#battle droid body pillow

[candiedstardust]

Finally got a pillow for my guy ♥️😭 Best $60 I’ve ever spent

[rare-clone-fic-exchange]

Complete Chaos

Summary: Who knew that being a medic would be so dangerous? Thankfully, there's an ARC trooper there to catch you every time.

ARC trooper Chaos x GN Reader!

Word Count: 2,682

A.N: Hello there! I am here for another round of rare clone fun, this time for the amazing @523rdrebel ! I really hope you enjoy my take on Chaos! This takes place during the Battle of Kanino and the events of "Shadow of Malevolence"

Warnings: Canon typical violence, mentions of injured clones, the reader gets injured but not in great detail, just being in dangerous situations in general so please be wary of that!

If the red lights weren’t enough to send you into a panic, the blaring alarm was certainly pushing it to the edge.

Kamino was under attack, Kamino may very well fall if the droid army overwhelmed the skilled troopers in numbers alone. 

“Keep calm, panicking won't do anyone any good, especially now.” It was a mantra you told yourself over and over again, but you were no soldier. You had come here for advanced medical training, focused on clones specifically, not to learn firsthand how to keep your cool in a full-scale invasion.

“Not to be a pessimist,” coughed one of the only conscious men as he watched you work, “but I don't think that door is going to hold if they come this way.” 

You tried to suppress a sigh at that, because deep down you knew he was right. There were twenty-three troopers sealed in here with you, none of them able to do more than lift their heads, if move at all. The rest who had been recovering in your little wing, the ones who were able-bodied in the slightest, had run off to find gear and weapons, to join the fray. To protect their brothers. 

If the droids found you, it would be like shooting billfish in a barrel. Even still, you couldn’t sit here and do nothing. The few who were awake watched as you threw empty beds on their sides to create a barrier between them and the door; looked on as you braced tables and any other obstacle in front of bacta tanks for any hope of cover for the men inside them. 

It was all weak attempts, but you had to do something.

Just as you were rechecking the seal on the door for the hundredth time, you heard the sound of plastoid against the durasteel floor. Through the window of the door, you saw him, down the red-hued hallway.

The trooper’s paintless armor was covered in something as he limped towards the door, and not even the crimson lights could hide what it was.

Thankful that you had left just enough room to open the door for this very reason, you unsealed it in a hurry. It slid open just as he braced himself on the door frame and he practically fell into your arms.

“They- They’re,” his breathing was labored and shallow, even as you practically dragged him to the nearest bed. “They’re coming- weren’t far behind-” he coughed as you unsealed his helmet and tossed it aside, and he only managed a few more mumbled words before his eyes fluttered shut and he went limp against the pillows.

A new fear stirred as you pressed fingers to his neck, but it was soothed when you felt a faint but still beating pulse. Only years of training to fall back on kept your hands from shaking as you hooked him up to a bacta drip. He would need all his injuries examined and cared for later, but this should keep him from crossing death’s door for now.

You had just finished when a shiver ran down your spine and your head snapped back to the door. The sound of marching metal echoed towards you over the alarms.

As if on their own accord, your feet took a few steps towards the door, ears ringing from that dreadful sound coming closer and closer. Then your eyes darted to the rifle that trooper had dropped by the door.

You didn’t even think twice, you darted for the weapon, grasped it in your now shaking hands, and took cover behind your pitiful barricade.

Behind you, one of the men tried to sit up in his bed, “No, give the blaster to me, you can’t-” but his protest was cut off by a cry of pain as he fell back once again. 

No one could blame him for trying, but no one here was in any state to fight. Maybe you weren’t trained the way they were and maybe you were shaking like a baby tooka, but you’d be damned if those droids came in here and blasted away without any fight at all.

The sound of the enemy was closing in now, and any of them could blast through that door with ease. At least coming through said entrance would bottleneck them and give you some advantage.

The adrenaline that had been burning your veins since the start of the battle made it even harder to keep your aim steady as you lifted the rifle. Then, just as the marching sounds seemed to become deafening, it stopped, leaving a ringing silence for one slow heartbeat.

Then came the explosion.

The sound alone knocked you back and had your ears screaming as you fought to open your eyes and aim at the door. You pulled the trigger and unleashed a spray of laser fire at the B1 droids trying to file in. The narrow opening aided your untrained shooting and two fell before they could make it through. 

The others didn’t stop though, they climbed over their soulless comrades without hesitation and only a third hit the ground before one finally got inside. 

Panic- or maybe it was bile, rose in your throat as the battle droid drew closer to your cover, which of course made your shots sloppy and crazed. You barely even registered that the droid had taken aim at you before you felt the searing pain hit your shoulder.

Somehow you kept your grip on the blaster even as you fell back and heard one of the men shout your name. Again, you lifted the weapon as you scrambled back and managed to hit it in the arm as it trained its blaster on you again.

Even with that to delay it, there was no way it couldn’t get a kill shot at this close range, but you kept firing. You kept fighting. With one good arm, it trained the blaster on you-

Then it seemed to pause.

Its expressionless faceplate turned towards a bigger threat, just as a grenade lit up the doorway, and its friends, like fireworks.

Again your ears rang but even with that you heard a barrage of blaster fire and a fierce battle cry, “That’s right, eat laser, clankers!”

The droid in front of you fired into the fiery fray, letting off two useless blaster bolts before its head was taken off by a well-placed shot.

Your eyes had just snapped to the doorway when an armored figure rolled through the smoke. He scanned his new surroundings slowly, blaster at the ready and willing to fire at any other sign of danger.

Once sure that the area was secure, his visor snapped to your prone figure. “Are you alright?” He stood in a graceful motion despite the extra accouterments of his ARC armor and started towards you.

“I’m fine,” you lied through teeth gritted against the pain in your shoulder, then looked behind you to your patients. “Check them, make sure they-”

“We aren’t any worse off than before,” one of them grumbled, glaring down at you in a way that you knew was laced with concern. “Worry about the medic who thought they were a soldier all of the sudden!”

If your pain wasn’t at full agony level, you would have made some quip about protecting his hide well enough. Instead, you just groaned as you shifted to sit against the wall better.

Before the ARC could comment on the situation one way or the other, the commlink on his bracer blinked.

“Attention, all units,” came a static voice, “General Grievous and the assassin Ventress have fled the capital. All droid forces are retreating!”

The few clones who could clapped and cheered at the news, but none were as loud as the ARC who whooped as he punched the air. You yourself managed a smile, though the thought of everyone who would need medical attention did come to mind almost immediately.

All of those thoughts were lost, however, when the man who had come to your rescue lifted his helmet. “Alright, let's have a look at you now.” He leaned down, and didn’t even have to move the collar of your medical smock to see how bad it was. “Where’s your stims and bacta patches?”

You nodded up at the cupboards, “Top cabinet.”

Once he had the supplies in hand, he knelt before you and gave you the shot with surprising gentleness.

“Have you been medically trained?” You found yourself asking.

A smile that was charmingly lopsided lifted his lips. “I’m an ARC trooper, I’m trained in everything.” He drew out the last word and winked very deliberately as he moved to push your smock aside. 

In your short time on Kamino, you had discovered that there were very subtle differences that made all clones unique, even in their looks. At this closeness, you saw his, the way he had a small shadow of a beard, the few scars flecking his face, and that his hair was just a little longer than the standard cut. 

You scolded yourself then, this was no time to admire his good looks. 

“Where's the rest of your squad,” you asked, only just now noticing that he seemed to be alone, which was unusual, even for an ARC.

“They're securing the DNA room, I came this way on my own when I saw those clankers.”

“You went after them by yourself? That was pretty reckless, trooper.”

He shrugged, again with that half smirk, “One of the many reasons they call me Chaos I guess.” 

You bit back a hiss as he covered your wound with the batca patch, “That your name?” You asked through gritted teeth.

“Yup. Not that I'm picky about what good-looking natborns call me.”

That gave you pause, certainly he wasn't trying to flirt in the midst of all this…well…chaos.

“There you go,” he finished, tucking your clothes back in place with care, “not as good as a medic like yourself, but it should get you through.”

“Good,” you saw the rise of his brow as you climbed to your feet, “I need to get my emergency kit and start searching for survivors.”

Chaos jumped to his feet, big strong arms darting out to steady you when you swayed. “Woah now! You sure you're in any condition to jump into all that?”

“I have to be,” was your reply, which was thankfully strengthened as your head slowed its spinning. Thank the maker for stims.

You tried to extricate yourself from his arms and, while he did let you go, he hovered quite close as you went to retrieve your supplies.

“Well then, guess I better escort you,” Chaos declared, reaching for a pack of stims when you grimaced at lifting your arm.

“Won't you be needed elsewhere?”

“I don't think anyone will complain about me helping you treat my brothers.” He snatched up the medic bag the moment you zipped it closed, slinging it over his shoulder. “And I don't think you'll complain about having another pair of hands.” He winked, again, and it was all you could do not to make it obvious how much the act flustered you.

After clearing your throat, you said a quiet, “Thank you.”

This time, when he smiled, it was softer than his smirk. “Just make sure you stay close to me, mesh'la.”

“Oh for kriff sakes, get a room!” Groaned one of the bedridden clones.

That made it impossible to hide your flustered state, but all Chaos did was laugh as he took your arm, a silent urge to lean on him as you walked. 

“Don't listen to him, I'll buy you a drink before any of that,” he whispered to you.

Maker, this man might just be the death of you.

Another year, another life-threatening situation. 

Honestly, the fact that this was only your second time working under red lights and blaring alarms was a small miracle. Then again, only a true sleemo like General Grievous would attack a medical station with nothing but injured clones aboard.

Your knuckles were white as they gripped the rails of the gurney. At least your death grip was needed as the station shook and rocked with every bombardment. 

When you turned a particularly sharp corner, the man on the gurney groaned over his oxygen mask.

“Hey now,” you said in what you hoped was a calming tone, even as you had to yell over the alarms. “Stay with me, trooper, we’re almost there!”

His eyes were bleary as they looked up at you, in his critical state he was probably barely aware of what was happening. Still, he gave the smallest of nods before his eyes fluttered closed again.

Most of your fellow medics had already taken critical patients to the escape pods, the only reason you were lagging behind was because it was more than a challenge to get this one’s vitals stable among all the current mayhem.

You just hoped it wasn’t too late.

Another sharp turn and you realized shouting had joined the evacuation horn. A clone officer was leaning out the hatch of an escape pod and the moment he saw you he was waving his arm with urgency.

The encouragement was not really needed, your legs were already burning with how fast you had been running. The separatist fleet must have gotten another good hit on the medical vessel, because a particularly violent shake almost sent you toppling forward.

The only thing that stopped your patient from tipping forward in the quake was the fact that the clone officer caught the gurney. 

“Is this the last one?” he asked as he pulled his brother into the escape pod.

“Yes, in this sector at least.”

“Good, he told us to wait for you.”

He. That made your eyes widen, yet, a quick glance inside the pod told you that he wasn’t there. You couldn’t help it, you turned those wide eyes to search frantically down the hallway. He couldn’t have gone far, he would have-

Another vicious shake halted your thoughts as well as your searching. In fact, so caught up in the moment were you, that you didn’t even notice the cords coming loose from the bulkhead.

“Look out!”

A flash of a blur, then something collided with you, hard, and sent you tumbling straight into the escape pod. Somehow, over the alarm and the crackle of electricity, you heard someone order the pod to be launched. And the only thing that kept you from panicking, was the reassuring (if not slightly oppressive) weight on top of you.

That stomach-light feeling of tumbling through space had to be shoved aside as you looked up into the familiar visor of the man who had you so worried.

“Cutting it pretty close, weren’t you, mesh’la?” Chaos said, that teasing tone coming through even with the barrier of his helmet.

“You’re one to talk,” your reply came out more shaky than you wanted, but there wasn’t much room to care.

From his spot above you, your ARC trooper chuckled, then reached up to unseal and lift his bucket off his head. “Well, you know me, have to swoop in and save you all knight-like when the chance comes up.”

Your hand lifted of its own accord, cupping his cheek, “My hero, as always.”

That lopsided grin you loved so much flashed across his lips, just before he lowered them to your own.

“Oh, maker!” someone groaned.

“How long are we gonna be crammed in with the love birds?” another added.

“Too long.”

“Someone launch me into space, please.”

Thankfully, the sound of your lips parting from Chaos’ was drowned out by the complaints. You laughed lightly as you said, “I think annoying your brothers after you save me is another tradition of ours.”

“Good, it’s fitting,” he purred as he leaned down to kiss you again.

Which of course, earned a whole new chorus of groans and jabs. Fortunately, neither you nor Chaos could find the gumption to care much.

[canon-can-fight-me]

Feels Like a Dream

Word count: 863

Pairing: pre-dating Kai3po (shocker!)

While Kaiyo is peacefully dreaming away, her good friend Threepio is next to her feeling the opposite of peace as he questions in Threepio fashion why she asked for his comfort after a nightmare. Inspired by this

Disclaimer: Just to be super clear, I am in no way trying to invalidate qpp and platonic relationships! You can cuddle up with people and not be romantic with them, this fic is not trying to say otherwise!

—☁️

He was startled by the signals in his system telling him that his charging was complete.

Threepio was used to powering on in a dark room, all by himself, usually seated with his back to the wall. But the feeling of soft sheets and the sound of Kaiyo’s nonsensical sleepy murmurs refreshed his memory.

He could faintly make out the shape of her face in the dark thanks to the soft glow of his optics on her skin. She was snuggled up against him now, her arms wrapped around one of his, cheek pressed up against his shoulder plate. Somehow his hands had found their way into her hair, pulling her a little closer.

All in all, it seemed like a perfectly peaceful, practically ideal situation for him to be in.

Well, almost. Except for the fact that internally, his circuits were running at a rapid fire pace, his central processing unit unable to do the processing of his current predicament.

No, scrap that. A “predicament” was getting his head ripped off and attached to a battle droid. Or clinging to Chewie for dear life as he was certain they were going to die going through an asteroid field. Those events were terrifying, and he prayed to the maker that he wouldn’t have to experience anything like that again. That wasn’t the case here. In fact, he certainly wouldn’t mind doing this another time.

But, he couldn’t help but wonder how in the galaxy he had gotten himself in such a situation to begin with. He was a protocol droid, for heaven’s sake, not some sort of pillow! And yet, he admitted, he didn’t really mind serving as a pillow for his dear friend at the moment. But why him? Was it perhaps that he was the most convenient choice? The option in closest proximity? It certainly couldn’t be for comfort reasons, that was for certain. His metal body was one of the many examples to prove that. He decided to recall the events leading up to the current situation. Perhaps there was something he was missing.

Kaiyo had entered the room he usually powered down in most frequently in the middle of the night, claiming she had nightmares.

The latter part wasn’t that strange. After all, while he couldn’t understand the concept of nightmares, having a number of past masters told him they were quite common. However, the trip from where she had found him to her quarters told him that there were several others she could have gone to that were probably more knowledgeable on the topic of nightmares and how to fall asleep after one.

She had asked him to keep her company because she didn’t want to wake the others.

This wasn’t too strange either. In fact, it made quite a bit of sense. Being one of the only droids on board meant that he was most likely to be available that late at night. Yes, that made perfect sense. That must be why she had chosen him. She had weighed the options, and decided that it wasn’t worth risking waking someone else to make a shorter trip.

…Finally, he could relax. The newfound tension in his joints subsided, and…wait.

Kaiyo had asked if he was comfortable laying next to her, which had turned into her facing him on the bed, which turned into snuggling up next to him with a whispered “is this okay?”, which was followed by a “oh! I suppose so…” as he placed his other arm protectively over her.

His gaze settled on her once more, racking his database for answers. Was this all just part of human companionship? For someone who claimed to specialize in “human-cyborg relations”, he really was not living up to that title right now. He knew how to settle disputes between parties who spoke in different tongues, knew what kind of behaviors were deemed acceptable in high society. Notably, this didn’t include being in close proximity with your human friend in a position that he could only describe as intimate. Why, it might even be considered improper for someone like him! And yet, despite concluding that this was a situation he wasn’t programmed for, something so unheard of for a droid of…any kind really, for once a little voice in his head told the worrying part of his brain to hush.

After all, this was something that Kaiyo wanted, that made her feel comfortable and happy. And for whatever reason, it made him strangely happy too. Did it really matter if it went against his protocol? The thought itself shocked him to the core, but he pushed it aside. In the privacy of Kaiyo’s quarters, shrouded in darkness, holding her in his arms…maybe he didn’t have to worry about being an upstanding droid of etiquette right now. He could embrace whatever this was, this new feeling he couldn’t quite name but wanted to hold onto for as long as he could. Hold onto her as long as he could, make her feel safe when she had done the same for him so many times.

Until she woke up, for the time being he too could dream.

[daisychainsandbowties]

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry" Lilith + droids 😘

lilith wakes up curled around the unlit hilt of her lightsaber, staring at the tangle of her hair trapped beneath a lump of shattered stone, and the first thing she does is scream.

there’s ash falling from the sky, slow-dancing, waltzing like people do on the holos. lilith has never seen dancing except on dathomir, where women twist their bodies into crude shapes and leave hot trails of blood behind them. they call it worship.

on other planets they dance differently, and lilith likes watching it; not so unlike her lightsaber forms but soft-edged, unsharpened.

blue shapes projected in her bedroom at night – a woman with her chin resting on another woman’s shoulder and lilith staring rapt from her bunk, mouthing one two one two until the haze of motion sends her drooping down onto her pillow. she has a bunkbed all to herself but she likes the bottom bed, where she can sometimes make herself imagine the mattress above her creaking from the weight of another body.

one like hers, maybe. light in that gravity, tender-boned, with bruises on her shins and sore hands from holding a wooden sword all day long.

but this is far from home.

it’s as far from the grey planet where she lives and trains as the chilly hanger of the Separatist ship no doubt still wallowing in orbit above them. it is a great echoing thing, lonely with most of the other droids packed neatly into rows, sleeping while lilith roams with her odd tangle of droids clinging to the sound of her footsteps. she did not know at all what to do with them so she just walked and listened to them talk.

“the commander painted this for me. do you like it?”

“not really. what is it?”

“i… um.” a long pause, “it’s paint.”

“oh.”

far from enlightening, but lilith didn’t want that, didn’t care for it. she needed noise and they gave it to her, filling the corridors of the ship with their wiry voices and their clanking footsteps. last month, when she’d been given her own squad, lilith had counted twenty-five droids.

she had fifteen following her before this battle, all the others shot or blasted to pieces. swallowed by fire rained down from above.

lilith knew most of their designations  – a slew of numbers that criss-crossed through her mind, but already she had persuaded some of them into having names. the few who resisted that still permitted her to put paint on them, nodding along when she argued that it would make them easier to pick apart from the other droids in battle.

“no, you don’t belong to me.” she’d snapped, dabbing harsh petals into one droid’s chest. red paint, hibiscus flowers blooming over its chest.

if droids could frown, “but lord adriel said-”

“you’re my squad, but you belong” – she stabbed at its chest with the paintbrush, leaving an errant edge to one of the petals, as though moth-bitten – “to yourself.”

“that seems like wishful thinking,” he told her this solemnly, looking down at her handiwork while lilith dipped her brush in a tin cup of paint-streaked water. dried it on her shirt.

lilith – tired, vaguely angry – resorted to her hands instead of speaking. she signed roughly, still figuring out vocabulary, syntax, tone. what came out might not have been anything but the droid nodded – still nameless to her beyond its neat line of numbers.

“i suppose,” it said, “not all belonging is possession.”

that morning, she’d watched the same droid pick up a blaster and follow her onto a lumpy ground shuttle. the paint on its chest already looked faded. it followed her – they all did – through the burning countryside and straight into a trap.

landmines, planted in the ground close to a huddle of old farm buildings. there were starfighters strafing over the horizon and lilith had wanted to get them out of sight until night dipped the land into darkness. she’d picked her way across to the farmhouse alone and peered inside, then gestured for her droids to follow her when she saw nothing but empty, sun-streaked space.

somehow, lilith had gotten lucky - or maybe it was her lightness in this and every gravity compared to the droids. they moved toward her in shades of brown and gold and white and auburn as lilith stood with her lightsaber hilt in one hand, unlit but nonetheless feeling the lick of its red light on the underside of her chin and on her arms and in her chest and everywhere.

then the ground exploded, threw lilith back into the building and the wall ruptured down around her. she flung out a blind burst of Force and flung herself away from most of the raining rock, but a chunk of it must have clipped her skull and then rolled to rest on her hair.

when her scream fades, eaten by the quiet that always lingers after an explosion, lilith feels a spot of ash settle on her cheek. a grey-black blot smearing itself on her skin.

above, the sky reflects the burning countryside with a ferocity that lends everything a yellow-orange glow.

her hair, though, resolves as an oil slick across the ground, pooling under a huge slab of stone with a splash of blood running up one side. gingerly, lilith reaches up and touches the side of her head, finding it wet.

the tips of her fingers are bright red as she moves them, trembling, in front of her face – though there is also ash in among the blood. lilith wonders how it mixes – like clay? so that her blood will clot faster? she blinks tears out of her eyes and draws in a breath. coughs, the motion tugging at her scalp.

the stone has her pinned. lilith cannot see anything beyond it or hear anything more than a faint ringing in her ears. there could be clone troopers picking through the rubble – and her laid out on the ground in her dark robes with the glint of a lightsaber showing under her body, all but gift-wrapped for them.

she could throw her cloak over herself,  if that isn’t pinned as well, but she knows the troopers won’t mistake her for a jedi. worse, they might have one with them – and she’d be as helpless as the creatures who get trapped in tide pools high up on the beach back at the base, huddling in shallow water that slowly disappears under the heat of the nearby star.

lilith likes to rescue those lost things, carrying them in a little pail of saltwater down over the rocks with the sea birds wheeling jealously overhead, screaming at her.

but she is forever on the side of small things.

it’s the wrong sort of mindset for a sith, but lilith can’t help it. if she found a bird on the beach with a broken wing she would scoop that up too and mend it with her mouth. a kiss with its beak pecking frantically at her cheek drawing blood and more blood until lilith laughed and let it launch away, almost crashing again in surprise at the sudden wholeness of itself.

some birds remembered better than others when she did that for them. by now, lilith had a small family of black-feathered ones with long beaks who followed her around and glared at suspicious-looking rocks on her behalf.

there is no one here to help her, though, and if the troopers come they will murder her or worse – take her prisoner. take her lightsaber to pieces and find the wet red heart inside it. her unstable kyber crystal stuttering uncertainly.

what else could they do with that but lock her away?

lilith isn’t stupid; she tries the Force first before anything else, holds out her hand with the palm facing the rock she is trapped beneath, trying to summon anger, fear – all the hot licking emotions that have crawled into her blood over months of training. months of being struck, tossed bloody onto the ground. of being pushed until she cracks and breaks and overflows and shines. red as dathomir’s star.

nothing. she grits her teeth and bites her tongue until it sends a slurry of thick blood down the side of her face, dripping onto the ground beneath her head and curling into the shell of her ear. maybe it’s the helplessness of this position that sends the dark side scattering from her fingertips – or the concern ringing high and hard in her chest because none of the droids have found her.

yet, yet. they can’t all be dead. they can’t.

lilith tries pushing at it physically, but her arms have no strength in them, and every attempt just forces her body away from the stone and tugs on her scalp until she finds vomit trying to climb up her throat.

dribbles some down her chin – hot with bile – before she gives up. she can feel her lightsaber pressing into her belly, touching tender spots where tomorrow she will have a path of bruises to walk with her fingers.

if she has a tomorrow.

dimly, past the alarming lack of sound in her ears, lilith senses movement – maybe it is not hearing at all, but the Force whispering to her. the crunch of boots on stone.

boots. her heart seizes and she scrabbles uselessly at the dirt, only succeeding in tugging on her scalp again and making blood leak down from the wound on the side of her head. it takes every ounce of strength she has not to vomit onto the ground.

clones – it has to be; she hears the low drone of their voices, shreds scattering out from under their helmets. they are coming, maybe drawn by the sound of her scream or just by the detonation itself.

lilith stares at the stone, at the slick of her hair trapped beneath it. she shifts, feet kicking at the rubble and dust and chips of stone surrounding her. the motion presses her lightsaber hilt into her stomach again.

with bloodied fingers, lilith reaches down. prints sticky on the dark metal of her saber. it will make a sound when she ignites it, so she’ll have to be quick. no hesitation.

lilith thinks of broken wings, of a pail swinging from her fingers and a grey sky that will never call itself home. she doesn’t miss dathomir, but she misses the security of its sky. she misses the underside of the bunk above her and the imaginary shifting of springs.

she wants to go – if not home – then at least in her own direction. at least toward something brighter than a cell and the loss of everything that makes her useful. her paint, her droids, and the boiling red of her lightsaber.

in a crackle-spit of heat it spears into being. immediately there is shouting – closer than she thought – and a blaster bolt darting overtop of her, taking a chip off of the rock that pins her hair.

lilith moves and she is good at it now because all of life is a dance and she knows at least some of the steps. the violent ones and how to navigate the beach at not-home in the dark to follow the sound of injured cries.

the smell of burning hair crawls up her nostrils as lilith slashes along the ground in front of her. it would take too long to chop the rock into pieces, but keratin is no match for the plasma-bleed of her saber. hot sparks land on her face but do not burn her as the saber crackles unsteadily.

adriel says that it is weakness – the dancing light of her saber - but it burns as well as anything else when it needs to. lilith launches onto her feet, moving in a wide pirouette as her instincts track the shape of blaster-bolts arcing at her. they meet the edge of her blade and deflect, searing into the ground and sending up bright molten chips of stone.

the area around her is in ruin, but even as lilith pulls to her feet she can see a huddle of familiar shapes back behind one of the larger mounds of rubble. spindly bodies returning fire across what is suddenly a battlefield.

she spots one droid in particular as it leans out to fire off a bolt, showing a chest covered in red flowers. hibiscus.

lilith smiles – a rictus-grin as her hair falls around her in an unfamiliar pattern all singed at the ends. there are maybe two dozen clones arrayed in a loose semi-circle around her – obviously creeping close to see if they’d caught her unconscious. no jedi with them.

one of them makes a jerky motion and fires off a bolt at her even as the others stand frozen, uncertain. they know what a red saber means, but the creature holding it is a girl no older than fifteen. drowned in a cloak too big for her and coated in fractals of uncertain red light.

the bolt arcs for her head and lilith parries it lazily, stepping forward as she alters its trajectory, sending it careening back. it puts a hole through another trooper’s chest and he collapses in a heap of smoking plastoid. lilith flourishes her blade – spins it with a languid turn of her wrist – and before the others can really react she’s running at them.

bolts pass over her shoulders as her droids lay down covering fire, scattering the troopers. they’re disorganised, then, and lilith finds herself among them all too soon, sinking into familiar forms. she weaves and ducks and spins, holding her blade as a cutting extension of her arm until the air is thick with the sweet scent of melted plastoid. when the troopers try to run, bolts cut them down.

when they try to stand and fight, lilith cuts them down.

a minute later, or less, lilith stands panting among two dozen corpses. she is not splashed bright with their blood – just her own, and that coated thickly down one side of her face and matted in what remains of her hair. she just smells of ash and smoke and what plasma makes of skin and bone and armour.

which is to say – nothing.

lilith stares at one trooper who died curled around the melted stump of his right leg, cut far above the knee. she stabbed down at him casually as she passed, clean through the neck, and the armour has fused with flesh around that cauterised hole.

she must stand awhile above that trooper, because when she looks up again the droids have climbed out from the rubble and the red-painted one has stepped up close to her. “commander?”

her hand lifts up but it’s shaking too badly to make any signs, any sense. eventually, lilith shrugs, sways, finds herself toppling only to fetch up against something hard. she blinks, looks around to find that the droid has put a sturdy arm around her.

“easy.” it mutters and lilith isn’t sure what that means but it has a curve to it like comfort. she tries to shake her head but the motion makes the world spin harder. the droid tucks her in against its body and lilith tries not to sob, not to turn her head into its chest. she hurts so badly and there are dead bodies all around.

they deserved it, she tells herself. they would have taken you away, or killed you. and they certainly would have killed this droid.

she clutches at its arm but peers around as it tries to guide her through the rubble. there are… what? maybe ten of her droids standing in a loose huddle, waiting for them. “where are the…?”

then she spots it. a golden head sticking out of the rubble.

she finds herself clawing at the red droid’s arm, dragging it away from her waist and almost falling immediately but stumbling instead over loose stones and chunks of churned-up earth. ash everywhere.

lilith drops to her knees, hears her own voice calling out, “look! here! there’s a droid buried here.” stones shift under her hands – too easily, like she’s picking up something made of cotton and not solid stone.

it takes her a long, foolish minute of lifting rocks and tossing them aside and doing it unaided for lilith to realise what she’s looking at.

the golden head is twisted at a wrong angle, the neck and shoulders and chest below crushed almost flat and perforated with holes. it’s dead it’s dead dead dead dead dead

the rocks grow heavy in her hands again and lilith is almost pulled to the ground by the weight in her hands. she lets it fall and then drops with it.

this droid she recognises – it is one of the few who took a name as soon a lilith suggested it. it pestered her for suggestions until lilith threw the word blossom out wildly and found herself met with stunned silence.

“oh yes, lady lilith. i like that enormously.”

“it’s just lilith.”

“okay then.” the golden droid pointed to itself, “then this – me – is just blossom.”

lilith touches its face – mostly intact but coated in a thin layer of ash that only smears when lilith tries to wipe it away. her hands are too dirty to make any difference.

she has a voice, finds it. casts it like a line. “blossom?”

nothing. the next sound she makes is a sob. she cradles its face, tilting it to stare at the ashen sky. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

this, she whispers, pressing her bloody lips to its cracked skull so the sharp metal bites and break through delicate skin. lilith doesn’t care - presses harder, tears dotting down onto the metal and those dead eyes with their lenses cracked and half-flooded with oil staring and staring. black as coagulated blood.

then there’s a hand on her shoulder – a metal hand that leaves smears of ash on her cloak, greyer than the black. lilith looks up and finds the red-painted droid above her.

if droids could weep.

it just stares at her instead, tilts its head. makes a sign with its other hand that lilith has not wrangled to mean anything other than a blunt statement.

sorry.

“we have to move,” he tells her. his hand changes from sorry and makes another motion that is not language at all; he holds it out for her to take, to grip, to hold.

lilith looks back at blossom. she was going to paint a garden for this droid on its arms and legs. they’d spent an hour together looking at pictures of flowers on the holo – setting them floating in full-spectrum colour around the room for the other droids to vote on.

it liked the yellow ones, mostly. a few blues thrown in the mix and a handful of soft lilacs.

now it is dead and lilith cannot even close its eyes. they are already dimmed which is as close as a droid can get to sleep.

“I’m sorry.” she says it one last time like she’s laying a flower down on a grave, and then the red-painted droid hauls her to her feet and catches her when her legs  try to give way again.

“come on,” it says. “let’s go somewhere safe.”

lilith laughs at that for a long time, until blackness climbs over her vision in cracks, in blinding red scars of light. the last thing she sees before a sleep only slightly gentler than death claims her is a red hibiscus flower, moth-bitten at the edge and drawn in her own uncertain hand.

[merakimaiden]

Period Comfort

Pairing : Captain Rex x padawan!reader (established relationship,reader is of age,duh)

Genre : fluff/comfort fic

Word Count : 864

Warnings : nothing but softness!

Mando’a Translations : ner karta (my heart), cyare (beloved), cyar’ika (beloved,sweetheart)

A/N : ugh my period has no mercy and i’m suffering so here’s a lil fic of our beloved captain comforting us during shark week! sorry if the format is a bit wonky because i used my phone :3 also you have a father-daughter relationship with plo because i said so

(gif from pinterest)

Rex had just been back onto the Resolute, after another long day of defeating the seppies, this time with the help of you, your master, General Plo Koon and the Wolfpack.

He was about to head to the bridge to meet General Skywalker when he realised- he hadn't seen you while he was busy defeating the seppies or when everyone was back on the flagship.

Huh. That’s weird. Whenever the both of you were on a mission together, you always jokingly compared battle droid kills with him afterwards.

As if by coincidence, the blast doors to the bridge opened, revealing Ahsoka.

“Hey Rex-”she greeted him cheerfully, but her face dropped when she saw the worried expression on his face. “What’s wrong?”

Rex asked Ahsoka your whereabouts,and she told him that you were resting in your quarters. He thanked her and immediately headed your way. Something’s not right, you left mid-battle.

After what felt like an eternity of walking in suspense, he finally reached the door to your quarters. He knocked twice, no response. He knocked again, and when there’s still no response from you, he couldn’t wait any longer. He used the spare data card you gave him and unlocked the door.

His eyes immediately landed on the cot, you were curled up in a ball, facing the wall. Your face was buried into the blanket and pillows. He entered your quarters and locked the door behind him when he heard a whimper.

“Cyare?” he called you softly as he sat down on the cot beside you.

The pain was so overwhelming you could only whimper in response. After a few moments, you managed to open your eyes and turn slightly to meet Rex's amber ones, already staring at you with a worried expression.

“Cyar’ika, what happened? Are you alright?” Rex asked calmly, although there was a hint of his voice faltering. He placed his hand onto your hip as his eyes scanned you to search for injuries.

You can’t seem to form any words, so with an effort, you held his warm palm and brought it to your lower stomach, hoping that it'll answer his question.

His eyebrows perked up momentarily when he realised,then his face softened in sympathy. “Oh, ner karta..” he brought your hand to his lips to give it a kiss. “That bad?”

You hummed in response, your bottom lip quivering when Rex leaned over to brush your messy hair out of your forehead.

“What do you need, cyare?” he asked softly, as his hand cupped your face while his thumb rubbed slow circles on your cheek.

“Y-you,” you finally croaked out, your breathing ragged because of the pain.

“Cuddles?” he confirmed, and you nodded.

He smiled at your response and stood up to remove his armour.

Once he was in his under armour, he wasted no time to crawl into the cot behind you, and placed a kiss on your neck.

You felt slight relief feeling his body pressed against your sore back. But then you felt his palm returning to your lower stomach, massaging slowly, and you sighed out in relief.

“This okay?” he whispered into your ear, and you hummed in content.

“Would you like a heating pad? I could head over to the med bay to get you one,” Rex suggested, but you shook your head no.

Rex’s massaging stopped as you forced yourself to turn towards him, your face burying into his warm neck.

“Need you here with me,” you mumbled into his neck. Rex understood and kissed your hairline, then placed his chin on the top of your head as his left hand snaked around your waist to hold your back.

“I’ll be here as long as you want.” Rex assured you, his hands rubbing circles on your back. Now that you’re calm in Rex’s arms, you decide that this is the best time to explain yourself.

“I was alright earlier- I was deflecting blaster shots with Master Plo when suddenly I felt gnashing pain in my abdomen and I was going to faint,” you whispered. “Luckily, Master Plo sensed it and helped me, he told me to get back to the ship early and get some rest,” your voice wavered as you explained, sudden tears filling your eyes.

“It’s okay cyare, you’re safe with me now,” Rex comforted you but you suddenly started crying.

“I know, it’s just- I feel so guilty, I should’ve been down there with you guys- I should’ve helped-” you started rambling, tears spilling down your cheeks uncontrollably. Rex gently wiped your tears away, whispering soothing words to help you calm down.

“It wasn’t your fault, ner karta,” he whispered when you were finally calm. “You couldn’t help it, it’s okay, m’here now shh,”

You took a deep breath, focusing on Rex’s hand cupping your face.

“When we get back to Coruscant, I'm getting you plenty of chocolates, okay? How does that sound?” He attempted to lighten up the mood.

“Okay, s-sounds nice,” you smiled slightly, before adding, “get some for the boys too, they deserve it,”

Rex chuckled at that.”Oh my sweet girl, always looking out for others,” he smiled and pecked your lips.

Likes and reblogs are appreciated :)

[sulevinen]

What was left behind: Skipper

As the medics take Skipper’s body away, Cyd feels unreal.

They step into the hallway after them, watching how they push the bed down the corridor, and Skipper’s right hand rolls out from under the covers, bloodied and broken.

The medic stops to cover it and then he’s just gone.

Cyd turns away to look at their chambers: the light from the corridor shows the large pool of blood, dried and dark, difficult to get off. Cyd makes a mental note to ask the maintenance for some bleach.

Their padawan walks by Skipper’s body, Cyd can feel it. The Force beats rapidly and the child’s darkness pulsates as a separate entity, menacing and cold, as if seeing the harsh reality as nothing but an interruption. Cyd turns to face her, and her emotions are carefully hidden away: but as soon as Cyd lays their hand on her shoulder, the tears fall.

When Ceres and Pearl come to take Kino away to her room, neither of them looks at Cyd. Ceres carries Kino in his arms without saying a word, and Pearl holds her hand, speaking softly. Cyd cannot begin to comprehend the feelings of tragedy and shock they all must be experiencing, so they make another mental note to ask for extended leave. Just for a week, maybe two. Cyd hopes it’s enough.

The blood is hard to get off. It’s dry and sticky, it sticks to the floor better than it does to the cloth, and the bleach only cleans one inch at a time. Cyd cannot tell if it’s the floor, or the blood, or the cleaning supplies, but something makes the job unnecessarily hard. Maybe they just cannot give it enough pressure or time. Maybe the slight shake of their hands and the brain fog makes them unable to fix it.

Cyd watches as the medics roll Skipper’s body to the platform on Kamino. The Kamino guards look after them, and then at Cyd, and then at each other: and then they pretend like Cyd doesn’t exist. Cyd wonders how far in the GAR the message has gone out: a clone killing himself right in front of his General. They hope it hasn’t reached the ears of other Jedi, or Force forbid, the Senate. Cyd hates to think that Skipper’s death could be used as a weapon against the rest.

The smell of iron is overwhelming, so Cyd sleeps in the mess hall the next night. Well, sleep is just wishful thinking; they cannot close their eyes without seeing Skipper, so they just stare at the ceiling for hours, barely blinking. The whole ship is silent, and Cyd focuses on the heartbeats pulsating against their montrals: and cannot help but notice the absence of one. The pulses are so strong against their montrals that they don’t notice a set of footsteps approaching until they stop by Cyd’s bed.

Lucid sits closeby, talking quietly, but Cyd cannot understand any of it: it’s just some background noise that makes the place seem a little bit more alive. Cyd knows why Lucid is there, though she tries to keep it a secret: but her empathy always gets the best of her. Cyd turns their head and smiles at her, and tells her it’s okay to go to bed. Lucid shakes her head and says that since neither of them can sleep, they might as well be up together.

The next day is a blur. A maintenance droid has cleaned the patch of blood that is now only a slightly red circle on the grey floor, and the air smells like air freshener. Cyd cleans the candle studs out of the way and throws the bloodied pillow in the garbage. They plan to buy another one on Coruscant, maybe from the same place as the old one. Cyd wonders if they have the time.

On Coruscant, Cyd is met with long gazes and whispers. They figure the word is out to everyone, and the Council meeting just proves it: Yoda talks about a tragedy, Mundi says something about prevention, Shaak just looks sad. Cyd tries to slow down the pulse of the Force, to somehow escape the flood of emotions beating against their montrals: but the heartbeats are too overbearing and Cyd starts to feel numb.

Windu is with Kino when Cyd comes to get her for another battle: it’s been a week and Kino looks a lot less distraught. She dives into Cyd’s arms and says a quick goodbye to Windu before leading the way out of the Temple. Cyd looks behind them and catches a glimpse of a somber frown on Windu’s face that he then wipes away with a smile.

On the ship Cyd notices that they forgot to buy a pillow: and they realize that they have forgotten everything else too. This moment feels like the first time in a week where they feel completely present, as if they had been sleeping through everything, though Cyd feels entirely exhausted. They try to recall events from the week before, but it’s just gaps of lost time between moments of rapid pulse beating against their montrals. They think it might be their own heartbeat, but Cyd can’t be sure.

Cyd walks through the corridors past shinies and vets: but they cannot recognise any of them. Even though their faces are all the same, their heartbeats are different, should be different: but Cyd cannot separate them from the one large pulse pressurizing their montrals. Cyd tries to remind themselves to book an appointment to mindhealing, but the dusty wind of the planet and the hot sand wipes away those thoughts, and the ground gets stained by blood again.

Cyd looks above their head and sees a squadron fly past. They look back down and suddenly the ground disappears and they’re sitting in a cockpit of an X-wing, looking at a Separatist shuttle charging right at them. Cyd tries to stop the rising panic as they shoot it off the sky, and watch helplessly as the debris of the explosion hits an X-wing close by, and Cyd screams.

Cyd wakes up in the medbay. It’s dark and quiet, and they can see a silhouette in the darkness, illuminated by the glow of an open door. Their shoulders are tense, heaving up and down with their deep breaths, and Cyd sees a glimpse of something sharp.

The figure comes closer, and Cyd tries to shield themselves with the blanket: but they keep coming closer, and the blood starts dripping, and Cyd holds their breath.

When the figure is just above Cyd’s bed, it disappears. So does the medbay. Cyd passes out from exhaustion and sleeps for the first time in a week, but they can still smell the iron, feel the blood travel down their hands and feel the cooling body relax against theirs.

Cyd startles awake when a hand comes to their cheek, and is met with the eyes of their Padawan.

”It’s alright Master. It was just a dream.”

Hope sparks inside Cyd’s chest, so bright it almost hurts. ”All of it?”

”Just this one. Skipper is still dead. You need to sleep.”

Cyd pushes back the tears and tries to smile. ”I think I am too tired for it, Kinorina.”

Kino exhales. ”I know. But this darkness in you is getting too difficult for me to control. Please rest.”

[blue-haired-grace]

“I– I think I need to sit down.” With some of the spark squad boys?

Spark Squad!!!! Thanks so much for the prompt, Hadiya! I hope you enjoy. <3

From this ask game.

Warnings: off-screen character death(s)

Ghost ran through the cloning facility, looking through every nook and cranny that he found. He had spent his entire life, almost eight years, living in this facility and learning the layout, but as he searched for Pillow and 43, his knowledge of the place was vanished into thin air.

Worry sparked through him at the thought of remaining Separatist forces still in his home and that being the reason he couldn't Pillow or 43. What if all he could find of them was a dead body, like the many other brothers that Grievous, Ventress, and the droids had killed? What if they were long gone like Duke?

He swallowed his worry. He knew the likelihood of finding both his brothers alive wasn't high, especially because Sketch and Morale had already been accounted for and were safe. They hadn't even finished their training yet so the Jedi would know they were ready for battle. If trained soldiers from the 501st and Rancor Battalion couldn't survive, how could two cadets?

They had needed as many troopers as they could to help protect Kamino and the little brothers that couldn't protect themselves yet, so Spark Squad had been called to duty early. Ghost wondered if they would be made to run through the Citadel after they had already proved themselves.

Ghost made a sharp turn around the corner, blinking back tears at the sight of more bodies of his brothers. There was a scattering of droids and many of the brothers had slashes instead of blaster wounds. As he made his way down the hall, he was careful to avoid stepping or tripping on any of his brothers. Please don't be Pillow or 43.

Making it further down the hall, Ghost noticed a body that wasn't laid out on the floor like the others. It was sitting upright and not leaning against anything, armour that was once shiny, but now covered in the grime of battle like Ghost's was. Someone alive.

"Hey! Are you okay?" Ghost called out, voice desperate. The brother didn't respond, face turned down as they looked at something on the ground.

Ghost got closer and closer. He was able to catch more features of the sitting brother; head completely shaved and face covered in marks from training. Ghost would know those marks anywhere.

"Pillow!" Ghost skidded to a stop next to him. "What happened? Why..." His question trailed off as he looked down at who, not what, Pillow was looking. Ghost went cold. "Is...Is that 43?" His voice was small.

"Trick," Pillow said, voice low and dull. Ghost can't remember ever hearing him sound like that.

"Huh?" Ghost questioned. "Trick what?"

"That's his name. He told me before he-" Pillow swallowed "-before he died."

Ghost felt like he couldn't breath, so he removed his helmet. Looking at 43 - Trick - with his bare eyes made it worse. Still staring at their dead squad member, Pillow reached up a hand to grip Ghost's.

“I– I think I need to sit down," is all Ghost managed to get out before collapsing next to Pillow, who held him close in a grounding, steady grip. Sitting in Pillow's tight hold for a few silent minutes, even Ghost's tears made no noise, Ghost began to feel a bit more like himself. "W-why Trick?"

Pillow's breath hitched and Ghost was struck by the realization that he had heard his slightly older brother cry in a long time. "He saved me," Pillow admitted, voice so quiet that Ghost had to strain to hear him. "When Grievous came for us, Trick threw himself on top of me when he got slashed by a lightsaber. He played dead until they were all gone. He... He tricked Grievous, for me."

He tightened his grip on Pillow, who reached a hand into Ghost's long hair to begin playing with it. Staring at the dead brother in front of him, Ghost could admit that he'd never been close to Trick; the only one who seemed to be was Morale. Brought in about six months after they'd lost Duke, Trick had very much been a replacement for Duke in the Kaminoans' eyes. Right from the beginning, they all had noticed something off about him. Trick had been skittish around everyone, an obsession with following orders, hadn't wanted a name, and hadn't had many memories of life before Spark Squad. It was only later, overhearing the whispers from older brothers, that Ghost had realized it was reconditioning.

He'd started to grow into himself, though, and move past what hell the Kaminoans had put him through. He's even finally chosen a name. But he wouldn't get to live with it.

Ghost let out a sob at the thought, pulling out of Pillow's grip to hug Trick close to him. He was so happy that Pillow was alive, but why did their brother, who'd started to heal, have to die for it to happen? First Duke for Morale and now Trick for Pillow.

Spark Squad just kept failing their brothers.

[crowsandmurder]

CONTINUED

Padme had begun to second guess her plans of seducing her husband as the hours free later. She felt kind of odd half dressed draped over their bed. Anakin would always look at her in this state with darkened interest, but this time she had been longing for him. There were too many missions and he was so tired that he actually slept. Besides, there was something powerful and new to be strapped in this red getup that was a suggestion of clothes more than anything else excentuating the natural curves of her chest, hips, and waist. The pair had been new to all this and it wasn’t as if she could call up a friend to ask for advice on her super secret super jedi husband. It had been far to long since they did anything but sleep as naked forms against each other. Besides, Anakin was respectful enough to not expect anything more from her than being held close particularly at such hours. He was too much of a protector for that. Still, she wanted a bit of that arrogant take what I want ambitious hunger that usually swayed his gait through life. It was a plan she had concocted day dreaming at the senate the other day and had not been able to keep her blushes a secret any longer. She secretly thanked whatever God there was that she had had no business with any of the jedi for her force signature no doubt spoke at a volume with which she had no hope of blocking. There was a nice candle lit dinner that she had started the process of putting away since his long night at the temple had seemed to drone on. There wasn’t really an escape when he would be able to see on her face plainly should he come in like the tornado he was. Leaving boots for her to roll her eyes and step over in the morning or a heap of robes on the floor only to take notice. No, this was something she wanted and needed. This would be her asking though she was sure some form of prodding would be needed as the night grew on. She’d prayed to the force itself that he was safe and hadn’t been put in some battle or emergency mission.

There was no feeling of the force on her side besides the glimpses Anakin gave. Besides, what did she have to be embarrassed of when they were husband and wife familiar with each other’s bodies. She was absolutely certain that the hooded flash of his vivid blue orbs would give her the confidence she needed as it always did. He knew her faults and flaws and still looked at her like she was some sort of angel every time. The love and adoration almost as powerful as the beating of the sun back on the cursed planet of tattooine. Normally, she would have lived for these moments on a late night. The ranting and giddiness that always made her swoon. He would not like being called adorable, but it was true. She loved hearing him drone on about droids or the council because it was something so passionate and happy. Padme was proud of him in all he did, but she also wanted to know what all made the jedi what he was. What made his soul shine with vibrance or his lips crook a little more. What made him imagine and daydream or resulted in his nightmares. At the end of it all, their love was the kind of souls not shells of skin. Anakin was forged for her no matter what his outside spoke of. And sadly, his outside was a very loud speaker that she would enjoy listening to all the same. The attraction hadn’t helped in attempting to not rob the galaxy of it’s hero. He was quiet in his entrance moving on the balls of his feet like a dancer. She would normally be out cold wrapped up in blankets and no doubt with her face pressed tightly to the pillow that totally didn’t smell just like him. There was still a whirlwind of motion in the silence speaking to his giddy excitement and joy to have caught her. Her very soul told her that there was no turning back and she didn’t want too even as her voice betrayed her longing for his touch and lips and the nerves of this new state. He had called her a temptress the other night. Crimson on the apples of her cheeks no doubt matched the outside as she shed the blanket off of her small frame. Cold air embracing her with the torrent of his breathing and loving energy. She had almost apologized for interrupting him, but he didn’t seem to mind when her words fully caught up to the firing brain of his. Obi-wan was definitely not what she wanted to be discussed right now in this room even id she was grateful to the father figure.

“I take it you are interested in my proposal. Anakin, I need you.I need to feel you. Don’t make me beg. it’s quite unbecoming for a woman particularly a married one. I- I was trying something new. It’s okay if you don’t like it or you just want to sleep. I’m always cold without you. Always.”

He hated that they didn’t get more time together.  He was always getting whisked off somewhere, when he wanted to be home with her.  When he wasn’t away from home, he often was training all day and all evening.  If he had to hear Yoda talk about The Clone Wars one more time...He tended to talk for hours when he got home. If he was honest, he preferred what he did, to hearing about politics. But, he listened to her talk about politics, because it’s what she did. She was a politician.  He loved her deeply and always wanted to listen to anything that made her happy. Sometimes when he crawled into bed with her and she was already asleep and didn’t wake up, he’d slide his arms around her, and just love how she slid into his embrace, so easily.  She had never hesitated with his mechno-arm.  

Once his eyes had locked on hers, he only thought of her and his eyes took in everything that was his wife.  She was beautiful and she was all his.  “I am always interested in any proposal you have.  “I need you too, my love. It’s been too long.  I could make love to you all day, every day and it wouldn’t be enough.”  He smiled at her, crawling onto the bed, approaching her.

“Padme, I don’t just want to sleep. I want my wife. I want to warm you up. Is that okay with you?”  He moved closer to her, hovering near her lips. 

“What do you want, my love?” 

@multistoty​

[mandoocpace]

(v)

Mason woke with a start.

The room was empty. He knew it even without needing to look around. On the pillow beside him there was a folded piece of scrip and Mason picked it up, reading the note Archer had left him to advise he had gone to get them both a bite to eat for breakfast but that a pot of caf already brewing on the nearby counter. His head felt heavy but he swung his legs around and planted his bare feet against the cold floor and steeled himself to get up like he was going into battle.

Cayte was leaving today. Heading back to the clan where she would raise Reelis as a foundling in the Mandalore way. Mason half wondered how a Wookie would even be able to speak Mando’a with their vocal range until he realized it wouldn’t matter as long as he could understand it. Reelis wouldn’t be the first in their ranks, and he wouldn’t be the last.

He rose and dressed slowly, beginning the arduous task of pulling on his armor and layering his weapons after refreshing in the bathroom. The door opened just as Mason was fastening his vambraces and sliding a vibroknife into the side of his boot.

Archer seemed disappointed to find him dressed. “Good morning, love. Did you sleep well?”

Mason’s answer was rueful but his mood was much improved at the sight of Archer’s face.

“Not as well as I would have liked, kar'ta, my heart,” he said, crossing the room to steal his hands against his lover’s waist from behind. He brushed his nose against the line of Archer’s neck. The assassin smelled like a new dawn and bright suns. Like home.

Mason’s hands gripped him a little tighter. The last vestiges of the dream that woke him still clung to him like cobwebs. Even if didn’t care to remember the specifics, he remembered the unsettling feeling of the man he loved being just out of his reach.

Just a dream.

“Maybe this will help then,” Archer hummed. He turned in Mason’s arms, something rustling in his hands but Mason took it from him and dropped it lightly on the nearby table. Archer allowed Mason to gather him close.

“It does,” Mason whispered back as Archer’s layered robes and warm body pressed against his cuirass. It couldn’t be comfortable hugging him with all his armor but Archer rarely complained. There was peace there, inside the circle of Archer’s arms and Mason nosed it out eagerly. “You do.”

There was smile in Archer’s voice. “I meant food.”

“I know. We’ll eat in a moment. I need… I need this right now.”

--

“Maybe we should have gone with Cayte,” Mason said, looking up at the remains of his ship. It would fly, but it wouldn’t be comfortable and he didn’t hold a lot of hope it could get them from one point to another without leaving them stranded somewhere in between. But Archer had risked it, getting him out of the fight that nearly killed him. “Yours was in better shape. Where are we going to find a transcoil demodulator on this junkyard planet?”

“We will,” Archer responded easily. The droid at his feet beeped and chirped and Mason pulled a face behind his helmet.

“Jawa? I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

Archer’s droid beeped again and Mason turned to him. “Really?”

An easy shrug of his shoulders and a dry tone. “You’d be surprised what they can scrounge up.”

Mason looked back at the ship, dusty and silent where it had been hauled back out of sight in the workshop. “Alright, but let me do the talking.”

--

Like vermin, the Jawa scurried around on the edges of the city in their little packs. It wasn’t difficult to find them, even less difficult to get their attention and Mason had to slap away more than one set of hands reaching for his weapons and beskar.

“No! Give that back,” he plucked his blade back from one and ignored the furious chittering and glowing eyes as it shook a fist at him. He also ignored Archer’s chuckle from behind him.

“Are you sure you want to do the negotiating, love?” Archer asked. Mason could hear the laughter in the beats between his words. He had never had much luck with Jawa. They were attracted to his gear like a moth to a flame but Mason would be damned if he let these furry little cretins get under his skin.

“I’m sure,” he grit out, and shoved another one back. He was tempted to flare them all with a burst of flame from his vambrace but he suspected that wouldn’t do much for negotiations. “I said no! Back off!”

The Jawa crowded him scattered backwards a few paces. Archer moved closer, standing at Mason’s side. He caught a subtle shift of his features out of the corner of his eye and then Archer was leaning in.

“Be careful, love,” Archer murmured, so low Mason only heard him through the amplification in his helmet.

“What?”

Archer inclined his ever so slightly towards the huddle of Jawa, now crowding Archer’s little droid. The droid wobbled and beeped furiously and one of them shrieked when it met an unfriendly zap.

Mason smirked, his expression safe behind his helmet before quickly sobering. “What is it?”

“That one…” Archer said quietly. “-Is not a Jawa.”

Mason’s eyes narrowed. He watched them carefully, the pack of Jawa chittering and apparently squabbling amongst themselves. With their glowing eyes and squat bodies, draped in the same rust coloured hoods, they looked interchangeable.

Almost.

Mason didn’t need to activate the heat reading on his helmet’s sensors, it was their hands that gave it away.

Three big strides forwards sent the clustered Jawa screeching and scattering. All but one that he snatched up by the back of its coarse cloaked neck and dragged forward. It protested, spluttering Jawanese curses that quickly turned to a loud shriek of anger in clear, unmistakable basic when Mason ripped the hood back.

An irate human male shook a furious fist at him. The rest of the Jawa squealed.

“What did you do that for?” the human flailed. A pair of glowing goggles covered his eyes but he threw them off in his scramble. “Do you see me going around ripping your helmet off, Mando? Let me go!”

He tried to scramble back, tugging on his robes, trying to pull them out of Mason’s hands but Mason refused to relinquish his hold. He stared at the boy. He couldn’t have been more a teenager, small and slight, unruly dark curls over brown skin and even darker eyes. His sharp jaw was jutted out into a furious pout but he didn’t bother trying to pull the hood back over his head.

“You’re human,” Mason said in surprise.

Another yank. Mason half expected a kick to the shin while the kid railed. “Yeah, and you’re rude! Take your helmet off, Mando. Fair is fair, right?!”

Mason looked at the assassin beside him, ignoring the kid’s flailing and hissing. “How did you know?”

Archer only gave him an enigmatic rise of his brow and Mason huffed. “Right. You just knew.”

He turned his attention back to the squirming human glaring up at him. “Why are you with Jawa?”

“Why not?” The boy? Man? Mason couldn’t tell, he seemed caught somewhere between, not quite either but older than a child. When Mason didn’t respond for a long moment, the kid sighed. The fight eased out of him and he slumped under Mason’s grasp. “My family’s ship crashed. And... They.. uh. Took me in,” he said but his eyes shifted sideways like he was hiding something. Mason got the sense the boy was choosing his words very carefully. 

The Jawa pack shrieked again, their confidence building. One of them pressed closer, jabbering something Mason couldn’t understand and waving a short staff.

“What are they saying?”

The kid stared up at him and for the first time Mason noticed a mark on his throat, some kind of symbol, like a brand. “What are they saying?” he demanded again, harsher this time.

“They want you to let me go. I’m… um.”

Even through his armor, Mason felt the air around them change when Archer suddenly shifted his stance. “You’re a slave?”

The kid looked panicked, but he didn’t struggle any further. There was something else in his expression, a lift to his features that might have been hope. Hope for freedom.

Beside him, Archer sighed. A blaster was in his hands before Mason had even set the kid behind him.

“Looks like we’re going to have to find our parts somewhere else, love.”

[theterramancer]

I finally found it! The perfect waifu!

[tennessoui]

Is there a polite way to request that you write all of these snippets? 😂 But how about no. 15- meeting in the E.R/A&E au!

bestie i 100% bet you forgot you sent this ask in June of 2021. you are the second oldest ask in my ask box. Here is 2k of obikin meeting in the E.R.

(2.2k)

Sometimes, the Ciblekian healers will move the curtain. It’s probably entirely by accident, but when they’re attending to the man in the bed next to Obi-Wan’s, the curtain will flutter from the breeze of their moving bodies or the slight brush against it by a harried nurse.

And then, for a precious few seconds, Obi-Wan will be able to see a fraction of his bed-bound companion. A curl of blond hair against the white pillow. A furrowed brow, a scowl, a tensed face, turned away from the healer leaning over him. Young. Strong. Handsome. Scarred. Wounded.

Just glimpses, nothing definite enough to really form a mental picture of the man. That, the Force leaves up to his imagination. It has given him the faintest of lines, and Obi-Wan is left to fill in the details of this Anakin for himself.

Perhaps Obi-Wan would be less fascinated with the man, had he anything else to think about to occupy his time.

But, like there always seems to be in these days, there had been a battle on a small planet on the edge of the Mid Rim. Both the Separatists and the Republic had wanted to claim Cibleka for themselves, had thought to tap into its resources for their own gains. Obi-Wan and the 212th had been sent to the planet to meet Darth Vader and his legion of droids.

Obi-Wan had been injured—critically—in a landslide. So focused had he been on fighting Vader that he hadn’t even noticed the rocks beginning to tumble down the mountainside. Now, he supposes that perhaps that had been Vader’s doing and his plan.

The Ciblekians were not as advanced as some of their neighbors. Their healing was rudimentary at best and their system was easily overrun by the wounded from the battle. Clones, Obi-Wan hopes, but he hasn’t seen any of his men yet. He’d told his commander to withdraw the troops should anything happen to him, get back in the ships and hover over the planet.

From the lack of droids holding Obi-Wan at blaster-point, he can only assume the same thing had been ordered by their command. The healers have been absolutely silent on what has happened, what will happen. They have wounded to tend to. If not clones, then the Ciblekians who had fought in the battle as well, on either side.

That must be who is in the same room as Obi-Wan now, separated by only a thin curtain. A Ciblekian, Anakin, who had heard the call to arms and joined in the fight for his planet’s future. And even though Obi-Wan is almost completely certain that Anakin had fought on the other side of the battle, he finds him fascinating all the same.

The Ciblekian healers refuse to talk to him. But Anakin responds. Not all the time, but at frequent enough intervals that Obi-Wan does not go out of his mind with boredom while he heals from his broken bones and femur.

“How are you feeling today?” he asks across the divide between their beds.

For a second, there’s no reply. Perhaps Anakin is still asleep. Perhaps he is in one of his moods today. He is surly and resentful sometimes, to the healers but to Obi-Wan especially, as if Obi-Wan had personally had a hand in landing him in his hospital bed.

Perhaps he had. Battles happen so quickly. Perhaps Anakin had been wounded by one of his men’s blasters, Obi-Wan’s own saber, or his command of the Force.

Obi-Wan hasn’t found the courage to ask yet.

Other questions are easier. Like, of course, how are you feeling today?

“Not long now,” Anakin finally responds as if that’s a satisfactory answer, sounding as if he’s turned over to face the opposite tent wall.

“One would hope,” Obi-Wan responds cheerfully, flexing each individual finger on his hand. “And your…arm?”

He thinks that is mostly why Anakin has been bedridden, though he’d tried his best to give his bunkmate some medical privacy. Curiosity, however, especially Obi-Wan’s, is an impossible beast to fight. Or that’s what his old master had always said.

“Fine.” Anakin snaps. “There.”

“Good,” Obi-Wan responds by rote. They do this almost everyday. “I have counted half the spots on the canvas roof by now, I fear. Seventy-three. Though there is a particular pair so close together that I hate to count them as separate. They’re touching but still retain their own individuality. Does that necessitate one count or two? As a Jedi, I fear I may not be the one best suited to decide, as I have very little practice recognizing attachments.”

Anakin says nothing.

“You know, I’m quite adept at making conversation with those who do not respond. Or, do not respond in a way I can understand. Before the war broke out, as a Jedi Knight, I would often travel between planets with only my R2 droid for company. Force, would it beep, I’m sure quite derogatory things at times, but we kept each other entertained, though I don’t know…Droid babble? Technological Basic? Code?”

“Binary,” Anakin grits out. Obi-Wan smiles at the roof of the tent. One of the things he’s learned about his bunkmate is that Anakin can’t resist telling him something that he knows when Obi-Wan is wrong.

“Ah yes, thank you, darling,” Obi-Wan says.

“I’m not—” He also hates pet names.

“What are you then?” he cuts him off, curious and impatient in turn. Qui-Gon would have shaken his head at his padawan’s impulsiveness.

Anakin is predictably silent.

“Rightt. As I was saying, sweetheart,” Obi-Wan begins again. “My injuries are fine, I suspect. They’re being very hush hush about the whole thing, if you haven’t realized, but I suppose they don’t want fights to break out between people they’ve spent so much time healing. Tragic, wouldn’t it? Spend three hours stitching up a Separatist’s thigh, only to have them break the thread when trying to kick a Republican in the head.”

Anakin snorts, and then there’s an intake of breath as if he’s surprised by himself. Obi-Wan grins up at the ceiling. Pulling a reaction out of his bunkmate feels akin to making Yoda sigh and lower his head in the middle of a Council meeting.

“Not that I care,” he adds when Anakin is silent. “Who fought who. I suppose I should, given my rank and all. But battles are much more intimate than a war. I understand someone’s reasons for picking up arms against my men.”

“How compassionate,” Anakin sneers. Obi-Wan can’t see him and has never seen what a sneer looks like on his face, but he knows what he’s doing just by the tone of his voice.

“I’d like to think so,” Obi-Wan agrees. “Though I’d hope that at a certain junction, compassion turns into realism.”

“Didn’t Darth Vader try to cut you in half?”

“An inside joke,” he insists. “As I killed Darth Maul in the same way. Or, I suppose I thought I did.”

Anakin huffs. “It doesn’t seem very funny.”

Almost lazily, Obi-Wan’s hands fall to his stomach. Darth Vader had landed a glancing, deadly blow there, one that almost killed him, before the rocks had startled them both. “He has a strange sense of humor,” he says quietly before changing the subject. “I hope you recover a day after I do, Anakin.”

Anakin sounds caught off guard. “What? Why?”

“If you are the first to leave, I think I should miss your company.”

Anakin scoffs. There’s the sound of shifting fabric, like the man is turning back towards him. Obi-Wan holds his breath, but the other man doesn’t say anything.

“You are at least slightly more talkative than my droid.”

There’s a second of pause and then Anakin responds in a series of whistles and beeps, and Obi-Wan is laughing before he can help himself. “You are full of surprises, Anakin,” he says warmly. “No, truly, I suppose you must have a life to get back to. Would you…would you humor an old man and tell him what the Separatists told you that made you choose to fight for them?”

It’s as if the air around them grows cold, and Obi-Wan rushes to shake his head, though his bunkmate cannot see it through the curtain that separates them.

“I am not looking for military strategies or to blame you for anything, Anakin,” he murmurs softly, knowing Anakin will be able to hear his voice. “You seem to be very…stubborn. Opinionated. I have a hard time picturing how any army could make you fight in a war you aren’t passionately supportive of, and yet you’ve never mentioned the Separatists’ cause to me or to anyone. I’ve found that passionate men, rather in politics or in love—or both—can very rarely keep their mouths shut.”

Anakin is silent for so long that Obi-Wan isn’t quite sure he hasn’t fallen asleep. “Some people,” he finally says, “don’t get choices.”

Obi-Wan stares at the ceiling, wishing that he could move the curtain just far enough to see Anakin’s face.

But he can, can’t he?

He turns over onto his side, stomach and stitches protesting the movement until he’s facing Anakin’s side of the room. The white curtain teases him incessantly, fluttering with a breeze that isn’t really there.

But should he violate Anakin’s privacy in order to quench his own curiosity? No. No, right? And yet he would like so much to see the man’s face, the man’s expression in more than just flickers.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, “Anakin, everyone should have—”

“Would you just shut up?” A voice across from both of the beds says. “Day in and day out, just…so much fucking talking, I think your voice must be one of the ten most annoying wonders of the world, Jedi. Some of us are trying to heal.”

“Oh,” says Obi-Wan. He’d forgotten that anyone besides himself and Anakin were in this ward. “Apologies.”

He turns back to face the ceiling.

There, on the farhand corner, a spot he’s sure he has not counted yet. Seventy-four.

—-

He is awoken from sleep by strange clanking footsteps. Treds that he knows intimately. Droids and—a sentient commander.

“Well, are you healed?” Count Dooku’s voice flows around Obi-Wan and wakes him up immediately. Chills fly up his spine. Who is he—

“I am sufficient,” Anakin tells him, sounding so much different than the Anakin Obi-Wan had been talking to.

“If you were sufficient, you never would have been injured,” Dooku sniffs. Obi-Wan tries not to move, retracting his Force signature slowly until he’s hidden behind his shields. He wouldn’t put it past Dooku to murder him in his hospital bed. Such are the ways of the Sith.

“Yes, Master,” Anakin responds, and there’s shifting in the bed, the sound of sheets moving—he’s standing up. He’s leaving.

“Have you at least learned anything of interest?” Dooku asks in that same snide tone. Obi-Wan tenses. He doesn’t know what he should do—what he can do. His lightsaber has been taken by the healers. All he has is the Force, and that would be no match against Dooku when Anakin gives up his location, gives up the fact that there is a Jedi war general in the bed next to him.

“Only that perhaps we should have allowed the GAR to win this planet. Its healers are rudimentary, and its sentients are rude and intolerable,” Anakin sneers.

Dooku scoffs. “Well done then, Vader, for having learned nothing of battle strategy, despite being indisposed for two weeks.”

Vader.

Obi-Wan has never seen Vader without his helmet, his costume. He’d asked him how he felt, how his arm was. Vader.

“Well?” Dooku snaps out. “Let us leave. Sidious has taken great pains to relocate your saber, Vader. Here. I’d prefer never to touch the thing again.”

There is the sound of someone standing and then the buzz of a lightsaber being turned on. Obi-Wan stills so much he thinks for a second his heart stops beating. He should not stay still in his bed and accept his fate. Vader will not hesitate to kill him. He’d been trying to make nice with the Sith for weeks. But where can he hide? Where can he go?

“I’m ready, master. Just…one thing. One of the patients was extremely…annoying during my stay, and I fear they guessed too much about my identity. May I dispatch them before we leave?”

“Oh, if you must,” Dooku sounds displeased.

Obi-Wan closes his eyes. There are droids outside his own curtains. And he is weak in the Force, his energy spent trying to heal himself. It is time to make one with the Force.

But it’s not the curtain between their beds that is brushed aside. Nor the one at the foot of Obi-Wan’s bed. There are footsteps, then the swish of fabric moving, a muddied gasp of the newly awoken, and then the sound of a lightsaber passing through flesh.

“I am ready, Master,” Vader murmurs. He sounds as if he is right next to Obi-Wan’s curtains. “Please, lead the way.”

When the healers interrogate him tomorrow about the murder of the patient opposite him, Obi-Wan does not even have to feign his surprise. He just has to remember how he felt in the brief second that a dark impossibly bright and hot Force signature nuzzled against his own in something akin to both a hello and a goodbye.

[oliviajdjarin]

Chapter 13: An Understatement

Warnings: blaster fire and descriptions of battle, mentions of injuries, Mando gets pretty hurt and the reader is a wreck (as usual)

Author’s Note: Enjoy Chapter 13!

Mando’s POV

All Mando could think about was you.

Did you protect the child? There’s no way you leaked their info to the Empire and betrayed them, right? Were you dead?

Somehow, the third option scared him the most.

As if this could not get any worse, Moff Gideon opened his mouth yet again.

“I have just received word that you seem to have a very valuable asset on your side,” he said, and Mando knew exactly what he was getting at.

He was referring to you.

Mando’s mind raced a million miles a minute. The Empire were after you, and they had to know you had the child with them. You could hold your own, he knew that, but against an entire regime of soldiers?

Mando knew you would rather die than get the child caught, he would do the same thing, but he wanted you alive. That’s all he wanted.

“It’s ironic, really,” Moff continued. “You put your trust in the Empire to get away from the Empire.”

Moff Gideon could insult Mando all he wanted. He could insult his religion, his creed, his past, but something about him referring to you as “the Empire” when you had worked so hard to get away from it rubbed him in all the wrong ways.

You had helped Mando start to put his violent ways aside, but you weren’t here now, and Mando wanted to kill the Moff where he stood.

“It’s time you face the fact that she will return to where she belongs. My side. I hope her betrayal does not hurt your feelings too bad,” Moff said, and Cara scoffed.

Mando’s last button had been pushed.

“She didn’t betray us, Cara,” he said sternly, and Cara rolled her eyes.

“Oh, so you’re on her side? The Empire’s side?,” she responded, and Mando tried to keep his cool.

It wasn’t really working.

“We are on the same side,” Mando snapped back. “It’s time you realized that.”

You would not betray him. If you were any other person in the galaxy, Mando would start to give up now. But you showed him, in the very brief time you were together, that even people with the worst pasts can still have good hearts.

You made him feel like an idiot. Like a joke. He hadn’t genuinely cared for a person since his parents, but then the kid came along, and then you came along. It’s like the galaxy was showing him perfect prizes, but the game was impossible to win.

But the very worst part of it all, was that Mando was willing to try.

What had you done to him?

Your POV

To say this day did not go as planned was an understatement.

One second you are running for your life, the next you are being scooped up by a metal hand. It happened so fast you barely even had time to register you were lifted off the ground and placed onto a speeder bike.

Once you finally did register what had happened, you immediately thought it was the Empire’s doing, so you turned around and aimed your longspear at the driver.

“Please don’t,” the droid responded. “Me being dead would make this much worse for you.”

The nurse droid, you thought to yourself. From Kuiil’s house!

You were in such a haze of mourning and sadness those couple of days, you barely remembered meeting the droid. You even forgot it rode on the ship to this planet!

You relaxed a bit and lowered your longspear, smiling internally at the thought that a piece of Kuiil was still alive, but you didn’t put your guard down.

You hadn’t put your guard down in days, so it’s not like your overall body language changed that much.

You made sure the child was ok, and once your head finally cleared, you realized Mando was trying to reach you again.

“Kuiil, Y/N, somebody come in.”

The droid picked up the comm device before you could get it, and responded in a very monotoned voice.

“Kuiil has been terminated.”

That ought to make Mando feel better, won’t it, you thought to yourself.

You were going to take the comm device out of the droid’s hand, but you froze when you heard Mando’s tone of voice speaking through the comms again.

“What did you do?” he asked, and you swore you could hear the venom dripping from his mouth.

It always surprised you how scary Mando could really be when he tried.

“I am fulfilling my basic function,” the droid responded.

“Which is?” Mando asked.

“To nourish and protect.”

With that statement, the droid sped up the bike, and you held the child in your lap. He looked up at you with confused eyes, and you could tell he was asking why you weren’t going home.

“We are going to save him little guy,” you said with a stroke to his ear. “We will be home before you know it.”

You smiled lightly to yourself, and before you knew it, the speeder bike was roaring through the town and taking out every trooper in sight.

Blaster fire surrounded you and you tried to focus on what was ahead.

Mando was trapped…. But where?

Finally, you squinted your eyes and saw a regiment of soldiers ahead, and you knew Mando and the rest of the team were trapped inside the building.

“There!” you yelled, pointing to Mando’s cage, and the droid turned you and the child around for protection while he continued to fire.

It was slightly disorienting at first, because you honestly didn’t expect that to happen, but you felt better about the child’s safety.

This droid is no dummy, you thought to yourself. Kuiil did a good job.

Your heart pulled slightly at the thought of Kuiil, still laying out in the desert, but he would get his proper burial.

You just had to make sure Mando didn’t get one of those first.

The droid finally slowed down, and you took the opportunity to jump off the speeder bike and dive behind a pillar.

You got the child situated in your arms well enough so he could be protected, and started making your way out of your hiding spot.

You knew you couldn’t fight with the child in your arms, that’s just stupid, but you did reflect blaster shots from the troopers and took as many out as you could.

You had to start making your way to Mando somehow, but out of the corner of your eye, it seemed Mando was coming to you.

Mando charged out into the open with Karga on his tail, and he fired at will. He kicked and punched the troopers who were close enough to him, and you couldn’t help the smile that graced over your face at the sight of him.

You couldn’t see it, but Mando was smiling too.

You stuck close to the buildings surrounding you, slowly making your way around to where Karga was, but the chaos was insane. You could barely see where the shots were coming from, let alone where you were sending them.

You looked around to find some other way, but what you did see was way better.

Mando was running to a huge cannon, and you watched him rip it off the tripod and start firing it at the stormtroopers.

Your hopes were on the rise.

You saw a dark black death trooper place a detonator on the wall of Mando’s former cage, and you panicked when you realized Cara was still in there.

You started to make your way over there when the explosion hit, but you were far enough away so that you didn’t feel any wave from it.

You continued to make your way over to her.

Your senses were going so crazy, that you didn’t even feel Moff Gideon enter the scene.

What you did feel, however, was the pain Mando felt when the Moff fired a shot directly into his helmet.

It hurt like hell, and you heard Mando cry out in pain.

You turned back to where Mando was, and you saw him take aim at Moff with his canon.

This is it, you thought. Moff Gideon is dead.

You wish you hadn’t been trained in the force so well, because the very next thing you felt was the pride in Moff’s chest when he realized how to take Mando out.

Your eyes widened and panic struck you like lighting.

Moff is gonna kill him.

“Mando,” you screamed, but it was too late.

Moff Gideon had already fired at the generator next to Mando, and you had no choice but to dive for cover. You shielded the child with your body, and you were lucky enough to not feel the effects of the explosion.

But Mando felt it all.

When the dust cleared, you saw Cara dragging, his body back inside while Karga and IG-11 followed her in.

You didn’t care about anything in that moment. And if you would have known merely weeks ago that you would run across a battle field with no armour and a child in your arms, you would have smacked yourself silly.

But you did it anyways.

You made it to the door right before it closed, and you stopped in your tracks when you almost ran right into Cara’s gun.

It was pointed right at you.

“Get out,” she said, and you raised the hand not holding the child in surrender.

“Cara please,” you plead. You could see Mando laying on the floor behind her, and your heart was breaking.

He was badly injured. You could feel it.

“You can kick me out as soon as you’d like. I promise. Just let me see him,” you ask.

The tears were starting to cloud your vision and you tried not to let your voice crack. You didn’t want Cara to think you were trying to manipulate her.

But your Mandalorian was dying behind her.

“I promise,” you say, and she finally lowers your blaster.

“Thank you,” you respond, letting a breath out of your mouth as you do it, and you run to kneel beside Mando.

Of all the pain you’ve experienced in your life, you had learned a lot about it. You had learned that you personally deal better with pain when you have something to squeeze in your hand, like a pillow or the arm of a chair. You’ve learned that there are people in the world who enjoy making others feel pain, and no matter how many times you try, you just can’t understand why. You’ve learned that bacta shots work wonders for physical pain, but mental pain is almost impossible to numb.

But worse of all, you’ve learned that watching people you care for in pain is the worst pain in the world.

And this one hurt.

Tag list:

@leahkenobi @pinkninja200 @farfromjustordinary @440mxs-wife @bookloverfilmoholic

[sinfulskywalker]

Very happy for the chapter, but very sad we haven't seen Daddy Vader back with his baby yet. Can we get a little bit of Daddy Vader taking care of his (reluctant rebel) baby boy? Please? I've been missing Vader and Luke and would be happy with anything.

Oh my dear anon, never fret ❤️ lovely head canons on the way.

Sick fic snippet.

___

Luke had never been one to be sick often as a child, but when he did fall I'll, he fell hard. Currently, a runny nose, fever and pounding head ache plagued his sleepy, dizzy and aching body. The medical Droid that examined him said it was a severe cold and antibiotics were prescribed.

That was a week ago. Nothing has improved.

"Little one, can you sit up for me?" Came a soft coo from above. Luke opened his heavy eyes. All he wanted was to sleep and never wake up. The figure before him was blurry but a few blinks later and the undeniable figure of Darth Vader lovingly standing over him with a warm bowl of soup in his large hands came to view.

"it's time for Lunch, my son. Com'up then it's naptime."

Luke shook his head, coughing. "Nooo." Came his weak defense as Vader fluffed his pillows behind him, propping the boy up. The bowl was placed on Luke's lap as the father sat next to his boy, wrapping a dinner napkin around his neck.

"A few sips and then you can sleep more my beloved. Come on, open up." Vader chuckled as he lifted a spoonful to Luke's lips. The boy wasn't in the mood to eat. There wasn't a better appetite suppressant in the world than feeling like Bantha shit. Luke was in no mood to eat anything, besides he couldn't smell if he would like what was being served or not.

"Come on, little one, you can have small sips for Daddy, right Lukey?" Vader encouraged. Luke knew this was a loosing battle as he opened his mouth allowing Vader to gently spoon feed him and praise him. Whatever he was fed wasn't half bad, it has lots of ginger and a hint of chicken. It was lovely on his throat but he didn't want too much and by the seventh spoonful he turned his head away.

"Alright, we can save the rest for later."

Finally. Luke thought as he tried to lay down and fall back asleep. Vader, it seems, had other plans. The father had begun to peel off Luke's night shirt ignoring the pleas of his small ill son. "I just need to apply some salve to your chest, Luke. It will help with your breathing." The salve in question was vapor rub commonly used on tiny babies and infants but it would make due for his own child. Luke shivered and coughed while protesting the care given to him.

"Would Luke like a story before his nap?" Vader asked, ignoring the tearful boy's pleas under him. Luke stopped struggling when Vader drew his hand away and dressed the lad in warmer wear. Luke didn't answer, giving the father the freedom to tuck Luke back in and sit next to him as he stroked his blonde bangs off his forehead and opened a data pad for reading.

Vader hates seeing his son in pain and feeling sick. But he wouldn't pass an opportunity to watch that adorable face fall into a deep slumber.

[lynnpaper]

idk if you’re still taking prompts but if you are: can you do “there’s something on your shirt. you—that’s blood!” and/or “let’s get you cleaned up and in bed” with anakin and ahsoka?? 💖💖💖💖 love your hurt/comfort with these two

from these prompts

i can, i hope, do that. 💕

read it on AO3

The gunship jolts and Ahsoka stumbles, her knuckles whitening as she grips the handhold tighter. She is nowhere as tall as the clones or her master—her arm aches where she has to stretch to reach it.

Too long—they’ve been here too long. Haven’t slept for too long. Haven’t eaten for too long.

“Careful,” Anakin says. He places a hand on her shoulder, as if it will steady her at all. If he looks hard enough, he can almost see her adrenaline crashing, see the exhaustion sinking into her bones with every passing second.

Hold on, he thinks, but doesn’t say it out loud, because of course Ahsoka doesn’t want the rest of the 501st to hear the admission that she’s only barely holding it together right now. The last thing she needs is a group of overprotective vod’e fawning over their little commander, or having to witness Anakin literally tear her out of their overprotective arms.

Not that she wouldn’t appreciate it, but—

The gunship jolts again. Ahsoka winces, staggering in place. Before she can lose her grip on the handhold, an arm slides its way around her waist, tugging her against a solid, warm body, still smelling of scored carbon and engine grease and ozone.

Anakin keeps his eyes trained on the wall opposite, but Ahsoka looks at him gratefully, leaning into his side.

Then the brightness of the hangar sparks a new headache behind her eyes, and she’s walking down the ramp on shaky legs, and one of her sabers is bumping against a bruise on her thigh which isn’t as painful as it should be. She stands beside Anakin with her hands clasped behind her back (to hide the way they tremble, of course) as he debriefs his men and gives the final orders for ship maintenance and repairs, but nothing truly sticks.

She counts to four-hundred-and-twenty-seven before Anakin turns to look at her at last.

“Ahsoka?” he presses. He raises a hand and snaps it a couple times in front of her face.

Ahsoka sways a little, blinking dazedly, and Anakin wraps his hands around each of her arms before she can topple.

He slowly leads her back to his quarters, a palm pressed between her shoulder blades. It must be a little uncomfortable; cold durasteel under a glove. But when Anakin takes his hand away in the middle of a crowded corridor, she stops and looks up at him with a puzzled expression, and it is only when he replaces it and gently nudges her forward again that she gathers enough thought to move her legs once more.

The realisation hits him far too slowly—that he overlooked this, that she’s so tired that she’s conserving her strength just to walk, and he’d gone ahead and yelled at her to keep up while blaster bolts rained down on them from all different directions.

Anakin leaves her halfway to unconsciousness on the couch in his quarters. He finds clothes for her in her room, padawan tunics and robes she never wears, in a drawer she never touches. Ahsoka would never ask for him to take the trouble, or to go out of his way to coddle her, except he’s not—it’s not coddling. And it’s no trouble at all.

When he returns, she hasn’t moved at all, save for her head slumped against the armrest.

It must be a violation of multiple galactic laws to wake her.

Anakin taps her shoulder once, twice. Ahsoka scrunches her face in displeasure before turning her head away and sluggishly blinking awake again. Her gaze lands on the bundle of clothes under his arm, and Anakin can almost feel the needle of guilt worming its way into her chest.

Anakin searches her vacant expression for any sign of his words registering at all, and finds none.

He hopes she doesn’t hear him sigh inwardly. “Lets clean you up and get you to bed, okay?”

Ahsoka nods faintly.

Maybe he should be concerned that she does not protest when he all but drags her to his room, retrieves a damp washcloth from the fresher, and sits on the edge of the bed so he’s level with her before wiping the dirt and grime from her face. Ahsoka keeps her eyes trained on the far wall, closing them when the cloth brushes too close to her eyelids, flinching when it rubs against the cut on her brow—which he’d missed previously, because it had been obscured by more dirt.

Anakin sighs.

Ahsoka shies away, pushing at his hand weakly. Force, if he doesn’t want to waste his time doing this then he shouldn’t. She can manage herself—

“Hey,” Anakin says sternly, catching her wrist.

She risks a glance up at him, tracking the bits of dirt staining the cloth in his hand, and a more vibrant spot of almost-dry blood. The last thing she wants is for Anakin to be acting out of a… misguided sense of duty, or something.

“Stop that,” Anakin says.

Ahsoka huffs.

“You’re thinking very loudly.” Anakin gently turns her head with a finger against her jaw, rubbing at a spot on her lek, and she shivers. “Okay?” he asks, gentler this time.

Ahsoka nods. The washcloth touches her face once more.

Anakin loses track of how long his padawan stands there, dead on her feet. At some point her fingers close around his arm as her legs threaten to give out again, and he pulls her forward as gently as he can, trying to remember how they got here in the first place.

The clasp on her belt is easy to undo, but he knows she would probably fumble with it in her state. Anakin debates helping her peel off the rest of her clothes altogether, stained with the red dust from the ground of the planet they’d come from.

But—yes. No. Yes. Her dignity can wait, he thinks. Sleep cannot, and neither can his nerves. It’s not selfish, he tries to convince himself, that he wants her to be clean and comfortable before she sleeps— and she doesn’t have to be clean to be comfortable, but it certainly helps—

Anakin reaches for the fabric bunched at her waist before his mind can go to battle with itself. It’s not as if he hasn’t seen it all already—there is no dignity in war, or in makeshift medbays on desolate planets, or in transparent bacta tanks. Still, he turns her around before pulling her tunic over her shoulders—if he can preserve a little bit of what they will all lose inevitably then he will—and looks away to take a clean tunic from the pile, keeping his hands far from her body as he hands it to her and she slips her arms through the sleeves.

Still, Ahsoka doesn’t complain or even try to cover herself—Anakin wonders if she even cares, and if it should worry him if she doesn’t. She’s a teenager, and teenagers are supposed to care about things like this.

But she will never really have a chance to be a teenager. She does not act like one at all, sometimes—a soldier, perhaps, but not a child.

It’s difficult to tamp down on the dread in his gut when he wraps a hand around her upper arm and his fingers very nearly overlap. Military rations will never be enough.

He turns her around again and she follows without thinking, and then there’s the warm numbness of bacta on the cut on her forehead and the soft familiarity of a palm on her cheek, and the resounding rush of warmth comes with a rush of momentary coherence.

Ahsoka blinks again, almost as if she’s blinking tears away, as if she is only now realising that the firm pressure on her back had been his palm, and the gentle nudges had been his hand, and the fleeting loneliness of Anakin leaving her in his quarters had only been an excuse for him to retrieve her kriffing clothes. “Master. I apologise, I—”

Oh, this again.

“Shh,” Anakin whispers.

“You don’t need to—”

“Quiet, Ahsoka.” I apologise is the first thing she’s said since they returned, and his chest tightens because it is, of course, an apology. Ahsoka only apologises when she has nothing else to say, or when she feels that she’s done something wrong—which she hasn’t—so really he should be the one apologising for taking forever to get to her in the first place—

“I’m sorry,” she says again, and a flicker of surprise flits across her face, as if she cannot believe the betrayal of her own voice against her.

“Boots,” Anakin replies, instead of it’s alright; don’t apologise; you’ve nothing to be sorry for.

Ahsoka tugs them off and dumps them unceremoniously at the foot of the bed. With the realisation of what she’s just done—as well as its implications—comes a confused frown, furrowing its way onto her brow. “Am I—” she glances around the room, like she hasn’t seen it a hundred and one times already. The weariness is back, ebbing from the curl of her fingers beside her aching thighs, slipping from the effort it takes to keep her eyes open.

“Yes,” Anakin says.

Her shoulders slump in relief.

It’s times like this that Anakin wishes he’d never lost his hand—pulling the blanket over her thighs, where he knows she very cleverly managed to hide a couple of bruises, as his palm lingers on her too-small shoulder. He wishes he could feel more than her pulse under the sensors of his durasteel fingers.

“Don’t need to fuss,” Ahsoka says distantly, more to herself than Anakin, who pulls the blanket over her shoulders just as she tucks her chin closer to her chest.

Tired, her mind supplies unhelpfully.

Anakin folds the blanket under her lek. “You did very well today,” he whispers.

It is one thing to understand she has done well. An undeniable claim, if the remnants of those droids littering the ground had anything to prove. But to hear it from him—

“Thank you,” Ahsoka says.

A heavy hand settles on her shoulder, over the blanket. The weight grounds her, the pillow a fraction softer under her mildly spinning head.

Ahsoka hums softly, lashes fluttering. You did very well.

I know, she thinks. I know.

[eelfuneral]

@specialist-week Day 1

Prompt: Data

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Pairing: Hunter/Tech

Warnings: Torture/unethical experimentation by the Kaminoans, clone/clone

—

Data Collection Days were, in Tech’s opinion, the worst part of being home on Kamino between missions. He knew that Nale Se liked to keep tabs on the abilities of Clone Force 99 and use the data collected to hone battle simulations, but deep in the more emotionally-driven recesses of his brain, Tech had a theory: Nala Se liked to torture him and his squad for her own amusement. How else could he explain away the wanton pain and psychological torment that she put them through? Was it necessary to tear the whole squad apart brain-first in the name of science? Tech didn’t have an answer, and as much as he hated to admit it, he wasn’t sure that he wanted one.

This particular round of Data Collection had Tech, armor-less and goggle-less, taken to a room so dark that it put the black ink of the Rokta Squid to shame. The only source of light was the dim and distant glow of a window close to the towering ceiling, where Nala Se and two other Kaminoan scientists whose names Tech did not know stood and pinned him down with their cold gazes. The medical droid that the Kaminoans had graciously provided in the event that Tech collapsed handed him a bag of electronic parts, which he was to assemble into a functioning datapad in the dark as fast as he could. There were, of course, a number of other variables aside from the darkness. First, a screeching cry that sounded like a cross between the wails of a fresh tubie and a nexu filled the room and stabbed Tech directly in the eardrums. Next, a sprinkler system that Tech had no idea existed activated and began to douse Tech and his equipment with water so cold that it soaked through Tech’s thin bodysuit and penetrated his skin with a sensation that somehow burned. There had to have been some kind of chemical additive meant to cause pain mixed in, for that was the only way that the water could create so much nerve-melting agony. Then came the flashing lights. They punctuated the darkness and made it hard for Tech to orient himself or concentrate on the task at hand.

Tech was able to complete his datapad by shielding the components with the bag and his body. He had to squint and utilize the flashes of light, however painful, to see what he was doing. After he completed the task and was removed from the Data Collection Chamber, the medical droid scanned Tech’s vitals and led his sluggish, burning body back to the barracks of Clone Force 99. On his way through the door, Tech saw a very fidgety Wrecker wringing his hands as he approached the medical droid and made his way to the chamber that Tech had just escaped. Tech scanned the barracks with clouded vision and spotted Crosshair lying on his bunk with his silver-capped head buried into his pillow. A weak and muffled groan escaped his blurry form. Then Tech saw Hunter, beautiful Hunter, approach him. It looked like he would be the final specimen for the day.

“You look horrible,” said Hunter, the meaning of his words and the compassion in his voice taking longer than they should to register within Tech’s exhausted brain. Then Tech felt a firm, warm touch against his lower back. It was Hunter’s hand.

“Data Collection Day, s’always like that,” Tech slurred. He took a series of weak steps forward as he was led to Hunter’s bunk.

Once Tech’s knees brushed the side of the bed and he winced in pain as his overactive nerves registered the sensation, Hunter laid down beneath the covers and clumsily pulled Tech in with him, enveloping him in his strong arms. The warmth from the blankets and Hunter’s toned body hurt at first, but the pain soon melted into a comforting pressure. Tech buried his long fingers into Hunter’s wavy, black hair to ground himself and shut his heavy eyes. He pressed a kiss into the crook of Hunter’s neck and took a trembling breath.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” Hunter whispered against Tech’s shoulder, his hot breath caressing his neck.

“I do not believe you could,” said Tech, opening his eyes and looking at Hunter. The shadowy skull tattoo across one side of his face made his emotions difficult to ascertain.

“You’re talkin’ better,” Hunter said, cupping Tech’s cheek and leaning in for a kiss. It wasn’t as deep and toe-curling as their usual kisses, but Tech still found himself melting into the soft brush of their lips.

“I am coming back from it,” said Tech as he broke the kiss. His body still ached all over, but his mind was beginning to feel less like goo. He kissed Hunter’s soft lips one last time and allowed himself to drift off to sleep. He didn’t want to think about what Nala Se had in store for his lover.

[userpoe]

hi!! could i pls request a poe fic with the whole “we just won a battle and you go to hug me but i flinch and you realize i’ve been hiding a huge wound and now i might not make it” trope, reader being shot by a blaster or smth? (btw i absolutely adore your writing style and take so much inspo from it)

hello, hello, this is the best trope ever! thank you for requesting it, bud, and thank you for the compliment <3 I hope you enjoy! 

tw: injuries, medbay (happy ending!) 

word count: 1.5k cos I can’t do brevity when it comes to Poe Dameron

Poe emerged from behind the cubby he’d taken shelter behind and twirled his blaster in one hand and blew the nuzzle for good measure. The good measure being you were (presumably) watching him to his left, and he liked doing what he could to make you laugh, especially in cases like this, when he could sense your anxiety rolling off you in silent but thick waves.

“Told you it’d be fine,” Poe said, putting his blaster back into his holster. The two of you had snuck into an abandoned First Order compound to get some intelligence and had been cornered by a security droid with surprisingly good aim. The corridor still smelled thickly of ozone and the walls now bore new carbon scoring marks. 

He turned to find you moving slowly out of your own hiding place, staring at the fallen droid. Poe grinned, and couldn’t resist the urge to close the gap between the two of you to give you a hug, but as he reached for you, you winced. Poe’s hands stilled and he noticed what he hadn’t before: your face shone with sweat, your lips pulled in a tight grimace, and one hand was hovering just above your abdomen. 

Poe breathed out your name just as your legs gave out beneath you. “Whoa!” He said, catching you and helping you to the ground. His own legs folded uncomfortably beneath him, but that was nothing compared to the twist in his gut and heart as he pulled your jacket and then your hand away from your shirt and he found what you’d been hiding: one of the droid’s blasts had struck home.

He sucked in a breath. It was - not great. The wound was still sparking from the blast, and there was some blood. “BB-8,” Poe called over his shoulder, unable to keep the panic out of his voice, “get the X-Wings back here now. There’s a medkit -” 

The droid beeped in response, automatically understanding Poe’s order before he even had time to finish making it, and was then rolling off at high speed back to the hanger. 

“Didn’t think I’d go out by a droid,” you coughed and Poe shook his head vehemently, sending a few curls flying at the quick motion.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said sternly as he yanked his scarf from around his neck in one fluid motion. He couldn’t wrap it around your wound, but he could use it to apply pressure until BB-8 returned. You hissed as he did, and Poe shot you an apologetic glance, “I gotta -”

“I know you gotta,” you said, shifting under him, one hand flying up to grasp his wrist in a light hold as he continued to press down on the injury. “Just hurts like hell.”

“Keep telling me about it,” Poe urged, trying to give you a smile, but he was sure you could feel the way his hands were shaking. Come on buddy, hurry up. “Hell, you can call me whatever you want, just keep talking, alright?”

“Sure about that, Commander? I can come up with some pretty creative insults,” you said around another cough. This time, the smile that twitched his lips was genuine. He knew that well enough; you came up with nicknames for all of your enemies or even allies you just didn’t agree with. Poe himself had been given a few, as well...out of affection, though you’d never admit to it.

“I know you can,” Poe agreed. “Why don’t you come up with a few new ones for me, pass the time ‘til BB-8 gets back with that medkit, huh?” 

But your eyes had already begun fluttering. “I’ve already...come up...with plenty for you…”

“Yeah, but I never get tired of hearing them,” Poe said, moving one hand up to cup your cheek. “Hey, c’mon, Gorgeous, stay with me.”

“Never got tired of hearing yours either,” you said, eyes softening at the corners. Poe’s lips parted in surprise, but before he got a chance to reply, there was a shrill beeping from behind him. He glanced back to find BB-8 skidding towards you both at top speed. By the time he turned back to you, you’d already gone still in his arms, your eyes shut.

* *

When you woke up, your entire body was stiff from disuse. You groaned as you blinked open bleary eyes, your mouth dry and scratchy. You wet your lips and tried to take stock of your surroundings: you were back on D’Qar, that much was obvious, and in the medbay. The cot you were lying on was firm and...not that comfortable, and judging from how cold the room was, it was the middle of the night, but someone had pulled and tucked a blanket around you.

It didn’t take long to figure out who had since he was still in the room. You turned your head and found Poe Dameron asleep on a bench by your bed, tucked in the most uncomfortable-looking sleeping position you’d ever seen. He hadn’t changed since the last time you saw him, but even in his sleep, he looked exhausted and weary as hell.

So you threw a pillow at his head.

It had perfect aim, and his reaction - which was to jerk upright and nearly fall off the bench itself at his sudden movement - was perfect. His head whipped around the room until his clouded, sleepy eyes fell on you and they softened, a smile tugging at his lips until you spoke, at which point his smile promptly disappeared: “What the hell are you doing here, Dameron?”

Poe stood up, wincing slightly at the uncomfortable ache in his legs from how he’d fallen asleep, then fixed you with a look that was somewhere between disbelief and disapproving. “You were shot. Where else would I be?”

“In your quarters? Getting a decent night's sleep?” You suggested imperiously, straightening into a sitting position. You tugged down the blanket and hoisted up the new shirt you’d been given. Major Kalonia obviously had already treated you: the only thing left of your injury was a puffy red scar. 

“Like I’d leave you.” Poe motioned at your abdomen. “You feeling any better?” 

“I feel like bullying you,” you point out with a slightly wicked smile, “so yeah, I’d say so.” Then you frowned and admitted, “Well, I could do with some water.”

Poe rolled his eyes and picked up the canteen of water Kalonia had left for exactly this purpose and proffered it to you. You accepted it with a quiet thanks. You watched him carefully as you drank, then asked, “How’d I get back here, exactly?”

“I flew you back home. BB-8 put your X-Wing on autopilot.” 

You raised an eyebrow. “Black One is a one-seater.”

“Yes it is, and you kicked me in my shins multiple times on the way back.” Poe winced. “I think I’ll be bruised for days.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” you said with a pout that made him grin, and maybe that’s why you did it in the first place. 

“Yeah, you’re definitely feeling better,” Poe said, mostly to himself, looking around the room with his hands on his hips. “Kalonia said that once you were awake if you were feeling up to it, I could take you back to your quarters.” He looked at you expectantly. “Are you -?”

You sat down the canteen as you assessed how you felt. “Yeah, I think I am.”

Poe nodded, bounced on his heels a couple of times, then - “Does it have to be your quarters?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

Poe held his hands up in supplication, “Hear me out. My quarters are closer to the medbay, so you’d have less to walk, and -” he was clearly blanking on another excuse. You could actually see the gears turning in his head.

“Poe,” you said, so he could stop bluescreening, “do you want me to spend the night with you?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he answered in a quiet voice, “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Why -” Poe braced his hands on the edge of the mattress to look down at you - “Because one of my best friends just got shot and I thought I’d lost them.” He moved one hand up to brush some grime off your cheek with his thumb. “I’m not really ready to let you outta my sight yet.”

Your heart twisted in your chest at his honesty. If you were in his shoes, you would be the same way, and you both knew it, even if you probably wouldn’t be as quick to admit it as he was. “Then I’ll spend the night with you,” you paused, allowing yourself to indulge in watching his face light up for a beat before you added, “but I swear if you’re as much of a blanket thief in bed as you are on squadron holo-nights…”

“You had half of it already!” Poe protested, making you laugh, but your laugh fell silent with a sucked in breath as he pressed a quick kiss to your hairline. “Guess we’ll find out, huh.”

“You better have more than one blanket, flyboy,” is all you managed to get out, before adding a quiet, “thank you for taking care of me.” 

He shrugged, “What else was I gonna do?”