiful," Cal assured her, and he meant it. Besides the clothing, she was practically glowing. He could tell she was genuinely having fun; the last thing he'd expected was for a Nightsister to get excited about playing dress-up at a high-end hotel casino, but she never failed to surprise him. "If anyone looks ridiculous, it's me in this thing." He tugged at the lapels of his Chandrilan kimono. It was the cheapest thing that met the dress code for the casino floor that the hotel had available for purchase. He'd slicked his hair back—it was in the most annoying stage of growing out and poofed out stupidly from the sides of his head in the seaside air, giving him no other option—and combined with the scar across his nose and his stubble, he looked more like a chauffeur who drove a luxury speeder for an employer that didn't ask too many questions than a high roller. He already missed the weight of BD on his shoulder, but there was an ironclad rule about droids on the casino floor.

Merrin smiled and tugged at her short hem again. "At least your clothing fits you," she said teasingly.

"You were the one who picked it out," Cal reminded her.

Merrin sniffed. "It did look bigger on the hanger."

Cal gave her an appreciative once-over out of the corner of his eye. The dress did some sort of complicated fold-pleat thing in the middle that made her waist look tiny. "Well, in my opinion, I think it's exactly the right size."

Her cheeks went almost jade. "I think you look nice, too," she mumbled.

The elevator door opened and they both were hit by a gravity wave of overstimulation; the casino floor was louder than a skonk concert with its ocean of slot machines bellowing, spinning and sporadically ringing with paltry winnings. T'bac smoke hovered thick over the top of the machines, hanging like an eerie cloud over the neon lights. Beautiful, jewel-toned servers in skimpy, sequined dresses that barely covered their bottoms and dangerously high heels darted around the giant room holding trays of colorful drinks on their shoulders, following paths between the slots like fish being dragged along an ocean current. Cal led Merrin down a short flight of stairs and onto the obnoxiously patterned carpet, holding onto her arm tightly so she didn't fall in her high heels. "Greez said to meet his contact at the bar," he said loudly in her ear.

Merrin shrank into Cal's side, avoiding a procession of Chagrians waddling past and taking up almost all of the walking space. He could tell by the way her mouth pinched at their rudeness that she was debating whether or not to just rematerialize on the other side of the room. He squeezed her bicep and shook his head. "I was only thinking it," she said, rolling her eyes.

"Yeah, well, the only thing that Canto Bight has more of than money and idiots with too much of it are guns for hire, so don't get too fancy in plain sight." Cal spotted their contact—a dark-skinned woman in a turquoise dress, with a set of thick locs twisted into a bun above her head and golden hoop earrings dangling all the way to her shoulders—sitting on a stool at the end of the onyx bar, nursing a pink cocktail. He made a beeline for her through the machines, never letting go of Merrin's hand. He tapped the woman on the shoulder. "Phee Genoa?" he asked loudly over the racket.

The woman nodded with a grin and put her cocktail down. She held out a hand for him to shake. "You must be Greez's friend," she said pleasantly, giving him a friendly once-over. "Nice outfit."

"Thanks." Cal got the sudden feeling as though he was being watched; he turned and scanned the room. It's not him. Stop expecting it to be him.

"What's the matter?" Merrin squinted, trying to see what was bothering him.

"Nothing." Cal turned back to Phee. "So, how did a pirate get ahold of—"

"Let me stop you right there, Red." Phee held up a dark finger adorned with a sapphire atop a shining gold band. "I'm no pirate. I work in salvage."

"Fine. Salvage." Cal rolled his eyes. "Where are you docked?"

"Straight to the point, hmm?" Phee threw back the last of her cocktail, patted the stool beside her. "Sit. Have a drink with me. We have a few things to discuss first."

Cal and Merrin exchanged wary looks, then took a seat on either side of her wordlessly. Phee cackled and motioned for the droid barkeep to wheel over. She flashed her bright white teeth at them. "I'm in a generous mood. I'll buy."

Merrin eyed the empty cocktail. "I will have that," she said, nodding at it.

"A Corellian Sunrise. Excellent choice." Phee turned to Cal. "How about you, Red?"

It probably wasn't a good idea for him to drink when he needed to keep his wits about him, but he rarely was in a place with access to good alcohol; not to mention his sudden craving for something in particular for a reason that made his chest go tight if he thought about it too hard. The feeling of being watched intensified. "Tihaar," he said finally.

"Interesting." Phee slid the credits over to the bartender then swirled her new pink drink. "So. About the… cargo."

Greez had said that she had a cargo bay full of holocrons that she had pulled off a derelict liner floating near Ossus. "Go on," Cal said, arching a brow.

"I'd like to begin by pointing out that the events that have transpired here are not technically my fault," Phee said.

"You gambled your ship away, didn't you?" Merrin asked bluntly.

"No!" Phee looked offended. "There was a misunderstanding when it came to my docking fee."

"You didn't pay your docking fee?" Cal asked.

"I was sixty seconds late in paying my docking fee. That didn't stop them from impounding the damn thing and demanding ten grand to let it out." Phee scowled at her drink. "And it's building interest. Every day it's in impound, it's another five grand."

"So how much to get it released?"

"We're up to forty thousand." Phee ignored their gasps and took a drink. "That's not actually the worst part."

Cal's heart sank. "Please tell me you didn't try to win the money to get it back," he said a little desperately.

Phee bared her teeth in more of a grimace than a grin. "Well, since you already know everything, I guess I don't have to say it."

"Kriff." Cal threw back his tihaar. Warmth bloomed in his belly and spread out through his body. "How deep in the hole are you?"

"Well, if I don't pay the gentleman back his five hundred thousand by the end of the night—"

Merrin choked on her drink. "Five hundred thousand?" she squeaked.

"Listen, kids, if you want that cargo you've got to give me a hand here. Five hundred thousand gets my ship out of impound, back in my name, and Eyo Kekura's boys off my back."

"Eyo Kekura?"

"Pantoran fellow, a high roller who lives in the penthouse of the Hexavent Hotel. Owns half of a fathier stable. Fancies himself quite the professional sabacc player." Phee rolled her eyes. "He's not in the business of forgiving debts, so if I want to make it to tomorrow, I need you to help win me that five hundred 'kay."

Cal narrowed his eyes. "What exactly did Greez tell you about me?" he asked sharply. "You seem a little too sure that I can win."

Phee's hand shot out unexpectedly and clamped onto his outer thigh with a vice grip, right over where he had his saberstaff strapped. "He didn't tell me much," she said with a smirk. "But I'm a very observant person. It's saved my skin more than once." Phee let go of his thigh, laughing.

Cal felt the air go staticky, like lightning was about to strike, then the feeling disappeared almost as soon as it began. He shook it away.

"Don't worry, kid, your secret's safe with me. I happen to be… sympathetic to your cause." She grinned again, but Cal saw the sadness underneath. "You can trust me. I've got a whole ship full of goodies for you, remember?"

And they would be all his for the cool price of half a million credits.

Cal signaled the droid for another shot of tihaar. "So what did you have in mind?" He eyed the ocean of slot machines over his shoulder. With a little luck—and the Force guiding him to the machines closest to a big payout—he could swing it. They'd be the least suspicious method of gambling, given that their fully autonomous nature made it difficult for any pit boss to argue he'd cheated. There was a treasure chest like out of an old crèchetale overflowing with golden credit bars on the far side of the room, perched on an alcove above the cashier's cage.

"Top prize for slots is a million, but don't get your hopes up." Phee snorted. "Slots are for idiots on vacation, not big spenders. These machines are programmed to never pay out more than ten grand without managerial approval."

"That seems unfair," Merrin said, wrinkling her nose.

"This is Canto Bight, sweetcheeks. No such thing as fair play." Phee's smile was starting to look forced. "I should have known better."

"You said Kekura fancies himself a professional sabacc player," Cal said, trying to remember the rules. Commander Ferrik had favored Corellian Spike and taught him the game in their off hours on the condition that he not use the Force to sense where the good cards were. "I haven't played sabacc in years. Not since Bracca, at least."

Cal caught Merrin for the fifth time. The carpet on the stairs leading up to the VIP section seemed bound and determined to murder her by catching her high heels. "Thank you," Merrin said again, her cheeks warm and dark green with a blush.

"Well, if you want that cargo, start remembering." Phee's smile thinned to a pinched line. "No pressure, but my life kind of depends on it."

"Walk on your tiptoes," Phee advised her. She led them down a narrow walkway to a small vestibule with a frosted glass door guarded by two Pantoran men that stood a whole head-and-shoulders above him. "I'm here to finish my game with Mr. Kekura," she informed them.

"And who are they?" The guard on the right asked in a deep, accented voice.

"My proxy. This is my friend Cal and his girlfriend Merrin. He's agreed to play for me." Phee flashed her brightest smile. The guards rolled their eyes but let them pass. Inside the VIP room it was dark and loud, lit primarily by a laser show that flashed above the dance floor, dozens of shadowy figures writhing to a bass-heavy beat. In the center of the crowd was a raised dais where a naked blue Twi-lek swung around a pole. The bar lined the length of the opposite wall, vibrant-skinned servers in black sparkly dresses hurrying back and forth behind it. Phee led them around the dance floor and to a small room in the back that was kept private by a beaded curtain.

She pushed it aside to reveal a large, circular table with a cutout in the center to accommodate the dealer-droid. A Pantoran man with light-blue skin, a long, silky pink braid, and a white suit that exposed his chest sat at the furthest side, flanked by an obese Togruta man and an elderly green Twi'lek woman whose bust was so large that she was using the table to support it. "Phee," the Pantoran man said, his face going sharp with a predator's grin. "You've returned with my money?"

"I've returned with a friend." Phee elbowed Cal. "This is my old buddy, Cal. He's agreed to play in my stead. Cal, this is Eyo Kekura, the owner of this fine establishment."

"Interesting." Kekura leaned forward, steepling long blue fingers. Cal didn't like the eerie way the Force rippled around him.

"He's continuing my pot," Phee said quickly. "So he doesn't need a buy-in."

"You're half a million down, Phee," Kekura said, clearly trying not to laugh.

"Yep." Phee took a seat on the small, plush sofa on the left side of the round room, dragging Merrin with her.

"Your name is Cal?" Kekura's yellow eyes dragged up and down Cal's body like a pair of banana slugs.

Cal felt dirty just being in the man's presence; just what had possessed Phee to get involved with a man like this in the first place? "That's me," he said, taking a random seat. A green Mirialan server in sparkling black fishnets and nothing else put a crystal glass in front of him. "Just water, please," Cal said quickly, covering the glass before she could fill it with amber liquor. The Mirialan nodded and darted away like a colorful fish.

"You understand just what kind of mess you're stepping into, don't you?" Kekura looked like he wanted to eat him. Lust pulsed around him in the Force, causing it to slide around him like slick, hot slime.

Cal fought the urge to put a hand on his saberstaff and nodded tightly. "I do."

"Very well. You have" —Kekura checked his gem-encrusted chronometer— "approximately two hours to win Miss Genoa's debt back for her. You believe you can do that?"

The Mirialan server darted back and filled Cal's glass with ice-cold sparkling water. "I can," Cal said with a confidence he didn't feel.

The elderly Twi'lek scoffed. "It isn't fair. Why is she—"

"This is my house. I make the rules." Kekura's eyes hardened. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"No, Mr. Kekura," she whispered, chastened.

"Good. Then, Cal, welcome to the party. Go ahead and deal us—" The sounds of a panicking crowd—screaming and shouting and stampeding feet—echoed in the room beyond the curtain, followed by two very recognizable blaster bolts. Cal's heart skipped a beat. "Guards," Kekura said sharply, his hand dipping below the table and coming up with a dual-triggered blaster pistol.

"Were you expecting company?" Cal asked. He shoved back from the table and held a hand out to Merrin, yanking her protectively to his side.

Kekura's blue lip curled up in a snarl. "No."

The curtain was dragged open, revealing the downed body of one of Kekura's guards just beyond it. Boba Fett stepped over the corpse, casually entering the room with his WESTAR still smoking in his right hand. "Kekura," he said calmly. "Been a while." He didn't look at Cal.

"Boba Fett," Kekura replied, keeping his voice even. Cal ignored Merrin's sharp inhale. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" Neither man holstered their blaster.

"Are you afraid it's your face on this puck?" Boba withdrew a bounty puck from his thigh plate and activated the hologram. Kekura sagged with relief. "Phee Genoa, you're coming with me."

The blood drained out of Phee's dark face, leaving her ashen. "What?" she asked, her voice jumping three octaves.

"What for?" Cal blurted out.

Boba's head tilted. Cal felt like he was being hunted by a tarentarek. "And what's it to you, stranger?" Boba asked, stepping forward.

Stranger? Cal just knew Boba was smirking under his helmet. He wanted nothing more than to rip it off his stupid head and kiss him, demand to know what he was doing here, ask why the kriff he hadn't heard from him in half a year. "I'm a friend of Phee's, and I'm curious. So what's it for?"

And just like that, Cal was as hard as a karking rock. He flicked his eyes down with a smirk; so was Boba, he'd bet his saberstaff on it. He licked his dry lips. "Are you gonna hurt me?"

Boba chuckled, dark and wicked. "Would you like me to?" Oh, but the things that chuckle promised. Cal could almost see the vulgar thoughts flying through Boba's imagination; Cal on his knees with his lips wrapped around Boba's cock, tears streaming from his big green eyes as he forces it deeper down his throat, fumbling to get his hand under his kimono to touch himself—

Kekura cleared his throat irritably behind the two, reminding them that they weren't alone. "Unfortunately…" he put a long-fingered blue hand on Cal's shoulder and moved him aside. "Sorry, Boba, but Miss Genoa owes me quite a few credits. Almost definitely more than whatever her bounty is worth."

"Not my problem." Boba turned his blaster onto the Pantoran, triggering the guards to draw on him. He moved his head a fraction to the side; Cal knew he had everyone in the room counted and clocked, his HUD granting him a full three-sixty view of his surroundings. "Tell you what." To Cal's shock, he holstered his weapon, pulled off his helmet, and flashed Kekura a grin. His hair was getting long again. Cal wanted to run his fingers through it. "I'll play you for her."

Kekura laughed. "I like it. Name your terms."

"One round of Corellian Spike. Winner takes all." Boba eyed the table, flush with at least a million in chips. "All."

Kekura raised a manicured brow. "That was the plan. What exactly do I benefit from this arrangement?"

Boba grinned. "I tell you which one of your rivals has been poisoning all your studs to kill their sperm count. Didn't you wonder why only two of your girls are in foal when you bred nine?"

A muscle in Kekura's perfectly straight jaw twitched. "You have a deal," he said without any further argument, shaking Boba's hand. The guards slowly put their blasters away and stood against the wall in stony silence.

"Now see here," the portly Togruta began, pushing back from the table with a scowl. "I haven't played for the last hour just to—"

Boba had his WESTAR drawn and aimed before Cal could even blink. "No one asked you, puss," he said mildly. "Take your winnings and leave." He waved his blaster at the Twi'lek. "You too, doll."

Kekura bristled. "They're down."

"Watch your tone, shabuir, or I might forget how to be civilized." Boba bared his teeth in a grin and shit he was hot like this, sweaty and smelling like salt and blaster oil and t'bac and pink-cheeked from being under his helmet— damn it, Cal's dick was starting to hurt. He took a deep breath in and out, easing the blood away from his swollen member in a light meditative trance. He hoped that Master Jaro wouldn't judge him too harshly for reapplying his lesson for soothing injured muscles to this situation. "Put the chips back and don't leave town," Boba amended to the two players. "Better?"

"Much, thank you," Kekura said primly. He fixed the two with a glare. "Don't think your debts are forgiven. The two of you have earned a rare reprieve tonight. Return tomorrow. Leave, and I'll hire this man here to hunt you down. Trust me when I say that once Boba Fett has your scent, there is nowhere you'll be able to hide."

Unless he's got your frequency and just doesn't care about using it. Cal was trying not to be bitter. He was losing that fight to the alcohol.

The two players faces' crumbled as they started putting chips back, then they pushed their way past Cal and disappeared beyond the curtain.

"Now, where were we?" Boba plopped into Cal's vacated chair like it was the end of a long day of work. He snapped his fingers at the Mirialan server. "Tihaar, love. Neat."

Cal pulled the chair out next to him. "Deal me in."

"I don't recall inviting you," Boba said mildly. He planted a kiss on the cheek of the server as she put his glass of tihaar down. Cal clamped his mouth shut before he said something stupid, like are you kriffing kidding me? or why haven't you tried to call me for the better half of a year? or maybe even shoot this bastard already and kiss me, you stupid ass. Cal wanted to smack him, grab a fistful of his soft curls and wrench his neck back while he bit down on his pulse and watch the bounty hunter come apart in his arms.

The Force moved thick around Boba, slow and pulsing with reciprocated desire. "Kekura, what do you think?" he drawled.

"I think we should hear what his terms are." Kekura folded his long, spidery fingers below his chin and regarded Cal curiously.

"If I win, Phee gets her bounty cleared, her debt forgiven, and her ship out of impound." Cal didn't jump when Boba's warm hand found his thigh under the table. He was actually a little surprised it had taken him that long to start feeling him up. He spread his legs in a shameless invitation.

"And if you lose?" Kekura asked, tilting his head. He reminded Cal of a nexu with his wide mouth and narrow, predator's eyes.

"Yes—Cal, was it? What's in it for us?" Boba rubbed a warm circle on his thigh, trailing upward.

Cal eyed Boba's crystal glass of tihaar—in for a credit—he stole the glass and tossed it back in a single swallow. "Well, Mr. Kekura, I saw the way you looked at me when I walked in. I'm sure we can work something out." He slammed the empty glass down and winked at his suddenly stone-faced lover. Cal would cut his dick off before letting it anywhere near Kekura, of course, but if Boba couldn't be bothered to even message him...

"Interesting." Kekura leaned forward, grinning lecherously. "You're easy on the eyes, Cal, there's no doubt about that, but I'm not sure that a night with you is worth five hundred grand."

Cal sensed that Boba didn't like where the conversation was going. His theory was confirmed a second later when a wide hand grabbed his balls through his robe and squeezed. "Whore," Boba said with a dark, humorless laugh that didn't reach his eyes.

"Cal, a word?" Merrin dragged his chair back and wrenched him out of it, dragging him towards the curtain. "Have you lost your mind completely?" she hissed.

"I knew he was going to say no," Cal whispered, rubbing his arm with a wince.

"You can't just—just offer yourself like that!" Merrin whispered back furiously. "What has gotten into you? You—"

Cal wrenched her close and put his lips directly against her ear, hyper aware of the eyes on them. "Trust me," he murmured, mouthing the words almost more than speaking them. "I've got a plan." And he did, kind of, even though it was still more of a wispy idea that was still coalescing. He reached through the slit in his pocket, popped open the upper emitter chamber on his saberstaff, and withdrew the kyber crystal.

"I do trust you. I do not trust him." Merrin eyed the table with a sour look.

Cal had a feeling she wasn't just talking about Kekura. "I've got it under control. Just stay ready."

Merrin nodded, unhappy but temporarily placated. She allowed Cal to lead her back to the sofa and Phee, but she didn't take her eyes away from Boba after Cal rejoined the table.

"Your lady doesn't agree with your method of payment, I assume?" Kekura asked, swirling his vibrant blue drink with a smug expression.

"No. But it's not her call." Cal ignored the daggers he felt Merrin staring into his back. "I do have an alternative you may be interested in." He put his kyber on the table.

Boba went deadly still; Kekura leaned forward, eyes wide. "Now where did you get that?" he asked, staring hungrily at the green crystal.

"Found a derelict full of dead Padawans floating around an iceball a few years back." Cal forced his voice to stay even. Even alluding to the Purge still felt like scratching an infected wound with salted, jagged fingernails sometimes, and he'd had too much liquor to stay completely unemotional. "Pure kyber this size is worth around a million."

Kekura laughed. "Half that at best, my friend."

"Maybe that was true when the Jedi were still around, but now the Empire has a monopoly on kyber." Cal forced a grin. "And I've got more. I've already got a buyer, but I'm willing to take a better offer."

"Really?" Kekura's mind was racing, Cal could sense it. "You have them with you?"

"No. They're in a safe place."

"Hmm." Kekura pursed his wide mouth. "I don't suppose that has anything to do with why you're so eager to help Miss Genoa get her ship back?"

Cal threw his head back and laughed. "You think I'd trust her to hold onto my kyber when she can't even hold onto her own ship?" he asked, wheezing. He sensed Phee scowling at his back. "Hell no. I happen to owe her a favor, that's all."

"Must be a big favor if you're willing to risk a kyber crystal," Boba said flatly.

"It is."

"Very well. I agree." Kekura toasted him. "Boba?"

"I'm more interested in your initial offer," Boba said roughly. Under the table, he shamelessly slipped his hand between Cal's thighs and thumbed the tip of his quickly-hardening length. "I win, and I fuck you through this table. Those are my terms."

Cal was starting to sweat. "The table?" he teased, and if he sounded a little breathless than normal then who could blame him? "Can't even be bothered to rent us a room?"

"I prefer to collect my payment immediately." Boba stroked him through the fabric then started feeling for the opening of his robes.

Cal wrenched Boba's talented hand away from his crotch. The ass was half a second away from actually jerking him off, and if he didn't stop him now then he wouldn't have the willpower to.

"I'd like to amend my terms to watching him fuck you through the table if either of us win," Kekura said flippantly, swirling his drink.

"I've no objections," Boba said, leering at Cal. "I imagine that a whore like you would enjoy that." Boba's imagination was going wild and he made no attempt to shield his thoughts, Cal face down on the sabacc table with his robes pulled up above his bare ass, Boba's cock pounding him into the table until he's screaming with ecstasy, Kekura sitting and watching and unable to touch, he'll never touch, fucking cunt thought he could take what's mine, he's mine he's shabla mine kaysh'ner, gar ne'ente chaku ner jetii—

Cal didn't recognize the words but the meaning was clear enough. Boba was a hothead. He wasn't showing it in front of Kekura, but Cal's cheeky offer had him pissed. He had only wanted to mess with him a little bit by offering to sleep with Kekura, but he had forgotten just how bad of a temper Boba had.

Stang, but he'd missed him. Cal cleared his throat and raised his water in a toast. "Deal."

"What the hell kind of kinky shit is going on here?" Phee whispered behind them.

"What are you waiting for?" Kekura waved his hand at the droid. "Deal us in."

Cal refused to look at Boba, and in return he was being ignored; under the table, Boba found his cockhead and pinched it like the mean little shithead that he was. Boba had the unfair disadvantage of a codpiece, so instead of feeling up the bounty hunter Cal projected the mental image of him riding Boba like a rancor in the middle of the table while everyone watched silently. He could have sworn he heard a little ting! come from inside Boba's beskar ball-bubble.

The droid finished his elaborate shuffling routine and flipped them each two cards. Cal wrenched himself away from the fantasy and tipped them up; one green three-of-spheres, one red three-of-pyramids. Green was positive and red was negative, and the goal of Corellian Spike was to end the round with a score as close to zero as possible. It was a great start, one of those hands that Ferrik would have called beginner's luck no matter how many times Cal had played.

"Since this is a winner-takes-all round, I think we can skip the betting phase," Kekura said airily. "Deal the spike."

Cal didn't jump at the return of Boba's hand between his legs. Instead, he clamped his knees shut and pinned his questing fingers in place. His spike card landed face-down in front of him. He peeked at it; perfect. It was a sylop, a zero-point card, only two of which existed in the deck. In case of a tie, whoever had the lowest, positive-value spike card would win. The dealer-droid rolled the pair of six-sided spikedice; rolling double spikes would mean that the players would have to discard all their cards and start anew. Cal made sure that didn't happen.

"Draw," he said once the dice had come to a stop on a two and five, squeezing Boba's hand between his knees until his felt the knuckles pop. He accepted the green one-of-cubes and added it to his cards, already plotting out his next two rounds. Switch out his green three-of-spheres in favor of the sylop on the next round—Boba's hand squeezing his throat in just the right spot to cut off circulation to his brain—swap it with the one-of-cubes on the final round to reunite his pair of threes—gagging on the rock-hard length shoved all the way down his throat—combine the pair with the sylop, which gave him a sabacc—Boba chanting his name as he fucks him so hard from behind that the table starts to crack—and boom, victory.

"Draw," Boba said—Spit trails streaming from the corners of his lips—as he picked up his card with his left hand—Boba watching the bulge his cock makes as it thrusts down Cal's whore throat—if he had even registered what his card was then it was far from his mind, too focused on the incredibly detailed fantasy playing in his mind—his stupid girlfriend watching him use Cal's mouth like his own personal fucktoy—

Cal almost choked on his water. Boba was jealous of Merrin? He and Merrin were… Well they were close, obviously, and while Cal couldn't lie and say that their relationship was strictly platonic, they certainly weren't doing anything to warrant that level of burning jealousy. They hadn't even kissed.

"Draw." Kekura accepted his card with a simpering smile and snapped his fingers at the Mirialan girl. "Not like you to walk away from a million for a piece of ass, Fett." He accepted the lit cigarra and blew smoke across the table, right into Boba's face.

Boba smirked through the smoke. If it bothered him, Cal couldn't tell. "I prefer to not deal in jetii osik if I don't have to. Bastards are more trouble than they're worth." Boba squeezed Cal's nuts until he unclamped his knees.

The dealer-droid rolled again. "Swap," Cal said—Boba moaning his name in his ear—and switched his sylop spike with the three-of-spheres.

"Not even for a million?" Kekura's mood had shifted. Cal sensed suspicion growing in him and cursed inwardly. Was he really about to blow his shot at getting Phee's ship back—Boba blowing his back out as he pulls him up on his knees—because his stupid, horny not-boyfriend showed up unexpectedly and Cal couldn't help but taunt him?

"I'm a bounty hunter. I prefer to deal in bodies, not antiquities. Draw." Boba accepted the new card and shook his near-empty glass.

"Mmhm. Swap." Kekura's lip curled.

The dealer-droid rolled his dice. Cal nudged the second die just enough to ensure it didn't land on a spike. "Swap," he said quickly, reclaiming his three-of-spheres. He relaxed his tense shoulders and schooled his face into a calm, bored expression. He had the winning hand, and he didn't even need to cheat and sense Kekura's cards to do it.

"Draw." Boba was horny, not stupid. He'd recognized his misstep and now he was recalculating. Cal felt the desire that pulsed around Boba in the Force go still and turn thin as he shifted back into business mode.

"Draw." Kekura accepted his last card and smirked. "Why don't we make this a little more interesting?"

"It's plenty interesting already," Cal said quickly. His anxiety was growing by the second. He missed the comforting weight of BD on his shoulder.

"Just you and I, Fett." Kekura licked his lips. "Fold, and I will let you take Miss Genoa without further argument. My only stipulation is that you perform a job for me first."

Boba raised an eyebrow. "I've a solid hand," he said lightly.

"So you say." Kekura tapped on his unrevealed cards, his grin getting toothier by the minute. "I simply wish to propose a way for both of us to win."

"Is your hand that bad?" Boba asked, his smile not reaching his eyes.

"Aren't you going to ask me what the job is?" Kekura tilted his head.

Boba's eyes flicked to Cal then faced forward again. "Hypothetically."

"Hypothetically, if you were to retrieve the kyber crystal collection of sweet Cal here for me and kill him, I will broker them and split the profits with you fifty-fifty. No worrying about jetii osik, as you said, as I do all of the paperwork."

"How dare you!" Merrin snarled, lunging for Kekura. Cal stood and caught her before she made it across the table and caught a bolt to the face. His guards stepped forward with their blasters drawn and pressed them against their heads.

"Wait just a minute," Cal protested, keeping Merrin contained in a wampa hug. "What kind of game is this? Do you normally take a hit out on players you think you might lose to?"

"Only when I have a monumentally shit hand." Kekura's guards pushed Cal and Merrin apart. One shoved him into his chair, and the other held his blaster to Merrin's head until she sat down beside Phee. She bared her teeth at him and hissed; Cal suddenly remembered that Zabraks were carnivores.

"So why should I accept your offer when I've already won?" Boba asked calmly over the chaos.

Kekura shrugged. "Cards haven't been revealed yet. Maybe he wins. Still up to you."

Boba sipped his tihaar—Cal couldn't help but wonder if he was actually considering it—but then made a face and shook his head. "Seems a bit unsportsmanlike, doesn't it?" Boba finally replied.

Kekura's eyes sharpened. "Mmhmm."

"I don't like your tone, Kekura." Boba's voice took on a deathly chill. "Say what you want to say."

"I find it curious that you have turned down two separate opportunities to earn millions of credits, bounty hunter."

Boba's presence in the Force tightened like a coil about to snap, and Cal's stomach clenched with a cold knot of fear. He eyed his kyber crystal sitting vulnerable on the table and wondered if he'd be able to put it back in before the blaster bolts began to fly.

Boba broke the tension with a barking laugh. "And I find it curious that you never thought to ask if I had more than one bounty puck with me tonight." Boba squeezed his left fist twice. A small compartment on his wrist slid open, and from it sprang a half-dozen tiny, whistling projectiles that buried themselves into the heads of Kekura and his guards before they could so much as cry out. Six men fell to the obnoxiously-patterned carpet, instantly dead.

"What the fu—" Phee went silent with Boba's WESTAR pressed to her forehead. "H-Hey now, I—"

"Calm down. You're wanted alive, there's no payment if you're dead." Boba holstered his weapon and finished off his tihaar with a chuckle.

Cal shook his head and reached for a napkin to wipe the blood spatter out of his eyes. "What the hell did you just do?" he asked, shocked.

"I shot them. Wasn't that obvious?" Boba looked at him patronizingly. "I swear to the fucking Manda, you're a moron. I tell you to stop whipping out your lightsaber—"

"I have!" Cal interrupted.

" —and to stop telling people your real name—"

"I didn't!"

"So you whip your fucking kyber out in public and use your first name only, what a brilliant compromise. It's like you're trying to get killed!"

"Hey, why are you making this about me when you could have just done that—whatever that just was—the whole time! Why did I have to sweat through a sabacc match when—"

"For fun? You know that's the point of sabacc, right?"

"Not when people's lives are on the line!"

"Can you argue about this later?" Merrin snapped. She lowered the bloody napkin she had been wiping her face off with and scowled at the two of them. "How long do you think we have before the guards outside this room realizes you just killed their boss?"

"Don't worry, little witch, I shot the guards and the civvies all fucked off already. We've got all the time we need." Boba rifled through the dead Kekura's pockets and pulled out a small datapad. He tapped a few times, swiped, then tossed it to Merrin. "Genoa's ship is officially out of impound. You take it and whatever's on it that's so important that you'd let your boyfriend whore himself out for it." Merrin's face twisted in outrage as Boba turned away. "Cal, you come with me and the quarry." He jerked his head at Phee.

"You don't get to just kill everyone and then order me around!" Cal said stubbornly. He snatched his kyber off the table and retrieved his saberstaff to reassemble it. "Besides, I have to go back to our room to get BD."

"Yes I do." Boba put his helmet back on. "And I already took BD out of your room. He's on my ship."

Cal snapped his saberstaff casing closed harder than he intended to. "You what? You can't just—Boba!"

"Sure I can. If you want him back…" Boba trailed off, laughing under his breath. "You know the drill."

"Do I get a say in this?" Phee asked, raising her hand.

"No." Boba pulled a pair of binders from his belt and twirled them on one finger. "Are you going to be a good girl, or a bad girl?"

Phee looked at Cal desperately. "Come on, Red, do something!" she begged him.

Cal threw his hands up in disgust. He couldn't decide if he wanted to punch Boba or kiss him. "What do you expect me to do? I can't even stop him from stealing my karking droid!"

Phee eyed the binders with a disgruntled expression. "I'll be a good girl," she said with a deep sigh, pouting.

"Smart choice." Boba motioned at the curtain. "Witches first."

Merrin kicked her heels off and stomped furiously through the curtain, glaring daggers at Boba—and Cal—over her shoulder.

"And just for the record, cuntling—" Boba flipped Cal's cards over, then his own. Cal's eyes widened at the hand that Ferrik used to call a dual power coupling. "I would have won."

"Would you have followed through?" Cal couldn't help but ask.

"I'm not getting in there," Phee said flatly. She crossed her arms and glared. "You're gonna have to stun me."

Boba snickered through his vocabulator. "I'm a man of my word, you know that," he said softly, and chuffed Cal under the chin. "Now move your ass."

"Alright." Boba shrugged and fiddled with the settings on his blaster.

"Okay, just wait a damn second." Cal put himself in between Phee and the carbonite chamber. "Boba, you're not freezing her."

"Yes I am."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am." Boba tossed his helmet across the hangar and grinned fiercely. "Come on, Cal. You know better than to try and order me around." He stalked closer, getting right in Cal's face. "I've got a job to do. Let me do it, then we can relax." He took Cal by the chin and kissed him hard and deep, like they were alone. His hands roamed over Cal's chest, his back, down to his ass where he took a double handful and squeezed. Boba put his leg between Cal's legs and pressed up, extracting a low whine.

He finally found the strength to pull away from the clone, breathless. "Who took out the bounty on her?" Cal redirected Boba, herding him in the opposite direction of the carbonite chamber while he distracted him with soft kisses. "Come on, baby, you can tell me."

Boba snorted. "I'm not one to snitch on my employers, baby." He spun Cal around, shoved him up against the wall face-first and ground his beskar bulge directly against his ass. "So you stay here—"

Cal heard a soft click. He stared at his binder-encased hands—which Boba had somehow locked to the hangar ladder without him noticing—completely dumbfounded. "Boba…" he said warningly.

Boba laughed as he pulled away. "Problem?" he asked teasingly. His thoughts were as loud as his voice: We both know you could get out of those binders in a heartbeat if you really wanted to.

"Boba, wait!" Cal turned in place so he could see what was happening.

"She'll be fine, baby." Boba winked at him one last time before pushing the shaking Phee towards the freezing chamber. "I already said that I don't get paid if she dies."

"Now you wait just a minute—" Phee started, her voice shaking.

"I'm done waiting." Boba hit the controls, and with a hiss and an avalanche of fumes, Phee was frozen solid, her mouth hanging open in outrage. "And now…" Boba turned and slowly pulled off his gloves.

Cal suddenly knew what it felt like to be a clawmouse spotted by a hawk-bat. He opened his mouth to protest, a thousand petty complaints rising to the surface of his brain to fight over who would be thrown out first—why didn't you call me, did you even miss me, am I anything more than just a hole to you—and found that they all slipped away the second that Boba's mouth found his again. He moaned helplessly, too damn relieved to be kissing him again to hold onto his anger.

"The fuck are you wearing?" Boba murmured, smiling against Cal's mouth. He untied Cal's belt with a flourish, exposing him to the chilly cargo bay. He chased the goosebumps that sprang up with his wide, warm hands.

"It was the cheapest thing the hotel had that fit the dress code," Cal mumbled, his cheeks going hot.

"Chandrilan looks good on you." Boba sucked his tongue into his mouth and bit down. "Looks better on my floor, though."

Cal laughed. "How did I know you were going to say something cheesy like that?"

"Jetii osik, obviously." Boba bit and licked his way down his spine. "You smell good."

"Yeah?" Cal twitched under the hands that trailed down his spine, his asscheeks, back up his thighs and then finally, finally his throbbing member, where the pressure was the most intense.

"My poor little whore," Boba cooed in his ear. He thumbed the tip of his aching length and spread Cal's precome up and down. "You've been hurting for this, haven't you? My sweet little slut."

Damn it. Cal let his head rest heavy against the wall. He wanted to give in and just let Boba do whatever he wanted to him—to be his whore, to be whatever he wanted him to be just as long as he kept touching him—but that ember of outrage still burned hot. "Been hurting for months." Cal jerked in his bonds and pinned Boba's hand between his thighs. If he spun with enough force, he'd snap Boba's wrist clean in half. "Why haven't you contacted me?" Cal demanded. "I've sent you hundreds of messages, but you haven't even tried."

Boba went quiet. He stroked Cal's back with his free hand, a soothing touch instead of sensual. "Would you believe me if I told you I've been busy?"

"Too busy to let me know that you were alive?" Cal squeezed his thighs together even tighter until he was hurting them both.

"Didn't have a commlink in Imperial prison, cuntling." Boba wrapped his fingers around Cal's throat and gave him a warning squeeze.

"Prison?" Cal ignored the hand around his throat, released Boba's trapped wrist and turned in place, horrified. "Where? Why? How?"

Boba smiled, and there was something inscrutable behind his eyes. "Don't worry about that." He kissed Cal's jaw.

"I'm worrying about it." Cal jerked away angrily. "Tell me!"

Boba hummed against his neck. "No."

"Boba…" Cal said warningly.

"Shut up." Boba dropped to his knees, grinning. "Why do you want me to talk about banthashit when my mouth could be put to much better use?"

"Because…" Cal threw his head back and groaned as Boba licked the tip of his cock. "Because I care about more than just what your mouth can do for me, you big jerk."

"Jerk?" Boba gasped in mock offense. "I'm on my knees sucking your cock and I'm a jerk?" He sucked Cal's cockhead into his mouth and flicked his tongue against the tip.

Cal fought down a moan. "Yes!" he insisted breathlessly.

"Ungrateful." Boba hummed and took him deeper into his throat, stroking whatever his mouth left exposed. It felt amazing, better than what he had dreamed of in his bunk for all those months alone.

Alone. And now Boba wouldn't even tell him what had happened to him. "Cocksucking little bitch," Cal said in a low voice.

Boba's hand came to a dead stop. He let Cal's dick fall out of his mouth and slowly got to his feet. "The fuck did you just call me?" Boba's voice was a silky whisper. His hand clamped around Cal's throat again. "The fuck did you just say to me, whore?"

"I called you a cocksucking little bitch." Cal watched Boba's eyes narrow with a sick sense of satisfaction.

Boba squeezed his hand and held the pressure until Cal's vision started to sparkle and go black around his edges. "I could fucking kill you," Boba murmured, close as a kiss. "I could snap your stupid little whore neck in an instant." He let off the pressure just long enough for Cal to suck in one shaky breath before pressing down again. His knee came up and ground against his dick. "Maybe I'll send you to the Imperials. How much do you think I'd get for your Jedi hide?"

"Twenty five 'kay," Cal gasped once he had the breath for it. Or at least that's what his bounty was the last time he had checked it.

"Think they'd take off a cleaning fee if I turned you in freshly fucked?" Boba turned Cal around roughly, pressed him against the wall like he was trying to squeeze the air out of him. "Send you in bound, hogtied, ass gaping open with my jizz leaking out." Boba fingered Cal's cleft, pushed threateningly against his hole. "Maybe the stormtroopers would take turns fucking you before they sent you on to the Inquisitors."

Cal cried out, thrusting helplessly against the cold wall. He didn't know what the hell was wrong with him to be so turned on. The fantasy was disgusting, humiliating, dehumanizing, and it somehow had him ready to shoot off any second. "Would you?" Cal whimpered. "Would you let them fuck me?"

"I'd hold your fucking legs open," Boba whispered. He spat down Cal's crack and used the slickness to ease one finger inside him. "What's the matter? I thought you liked being a whore."

"Your whore," Cal whispered, caught between self-loathing and desire. "I'm your whore."

"Then why'd you offer yourself up to that prick?" Boba growled, adding a second finger. The spit wasn't enough, it burned, but Cal liked the way it hurt. "You offered to fuck a gangster for credits, ner jet'ika."

"I wanted to piss you off!" Cal cried out. A feeling like boiling water shot up and down his spine, a coil at the base winding tighter and tighter and ready to burst as he was impaled on his lover's fingers.

Boba laughed and sped his thrusting up to a brutal pace. "It worked." He crooked his fingers up just right, and Cal saw stars. The coil snapped, and Cal came with a sharp cry, making a mess of his bare chest and the hangar wall. Boba withdrew his wide fingers and slapped Cal's ass with a sharp crack. "Stay there."

Cal leaned against the ladder, weary and weak-kneed. "I'm still cuffed, jackass, I can't go anywhere," he called after him.

Boba yanked his medkit off the wall, cackling loudly, and tossed everything out except for the lube. "You're in a real fucking mood tonight, aren't you?" Boba took a rough hold of Cal's chin and forced eye contact. "Yeah. You went unfucked for five months, of course you're in a mood." He ripped his armor pieces off, leaving them to scatter loudly across the floor. His dove-gray flight suit followed, then his compression shorts and finally, finally his cock was out and on display.

Cal licked his lips hungrily and dropped to his knees. "No." Boba yanked him back up and flipped him around.

"Hey!" Cal protested. "I want to—"

"I don't give a shit. You're a fucking brat, Kestis. You don't get what you want." Boba cracked him hard on the ass again, a hard sting that he just knew was going to leave a bruise. "I should have just shown my cards. I wanted to fuck you in front of that bastard so badly." Boba emptied out the tube and rubbed his stretched-out hole with slippery fingers. "And you wanted me to do it. I could feel it." He positioned his cockhead at Cal's tight ring. "Even with your little witch watching, you would have let me. Wouldn't you?" Boba thrust deep and sent Cal flying into the wall with the strength of it. He threaded his finger's through Cal's red strands and yanked his head back. "Tell me, whore. Tell me you would have let her watch."

"I…" Fuck, he could barely breathe with the sensation of Boba bottoming out in him. "I would've… I would've fucked you while she watched us." He was going to have to meditate before seeing Merrin again or he'd never emotionally recover.

"Because you're my whore, aren't you?"

"I'm your whore." Cal almost screamed as Boba reached around and started jerking his painfully sensitive length with a rough hand. "Ah! Fuck, Boba, Boba please, please please—"

"Please what, baby?" Boba sped up. The obscene sound of wet flesh smacking together echoed in the cargo bay.

"Don't…" Cal gasped. "Don't do that to me again. Don't go dark."

Boba's hips lost their rhythm. He slipped out and spun Cal, hoisted him up into his arms like he was a sack of tatos and slung his legs over his shoulders. Boba crushed his mouth to Cal's, reentering him the same moment, and swallowed his cry. His hips jacked up in a frantic, unsteady rhythm, hitting that sweet spot with every forward thrust. "You missed me that bad, did you baby?" Boba murmured into his mouth. "You didn't let anyone else fuck you, did you?"

"No!" Cal was going to scream, he was on the brink once again, his pulsing length trapped between their sweat-slickened bodies.

"That's 'cause you're mine." Cal was practically delirious, but it sounded like Boba was talking to himself. "Nobody else gets to fuck you. This ass is mine." He squeezed his cheeks. "Mine. Only mine."

"Only yours." Cal's eyes rolled back in his head as he reached his peak again. His legs tightened and pulled Boba against him, trapping his length deep inside. Cal painted their fronts with jets of spunk, and Boba let out a shout and snapped his hips up as far as they would go. Cal felt heat filling him up and spreading deep within.

Neither of them spoke for nearly a minute, though Boba did let Cal's legs drop and let him stand on his own. "I missed you," Cal finally said, then kissed him.

"Sorry for going dark." Boba buried his face in Cal's neck and took a deep breath. "It wasn't on purpose."

"Do you wanna talk about it?" Cal asked quietly.

"Not right now." Boba kissed him one last time and withdrew from Cal's cuffed embrace. "I'm going to run diagnostics. I hear a humming I don't like coming from my backup hyperdrive." He climbed up the ladder buck naked.

"Hey, uncuff me first!" Cal protested, holding up his hands.

"You're a fucking Jedi, uncuff yourself." Boba opened the hatch with a snicker and disappeared.

Boba set his ship down on a cold, desolate, rocky planet that only had a series of numbers, not even a name. Cal leaned forward, peering out the viewport. "Weird place for an exchange," he said. BD-1 crawled into place on his shoulder and beeped in agreement.

Cal let his head hit the wall with a clunk. Boba was such an asshole. Somehow, it made Cal love him even more.

"Nah. I've definitely done weirder meetups." Boba eased the engine into low-power mode. "I see your witch on my sensors. She's entering the atmosphere now."

Cal watched Phee's ship, piloted by Merrin, come to a rough stop. He winced. She was… well, she was still learning. Hopefully Phee wouldn't be too upset about her landing gear. "Are you finally going to tell me who paid you to take Phee?" he asked, following Boba out of the cockpit.

"You'll meet them when I do."

Cal slid down the ladder after him. "What do you mean? You don't even know who hired you?"

"How do you think this whole guild thing works?" Boba smashed a button on the side of the cargo hatch and put his helmet on. "People post jobs to the guild. Guild posts jobs for the hunters. I get a name, a face, a general location and a drop-off point. I don't even know who I'm working for half the time, let alone a detailed background."

"But that means you could be working for anyone!" Cal exclaimed.

"Yeah, and? Credits spend the same no matter who puts them up." Boba fiddled with the frame of Phee's frozen carbonite chamber.

"That seems risky. What if you end up working for some lunatic?"

"I'm almost always working for some lunatic, Cal." Boba activated a set of small repulsors and guided the frame out of the cargo bay.

Cal gave Boba a look. "We'll talk about this later." He opened his arms in anticipation.

Merrin disappeared from her docking ramp with a flash of green light and rematerialized in his arms. "You're alright?" she asked tearily, threading her fingers through his hair. "That beast didn't hurt you, did he?"

"Beast?" Cal felt bad for laughing. "He's not a beast, Mer."

"Did she just call me a fucking beast?" Boba asked.

"I am simply naming what I see in front of me." Merrin's eyes glowed green for a few seconds.

Boba laughed, dark and wicked. "Easy there, little witch. I'm not one you want to mess with."

"You think I am afraid of you?" Merrin raised her hand and bared her teeth.

"You call those needles fangs?" Boba scoffed.

"Don't start." Cal pinned her arms to her sides before she could do something he would regret. "Merrin, please. Just don't."

"I do not understand what you see in this creature." Merrin shrugged him off with an irritated scowl.

"Eyes up, chakaare." Boba nodded at ship rapidly descending from the dark, star-studded sky.

"Are we really going to just let him give Phee away?" Merrin whispered.

Normally Cal would have immediately assured her no, of course not, but he had an odd feeling tingling at the back of his neck, ordering him wait and see. "I want to see who paid for her before I make a decision."

"Anything you cunts are planning, don't expect me to help," Boba called over. "Once I hand her over and get my money I'm walking. I'm a professional."

"Good to know." Cal had his saberstaff and Merrin. He could almost definitely handle whatever came out of that ship.

The T6 swooped down at an unnecessarily fast speed, cranked hard to the right, and swerved into a landing spot. Cal and Merrin both exchanged smirks. "And I thought I was a bad pilot," Merrin said with a snicker.

The docking ramp extended with a hiss and puff of pressurized gasses. The figure that walked out of it was tall and slight, and as it got closer Cal could see it was humanoid, presumably female. She wore a full array of oddly mishmashed armor—black-painted pieces that almost looked like recycled plastoid from the clone wars—and had a small golden device strapped to her back. A red scarf was looped around her neck, as were a pair of goggles. Cal saw an indentation in her helmet that appeared as though it was made for the goggles to fit over. "Boba Fett?" she called. Her accent was strangely familiar.

"That's me." Boba stood casually beside the frozen-solid Phee, one hip cocked and a hand on his blaster. "You've got my credits, I assume."

"Only if she's unharmed."

"Not a scratch on her. You have my word."

"So you say." The woman turned to Cal and Merrin, tilted her helmeted head. "And you two?"

"My passengers. Don't wory about them, they're getting off here. They're not involved in this." Boba's tone was lighthearted, friendly even; Cal watched the Force thrum around him, tense like a quetarra string. "Now where're my credits?"

The woman typed in a command on her commlink, then tossed a bag forward. A droid covered in sleek white plastoid descended from her ship and tooled up to the carbonite-encased Phee. "Vitals are steady and normal for one in hibernation, Mistress," the droid announced politely.

"Go ahead and put her on the ship, AZ." The woman waited until the droid had disappeared with the carbonite frame to turn back to Boba.

"Looks like it's all here. Our business is concluded." Boba turned and started to stride back to the Slave I.

"Not quite." The woman took off her helmet, revealing a braided crown of pale blonde hair.

Cal swiveled his head back and forth between her and Boba like a Shilian mithoo, stunned. Those eyes, that nose, that jaw; female or not, there was no mistaking who—what—she was.

"What kind of game is this?" Boba stood frozen in place, too shocked to move.

"Sorry Alpha, no game." The woman grinned a very, very familiar grin. "I'm Omega. I think you and I need to chat."

#cal kestis #boba fett #nightsister merrin #cal kestis x boba fett #kesett #calboba #smut #sabacc #lore accurate sabacc #corellian spike to be specific lmfao #star wars #jedi fallen order #my writing

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