#leo.writes

[purgetrooperfox]

For the prompts: Vox and 48?

softer world prompt list

life would be way easier if I were easier (fact)

Fox’s helmet cracks against the wall where he throws it and clatters to the floor, a percussive beat that lingers somewhere between his ears. At the first tremor that rolls through his hands, he clutches them close to his core, twisted into a tangled knot. To try to pretend that he has a grip on himself is farcical. He needs to reign in his temper.

Behind him, the steady pattern of Quinlan’s agitated pacing has stopped in its tracks.

“Fox–”

“Don’t.” His pulse is the crashing of waves outside of Tipoca. Adrenaline sends shivers up his spine. “You’re not hearing me.”

“Then tell me,” Quinlan’s voice rises, whether he realizes it or not. “We’re going in circles here, Fox. I can’t help you if you don’t…”

A laugh utterly devoid of humor rips from Fox’s chest, flays his throat, tastes like acid on his tongue. It’s always can’t and couldn’t for everyone else – for every helpless, hopeless bastard in the galaxy – but for him? No. Fox won’t, didn’t, doesn’t. With Quinlan, with his brothers, in legislation, before courts, to the entire helpless, hopeless galaxy.

Like he has a choice in the matter. Like he hasn’t been trying until his voice is raw and his knuckles bleed and his head splits.

It’s not that Quinlan doesn’t listen.

It’s that Quinlan can’t hear him.

“You couldn’t help me, even if I would– or could–” he says, and he can hear the emptiness within himself. “It’s built in.”

There’s a painting hung on the wall, a child’s unrefined scrawl of the skyline, only recognizable in the vaguest sense. A quiet, detached part of him wonders where it came from. It’s an odd place for such sentimental pieces – one of the Shadows’ many safehouses – not like parents’ refrigerators or family homes.

“What is?” Quinlan asks.

Blowing out a breath, Fox gestures vaguely to himself and the room and everything else.

He turns around to look Quinlan in the face and it effectively takes the rest of the fight out of him. For all that Quinlan’s shoulders are hiked up and his posture is defensive, his expression bleeds empathy. Or at least, a want for empathy. If Fox could or would just say the magic string of words to make him understand it all. The fear and the lack of autonomy and the exhaustion and the stimulant withdrawal and the ongoing abuse, and all of it.

If he would just.

Quinlan sighs, sagging back until he can sit on the back of the couch. “What do you mean?”

“It’s part of me, Quin,” Fox narrowly manages as he fidgets, picking at a scar on the back of his hand. “The mess. All of this. It would all be easier if I was easier, and we both know it.”

“That’s hardly fair, and we both know it.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true.”

“No.” He twitches like he wants to reach out, but he aborts the motion and Fox is grateful. “I’m here for easy though, I’m here for you.”

His earnest honesty is aggravating. Saying as much just gets a laugh. “You’d be fully justified in walking away,” he tries. Always tries.

“I won’t,” Quinlan says, like he always does.

“You should,” Fox insists, like he always does.

“I won’t,” Quinlan repeats. Like he always does.

It’s not quite understanding between them, more like some warped codependency that will only ever always end in heartbreak. Still. Fox lets himself fold, crossing the room without looking into the disapproval of his own visor and caving to a need for comfort. At his most deluded, he can convince himself that the circle of Quinlan’s arms can keep the horrors of his life at bay.

And sometimes, deluding himself is the only way to cope with those horrors.

[soleadita]

a love letter to abuela's kitchen (i'm very aggressively shoving myself out of my comfort zone by posting this snippet from something i've been working on, mostly to try to hold myself accountable for actually finishing it.)

Abuela’s kitchen is always warm.

Logically, this is because there’s no ceiling fan or AC, and the windows are in prime position to greedily soak up every last drop of sunlight the days have to give, and the gas stove, in use more often than not, generates a constant cloud of heat.

But if you consider things like spirit and metaphor and poetry—and Eddie does, sometimes—it’s at least in part because the kitchen is the living, breathing, beating heart of Abuela's home.

How could it not be? The tiled floors have hosted decades of Thanksgivings and Nochebuenas and Easters; the counters accommodate tamale-building assembly lines to the tune of laughter and chisme and light-hearted bickering. It’s where Abuela and Pepa gather Eddie and Chris—and Buck, now, more often than not—in huge, welcoming hugs; it’s where Eddie and Chris arrange pan dulces and flowers and cards twice a month each May.

Abuela’s kitchen is always warm, and this makes it nearly unbearable in the unrelenting summers; but this time of year, in the crisp April evenings, it’s the best place in the house. Tonight, it’s filled with tall pots of caldo and beans, pans of rice and sautéed vegetables, the rich scent of tomatoes and onions and garlic cooked down and blended together.

Eddie inhales. This. This is home.

Abuela and Chris have begun to set the table, and Eddie steps in to help. He’s used to being relegated to things like this; that’s what happens when you’re infamous for a lack of cooking skills. Meanwhile, Buck makes a beeline for the counter, where Pepa presides over a roaring blender full of tomatillos and chiles.

“Oh, Pepa,” he exclaims over the noise. He beams like a kid on Christmas Eve, and it's just so goddamn adorable. “You didn’t.”

Buck loves this salsa, which is precisely why Pepa and Abuela make it every time he’s over for dinner. Eddie’s half-convinced that Buck would drink it straight from the blender, no chips necessary, if he could. Like, if someone gave him an entire batch all for himself and then left the room immediately—yeah, Eddie could see that happening.

“It’s nothing, Buck,” Pepa says. Her tone is no-nonsense, as usual, but Eddie can see the smile she’s trying to hide. “Ya sabemos que es tu favorito.”

Buck peers into the blender. “You still need the avocado, no?”

“And the cilantro and limes,” she says. “Grab them from the fridge, chamaco.”

“You got it, jefa.”

Abuela and Chris bring a stack of plates and napkins to the table; Eddie follows close behind with glasses and silverware. Buck weaves around them, pausing to give one of Chris’s curls a gentle tug. Once he reaches the fridge, he’s in there for thirty seconds, tops. He knows exactly what he needs, and he knows exactly where it is.

Buck navigates the space with ease; Eddie’s proud of it.

“Can I help with the salsa, too?” Chris asks.

Eddie meets Buck’s eyes over Chris’s head. Buck raises a brow: Is that okay? Eddie grins and gives a slight nod. Of course it is. Well, as long as Abuela doesn't mind.

“You done with the table, Chris?” Eddie asks.

Abuela waves a hand. “Está bien, Eddito. Si quiere ayudar con la cena, déjalo.”

“Then get over here, Superman,” Buck says, brandishing a bunch of cilantro with a flourish. “Here, wash this and give it to Tía Pepa, okay? Then you can help me squeeze the limes.”

Chris accepts the task with endearing solemnity. Cilantro is delicate, and he handles the leaves like he knows exactly how fragile they are. His palms, his fingers—they’re so small, still. Eddie glances down at his own. Had they ever been so tiny? Had they ever been so gentle?

And then he remembers, with stunning, startling clarity, the summer after Abuelito’s death.

He’d been—what, eight? Abuela had been planning to move to LA soon to stay with Pepa, but until then, Eddie had spent every spare moment by her side. He’d followed her like a shadow, like a duckling, while she bustled around preparing hominy for posole, sifting through bowls of dry pinto beans, roasting tomatoes and chiles and onions on the comal.

Abuela had tucked him beneath her arm, kissed his forehead—and then, one day, she asked if he wanted to help.

That kitchen, tiny and sun-drenched, was the first place Eddie ever truly felt like he belonged. Soft and warm, dim lights and familiar foods. Gentle hands and gentle voices, and a blend of languages that wrapped around him like a fuzzy blanket.

It hadn’t lasted long; Papi hadn't liked it, had told Mom, when he thought Eddie wasn’t listening, that it would make Eddie soft. Eddie had thought about the worn blue threads of his favorite blanket, Mom’s palm on his forehead when he had a fever. He’d thought about digging his fingers into a bowl of masa as Abuela and his tias rolled little balls and pressed them into tortillas.

Papi’s whispers had been jagged, harsh, like he was pushing his words out around shards of glass; but, back then, soft had sounded like a good thing to Eddie.

There’s a hand on his forearm; he jumps, startled.

“Eddie,” Buck says, low enough for just the two of them. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Eddie says, and he means it, too, except his voice cracks, and when he swallows, he tastes tears. He tries again. “I’m really okay. Just – thinking, I guess. Happy.” He gestures to Chris, still holding the cilantro with reverence. “I mean, look at him.”

“He’s pretty amazing,” Buck agrees. He glances sideways, like he thinks full-on eye contact will make Eddie spook or something. “His dad’s pretty amazing, too.”

Yeah, Eddie thinks, but doesn’t dare say. Right back at you.

“Buck, the limes!” Chris calls.

“Be right there, bud,” Buck says. He turns to Eddie and squeezes his shoulder. “You’re really okay?”

“I’m really okay,” Eddie repeats.

And he is. He is okay. The thing that paces and jitters behind his ribcage, settling heavy on his shoulders, swirling around inside his head—it calms, here. There’s something about the contentment in Pepa’s good-natured protests when Buck juggles the limes before depositing them on the cutting board, and the peace in Abuela’s soft smiles, and the joy in Chris’s pure delight at squeezing juice into the blender.

When dinner is over and the room has emptied, Eddie will step in and wash the dishes, the pots, the pans. He’ll pull out the plastic tupperwares and put the leftovers away while Abuela makes coffee. For now, four of his favorite people in the entire world are here, loving each other; what else is there for him to say?

Eddie leans back, gives his entire weight to the doorway, and the kitchen holds him up.

[foxafterdark]

kinktober: day 13

prompt: overstimulation

rating: E (18+)

pairings: Clone Medic Nocte/Dara Idella/Kit Fisto

characters: Nocte, Dara, Kit

warnings: Nocte has some not great brain moments

ao3

notes: Dara belongs to my love my light @spacerocksarethebestrocks. noctitra is canon. you agree.

Despite the recent chaos, the kind that only follows a large-scale incident right on their doorstep, a delicate sort of calm hangs over the Guard’s medical wing.

Nocte's ears still ring with phantom echoes of a blaster shot going off beside his head and scorching the rear wall of the intensive care unit. He miscalculated, misunderstood, or otherwise fucked up with a patient. Their file didn't say anything about battle fatigue or acute PTSD, but he should have assumed. He's supposed to know better. There's not a single one of them in the GAR without a heaping dose of trauma. He misjudged this particular trooper's mental state and almost lost his head for it – that’s on him.

Reflexes exist for a reason, and they saved his skin, and it’s fine. The proximity burn across his cheek won’t even scar. They’ll have to be more careful disarming patients in the future, especially when it’s busy.

Glassy-eyed horror marred that trooper’s face in the last moments before Buzz shoved Nocte aside and took over. He’ll have to talk to them, later, after they wake up in recovery.

For now, it’s quiet. The steady beeping of vital monitors is familiar, a droning confirmation that all is well. If Nocte focuses on it, he can almost stop the spiraling of his thoughts into a pit of guilt and grief and paranoia. He can almost will his hands to stop shaking – though he’s not sure whether they’re responding to exhaustion or anxiety.

Some indeterminate period of time passes like that, between steady beeping and trembling limbs and slowly, painstakingly updating the Guards’ patient records. Carrion eventually pries him away from his desk with a brusk “get out of here before the night shift shows up, do what you need to take care of yourself, we’ve got it handled here”. It grates to feel… shunted aside, but he knows, he knows it’s in everyone’s best interest.

Taking care of himself sounds like dealing with a tangled mess in his brain that he’d rather not acknowledge. Distracting himself from said mess would be easier. Better.

He comms Kit and knows that he’ll understand.

He shows up at his partners' door and lets them pull him inside. Safe in trusting them to give him what he needs, he falls into himself.

What he needs is to be so thoroughly removed that nothing else matters. With lips and teeth and tongue and dragging fingers, Kit and Dara pull him apart.

A muffled sob – strangled and broken – escapes Nocte’s lips and gets lost around Kit’s cock. He thrusts with admirable restraint into the wet heat of Nocte’s mouth, holding him in place with a broad hand under his jaw. Maybe he can feel himself when he rocks forward and tests Nocte’s gag reflex, edging the tip of his cock into his throat.

Blinking away burning tears, Nocte looks up at Kit’s face – or, he tries to. He gets a glimpse of flushed cheeks and dark eyes, of speckled ahwey writhing around his shoulders, and of full lips mouthing something unintelligible. Then his focus frays at the edges.

The weight of Kit’s shaft on his tongue is as much a comfort as an intrusion, keeping him grounded even as his mind tries to scatter. He works his throat around it, hums deep in his chest, feels it twitch. Kit’s free hand tangles in his hair, squeezing in either approval or warning. Nocte can’t be sure.

“I can taste how close he is, Nocte,” Dara’s voice penetrates the fog between Nocte’s ears. “Fuck – can you feel it?”

When he concentrates enough to parse sensation, he feels that Kit’s palm is clammy against his skin. The grip in his hair is tight against his scalp, restricting his movement. Kit seems reluctant to pull out more than a few inches to let him breathe before rolling his hips forward again. His cock throbs dangerously.

If Nocte could make any sound, he might grunt an affirmative. Instead, he just clenches his fists in the sheets. His own arousal is a roaring fire in the pit of his stomach but he can't– and he needs–

"Easy, darling," Dara shushes him gently, squeezing his hip hard enough for her nails to bite in little pinpricks of pain. She hauls him back from the proverbial edge with practiced care.

Her hips are flush against Nocte’s ass and she holds him still, refusing to allow him a modicum of friction. He knows she won't budge, but he tries to push back on the ridged silicone of her strap-on anyway. It almost almost almost almost budges enough inside him to grind against his prostate.

Almost.

Dara tuts behind him and presses a chaste kiss between his shoulder blades, but she doesn't make any move to fuck him in earnest. Nocte's stuck acting as little more than a cockwarmer between his partners - with Kit down his throat and Dara up his ass.

It's so much. It's barely enough. It's everything he needed.

His own neglected cock hangs hard and heavy between his thighs. He would've long since come untouched were it not for the tight ring around his base ebbing every fresh tide of orgasm before it can truly begin.

Somewhere at the edge of his awareness, Kit and Dara are talking about… something. Their voices are a balm on his wrecked nerves, even if he can't quite process the words. All he needs to know is that Kit’s nails are scratching his scalp in gentle warning before his fingers twist, sharp, abrupt, in his hair. The pain grounds Nocte for a split second as his head is angled back, then Kit swears and starts fucking his mouth with intent.

No more slow, careful rocking. Every thrust chokes off his breathe, gags him roughly. It's all Nocte can do to screw his eyes shut and seal his lips around Kit as he chases his release. Time seems to bend around them – it could be seconds or minutes or hours like that, Nocte stealing air where he can and Kit's cock battering the back of his throat.

Eventually though, Kit fully sheaths himself and comes with a shout. Nocte's lungs burn when Kit pulls out of his mouth and lets him collapse to his elbows, coughing roughly. Fire licks through his veins, too much and not enough and everything and perfect. His jaw aches and his throat hurts and the back of his tongue tastes like Kit's spend, and this– this is what he needed.

This is why–

Deft fingers push sweaty curls away from his forehead. "So good, Nocte," Kit's voice finally sharpens into language. "You're so precious for us. Beautiful. Can you give me a color, love?"

Scraping together an assessment of himself proves immensely difficult. Dara rubs little circles into his hips and Nocte whines wordlessly, leaning into Kit's caress.

"We need words, darling," Dara says. Insists.

If he can just–

"Green," he rasps, and it barely registers as coming from himself. "'m good."

He needs to be good. He needs to do good.

He needs Dara to fuck him.

"Of course you are," Kit rumbles nearby, still petting his hair. "You're perfect. You feel perfect, Nocte, just for us. Meant for us."

Nocte feels himself nod and tries again to rock back against Dara, arching his back, hoping she'll see that he'll be good. If he could figure out how to speak, he'd tell her. That he'll take whatever she wants to give him. That he needs–

Dara blows out a vocal breath and rubs her hands down his back, settling them at the curve of his waist, and finally, finally starts to move. The first leuisurely roll off her hips punches another ragged sob from Nocte’s chest. Finally.

She fucks him like she's afraid he'll split apart underneath her, slow and deep and agonizing. On every thrust, she pulls out so far that Nocte mourns the aching fullness inside him then presses him apart until she can't get any deeper. Her strap's bumps and ridges catch repeatedly on that bundle of nerves that makes his toes curl and his spine tingle and–

He needs–

By some miracle, he manages to coordinate his limbs enough to grab Kit's wrist. He can't peel his chest off the bed to look him in the face. "Kit," he gasps, begs, pleads, "Kit, cyare, please– I need– I can't– please."

The edges of his awareness flare bright white when Dara's hips suddenly snap forward, pounding words out of his reach. Whatever spills from his mouth can only be an incoherent jumble of Basic and Mando'a. He can only hope they hear his desperation.

He needs–

"Dara–"

Their voices sound like static. While Dara pounds into him with fervor, one of them – probably Kit – finally finally finally releases Nocte’s cock from the ring. Every muscle in his body locks and finally he comes.

He comes so hard he blacks out.

The next thing he knows is Dara pulling out of him. He hears the noise he makes at the twist of loss and relief, and he hears Dara murmured consolation. Slumping fully onto the bed feels closer to flying than falling.

Thick arms maneuver him onto his side and wrap around his waist. For a split second, they feel like the only thing keeping him in one piece.

He drifts in the space between waking and sleeping.

Dara brushing the backs of her fingers along his jaw, as light a touch as it is, pulls him back. He blinks his eyes open to find her curled comfortably in front of him, smiling softly. Her eyes are dark and warm, and she radiates near-tangible affection. "There you are," she whispers.

"Hmgh," Nocte replies eloquently and reaches up to curl his fingers through hers, pressing a kiss to her palm. "Here I am. There you are."

It gets him the quiet laughter he wanted. "Here I am. How do you feel, love?"

He feels well fucked, to put it lightly. Aching in ways he'll feel well into tomorrow. Vaguely sticky. Exhausted down to his bones. "Better," he says, "I'm good. Tired."

Dara smirks with fully deserved satisfaction. "Rest, then. Everything else can wait."

[purgetrooperfox]

exhaustion

rating: T

summary: Fox has been running on fumes for days, counting down the time until he can drop onto the nearest horizontal surface and finally sleep.

characters: Commander Fox, Commander Thorn, Sheev Palpatine, Clone Medic Nocte, background characters

warnings: Palpatine being a bitch, mild language, referenced drug dependence

tags: sleep deprivation, canon-typical mistreatment of the clones, flawed coping mechanisms, way too much caffeine, slice of life (unfortunately)

edit: happy belated birthday to this fic apparently

Ten more hours.

Three more meetings.

One more shift.

Counting down the time remaining until he can collapse onto his bunk - or more realistically, onto his couch - doesn’t help Fox stay alert, but it does give him a light at the end of this tunnel of exhaustion. He’s in a security meeting with Thorn and a handful of the Senate Guard, and all he can think about is getting out and inhaling another thermos of caf. Nocte would have a fit.

Inhaling sharply, Fox narrowly manages to snap awake before he falls asleep on his feet. At his side, Thorn shifts just enough to brush their pauldrons against each other. It’s well-intended, but Fox’s balance isn’t what it should be.

He sways.

The Senate Guard captain notices. Finally. Fox had been concerned by his utter lack of situational awareness. “Are you well, Commander Fox?”

Still, he would rather not have to bullshit an answer. “Of course,” he says. “I’m waiting for the point of this conversation. We’re all aware of the potential ramifications of a leak in your division, and there are contingency plans in place for that very eventuality. My Guard is prepared to implement those plans. Is that what you’re asking of us? Is there some problem in the Senate Guard that would prevent your compliance with established security regulations?”

Thorn tenses. Fox doesn’t. He’s too tired, and he has enough of a reputation to talk down to lower ranking officers. Sometimes. As a treat. And he’s right. This entire meeting could have been dealt with via holo-message.

The captain doesn’t sputter, impressing Fox for the first time since this meeting began. “As I said, the Senate Guard is dealing with a staffing shortage—”

“And you want to supplement your ranks with my men?” Fox interrupts, well aware that he’s treading a fine line, but honestly. “Subcontracting is banned for clone troopers, per GAR Regulation 300.251.34.”

“Does this count as subcontracting?”

Fox’s eye flutters in the privacy of his bucket. “Yes. Per GAR Regulation 300.351.35, clone troopers are prohibited from seeking employment outside of their assigned battalions unless expressly reassigned by a commanding officer or the Supreme Chancellor. That includes unpaid employment and contract work.”

Now, the captain’s expression settles into a glare. Fox wishes he could remember this one’s name, but who can tell nat-born officers apart, anyway. “Then I can—”

“Before you attempt to give that order,” Fox says drily, careful not to yawn, “allow me to remind you that you are not part of my chain of command, and that as Rear Mashal Commander, I would outrank you if I was. Is there anything within the confines of the law that I can do for you, Captain?”

“Evidently not, Commander,” he snaps. Fortunately, this particular officer doesn’t have the pull to make a case to the Chancellor about this meeting. Nothing inspires like fear of ratting oneself out.

Rolling his shoulders, Fox shifts out of parade rest and swears he can hear his joints creak with the motion. “Then we can call this meeting adjourned. Best of luck populating your ranks, Captain. Don’t hesitate to contact me if your leak is not resolved within twelve hours.”

He should wait for the Senate Guards to leave before following suit, but he’s tired and irritated and under-caffeinated. So he goes first with Thorn on his heels.

Three more meetings.

Thorn is practically vibrating in his boots by the time they get to the mess. Fox makes a beeline for the caf machine and thanks all the gods that it’s working today, spitting unappealing sludge into his thermos.

“You’re going to either get yourself decommissioned or give yourself a heart attack,” Thorn informs him when he slides into the seat across from Fox at a table, all but slamming his tray down. “You look like shit. When was the last time you ate? How many of those have you had today?”

Fox shakes his head minutely and regrets it immediately when the motion sends the room around him into a tailspin. “I ate this morning.” He takes a gulp of his drink, ignoring the way it burns. “I need to stay awake and Nocte won’t give me stims anymore. So. Caf it is. Quit worrying.”

“Quit worrying,” Thorn mutters, clearly intending to keep worrying. “The crash will be as bad as the sleep-deprivation itself. Don’t say no one warned you.”

Unfortunately, Thorn isn’t wrong. Fortunately, Thorn’s shift is ending so he won’t be around to keep reminding him.

Nine hours and change.

Stone tentatively offers to trade his rotation in the Senate Dome for Fox’s next meeting. It’s clear that he doesn’t want to offer at all, but Fox can’t quite resist the temptation of being able to lean against a wall instead of standing upright. The CSF commanders aren't terrible, relatively speaking, so he doesn’t feel too guilty sending Stone in his place.

The Senate is debating pumping more money into the Republic war machine. Palpatine is in favor, so the debate itself is mostly about optics. Let the dissenters think they have a voice. Fox doesn’t know much about politics, but he’d figured that democracies would be less rigged than this.

(That’s not strictly true, he thinks, he probably knows more about politics than most civilians. And most of the GAR. And some politicians, for that matter. Proximity goes a long way.)

Crossing his arms and leaning into a back corner of the Dome, Fox lets his mind wander.

Nine more hours.

His vision swims if he’s not careful to blink the fog away. The caf both helped and hurt his situation. He’s more awake, but he’s jittery and anxious. It’s dampened by the heavy weight on his shoulders, in his bones, trying to drag him down to the floor, but his hands shake. His hands never shake.

Despite the churning of his stomach and the fine tremor in his fingers and the raucous shouting of Senators, Fox tilts his head sideways against the wall and drifts. It’s not sleep, but shutting his eyes helps slow the spinning of his head.

Every so often, the sensation of falling jerks his awareness back to his surroundings. It seems cruel. Like taunting. To edge so close to rest only to be yanked back to where he started. He wants to curl up on the floor and give up this fruitless battle against his body’s needs.

He drifts.

“Fox?” A hand wraps around his arm and squeezes, startling him. Fox jerks backwards, but there’s already a wall at his back. He blinks several times, trying to clear the blur from his vision. His eyelids are heavy. One of Thorn’s kids is hovering a hand over Fox’s shoulder. Gab. “You alright, boss?”

Fox grunts noncommittally and pushes fully upright. By some miracle, he doesn’t immediately collapse. The chrono in the corner of his HUD mocks him.

Seven more hours.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Two more meetings.

Palpatine’s voice melts into a droning monotone sometimes. Fox has picked up tensing and relaxing the muscles in his neck and shoulders to keep himself awake. Alert is a tall order at this point, but he’s really trying.

There’s an angsty electro-pop song that Thire’s been playing in the mess looping through his head.

Fortunately, this isn’t a one-on-one meeting. It’s more of an overblown security shift, since there are probably a dozen Senators lounging throughout Palpatine’s office. They're sipping on wine that’s worth more credits than Fox’s entire life and discussing how to best balance the budget for the new year.

All Fox can think about is the absurdity of this war entering its third year. These meetings never address the death toll, but why would they? It isn’t a death toll if the soldiers aren’t sentient. Just like the Seps, the Republic Senate talks about loss of units in terms of the financial risk of increasing or decreasing production.

Deliberately unclenching his jaw, Fox relaxes his shoulders.

Thorn keeps telling him that he should cut some of the ‘better’ Senators some slack. That it’s all relative. Still, even as Organa and Amidala and Chuchi sit in this meeting and argue against funnelling more credits into the GAR, they concede that the Republic can’t fall too far behind when the Separatists are building more battle droids every day. What good is publicly railing against the war when they fan the flames of conflict behind closed doors.

Something something, political pressure, blah blah, playing the long game.

The clones have no long game to play. Not when their life expectancy is thirteen years and dropping as shinies get deployed younger and younger. Surviving two years after leaving Kamino is an accomplishment. It makes them old by comparison. The youngest of Fox’s new batch of shinies is nine and probably won’t live to see eleven. Amidala came by and met them, which is more effort than most Senators make, but it’s still superficial. It’s not enough.

Fox doesn’t have the emotional space to cut slack to politicians who only do the bare minimum.

He flexes his jaw and it pops loudly, thankfully silenced by his helmet. Simmering frustration and helplessness wring him out, leaving his head and limbs aching. He needs another caf. Or a nap.

Four more hours.

That’s manageable. He’ll see the other side of this shift, if not the other side of this war.

His mind wanders.

A delicate hand wraps around his upper arm, squeezing ineffectually against plastoid. Fox lets out a breath and opens his eyes to see Amidala watching him with naked concern. In front of Palpatine and his Red Guard.

He switches his vocoder back on and very carefully doesn’t snap, “Can I help you, Senator?”

Amidala blinks, and Fox isn’t sure what she expected. “I just wanted to make sure you’re well, Commander. I can’t imagine these meetings are particularly interesting or easy to listen to.”

Fox hadn’t been listening. That’s the trick to not going absolutely insane when in proximity to the Senate. “I’m fine, ma’am, it’s part of the job.”

“Still, I was hoping you would join me for a caf in my office. I wanted to get your thoughts on a few potential reforms to procedural treatment of GAR troopers, and the Coruscant Guard in particular.”

It feels like bait. If any other Senator invited him back to their office for a private meeting– Fox shoves that thought away. He starts to politely decline and nearly chokes on the words. Frigid cold spikes up his spine.

No, he neither can nor wants to hear this potential reform.

“To my knowledge, there's no need to address the treatment of the troopers. We’re happy to serve and are treated fairly by the Senate and our superior officers.”

There’s no reason for anything to change. The clones are treated as what they are, weapons to be aimed and fired at the discretion of the Republic.

For a half-second, Fox wonders where that chain of thoughts came from.

“I see,” Amidala says and retracts her hand. For reasons unknown, the loss of contact makes pressure build behind Fox’s eyes. Has any nat-born ever touched him without intent to harm? “Feel free to contact me if you change your mind.” She turns to Palpatine and ducks her head. “Good evening, Chancellor.” And then she’s gone.

Fox ignores the discomfort that always coils around him when he’s left alone with Palpatine.

“I’m pleased to hear that you and your men are being treated fairly,” he says with a smile.

“Yes, sir.”

“I hope you’ll take care to bring any concerns directly to me, Commander.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Dismissed.”

Fox snaps off a salute and lets his legs carry him from the office on autopilot.

Four more hours.

One more meeting.

He can do this.

“We can’t expect you clones to keep us safe!” some Core world Senator shouts, bare inches from Fox’s visor. Fox glances at the spittle flecked across his HUD with disaffected apathy. “If there is truly an information leak in the Senate Guard, the heart of the Republic is in jeopardy! We should issue a state of emergency!”

He’s been on this tirade for a while now and shows no signs of calming. This is really not in Fox’s purview. “I assure you, Senator, the Coruscant Guard is fully prepared for every eventuality. We're very thoroughly trained on the security protocols to be implemented if and when a leak is confirmed.”

That Senate Guard captain didn’t have the authority to complain to the Chancellor, but he did have enough to file one to the war council. Fox can acknowledge that he probably brought this on himself.

“Then why does Captain Braelig tell me that the Guard has been uncooperative with his attempts to bolster security?”

Thirty minutes. Then two hours on patrol.

He can do this. He has to do this.

“The captain’s request was in breach of GAR regulations, sir. I can’t legally rent my troops to the Senate Guard.”

The Senator scowls, rough and ugly. “And I’m to believe your word over his? Is it so incredible to worry that your programming has been tampered with?”

Another Senator, thankfully still seated, nods at that. “It’s not as if we know the details of the clones’ programming. For all his wisdom, the Chancellor is hardly an expert in these matters. Surely there's some risk of interference.”

Fox sighs quietly and it makes his head spin. He doesn’t know how to say that it doesn’t work that way without offending someone, and he can’t offer the Kaminoans’ expertise without risking an impromptu trip back to Tipoca. It’s hard to think through the near-suffocating weight of exhaustion.

Evidently, he takes too long to formulate a response. The spit-spewing Senator snarls and jerks a hand up to take Fox by the brim of his helmet, and it takes every scrap of his self-control not to snap the man’s arm. Programming, his ass.

“Listen, clone. I’m going to need some kind of insurance if the Senate will be relying on you in the case of this security breach.”

Fox goes to offer some empty reassurance, but the Senator is out of patience. Very abruptly, the safety of Fox’s helmet disappears, yanked harshly off his head and flung to the floor. Gone is the chrono he’d been watching for three shifts in a row, and the pending message notification from Thorn, and the noise muffling filter over his ears, and the live update feed from his upper ranks. He watches it roll toward the door and wishes he could follow it.

Clearing his throat against a rising lump, he raises his gaze back to the Senator and pointedly ignores the disgust on his face. He knows he looks like banthashit, thanks. “I’m sure I can get ahold of the Kaminoans’ product quality guarantee and the ongoing quality control measures that have been in place since the beginning of the war. Sir.”

“See to it that you do,” the Senator spits. Fox squeezes his left wrist until he swears he feels his bones creaking, but he doesn’t wipe his face. “I’ll need that by end-of-day.”

Kindly, Fox doesn’t point out that it’s past end-of-day because this meeting was scheduled for karking 2000 hours.

“Gods, are you all so poorly composed under those helmets?” a third Senator asks, probably rhetorically, given that there’s no right answer.

“Unprofessional is what it is,” the one in his face says. “I’ll be informing the Chancellor.”

Fox can’t sigh or squeeze the growing blur from his vision without the privacy of his bucket. He also can’t quite follow the rest of the conversation, sinking down and back into a corner of his head. It’s just about all he can manage to keep his knees locked so he doesn’t drop.

An indeterminate period of time later, the Senators file out of the meeting room. Fox makes the mistake of closing his eyes and nearly topples when his balance is upended. Bending to pick up his bucket adds a swell of nausea to the beaten down ache in his joints. He slots it back on his head and steps out into the halls. The sun has long since set.

Two hours on patrol.

His HUD is out of focus.

He can—

No.

No, he can’t.

His knees buckle underneath him and he collapses, lost to the world before he even hits the ground.

Fox wakes up slowly, feeling like a brand new man.

Nocte notices immediately, which is to be expected.

“Fox,” he says, utterly deadpan, “you’re a fucking idiot.”

Which is fair, but also isn’t really. “I didn’t ask for that many shifts back-to-back,” he tries to defend himself.

“Yeah, but you also didn’t ask literally anyone to cover literally any of it, idiot.” Without preamble, Nocte stabs a hypo into Fox’s thigh harder than seems necessary. “Do I even want to know how much caf you drank? The point of not giving you stims wasn’t for you to try to make up the difference with caffeine. If you come in here with substance-induced heart palpitations again, I swear to the Force I’ll just leave you out in the hall.”

Fox almost laughs out loud at that, feeling lighter than he has in days. “No, you won’t.”

“No,” Nocte agrees with a scowl, “I won’t. What were you thinking?”

He never considered passing his work onto anyone else, but that’s the wrong answer here. “Well, I have a whole rotation off now.” Unless any of the other commanders need a shift covered.

Nocte sighs. He probably knows that unspoken caveat better than most, given how often he steals shifts from his patients. “Do you need the lecture about stimulant use in conjunction with high anxiety and the risk of long-term heart problems? Again?”

“Nope,” Fox says. “You’ve scared me straight. No more stims.”

“Sure. Of course.” He doesn’t sound convinced. Despite feeling more rested than he has in recent memory, Fox’s awareness starts sliding away again. “Are you falling asleep again? Great, I’m putting you on medical leave for an extra rotation. So. Suck on that, Commander.”

[purgetrooperfox]

“Why are you always so reckless, huh? Do you ever think about what would happen if something happened to you?” for anyone you want!

ooo thank you! here's a short little blurb 🙃

[ prompt list ]

characters: Fox, Thorn

tags: physical hurt/comfort, emotional hurt :(, dancing around issues, the boys are struggling, unbeta'd

ao3

“Fucking ridiculous,” Thorn grumbles. Irritation drives a flush to his face and tightness to his jaw. “Honestly, I think you might be the biggest jackass idiot I’ve ever met.”

All Fox can do is grind his teeth.

He hates it when Thorn’s right about things.

“All you have to do is notify us before you leave HQ,” he continues, flicking excess fluid from the tip of a hypo needle before jabbing it unceremoniously into Fox’s shoulder. “Then I won’t have to scramble to figure out where you went. And you can bring a medic with you. And you’ll have backup. And Vos won’t crawl up my ass in a tizzy because his Force nonsense is going off.”

“Thorn.”

Thorn is far from gentle about stapling the gash sliced into his arm closed, and he’s hardly sympathetic to Fox’s hissed curses at the pain. “I can’t explain it, Commander. You have to trust me, Commander. The Force doesn’t work like that, Commander, it works like this.” His impression of Quinlan needs some work. Still, Fox has to bite down on the urge to laugh at him. “I have no clue how you put up with him all the time.”

“That’s where all of my patience disappears to,” Fox admits.

Turning his face to the sky as if in a plea for patience of his own, Thorn sighs vocally. “You two are perfect for each other.”

“Rude.”

“But true. Let me see your face.”

He tilts his chin up and meets Thorn’s disapproving stare head-on. The state of his little brother takes some of the stubborn fight out of Fox. Between the dark shadows under bloodshot eyes and the fresh bruise blooming across the edge of his jaw, he looks like he hasn’t properly rested or taken care of himself in weeks. His roots are grown out, long and dark before they fade to bleached blond – ill-maintained where Thorn is usually militant with its maintenance.

They’re all burning the metaphorical candle from both ends and it’s getting harder to hide the evidence.

“You look like shit, vod’ika,” Fox informs him.

It gets him an unflattering snort, which finally breaks through Thorn’s anger. His shoulders sag minutely. “So says you. This is gonna be a nice addition to your ugly mug when it scars over.”

A besalisk got a few good swings in before Fox managed to get a stun shot off. He got clipped with a blade, once across his shoulder and once across his nose. They pair well with his cracked ribs and broken nose. At least Thorn’s more gentle about dabbing an antibiotic on his face, caving to the current of worry that underlays all of his frustration.

The progressive crumbling of his expression sends a pang of guilt through Fox. He puts up an impressive front of nonchalance, but Thorn worries at least as much as anyone else Fox knows.

"Why are you so reckless, anyway?" He sits back on his heels when he's done playing medic, stuck between a genuine question and an accusation. "Don't you ever think about what would happen if we lost you?"

Lowering his gaze back to the cobblestone beneath him, Fox shoves down the urge to throw that back in Thorn’s face. He forcibly reminds himself that they're all struggling. They're all tired.

But of course he thinks about what would happen. It's the only reason he makes any effort to come back.

"I'm sorry," he says instead.

It's not enough for either of them, but he's known Thorn all his life. He knows he understands, even if he doesn't like it.

"I know." They get stuck there for a moment. Getting lost in guilt and grief, suspended like insects in amber. "Me too."

[purgetrooperfox]

yeehaw ask game moment 🌀🌤️❄️

[wip ask game]

YEEHAW

🌀Post the fic summary for a fic you haven't written/published yet. It can be hypothetical or something you really plan on releasing...

not a summary I'd actually put on the fic itself but I'm working on one that's centered around Gale getting snatched by Orin. Astarion's pov, bloodweave undertones (and overtones. tones in general tbh) of the Astarion-can-no-longer-deny-how-much-he-cares variety, Gale whump, headbutting trauma, aftermath hurt/comfort, all that good stuff. I'm insane about it and I really hope I can get it cleaned up enough to post 😭

❄️Share a snippet from a WIP of your choosing.

At times, typically in the night, after most of the camp has retired, his mask drops and Astarion is gifted with a look at the man behind the illusion. When he isn't rambling on about theories of magic or regaling their merry band with tales of Waterdeep, or his beloved tressym, or his allegedly wild youth, Gale watches. His gaze is sharp, analytical, like it seeks to see through his companions' armor and down to their squishy underbellies. He wants to know what makes them tick, what makes them laugh, what earns their approval, what pulls them in or pushes them away. 

Like recognizes like, and Astarion recognizes Gale. He knows the look of someone hiding, afraid of being found out. Of a secret that could change everything. He knows the look of someone working tirelessly to become needed. Indispensable. A thing to protect. 

But above all, more intimately than he knows anything else, Astarion knows hunger. Alone at the fire, clutching his elbows, gaze trained on their darling leader's tent, Gale is a man starving. 

🌤️Share your favorite piece of dialogue from your WIP.

(realizing rn that I have all these bg3 drafts but very little dialog, which is Not like me lmaoooo star war it is. will put this under a break so post isn't stupid long)

"Echo," Nocte cuts him off, finally redirecting his attention from his screen to Echo's face. "Can it wait? I'm almost off shift, I'm sure someone else–"

"I wanted to request access to Fives' autopsy report," he blurts all at once in a jumbled rush.

And Nocte stares at him, face unreadable, for a moment that seems to stretch out long between them. His expression doesn't so much as twitch and the drumming of his fingers freezes. “Why?”

“He was my brother."

“I'm your brother. Why?”

He carefully doesn't purse lips. “He was my brother and he died.”

“We're at war,” Nocte's voice is sharp, almost a warning, “and he was a soldier.”

Why?

It's more resistance than Echo expected, two appeals more than he thought would be necessary. While Nocte has a reputation for many things – questionable bedside manner, gruff demeanor, variable patience – callousness isn't one of them. The family card should have worked. “Haven't you lost anyone you cared about in all this?”

Barely there, his expression tightens. “Watch yourself, lieutenant.”

“I thought you'd understand,” Echo snaps before he can stop himself. “I thought–”

“Echo.” He doesn't raise his voice because he doesn't have to. “Stop, before you say something you'll regret, and tell me why.”

[purgetrooperfox]

#14 maybe for Echo? post-TCW?

mmm this is so good ty

[ prompt list ]

prompt: “Can you just leave me alone? Can I have that at least?”

characters: ARC Trooper Echo, Clone Medic Nocte, ARC Trooper Fives (mentioned), Commander Fox (mentioned)

tags: physical therapy, rehabilitation, mood swings, everyone has trauma, corrie!Echo AU

ao3

Most of Echo's waking hours are spent in some degree of pain.

That's just the reality he lives with, after his stay on Skako Minor. His legs ache where flesh and bone and muscle meets machinery. His right hand cramps up - a phantom pain that he can't rub away, not without the requisite organic joints. His spinal implants itch and sting and burn. Excessive noise gives him a migraine. Proximity to scanners overwhelms his senses with static. Even sleeping, in all but very specific positions, has him waking throughout the night from ambient discomfort.

He isn't used to it, exactly, but he's acclimating. It's far less common for him to come unglued at slight provocations because of sleep-deprivation and various aches and pains. He's even managed to find a small group of brothers he can trust in the Guard and formed careful friendships, now that his temper doesn't push them all away.

Maybe if he wasn't personally handling Echo's physical rehabilitation, Nocte would be among those tentative friends.

The pain is never worse than his scheduled PT days.

And he ruminates on it as he holds his weight in a deep squat with his back pressed firmly to a wall. Atrophied muscles in his upper thighs scream protests against the abuse. His clothes are soaked through, sweaty and nasty and distracting. He lost track of how long he's held this position.

Nocte will presumably let him know. The medic is posted a few feet away, fidgeting with a stylus between the fingers of one hand and a holding datapad in the other. Silently, Echo begs the ground beneath Nocte's feet to open up and swallow him. Then he could indulge in the simple pleasure of laying down for just a kriffing second.

Of course, his luck has never been that good. His legs prove less stable than the floor mere seconds later and fold under his weight. Anger burns worse than any physical ailment as he glares at Nocte from the mat.

"Almost a minute," he remarks, logging Echo's results. "I know it doesn’t feel like much, but you’ve come a long way remarkably quickly. You ought to be proud.”

“Proud?” It almost feels like a mockery when Nocte offers him a hand up, as if he has the strength to pull himself up onto actively shaking legs. He scowls at the proffered limb and shakes his head. “I can barely balance enough to stand on my own. I can barely walk a few steps without needing a break. I can’t write legibly or hold a blaster properly. What is there to be proud of?”

“You survived, didn’t you?” For the umpteenth time since his arrival on Coruscant, Echo bites back an acidic comment about the worth of his survival. Nocte raises a brow at him all the same. “That carries more weight than you let yourself acknowledge.”

When Echo makes no further move to try to get up, Nocte drops into a crouch in front of him, planting his elbows on his knees. There’s no pity to be found in his tone or expression. Again, Echo wishes he could find a valid reason to lash out at him. He’s sick to death of patient understanding.

“Sure,” he grants. “I survived and they used me against the Republic. There are hundreds of deaths on my hands, troops who would’ve survived if not for me. That’s the weight– the cost of my life. Why would I take pride in that?”

They’ve been down this road before and they’ll traverse it again. It’s guilt versus platitudes. Remorse versus consolation. Regret versus speculation. Around and around and around. He can see his own exhaustion mirrored back at him in Nocte’s eyes, but they go through the motions anyway. Again.

“I’ve never denied that.”

“Then why bother?” Heat claws at the backs of his eyes, forces him to blink away tears of… another kind of pain. He hurts. All the way down to his bones, he hurts. “Can’t you just leave me alone? Can’t I have that, at least?”

Nocte drags a hand across his face and blows out a breath, settling cross-legged and handing a worn rag over for Echo to wipe the drying sweat from the back of his neck. “Your life isn’t worth any more or less than theirs, that’s why. I won’t hold the things you couldn’t control against you. Eventually, you’ll have to learn to give that same leniency to yourself. You didn’t have any choice. So no, I can’t just leave you alone.”

“It doesn’t matter. I was still in there somewhere. It doesn’t–”

“It does. It has to.”

“Doc, you can’t–”

A muscle jerks in Nocte’s jaw. “What if it was Fives?”

Echo blinks. Opens his mouth to snap a retort. Shuts it again.

“What if Fives miraculously returned from the dead? What if you found out that the Seps dug into his brain against his will, manipulated his consciousness, used him as a piece of equipment - a weapon - against his brothers?” There’s something raw in his voice, like impossibly intimate understanding. “Would you fault him for being saved?”

It’s not the same.

It's not the same.

"It's not the same."

"Isn't it?"

It isn't and it can't be and it doesn't matter.

Fives is gone. There's no miraculous recovery in his future because he was executed. He won't be killing his brothers because his brother killed him. Fox killed him and he's not coming back.

It's not the same and Nocte's too close to Fox to get it.

"I met him, you know?" Echo snaps his attention back up from his fists clenched on his lap. "When he was here," Nocte treads carefully around the critical context of Fives' being here. "I was at the bar with Kix, the 501st had just gotten in. We were going to try to get him in touch with Rex and Skywalker. I tried– they didn't want to come back to base. Didn't trust that we would keep him safe.

"He was out of it, talking nonsense, but not like the reports say." Echo's read those reports enough to have them memorized. They detail incoherence, bursts of indiscriminate violence, lack of control. "He was confused, but he knew what he needed. His goals were clear. His fear– not anger, fear, was clear.

"Kix shooed me off, a squad of shock troopers showed up, and Fives left. I came back to base and when Fox left…" he trails off, furrowing his brow. "I told him it didn't seem right, but sometimes choices are made for us."

A tangled mess of emotion gets lodged in Echo's throat and he can't quite seem to swallow it down. "There's always a choice," he can't raise his voice above a whisper.

"Is there?"

It's hard to discern boiling anger from fear from hate from grief. "Why are you telling me this?"

Nocte tilts his head and Echo realizes that he can't read his face worth a damn. He might as well have on a bucket. "Because you're here. You survived. You have a choice now."

"And what choice is that?"

"Come on, Echo, I wasn't decanted yesterday," he scoffs and makes to stand. "I'm not asking you to confirm or deny anything, but if your reasons for requesting a transfer are what I think they are? We're all after the same thing. Answers. Choices of our own."

For a second time, he extends a hand to help Echo stand. This time he takes it. Questions rise to his mind and trip over each other before he manages to voice any of them.

"So," Nocte flashes a sharp-edged smile and claps him on his good shoulder, "you need to let me help you get steady on these new kicks, then you can do whatever you came here to do."

"Wait, Nocte–"

"I hope it goes without saying that I'll deny relaying any of that information."

"But–"

"Great progress today, vod'ika, we're all real proud."

"What–"

Abruptly, Nocte nudges him just hard enough that he staggers onto a cot. Just surprising enough that he catches himself without thinking. "Duty calls," he says as he turns on his heel and flashes a civilian hand sign over his shoulder. "I'll have someone bring food over."

And he leaves.

Echo's legs are killing him and his head feels stuffed full of cotton and he hurts and he's tired. His life would be immeasurably easier if Nocte wouldn't make it so difficult to hate him. Or so confusing to enjoy his company, despite everything.

Things seemed so much simpler with the 501st. At least Kix was direct.

writing tags and taglist form, dm to be removed

@willowworkswithwords @saradika @catboy-kenobi @dikut @voidika @mandoposting @certified-anakinfucker @milf-plokoon @secretlyatimelady @spaceydragons @tayylie @moonstrider9904 @thelove-ablepenguin @maulpunk @frietiemeloen @spacerocksarethebestrocks @zinzinina @quinnqueens @thefact0rygirl @misogirl828 @amyroswell

[purgetrooperfox]

oooh 23 for bastra and jaro?

softer world prompts

we talk in the dark as we fall asleep, and we are objects in the night sky outside of time. (it is the exact opposite of alone)

“I’ll admit,” Jaro says in lieu of any sensible greeting, heedless of the way Bastra startles. “I can’t fathom what you’re doing here.”

The city lights of Daiyu glare vibrant neon that reflects off the pooling water on the street. It doesn’t fully mask the grime that coats every conceivable surface, but it does well to draw the eye away.

“I’m doing the same as everyone else on this planet, looking for something.”

Bastra pays no mind to the gentle fall of rain – it won’t soak through his clothes any time soon, and he can’t be bothered to move from his perch on the roof of a dilapidated inn. With one leg tucked close to his chest and the other dangling over the edge, he has a comfortable vantage point over the bustle that never ends, no matter the hour.

He hears Jaro huff a sigh and sees him, out the corner of his eye, sit cross-legged at his side. Almost close enough for their thighs to touch. Into the space between them, he asks, “What are you looking for? Something, or someone?”

Scowling, Bastra tears his gaze away from the street to look up at Jaro’s face, which is angled further up toward the clouds. “I can multitask, can't I?"

"Of course," Jaro grants, "I only hope you've thought this through."

That makes two of them, for whatever it's worth.

"More or less. I need credits to travel, so I need a job. There's not much else to it."

He watches Jaro's ears twitch back, the surest sign of his disapproval. For a man with a face like a locked vault, his ears always cracked the combination. Saved Bastra from putting his foot in his mouth more than once.

"I wonder if you're chasing these goals you claim are so straightforward, or if you're still running away."

"Fuck off."

"I will not."

"I'm not running away," Bastra hisses, then deliberately unclenches his jaw. "There's nothing left to run from except death, and I'm not currently interested in letting that catch up with me."

Imperial efforts to hunt down the few Jedi who escaped the Purge ebb and flow, but have generally waned over the years. He can travel relatively freely, as long as he keeps his head down and doesn't draw attention. Odd jobs keep him going. It's aimless, at times, but it's something.

Jaro bristles, scratching idly at his beard. An old habit that never died. "It seems to have caught up with you, all the same."

Bastra snorts, even though it's not funny. "Sure, your death follows me relentlessly. My own will have to work harder to catch up."

He's still only halfway convinced that he hasn't lost his mind, and these visits from Jaro aren't just complex hallucinations. At best, the Force truly does work in mysterious ways. At worst, well. He gets a very convincing construct to talk to.

The first time it happened – whatever it is – he shut down, couldn't speak, couldn't move, couldn't breathe. The second wasn't much better. Jaro stopped trying to explain and simply shared his space after a few more, and something eventually clicked in the back of Bastra's mind. Whether it clicked into or out of place is up for debate.

With fear and shock and confusion worn away, the hardest part is how real it feels– how real he feels. The illusion is incredible, but not perfect.

Jaro's eyes don't reflect the glaring neon lights of Daiyu when he meets Bastra's gaze. His clothes and hair and fur are unmoved by the wind. Every detail of his features, all the way down to signs of age, is exactly as Bastra remembers from before. He's a snapshot, displaced from his time and stubbornly refusing to rest.

"You shouldn't taunt fate, Bastra," he chastises, but there's fondness in his tone. Relief, maybe. "She comes for us all, in the end."

They're close enough that their thighs could touch, but an insurmountable cavern apart. Fate will come for him in the end, but maybe his family will be there too. "How long do you have?"

Before they lose this strand of connection.

Jaro's shoulders drop, almost imperceptibly. "Not long enough."

"Hm." He can't tangle their hands together, but his fingers itch with sense memory, and he would, if he could. "Thank you. For being here at all."

There are nights when thinks it won't be the price on his head, or hunger, or exposure, or a stray blaster bolt, or a speeder crash, or anything else that kills him. When he thinks it might be the loneliness that does it.

This, at least, is the exact opposite of alone.

Maybe, possibly, he'll actually pick up Cal's trail, and that won't be alone either.

[purgetrooperfox]

got any wip snippets (wippets?) you'd like to share?

just for you. a Quin + Nocte character study thing about survivor's guilt that I'll probably never finish :) unedited, obviously. yw

cw for brief reference to character death I guess

Vos sticks a cigarette in his mouth and sparks a lighter then pauses, raising a questioning brow. Only once Nocte shrugs and pushes a window open does he light up. The smell of burning tobacco used to turn Nocte's stomach, now it's something familiar. Something that signals the end of the day. Something that makes his chest clench for reasons more related to addiction than disgust.

Neatly, he plucks the cigarette from Vos' fingers and takes a long drag that does little to thaw him out. If Vos takes it as a challenge, he doesn't show it, simply lighting another and watching Nocte like he's a puzzle to be solved. His expression is hard to read.

"Are you on your own out here?" Vos eventually asks.

"For the most part. I'll have someone stick around from time to time, after recovery, but not often."

It's usually kids with nowhere else to go, and they typically go their own way after a few weeks. Staying mobile is for safety. Staying alone is dangerous, but it protects the soft side of him. Less about blasters and laser swords than loss and heartache.

Vos hesitates to spit out whatever's weighing on him. His free hand drums quietly on the windowsill. "None of the others?"

"What, the other clones?" Nocte swallows a scornful laugh. "No. I haven't run into any survivors since I got away." From the control chip. From the Empire. From the past. "I reckon we're about as spread out as the rest of the Jedi."

Grief has dulled into something manageable over the years, no longer the crushing, bleeding wound it was when he first woke up. "Fox was…" he tries to continue, to answer the unspoken question. Stops. Pulls more smoke into his lungs. "No one was lucky that day, but Fox didn't have to suffer it for long. It was quick. Painless."

"Vader?"

"Mm."

The scene makes regular appearances in Nocte's nightmares – the wave of cold in the air, the sound of Fox's breath catching in his chest, the resounding snap and unnatural angle of his neck, his body unmoving on the ground. No one could have saved him.

Still.

Someone should have.

"Rumor has it that Skywalker's captain got himself and Ahsoka free," Vos offers in turn. "Rex, I think."

Rumor also has it that an experimental batch is running loose in the Mid Rim with Echo in tow. He doesn't put much stock in rumors, but a smile tugs at the corner of Nocte's mouth. "Of course Rex would be the one to manage that. He's a good kid. Stubborn as a damn mule."

Vos huffs a laugh. "Between him and Ahsoka, the galaxy better watch its back."

It goes without saying that the galaxy has bigger issues to worry about than a pair of outcasts.

Nocte nods instead. "You run into any Jedi?"

The suspicion that shadows Vos' face is only fair, and it only lasts a moment. "A couple. I doubt you ever knew them."

By virtue of being part of the Guard's medical corps, Nocte and his crew rarely got face time with the Jedi. He mostly knew Vos by proximity to Fox. Kit and Dara were exceptions, and he's not about to probe whether Vos ever knew about any of that.

He probably did. The Shadows had their noses in everyone’s business, for better and for worse.

Besides, Nocte is well aware that Kit was one of the first Jedi to go down. He used to talk about Force bonds, these intangible threads that tie people together, strengthened as relationships grow. By all accounts, there are probably rocks with more Force sensitivity than Nocte. Those bonds were so far beyond his awareness that he forgot they existed until Kit mentioned them.

He felt it though, when they broke.

The instant it happened, despite the distance between them, he felt it when Kit died. A razor sharp pain through his chest. He thought it was a heart attack at first. Then he didn't think much of anything about it.

Or about anything else.

Sometimes, he wonders how much of that – the memory lapses and dissociation and loss of control – was the chip, and how much was a subconscious attempt at coping.

[purgetrooperfox]

blog guide + masterlist !

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currently unhinged about elden ring. I also have gamer disease so you'll find evidence of that here (bg3, cyberpunk, mortal kombat, resident evil, COD, disco elysium, etc etc). and star wars. still star wars

18+ sideblog @foxafterdark

twitch

ko-fi

bluesky + cohost <- inactive for now but feel free to add me

tags to watch for:

writing is tagged #leo.writes

art is tagged #leo.draws

oc content is tagged #leocs

adult content is tagged #18+ / #nsft

ask and I'll tag content warnings

fics and WIPs under the cut. content warnings are tagged on AO3, pls be mindful of them

(updated 03/20/2023)

* marks unfinished fics

Star Wars

one-shots:

it is the exact opposite of alone (tumblr link) — [G] Bastra and the ghost that haunts him.

life would be easier if I was easier (tumblr link) — [G] Fox at his limit, Quinlan making it worse and better.

I miss doing nothing with you (tumblr link) — [G] Western AU; reunion for Saleese and Nocte

* inevitability (tumblr link) — [T] On choosing something fleeting because it's worth it, even if the end is inevitable.

fare thee well, my honey (tumblr link) — [T] A breaking point for Kit and Nocte.

growing pains (tumblr link) — [T] Physical therapy frays Echo’s nerves and tests Nocte's patience, but mutual understanding is key.

in amber (tumblr link) — [T] Fox hits the streets by himself. Thorn goes down after him.

oceans, then and now (tumblr link) — [T] It's a rare occurrence for Nocte to get sent off of Coruscant, especially as the lone trooper assigned to escort a Jedi to the Outer Rim. But then, Dara has a way of defying norms and expectations rather spectacularly.

on the importance of context — [T] "I think we should talk", and other alarming phrases.

down and disarmed — [T] Waking up on the floor of a jail cell is not, in fact, Uj's preferred way to start a day.

pillow talk — [M] For all that fucking the bratty attitude out of Quinlan is a great way to blow off steam, and a cathartic one at that, it occurs to Uj that it’s probably not the best idea.

ins and outs of recall — [T] The backlash of Nocte's research on the Guard's neurological troubles.

while the currents rage below — [M] After an explosive fight and harsh words that can't be taken back, Fox and Kyr are left in different kinds of shambles. Nocte tries to pick up the pieces.

extensive and astute observation — [T] Saleese jabs a sharp elbow into Nocte's side, right where plastoid would usually make her immediately regret it. Dress greys provide no such protection. But tonight, not even bruised ribs can kill his mood. Tonight, he has a shot at identifying her mystery Jedi.

leave the heels on — [E] After a drag show, Lane keeps Uj company in his dressing room.

with and without — [T] Another farse of a vote, and the repercussions for those affected. (Nocte has a dissociative episode, Saleese tries to help him out of it.) + a lovely podfic by @/godoflaundrybaskets

nightmares — [T] Sleep brings the promise of reliving the worst moments of Nocte's life, like his own personal trauma reel. Maybe it's better to stay awake.

blank — [T] All anyone knows is that the Chancellor claims that Fox made an attempt on his life. Now Fox is en route to Kamino.

peace — [G] Months after Order 66, Rex gets a visit.

h(a)unted — [T] Echo wrestles with trauma and memories of captivity in the wake of realizing why the Kaminoans are sending hunters after Omega.

Wandering — [T] After Order 66, after the crash of the Tribunal, after his Commander– after Ahsoka told him it would be best to part ways, Rex wandered. He wandered because he couldn’t stay still. If he was still, if he stopped for longer than it took to eat and sleep, then he would think.

guess it just wants to die — [T] CC-1010 lays down. Fox wakes up.

Little Orphan Ani — [T] Anakin's men were wrong. Cody and Obi-Wan weren't father figures to him. So what if Cody's disappointment felt like a physical weight on his shoulders and he spent undue time and energy trying to make Obi-Wan proud? They weren't his parents. Not that they would be bad dads. To someone else. Not him, because he didn't see them that way, but someone else who needed unconditional support and care. (in which Cody and Obi-Wan dad at Anakin and Anakin is oblivious, right up until he isn't)

Truly, Deeply — [T] Of course Obi-Wan was not blind to the emotional, hormonal storm around his Padawan. One would have to be blind to both the Force and the physical world to miss it. And really, Anakin must have forgotten that his Master was not only Force-sensitive, but also connected to his mind through their training bond. (in which Obi-Wan is painfully aware of Anakin's feelings for Padmé and also forever wondering where he went wrong in trying to teach his Padawan subtlety)

Commander Fox Week 2021:

exhaustion (tumblr link) — [T] Fox has been running on fumes for days, counting down the time until he can drop onto the nearest surface and finally sleep.

hope — [T] Enough is enough. The Republic was doomed to fail, that much is clear. The Empire may have been inevitable as well. All Fox knows is that he’s finished, he can’t pretend anymore. He can’t fall in line like his mind has been wiped blank. So he decides to do something drastic.

family — [T] The fear-mongering rumors on Kamino about Fox being some kind of abusive, tyrannical prick have reached a point where they can’t go unaddressed. His shinies are clearly afraid and miserable with their assignment to the Guard, which Fox understands, but he can try to help them feel more at home. He can dispel some of the rumors.

laughter — [G] Existential debate rages in Fox’s office.

vode an — [M] Order 66 wiped away the clones’ autonomy, but mindless drones don’t have the wherewithal to feel guilt for their actions. The Rebellion is trying to get clones out of the purge trooper program, but freedom comes at a cost.

brothers — [T] Senator Amidala returns from Scipio with the 501st. This is the aftermath.

multi-chapter:

five times Nocte took care of the Corries, and one time they returned the favor (under construction) — [M] what it says on the tin

* red hands and black deeds — [M] Fox gets assigned to the Coruscant Guard after his bravery and sacrifices for the Republic during the First Battle of Geonosis. This job is a long shot from the one he spent his entire life preparing for; it's a war on a different front and it's on him to get his men out alive. Whether he'll get himself out with his sanity intact is up for debate.

* talk is overrated, let's just fight — [E] The Guard didn't have a designated Jedi, but they had the absolute nuisance that was Quinlan Vos. He was already more than Fox could handle. The man was at least halfway banthashit insane and seemed to derive some sadistic pleasure from derailing Fox's entire day. For all that Rex and Cody complained about their admittedly crazy Generals, Fox struggled to believe that they could possibly be worse than Vos.

* a cry at the final breath — [M] CC-2224 was a good soldier, had been decanted, raised, and trained to be a good solider. Good soldiers follow orders, so that's what he did. At times, in the deep recesses of in mind, he might questions his orders, but he always followed them. Cody has to re-learn how to do more than follow orders, to live and fight of his own accord. He's been a soldier all his life, fighting in wars that aren't his. What is freedom to a man who has only ever known captivity?

unposted WIPs I'll gladly yammer about:

currents — [M] instead of joining TBB, Echo requests a transfer to the Guard, hoping to find answers about Fives' death on Coruscant

the holding of hands, the breaking of glass — [M] follows Nocte's journey through part of the war, semi-centered around his situationship with Kit Fisto

after dark — [T/M] an AU where Quinlan Vos leaves the Jedi Order and winds up with a sect of Mandalorians; after the war, Fox is sent to Mandalore with a squad to "negotiate" (read: jumpstart an Imperial occupation) and their paths cross again

head forward // heart back — [M] follows Uj from the beginning of the war, through his assignment to the Shadows and (maybe) into his reassignment to the Guard. largely focused on his evolving relationship with Quinlan Vos

remember to breathe — [T/M] filling in the gap between Cmdr Maze and Arligan Zey's flight from Coruscant and their arrival on Mandalore. the one where I'll try to carry a whole ship on my poor aching back

The Great SWxMK Crossover Episode — in which @/kiwikipedia and I grab MK characters by the scruff and dump them into the GFFA, and vice versa

Mortal Kombat

SubScorp Week 2022 (WIP, off schedule)

impossible — [T] Years ago, Kuai Liang watched Hanzo Hasashi die. Grief is a complicated thing, but seeing the man he loved up and walking again seems a step beyond its traditional stages.

* a cautionary tale re: betting against Johnny Cage — [M] clothes swap, upcoming

* frigid — [T] childhood, upcoming

* a mirror, inverted — [T/M] trapped, upcoming

* in winter's embrace — [T/M] touch-starved, upcoming

* unspoken (yet heard) — [T] secret, upcoming

* cozy koozie — [T] crochet, upcoming

one-shots:

death-adjacent (under construction) — [M] Kuai knew, when a phantom from the past appeared in the Fire Gardens. He knew before Scorpion – not yet Grandmaster Hasashi, not yet Hanzo – spoke a single word.

[purgetrooperfox]

“Please tell me what I can do. There has to be something I can do.”

Nocte and Kit, perhaps?

man oh man this one dealt me psychic damage ilysm

[ prompt list ]

pairing: Kit Fisto/Clone Medic Nocte

characters: Kit Fisto, Clone Medic Nocte

tags: OC/canon, established relationship, breakup talk, emotional hurt, hurt no comfort, angst etc, unbeta'd

ao3

"What's changed, huh? We've beaten this conversation to death and you can never tell me what's so fundamentally, irreparably damaged."

Kit twitches like he might step forward then catches himself. There’s something harsher in his tone than the half-dozen other times they’ve had conversations like this. He closes his eyes, takes a breath. When he opens them again, something has steeled behind them. “We said from the start that this couldn’t become anything more.”

It takes considerable restraint for Nocte to strangle a scoff. “More than what, exactly? An outlet? Blind release? There was no way to stay strangers, Kit. If you wanted strangers, you didn’t have to keep coming back.”

“I didn’t say that.” He folds his arms across his chest, an attempt at building a barrier, thin as it may be. “I said we couldn’t get emotionally attached. The Code–”

“Don’t,” Nocte cuts him off, fighting not to speak through his teeth, “do not recite the Code to me right now. I’m not talking about the Jedi or the GAR or codes or regulations, I want you to tell me what you want. This dance around what we want or need from each other is how we keep ending up here.” He gestures between them and hopes it’s enough to convey that ‘here’ means ‘this tired fucking argument’.

Part of him knows that he's not helping his case by pushing back. He's spent entirely too much energy shoving down feelings that stubbornly refuse to die, it would be disastrous to show his hand at this point. It's too late to say that this never would've lasted if he hadn't gotten emotionally invested. 

"I need honesty from you, and I don't think I've gotten it." 

"I've never lied to you."

Kit arches his brow. "Omission is still dishonesty, is it not?"

A knot of anxiety twists in Nocte's gut as he squeezes the countertop digging into his back, missing the protective barrier of his bucket. What he feels is naked. Raw. Like an exposed nerve. "If you know how I feel, then you know nothing's changed. Not really."

It can't work both ways. He can't know that he's in too deep to have any hope of climbing out now without also knowing that he's been falling from the start. There are unsettling implications on both ends. Namely that Kit might have known, even back at the beginning, and still kept coming back. 

"Nocte," Kit starts before pausing, like he's looking for the right words. "I can't give you what you want from me. You know that."

To protest the unfairness would be childish. It's still tempting. 

"When have I ever asked for more than this?" In all this time, as much as he wanted to… "What right–"

Kit cuts him off. "No, I need to– we have to stop. I can't keep pretending. I won't. I shouldn't have strung you along for this long and I'm sorry, but it has to end. For both our sakes."

'Strung you along' plants itself at the back of Nocte's mind like a physical weight. 

He always knew. 

None of his questions have been answered yet, but he still tries, "Why didn't you ever say anything?"

Itching, ratcheting insecurity abruptly, painfully makes Nocte's skin start crawling. Because nothing can ever be easier than pulling teeth. Because he knows better, he knew better than to fall for someone who would never feel the same way. Because yeah, Kit knew he was in over his head, but Nocte knew that Kit would only ever always hurt him in the end. He's known the consequences of his own weakness all along. 

Knowing doesn't lessen the pain of having it thrown in his face though. It doesn't do shit for the urge to either explode or implode. 

Somehow, it's immeasurably worse that Kit looks at him with fucking pity. "I thought your interest would fade," he admits. "I thought my interest would fade." 

Implosion wins out over explosion in Nocte's chest. Something deep inside him caves inward. "Your interest," he echoes numbly.

Kit doesn't catch himself this time when he staggers forward and brushes a curled finger under Nocte's chin, tilting his head up. Restrained apology glistens in the darkness of his gaze. "It was never supposed to get this far."

He can't look away, so Nocte closes his eyes and tries desperately to keep his voice steady. "Tell me what I can do." It's worse than dropping to his knees and groveling, somehow. "Please… There has to be something I can do." 

It's worse because despite his inability to speak above a whisper, it's a screamed admission of guilt. It's worse than 'I love you' because it's 'I need you'. The charge against him is attachment and he's pleading guilty. Begging, even. 

Too gentle on the sides of his neck, Kit's hands rest firm and warm. A yearning for something rough enough to qualify as violence washes through him. 

"There isn't." 

There's no apology or protest strong enough to communicate this storm of emotion. 

"Okay."

He doesn't open his eyes until Kit lets go of him and he can turn his face to the floor, blinking the blur from his vision. 

"I'm sorry."

There has to be a bar open somewhere. One that won't turn him away on principle and force him to face his brothers and pretend that anything is okay. 

"I have to go." 

You have to ask me to stay.

"Okay." 

His toothbrush will stay by the sink until it gets thrown out. His small accumulation of clothes and trinkets that made a home here will have to be donated or disposed of. He's fairly certain there's a blaster under the bed and spare plastoid plates in the dresser. It can all be chalked up to a loss and replaced, because he can't stay any longer. He can't look Kit in the eye or take the time to gather his meager belongings and keep his composure. 

So he goes with nothing, and Kit doesn't stop him, and he doesn't look back. 

The only thing that's clear is that there could be no answer to what changed between them. That fundamentally, irreparably damaged thing had always been there. Nothing changed because the entire time, that thing was him. 

writing tags and taglist form, dm to be removed <3

@willowworkswithwords @saradika @catboy-kenobi @dikut @voidika @mandoposting @certified-anakinfucker @milf-plokoon @secretlyatimelady @spaceydragons @tayylie @moonstrider9904 @thelove-ablepenguin @maulpunk @frietiemeloen @spacerocksarethebestrocks @zinzinina @quinnqueens @thefact0rygirl @misogirl828 @amyroswell @rain-on-kamino

[purgetrooperfox]

28 for the babygirls of your choice <3 -Lo

softer world prompt list

I miss doing nothing with you (I miss not having to pretend to like your family)

+ Nocte & Saleese (@babygirl-leon-kennedy) || Western AU

Cradled between Nocte’s hands, a mug of stale coffee goes cool despite the heat hanging heavy and oppressive in the air. Every summer, he hopes the ungodly temperatures of years past won’t return, and every summer, his hopes are dashed. The only mercy is that the sun has long since set and the cover of darkness promises a brief reprieve.

More oppressive than even the heat is the silence.

He volunteered for the night watch so he and Saleese could talk without her crew lingering uncomfortably close, but it’s proving difficult. Their split was on bad terms, all flaring tempers and hurt feelings. They both said things they didn’t mean, lashing out, and then life just carried on. The longer they went without talking or writing, the harder it got to break the quiet.

It’s more than a need to mend bridges, now. For Saleese to swallow her pride and contact him, not to catch up or reconnect but to ask for help… her situation would have to be bad. Life-threatening bad.

From his limited exposure to the gang she’s saddled herself with, he can’t say he’s surprised. Greed has a fire lit under them for the time being, but that won’t last, and when it dies, they’ll turn inward. Nocte would bet his life’s savings on it. Meager as those may be.

The pressure doesn’t make it any easier to say what’s needed. He needs to apologize. He needs to explain why he couldn’t, back then. He needs to offer and ask for forgiveness. He needs to make it clear that he’ll burn this entire camp to the ground if they hurt her.

But it all dies in his throat and turns to ash in his mouth.

Saleese’s focus is presumably on the block of wood she’s slowly whittling into a stake, likely more for the comfort of repetitive motion than any real need. She isn’t quite ignoring him, but she isn’t paying him any mind, either. It’s all a hair’s breadth from familiar.

“D’you remember when we were kids,” Nocte starts before he can think himself out of it, “and Old Man Abernathy’s hound got loose?”

Across the fire, Saleese snorts something that lands between a surprised exclamation and a laugh. “Which time?”

“The time he sent us looking for him and we got lost overnight."

"Oh, hell, and we spent an hour trying to start a fire with wet tinder?"

A smile pulls at Nocte's lips, despite everything. "You were convinced we'd never find our way back. I don't think I ever got all the sand and dirt washed out of my clothes."

They slept huddled together on the ground, tucked in behind a cropping of rocks and bushes. It wasn't late enough in the year for the night to be too cold, but they slept hungry and woke in foul moods. His brother used to spout nonsense phrases about being hungry enough to eat a horse and chase the jockey – Nocte found out what that meant, that morning.

All they had the energy to do was walk and bicker.

It's a small wonder they managed to make it back to town at all. Needless to say, their families were worried sick. He can't speak for Saleese, but once Nocte's brothers got over the shock, they firmly vowed never to let him live it down. They also taught him how to start a proper fire before letting him do so much as shower.

The cherry on top of the whole shit sundae was that it turned out, the damn dog was waiting at Abernathy's front door for breakfast first thing in the morning.

It was beyond ridiculous, start to finish. Abernathy was a mean old man with no fondness for children, probably looking more to get the pair of them out of the streets than to find his dog.

It was uncomfortable and disconcerting at best, to feel so lost in the dark.

And it was a bonding experience. He and Saleese don't talk about the fear or the way they clung to each other in their sleep, but it brought them closer. They were friends before, but there was trust afterward, and they only got closer over the years.

Until it fell apart.

Shaking his head, Nocte finally looks back up and sees the same wistful nostalgia he's feeling reflected on Saleese's face. The grief tangled in it doesn't make sense. So he doesn't dwell on it.

"I'm glad you got ahold of me," comes out before he can think twice. Honesty at its most raw bleeds into his voice, and he hears it, and he does nothing to cover it. "Not to say it outright, but I've, ah– well. I missed you."

To call Saleese soft in any capacity would firstly, piss her off, and secondly, be a gross misrepresentation. She's a great many things – and really, Nocte loves her like no other for it – but soft is not one of them. So, she doesn't soften for him, but she warms. It's in the smile that crinkles more around her eyes than her mouth and the way her posture relaxes.

A reception to vulnerability, maybe. More likely, a recognition of herself. It’s something they never really talk about – their history and those similarities. She's Nocte's closest friend, closer than family sometimes, and they don't talk about that either.

"I missed you, too," she says, despite it all. "It used to be so easy to just do nothing."

Nocte narrowly suppresses a scoff. "Back when our families played nice and we could just run wild."

"They were different times." The reflection of flame bounces off the depths of Saleese's eyes.

"They don’t have to be all that different," Nocte tries. Gods does he try, through the weight of decades past, conflicts deep, and old promises of forever. "I'll stay as long as you need me."

She hesitates, but Nocte can hardly blame her. He'd do the same. They're opposite sides of the same coin, after all.

"Alright," Saleese concedes, faster than she would for anyone else. "Stay, until you need to go."

Stay, because I need someone in my corner.

Stay, because I don't trust my inner circle.

Stay, because I miss you too and I know you'll do right by me.

Those words go unspoken, but Nocte hears them all the same.

This new gang of Saleese’s is a powder keg of ulterior motives and lies and deceit, liable to blow at any shadow of a spark. It looks on the surface like she’s wilfully overstaying her welcome when she should just cut and run – but then, few things as simple as that. He’ll stay until she’s safe, and they both know it.

That’s the promise they made as kids and it’s the one they’ll die before breaking.

[purgetrooperfox]

30: “What if there’s no happy ending for us?” for Noctitra ❤️❤️❤️

man I have two ideas for this and they both HURT so here's the one I finished first. I'll probably finish and post the other soonish ;-;

[ prompt list ]

rating: T

pairing: Kit Fisto/Clone Medic Nocte/Dara Idella

characters: Kit Fisto, Clone Medic Nocte, Dara Idella (@spacerocksarethebestrocks)

tags: implied dysmorphia, polycule supremacy, established relationship, going grey, accelerated aging, angst, hurt/comfort

ao3

It's not vanity. 

Nocte scowls at his reflection in the 'fresher mirror and pointedly ignores Kit hovering in the doorway. 

It's not vanity. 

For all intents and purposes, he's 25 standard years old. It's not vain to be unnerved by the ever-increasing amount of premature grey streaked through his hair. Maybe it's karma for teasing Fox when he went a few weeks too long without shearing the sides of his hair and revealed his own salt-and-pepper. Maybe Carrion's right, and he needs to stop internalizing so much stress, and this is a sign. 

Raking his fingers through the discoloration at his right temple, he resigns himself to another stint of simply pretending this isn't an issue. If he feigns indifference for long enough, everyone will eventually believe it. 

"It just seems rude," he admits, since Kit's still watching him, "that on top of everything else, I have to deal with double-time greying. Someone should really file a complaint with the longnecks."

Kit hums what might be an agreement and flashes a lopsided smile. "I think it makes you look dignified," he says. "Roguish. Like the protagonists in those old spy thrillers."

Nocte hasn't seen those old spy thrillers but he still has his doubts about that. "If you say so."

All he could do at this point is dye his hair and he absolutely will not be doing that. So he blows out a sigh and twists it into a braid - if only so it doesn't try to strangle him in his sleep - then turns to face Kit. To his credit, there's no discernible pity in the dark depths of his partner's eyes. 

There's sympathy in droves, but not pity. 

The words they need don't come easily at times like this. Stabs at humor save them from directly acknowledging one of the uglier realities of their situation. 

As Nocte shuffles past Kit, he rises up onto his toes to plant a chaste kiss at the corner of his mouth. The toll of the day's exertion on his body is rapidly making itself known, pressing down on his shoulders as he sheds his clothes and slumps onto the bed. Dara simply puts down whatever she was reading on her 'pad and reaches out to squeeze the crook of his arm. 

To say that Dara's conservative with language would be a wild mischaracterization, but she's good at knowing when advice or comfort aren't needed. Or wanted.

Nocte tosses his shirt and pants toward the corner of the room and finally Iays down, curling onto his side and pulling Dare close with an arm around her waist. The familiar scent of her soap and detergent - lavender and citrus and linen - begin to ease his roiling anxiety. She trills softly, almost too low to be audible, and shifts like she's trying to burrow halfway underneath him. 

"Comfortable, sweetheart?" he murmurs and watches her tendrils quiver happily. 

"Mm." With her face mushed into his chest, it's a bit of a challenge to discern what she's saying. "You're warm. Comfy."

It doesn't bear repeating that he runs hot, another side effect of his heightened metabolism. "Someone has to be," he says instead, "or the pair of you would probably freeze."

"Ah, hell," Kit exclaims from somewhere behind Nocte before the bed dips under his weight. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever figure out the real reason we keep you around."

Whatever sarcastic remark Nocte would've made is strangled by the yelp that punches from him when frigid, ice-fucking-cold toes dig in behind his knees. Dara only offers a muffled giggle before curling her legs around Nocte's to warm them up as well. Then sticking her free, equally cold, hand down in his boxers to rest on his bare hip. 

A chill rattles up his spine, because of course it does. 

"You make an excellent heater," Kit comments. His arm comes to rest across Nocte, reaching just far enough to idly stroke Dara's tendrils. 

Any other time, such an innocent statement would roll off him like nothing. 

He knows he's more than that to them. He knows they care far more than they probably should. He knows they love him. He knows that there's a space for him, carved out with gentle intensity, between and alongside and before and behind them. They can rib him about being nothing more than a source of heat because he's so much more than that. 

It scares him more than he ever likes to admit. Feeling scraped raw, he edges back against Kit and squeezes Dara and tries to center himself. 

Acrid emotion threatens to rise up his throat but he stubbornly swallows it back down. It's a small miracle that when he eventually finds it, his voice comes out steady, "You'll need to invest in a heated blanket at some point." 

As soon as it comes out of his mouth, it sounds entirely too morbid. 

"I just mean… I won't be around forever," he retries. 

The reality is that Nautolans live far longer than nat-born Humans. If he's incredibly lucky, Nocte will live half as long as a nat-born Human. Every day the war drags on increases the odds of him going down as one among thousands of casualties. Fulfilling his purpose. 

It's not vanity to bemoan the signs of his accelerated aging when they serve as reminders of who and what he is. A fraction of a man with a fraction of a life, bred to replace someone exactly like him, to die, and to be replaced. An interchangeable part of an army of clones. 

He forcibly unclenches his jaw when neither Kit nor Dara answers him. "It's not–" and this time his voice does betray him, breaking around a single syllable. Dara turns her face toward his and brushes the backs of her fingers along his jaw, waiting. "What if it's just not possible?" he manages to grind out. "What if there's no happy ending for us?"

What if I'm wasting your time?

What if this was a mistake?

What if I'm just intruding?

What if we were doomed to hurt from the start?

What if–

"Then we cherish whatever happiness we can get," Kit cuts off the downward spiral of Nocte's thoughts. "To have this, now, is worth it."

"We cherish what we have and we fight for the future," Dara adds, just above a whisper. "We all fight for it. Whatever it takes."

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[purgetrooperfox]

“I think I messed up this time.” and saleese and nocte

[ prompt list ]

prompt: “I think I messed up this time.”

characters: Saleese Jeekkunass (@milf-plokoon) & Clone Medic Nocte

tags: emotional hurt/comfort, alcohol consumption, politics

ao3

Blinking up at the ceiling of her living room, it occurs to Saleese that she may be drunk. 

That was, of course, the goal of drinking a bottle of wine by herself, but it surprises her, in a way. Alcohol scrambles her thoughts and pulls them away from the day she's had. She doesn't want to think about it. That was the entire point. 

The surprise is that she's capable of thinking about anything else. When she arrived home, she wasn't sure it was possible. It just goes to show that anything can be accomplished with enough wine. 

The carpet under her back is soft and the lamps around the room cast a warm glow over her. The low chattering of newscasters drones from her sound system. If she tilts her head, she'd be able to watch the story unfold on-screen. 

She opts not to. 

The ceiling might need to be repainted. Maybe she should stop letting her guests smoke indoors. There's a perfectly good balcony overlooking the Financial District just down the hall, after all. 

Blinking up at the very slightly discolored ceiling, it occurs to her that the rhythmic banging at the edge of her attention may be someone at her door. 

Her brain feels foggy. She wouldn't put it past herself to order dinner to be delivered, since she's clearly in no state to be driving. With a monumental effort, she peels herself off the floor and shuffles to the front door of her condo. As the banging gets louder with her approach, her confidence and irritation rise in unison. 

"Okay, alright!" she raises her voice to be heard as she fumbles with the lock. 

Frustration peaks when the door slides open, then dies in her chest when she sees who was knocking so insistently. Nocte's standing with his hands shoved in his pockets and sheepish guilt etched into his face. He actually changed into street clothes this time. An oversized hoodie works wonders for hiding the blasters he surely has strapped to himself underneath it. It's strange to see him in it, rather than his usual combination of armor and medical scrubs.

He almost looks younger, despite the grey threaded through his hair. 

"Shaefa said you left early," he says carefully, interrupting her thoughts. Straight to the point, as usual. It's not an accusation but it is a question. 

The days Saleese cuts short are few and far between. 

"Only by an hour or so." She shifts and waves him inside. "We had that vote this afternoon."

Bile stings the back of her throat, but she swallows and walks back to the kitchen with her head high. 

"I heard." Of course he heard. It would be foolish to think he hadn't. 

No empty consolation follows. 

By some miracle, Saleese manages to extricate another wine bottle from the cabinet without breaking it. After popping the cork, she sidles back to the living room and sits on the floor with her back to the couch. The room seems hazy in front of her unfocused eyes. 

She finds that wine tastes like shame and drinks it anyway. 

The cushions at her back dip when Nocte sits down, tucking his knees up against her shoulders. He doesn't talk, doesn't push, and Saleese wants to scream that it's more consideration than she deserves. She wants to rage and tear and sob until her body gives out on her. Instead, she pulls a long drink straight from the bottle then passes it back to Nocte. 

When it's half empty, he sits forward and starts carefully pulling pins and ties from the tangled mess of her hair. Once, she was surprised by his dexterity, a comment she voiced and was bluntly reminded of his training background. Now, she thinks about a childhood spent between military drills and a medical curriculum. She wonders how hard it is to commit one's existence to healing and destruction, simultaneously. It's a thought she will not be voicing. 

His fingers thread carefully through her hair until it's free of all fasteners, then gently detangle the knots that came from hours on end at work followed by sprawling on the carpet. She doesn't realize that she'd nodded off until he puts the empty wine bottle on the coffee table, a faint clatter of glass on wood. 

"Sorry," he murmurs, unfairly quick to notice her waking. 

"What could you possibly have to apologize for?" she asks before she can stop herself. 

"Waking you up when you clearly aren't feeling well?"

Part of her resents him for his empathy. Misguided irritation rears its head again. 

"Well, don't," she snaps - or tries to snap; it comes out too tired to have any bite. 

Nocte sighs softly behind her, barely audible. "Are you okay, Saleese?"

"I'm fine."

His silence could be skepticism, or it could be him deciding not to argue when she's certainly not fine.

"I'm fine," she repeats. 

"Okay."

"I am."

"Okay," his voice goes hard. He rarely raises his voice around her, she noticed it ages ago, but tone goes a long way. This tone is on the verge of a warning to drop it if she won't tell the truth. "I'm here if you want to talk about it, but I won't force you to."

If she's honest with herself, she doesn't know how she would even begin to talk about it, even if she wanted to. Tears burn her eyes against her will. 

Only when she's absolutely certain that her voice will be steady does she admit, "I think I messed up this time."

There's no way around it. She fucked up. She fucked up and the final vote count came through and now a new production order is going to Kamino. Another generation of clones will be bred and raised to die for the safety of a Republic that doesn't care about them. They can rationalize it as part of the greater good all day long, but… 

But Saleese has heard the way Nocte and Fox talk about their youngest siblings – the shinies fresh out of training. She's held both of them when they snap. When kids die because of their orders, or because they couldn't save them, or because they couldn't be in two places at once. She's heard them both spiral out about being treated like canon fodder. 

A quarter million new shinies will be born. How many of them will survive?

"Hey," Nocte says and slides off the couch behind her, pulling her back into his chest. "It'll be okay. Maybe not for a while, but eventually. You're doing everything you can."

Everything she can. 

She wants to jerk away from him, but she can't even do that. She doesn't want to turn around and cry into his shoulder, but she can't seem to help it. She doesn't want him to wrap his arms around her in that way that feels like safety, but he does it anyway and she doesn't stop him. 

"You wouldn't," she chokes out, "if you–"

"Saleese," he stops her, "I don't care. It doesn't matter. We're here now, right? The only way out is through, so we'll go through and we'll beat this thing and then we can talk about ifs or buts all day long. But we have to get through, first."

It sounds hollow, but she's too tired to fight him on it. She wants it to be true. She wants to believe it. She wants Nocte to believe it. 

Neither of them do, but it's enough. Until they get through. 

writing tags and taglist form, dm to be removed

@willowworkswithwords @saradika @catboy-kenobi @dikut @voidika @mandoposting @certified-anakinfucker @milf-plokoon @secretlyatimelady @spaceydragons @tayylie @moonstrider9904 @thelove-ablepenguin @maulpunk @frietiemeloen @spacerocksarethebestrocks @zinzinina @quinnqueens @thefact0rygirl @misogirl828 @amyroswell

[purgetrooperfox]

"we should go skinny dipping" for noctitra?

[ prompts ]

prompt: skinny dipping

pairing: Nocte/Kit Fisto/Dara Idella (@spacerocksarethebestrocks)

tags: T, M/M/F, polyamory, surprise vacation, beach trip, non-sexual nudity (maybe semi-sexual but it's not overt at all)

ao3

big shoutout to Madz (@spacerocksarethebestrocks) for the polycule brainrot and also for beta reading this for me <3

It's something of an anomaly for Nocte to get deployed offworld.

His post is on Coruscant, running the ins and outs of the Guard's medical wing, chasing down commanding officers who refuse to account for their own health, doing his best to shield his shinies from the ugliness surrounding them. Even brief leaves of absence create a backlog of work that, frankly, are rarely worth the reprieve. It may not be the job he expected, back on Kamino, but it's the one he got. And he's damn good at it.

So he doesn't get pulled away, almost as a rule. Even if it wasn't such an inconvenience, he doesn't have a traditional battalion to follow to the frontlines. The need simply isn't there.

All of which makes it a shock when Dara requests a medic to escort her to Scarif, all the way in the Outer Rim. Not a Jedi Healer (that would be overkill), not a civilian medic (she'd hate to put them at risk), not a small squad of Coruscant Guard medics (surely it makes sense to send as few as possible). She specifically requests one of the Guard's CMOs, with a note that she would prefer they assign Nocte to her.

When any Jedi bothers to request one particular trooper, it's hard to rationalize denying them.

That's how Nocte finds himself in a civilian transport shuttle, kitted out in unpainted armor like a shiny, with Dara at his side. They draw more attention than he would like. Far more. A lone Jedi with only a single trooper. It's strange. Nocte can't really blame them for staring.

He also can't speak up to ask what the hell is going on, not in such a poorly secured space. His helmet speakers are turned off and that won't change until they land.

The trip to Scarif takes 95 hours. Six flights; five passenger carriers and one cargo craft. Five refueling depots. Countless scenarios where if push came to shove, the sheer volume of bodies could overwhelm them with ease. Before they board the last ship, Dara shoves a change of clothes and a large pack into his arms. So goes the bulk of his bodily protection, stuffed into a backpack and exchanged for what amounts to hiking gear and a mask. Dara swaps her robes for street clothes as well. As much as Nocte hates it, they practically disappear from watchful eyes.

With the end in sight, he assumes that the worst is behind them. They situate themselves in the cargo hold of a freighter and despite himself, he almost relaxes.

It proves to be a mistake.

The last leg of their journey is less a landing than a freefall.

More specifically, it's Dara giving him a rushed minute to strap on a parachute then ushering him out of the bay and into open air.

Only when he's collapsed on the ground after cutting himself loose from his 'chute - which got tangled in a tree and left him dangling precariously - does he tear off his mask, bury his face in his arms, and curse loudly. In several languages. Colorful enough that even Wolffe would chastise him.

Dara knows better. She waits for him to peel himself from the damp, pungent dirt and come to her.

"What," he says evenly, "the Sith-fearing fuck."

"Are you hurt?" is, of course, her first question.

Nocte blinks at her. Her clothes are as torn up and filthy as his own, but there's no evidence of injury. Granted, she's not up and walking yet. They'll both be bruised, at minimum.

"No. Are you?"

"No." She stands with as much grace as he's come to expect and steps into his space, searching for something on his face. "Welcome to Scarif."

"Dara–"

"No one outside the GAR and the Order knows we're here," she continues. "No one knows exactly where we are on the planet. We're alone, or as close to it as we can be."

"I still don't–"

"Do you trust me?" The words alone are almost accusatory, but her tone borders on pleading.

"Dara."

She crosses her arms and raises a brow. "Well, do you?"

Nocte's shoulders slump as he blows out a sigh. "Of course I do. You know that."

"Then trust me," she says, smiling sharply. "We have a couple miles to walk, then I'll explain everything."

—

A couple miles roughly translates to a 15k hike over uneven jungle terrain. They don't talk much, only breaking the silence with warnings about the route or to relay oncoming transmissions. It gives Nocte enough time to conclude that Dara probably has her reasons for being cryptic. She's never led him astray before, and he does trust her with his life.

His frustration fizzles out. The brain-numbing sameness of putting one foot in front of the other eventually becomes similar to a light meditation. When the jungle breaks out onto a sprawling beach with soft sand and crystalline water, it threatens to take his breath away.

When he spots a tiny log cabin further along the treeline, and Kit gods damned Fisto standing shirtless in its doorway, confusion wipes away his newfound peace of mind. Kit heads toward them and Nocte turns back to Dara, knowing that his question will be written all over his face. And for whatever it's worth, she cuts straight to the point. Just like she always does.

"So," she says, scratching the back of her neck sheepishly. "There's no mission here. Not really. I'll have to take a day before we leave, but we have nine days to treat like a vacation. This was… not the only way, but a way to get you some time off and away from the city. Plus, Kit was able to dump his battalion on a different beach, give them a break, and meet us here. I couldn't explain where anyone else might hear, since this is probably breaking so many GAR rules, but yeah."

And that's just. "You're completely ridiculous," he manages through disbelief. "You could've warned me, though. I'm– shit, I was so stressed about this. All of that travel? The lack of security?"

That edge of concern returns to her face and her gaze drops to the ground as she takes a breath. "I know. I'm sorry, love. I wanted this to be a surprise, but it's tricky with all the military restrictions and scheduling conflicts and everything else. I'm sorry."

It does help to know that the 422nd is getting some downtime too, and Dara's long overdue for a break. Nocte hasn't seen Kit in person in months either. The war spirals further every day. No one's really, truly coping well.

Maybe rash decisions are warranted.

"I know," he says, softer now. "I understand. It's still ridiculous, and you're ridiculous, and I love you, so I guess that means I'm ridiculous."

"Maybe a little bit." Her tone is still sheepish, but there's a shine in her eyes that Nocte hasn't seen in a long time. "I love you too."

Any further discussion is shelved when Kit skips hello altogether, takes Nocte's face in both hands and crashes their lips together with an air of desperation. A broken noise escapes Nocte before he can stop it, but he can't be bothered to care. All the recent nights, long and cold and lonely, get lodged somewhere in his throat, hitching his breath. Kit's lips are warm and his grip is strong, twisted in the back of Nocte's hair. He feels like home.

If he sways forward when Kit finally pulls away, no one can rightly hold it against him.

If he gets caught smiling like a lovestruck fool when Kit turns to Dara and pulls her into an equally heartfelt embrace, so be it.

They're all alive. They're all together. That can be enough. Kit drags them back to the cabin and into bed before exhaustion knocks them flat on the sand, and it's relief.

Sleep can wait.

—

The ocean on Kamino was a terror. Frigid temperatures shook cadets to their cores and neverending storms sent vicious waves skyward. Their limited aquatic training was among the most dreaded stages of cadets’ curriculum. Pneumonia was unavoidable. Some of them swore up and down that they could never breathe as well afterward, even years down the road. As such, the vast majority of the clones have a healthy fear of open water. Nocte is a part of that majority.

He hasn’t seen an ocean since the war broke out, and hasn’t had any qualms about it. It’s one of the few perks of Coruscant. When they’re on shore leave, Monnk and his boys comment on the absence of natural bodies of water like it’s a flaw instead of a feature.

Privately, Nocte thinks their brains are probably waterlogged. Ongoing proximity to Kit probably has some adverse effects on one’s judgment, as well. Still though.

The ocean on Scarif is peace. Its waters are clear and calm and the antithesis of Kaminoan chaos. He almost can’t believe it. The sunset on the horizon is an explosion of orange and pink that reflects off the ocean’s surface like a mirror, a seamless painting of warm color, broken only by wispy clouds overhead. Birds overhead and the gentle wash of surging water are the only sounds to break the silence; there’s not another soul in sight on the shoreline.

Kit and Dara are around somewhere, but they’ve left him to his own devices since he wandered from their cabin. Maybe they knew this would be significant for him in some way. Maybe they’re desensitized to the simple sight of the ocean. Maybe they’re just preoccupied, napping or fucking or scavenging for snacks. Regardless. For the first time in his life, Nocte stands alone with the sand between his toes and the ebbing tide licking up around his ankles, and some of the weight that presses down on his shoulders at all hours dares to lift. He’ll have to comm Remedy or Carrion in the morning and check in, but for now…

For now, he can breathe.

—

It can’t be long before the sand crunches behind him and the breeze carries over the quiet chatter of Kit and Dara’s conversation; the sun is still a sliver of light in the distance and the temperature is only just starting to drop. Kit presses himself close against Nocte’s back and loops his arms around his waist. The lingering scent of burning charcoal clings to his clothes from cooking dinner. Relaxing back into his hold, Nocte tucks his head into the crook of Kit’s neck.

Dara carries on past them, stepping deeper into the water and turning her face to the sky, Wrapped in loose, flowing layers of light fabric, she cuts a stunning figure, backlit by the remnants of the sunset.

“Quite a view, isn’t it?” Kit voices Nocte’s thoughts precisely, too softly for Dara to hear.

Nocte hums his agreement. “‘s beautiful. I still can’t really believe it. You’re both insane.”

Kit snorts like he must be joking, but it's true. Despite the fact that the consequences seem far away and– well, inconsequential, he can hardly imagine the sheer magnitude of blowback if someone was to find out that they pulled him off duty under false pretenses. Not only that, but it would undoubtedly come to light that the three of them are in a relationship. That could jeopardize Kit's position on the Council, Dara's reputation in the Order, Nocte’s credibility among his family. It could be absolutely catastrophic.

But now? Now, Kit's fingertips trace idle patterns into Nocte’s sides. His breath sends goosebumps up his neck. Dara's bundling her skirts up in her arms as she wades deeper into the water. Now, Coruscant and the Temple and the Guard are little more than a recent memory and a distant concern.

Maybe Kit and Dara are a little bit insane, but maybe you have to be, to find happiness during this hell of a war. Maybe Nocte is just lucky to have them. He twists his fingers through Kit's and breathes and watches.

Dara eventually tires of shying from the waves and of hiking up her clothes, so she pulls them over her head and turns back to her partners with defiance in her eyes. The bundle of her clothes hits Nocte squarely in the face a split second before she folds backwards, disappearing under the surface. At his back, Kit twitches, like Grizzer when he sees a tooka.

Folding Dara's clothes over his arm, Nocte smiles at the unspoken want. "You can join her."

"As can you," Kit says with a smile in his voice.

"You both should," Dara adds, surfacing nearby. Rivulets of water catch the dying light as they roll down the length of her figure and draw Nocte's gaze, over her chest, to the juncture of her hip, to the point where the surface laps at her thighs. "How have we never all been skinny dipping together?"

Kit's body heat retreats when he wades back to deposit Dara's clothes on their beach towel. "Apparently, a kidnapping is what it takes to get Nocte away from the Guard," he calls over his shoulder.

Which isn't fair.

Scoffing, Nocte opts not to dignify that with a response and rolls his eyes at Dara instead. "To be fair, there aren't that many swimming options back on Coruscant, or at least not in the Senate District."

"Have you not been to Zelle's?"

He raises a brow, pointedly. "No?"

"Subterra?" Kit tries. As he rests his hands back on his hips, Nocte grimaces and busies his own fingers with twisting his hair up into a bun, letting the breeze cool the back of his neck.

"Nope."

"What about–"

"Nowhere since Tipoca," he cuts Kit off - not rudely, but he gets a sense that the pair of them could probably name a dozen more spots. When he thinks about it, it makes sense for Nautolans to scope out pools and springs more thoroughly. "Well, we have a lap pool at the gym, but it's not exactly ideal for leisure."

Not that the ocean back home was, but Dara already looks like he kicked her tooka, so he omits that tidbit.

"You've never been skinny dipping, have you?" she asks sadly.

"'fraid not."

Whatever she's about to say gets cut off by Kit abruptly hiking Nocte's shirt up and maneuvering it over his head.

"Hey."

"Hey, yourself," Kit echoes. Thick arms wrap around Nocte's waist as Dara approaches with a smile that radiates mischief.

She takes his face in both hands and kisses him firmly, pressing herself flush against him. Her skin is cool and damp, a stark contrast to the heat of her lips and her tongue swiping into his mouth. With Kit sturdy and unmoving behind him, Nocte can do little more than return Dara's enthusiasm and let them pin him in place.

They've never been shy about their affinity for overwhelming him with affection - trapping him between them, holding him still and then smothering him with words and touches that white out his brain. Privately, he thinks it has something to do with how seamlessly they seem to slot together. Years upon years graced them with synergy that Nocte can't hope to compete with, and he doesn't try. His presence in the equation could be a hiccup or a speed bump or a challenge, but they don't treat him that way. They don't try to force him to fit their dynamic, but they do fold him into it. Physically and otherwise.

Plus, Dara just likes to push his buttons. To see how much he'll take before he starts bucking against the restraints they pose. Her fingers drop to the waistband of his shorts, like she heard his thoughts, as Kit sucks a bruise into the side of his neck, and Nocte has to swallow a whine.

Then, in one swift motion, his shorts drop down around his ankles. Dara beams up at him, all teeth and silent challenge. "This is skinny dipping," she informs him.

Nocte narrowly resists rolling his eyes again and brushes a thumb across her cheek, holding her gently when she leans into his touch. "My life is forever changed," he says, "I see the light, the galaxy suddenly makes sense, and I owe it all to being naked and wet."

Dara snorts and smacks his hand away. "Okay, smartass."

"Hm. You love my smart ass."

"Well, I certainly love your ass. What do you think, darling?" she redirects her attention to Kit, where his face is partially buried in Nocte's hair. "Is he getting the full experience?"

Kit's grip on him tightens, ever so slightly, and alarm bells start to ring.

"I don't think so," he says. His tone is entirely too innocent.

"Don't you dare." Nocte says as he tries to squirm out of his arms, but it’s too late.

In the same instant, Dara steps away and Nocte's world tilts sideways as Kit hauls him up over his shoulder. His jaw-dropping view of the ocean and the sky and Dara, just in general, is replaced by a downward angle over Kit's ass. Usually he wouldn't object to such a vantage point in the slightest, but, well.

The world shifts again, because Kit throws him bodily into the water. So goes his first skinny dip.

some writing tags and taglist form :) dm to be removed

@willowworkswithwords @saradika @dikut @voidika @mandoposting @certified-anakinfucker @milf-plokoon @secretlyatimelady @spaceydragons @tayylie @moonstrider9904 @thelove-ablepenguin @maulpunk @frietiemeloen @spacerocksarethebestrocks @quinnqueens @thefact0rygirl @misogirl828 @amyroswell

[foxafterdark]

LEO MORE LIKE LFG

can I get “leave the heels on." for ujalane OR “after that little stunt? you’re not getting off that easy.” for ujalan(??? Quin and uj)

~Lo

[ prompts ]

bestie you can just say you want Uj to bottom wksbjdbddj ANYWAY I can't stress enough that I didn't edit this but I hope you like it anyway kiss kiss <3

prompt: “leave the heels on”

pairing: ARC Trooper Uj'alayi/Lane Hurosa

tags: 18+, M/NB, OCxOC, M receiving oral, M receiving anal, off-screen drag

wc: 2k+

posted to ao3

Sipping a glass of something electric blue and too sour for their taste, Lane shoves a hand in their pocket and shifts impatiently. Heavy bass thumps rhythmically through the walls, vibrating against their shoulder. In all honesty, they haven't been waiting that long, but excited anticipation makes their fingertips itch and their thoughts staticky.

Like he's fully aware of Lane's admittedly thinly veiled antsiness, Uj meets their gaze in the mirror and smirks. Partially removed eye makeup is streaked and smudged across his face, dark greens and black like shadows from harsh light.

These nights are rare, when Uj slips into a different kind of mask than his helmet. Dramatic pigment and careful contouring cast an illusion over his features, disguising tattoos and scars as temporary cosmetics, tweaking the appearance of his bone structure. In shifting and pulsing club lighting, most wouldn't even recognize him as a clone.

Fewer still would look past the padding and carefully hung fabric that obscure his figure, falsifying curves where none exist and drawing the eye away from broad shoulders and heavily muscled arms. Lane knows him well enough to see through it, but it's an extremely effective shield from bigoted eyes.

"I can practically see the gears turning in your head," Uj interrupts their ogling with the ghost of a laugh on his lips. "Care to share?"

Lane hums and scratches his nails through the back of his hair, carefully de-tangling sweaty curls. "Just thinking about how good you've gotten at this."

Leaning into their touch, Uj snorts softly.

It may not be the answer to his question, but it is true. The first time Lane was granted the privilege of an invite to one of his drag shows, he was still unsteady in heels and clumsy with eyeliner. He was still visibly uncomfortable. It's a far cry from the easy confidence he exudes on this night, fresh off the stage and glowing despite the exhaustion he must feel.

"I had a lot of help," he eventually says, resuming his efforts to scrub away makeup with a thoroughly used wipe and only succeeding in making a bigger mess of his face.

Shaking their head with a huffed laugh, Lane swivels his chair around and plucks the wipe from his hand. "You missed a spot."

"You gonna help me get it?"

"Hm. Maybe." After reaching past him to deposit their drink on the counter, they curl a finger under his chin and tilt his head up. "This is kind of a look, though. Very racoon-esque."

Uj's lips twitch as he fights a smile. "Just wait, I'll singlehandedly bring it into style."

"I think you should start going out like this all the time, to make sure it catches on."

"Maybe I will."

Despite their best effort, Lane cracks first, laughing brightly and bending over to Uj's eye level. "Coruscanti fashion won't know what hit it."

Whatever Uj would've said is muffled when Lane cracks first, again, and crushes their lips together. He tastes like cheap liquor and tobacco and it's nasty and it's intoxicating. They clamber onto his lap and only bang their knee once in the process. It's well worth it when Uj groans into their mouth, wraps his arms around their waist, and stands like they weigh nothing at all. Their lekku curl with approval, even after Uj drops them onto a ratty couch.

As distracting as the broad, bare expanse of his chest is, as much as they want to lean forward and bite into the meat of his shoulder, that's not what does them in. It's the clothing he still has on that makes their mouth suddenly go drier than sand. Namely, the thigh-high, black leather, high heeled boots. Before he can press them back into the cushions, they stagger to their feet.

Lane's height advantage over him is turned upside down as they look up at the self-satisfied grin on his face. Heat surges through their core. Abruptly, because it wouldn't work otherwise, they flip their positions so Uj is seated with Lane standing between his thighs. They murmur a curse and sink to their knees.

"You're a sight, jun tol," they say, running their palms up his thighs to tug at the tight material of his underwear.

"You're eager, cyare," he counters, even as he shifts to comply with their silent request. Lane pulls the offending garment down and off when he lifts up, but stops him before he can unzip his boots.

They brush their lips against the tight leather and murmur, "Leave the heels on."

His breath leaves him in a broken sigh, but he relaxes back onto the couch. Resting their cheek on his knee, they have an excellent view. Though untouched, his cock is hard and flushed, curving against his lower abdomen. Dark, trimmed curls fade into a happy trail, up his stomach - soft over thick muscle - to his chest. His cheeks are flushed and his pupils are blown wide. Waiting.

Lane watches with rapt attention the way breath catches in his chest when they drag their tongue across the leather encasing his lower thigh, then has to look away to suck a hickey into the skin above. Their own pants are getting uncomfortable, but they're determined to ignore it for the moment. They trail wet, nippy kisses up Uj's thighs until they reach the crease of his hip and bite down gently. A muscle in one of his thighs jumps and a calloused hand twitches on Lane's shoulder.

Part of them is tempted to drag this out. It's not often that Uj hands over the reigns like this, much preferring to hold tight control and give rather than receive, and the urge to savor the opportunity is strong. The burn of arousal and alcohol inside them is stronger. The overwhelming smell of musk and the salty taste of sweat and the press of thighs to their sides are all stronger.

They lick a long stripe along the underside of his cock, just to feel it jump against their tongue, before sealing their lips around him and hollowing their cheeks. Uj lets out a low moan that goes straight to Lane's groin. Only by wrapping one hand around his ankle and the other around the base of his length can they resist touching themself. The slide of velvety skin over their tongue is also an excellent distraction. Their eyes flutter closed as they focus in on the whisper light touch at the back of their neck and the stretch of their jaw and the strain in Uj's legs as he fights not to buck his hips.

And that just won't do. Lane hums around him and sinks down until their nose brushes thick curls. Uj blows out a harsh breath, speaking rapid-fire Mando'a that they can't understand, but his tone betrays desperation. The head of his cock nudges at the back of their throat, cutting off their air until they shift back, pressing their tongue up and sucking hard, then sink down again. They set a slow, intense pace. Swallowing around him punches a moan from Uj, curling their tongue around the head of his cock gets the slightest thrust up into their mouth. If their mouth wasn't full, they might smirk at how quickly Uj unravels.

He's never been much good at holding himself together when Lane goes down on him. Despite themself, Lane might let it go to their head. Just a bit.

Bobbing their head faster, they move a hand to lightly brush their fingers against his balls, then further back. With practiced motions, they knead just so, up, and there.

Uj swears loudly.

Every muscle in his legs goes taut and his hips snap up, testing the limits of Lane's gag reflex. Their brain goes a little fuzzy as he holds them in place and fucks into their mouth. Everything narrows down to his cock, hot and thick and heavy, chasing wanton pleasure.

Lane's pants are inordinately tight and decidedly uncomfortable, but they've come like this before. Untouched, on their knees, grinding against whatever grants a ghost of friction. The filthy promises spilling from Uj's lips and the ache of his cock at the back of their throat are like a drug.

On a particularly rough thrust, they choke, swallow, groan, and Uj comes down their throat. His hand is tight around the ba k of their neck, holding them down, and they can't breathe, and they can't think beyond sharp satisfaction. Distantly, they feel their lekku entwine in a tight twist. Right when their lungs start to burn, he lets them up to suck in a breath.

"You'll be the death of me," Uj declares, his voice thick with naked lust.

Swallowing hard and still panting shallowly, Lane grins up at him. "Only if I actually manage to suck your soul out someday."

He huffs a laugh and lets his head drop onto the back of the couch. Lane takes the opportunity to stand and press a kiss under the corner of his jaw. "I wanna fuck you," they murmur, scraping their teeth against his ear. Uj shudders. "Wanna bend you over this shitty couch and see if I can make you come again on my fingers. Then I wanna fuck you."

"Fuck," he replies, eloquently.

"You want that?"

"Yeah."

"You have lube?"

"At the counter. Top drawer on the right."

"Perfect." They kiss him a last time, letting him lick past their teeth and undoubtedly taste himself, then shuffle across the room to get what they need.

"You're wearing a lot of clothes," Uj remarks as they turn back to him, shucking off their shirt in the process.

"I was distracted." He doesn't move until they pause between his knees and tug on his hands. "C'mere."

With an exaggerated grunt, he straightens and pushes to his feet. It's impressive, his ability to stay steady in heels and kiss Lane like he's trying to consume them and maneuver until he's sandwiched between their body and the arm of the couch. His fingers drop from their jaw to their belt, deftly unbuckling it and loosening their pants enough to slip his hand inside. The sudden freedom and friction - just his palm grinding against their boxers - is enough to draw a soft moan from them.

They really won't be able to last long.

So they squirm out of Uj's grip and raise a brow at the all-too-innocent look on his face.

"What?" he asks.

"Just trying to guess what you're plotting in there." They tap a finger to his forehead before squeezing his hips and turning him around, brushing their lips against the back of his neck. "Now bend over for me, spitfire."

His knees don't bend when he doubles over and plants his elbows on the armrest. Palming his ass, Lane plants a kiss high on his back, just beside the plating around the socket for his cybernetic. As expected, Uj rocks back into their hand - eager - as they trail kisses down his spine.

Neither of them have much patience left. Uj rumbles a deep groan when lube-slicked fingers spread him apart, generously coating the rim of his ass and letting him adjust to the cold. He's tense, but clearly trying to shove aside his nerves. "Come on," he rasps, angling to fuck himself back onto their fingers.

"Easy," Lane murmurs. They rake their gaze appreciatively over the rippling muscle of his back and squeeze his hip, a gesture of silent support.

For all of the tension corded through Uj's shoulders, he takes Lane's finger with ease. He pushes back as they press inside him. He whines, high and needy, when they can't get any deeper. And gods—

"You're so fucking tight," they breathe, burning, aching.

Maybe they rush a second finger after only a few languid thrusts, but Uj meets them with enthusiasm. Curling their fingers against the bundle of nerves inside him earns them increasingly desperate noises and increasingly incoherent babbling. A third finger follows the first two.

"Lane," Uj says through a pitchy sigh, "if you don't fuck me now, I'm gonna–"

They withdraw their fingers and shove the rest of their clothes down around their ankles in a smooth motion. "Gonna what?" they ask, slicking themself and lining up with the fluttering entrance to his body. "Leave? Turn the tables?" Demonstratively, they grip the back of his hair, tight. "I think you'll take what I give you, whenever I give it to you. Won't you?"

Before he can answer, they rock forward just enough for the head of their cock to disappear inside him. And it takes everything to stop there. Lane can hardly think.

"Yeah," Uj moans, mercifully, "I'll take it– fuck– please."

"Good boy."

Only knowledge of Uj's limits lets them fuck down into him in one long, hard thrust. Tip to root, they bury themself in the furnace-hot vice of him. The pace they set is unforgiving - fast and hard enough to shove Uj down onto his elbows. They're pressed close enough to feel the leather of his boots against their knees. They're deep enough to feel every contraction of muscle, every ripple and rush of arousal. Again, the world narrows, this time to Uj's hole ceding to them like there's no other care out there. Like he was born to take them.

Desire drips like liquid flame down their spine and pools lows in their stomach. "I'm close."

"Me too," Uj sobs into the crook of his elbow.

"Gonna come in your ass," they carry on, largely on autopilot. "Gonna make you feel me tomorrow, with every little cramp."

"Come in me–"

"'Cause you're mine."

"Yeah."

"Say it."

"I'm yours."

Digging their nails into his hips with the force of their grip, Lane snaps their hips forward and true to their word, paints his insides. Pleasure explodes behind their eyelids like fireworks and twists through their core. Everything fades out for a beat before ebbing back. When they blink they eyes open again, they're collapsed onto Uj's back, still buried inside him.

Swallowing colorful language, they slowly, carefully, pull back and out to a way shlap. Uj huffs, but Lane is past caring about involuntary bodily noises. Instead, they wait for him to sprawl onto his back and then situate themself comfortably on top of him. His chest makes a wonderful pillow, and they tell him as much.

"Oh, thanks," he snorts. "I see that's all I am to you, an all-purpose body pillow."

"Yep."

"Ass."

"Yep."

"You're lucky I'm happy to be your body pillow."

They hide their smile in his chest, breathing him in. "I know."

[note: Ryl is tricky but I'm using "jun tol" to mean "my fire"]