Clone Wars Writings

”At least the meteor showers break things up,” you offer, waving a hand towards the console, “So you can’t say there’s nothing that happens here.”

The next wave of raining rocks would be in an hour of course, though the only thing different to do for the two men manning the station is press the button to activate the facility’s shields.

Hevy rolls his eyes. “Baby,” he says, voice almost cooing the pet name he’d started calling you, “you’re starting to sound like Echo.”

You glance at him for a moment as your lips curl into a smile.

“So what if I am?”

”Then that means I should start callin’ you Echo-2.”

”Maybe jus’ ‘Two’,” Cutup offers with a chuckle. “It’ll stick much better that way.”

”You’re right,” Hevy agrees with a nod of his head and a smirk on his lips. “And then we’ll hafta tell Echo himself when he wakes up.”

In almost any other situation, you’d be touched to get a nickname from your squad. Names were a precious thing, after all, and earning a nickname as a spouse is no less important than a clone earning their own—it’s not something you’d expect an outsider to understand the subtleties of.

But, as much as you’d be touched otherwise, their teasing is obvious. You feel your cheeks go red-hot as the two clones laugh, but Hevy’s gentle hand on your shoulder keeps the feelings of embarrassment from getting too sharp against your thoughts.

”We’re not really gonna start callin’ you that, baby.”

”It would be the silliest nickname ever,” you huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “Even Droidbait’s name sounds like it has a better story behind it.”

”Not really!” comes a call from across the room, where the namesake clone sits at another monitoring station.

The three of you laugh together with Droidbait’s answer, a moment of gentle absurdity breaking up the otherwise dull hours of the shift at the consoles. If nothing else, your presence seems to be offering entertainment to Hevy and Cutup both, which are particularly bothered by the concept of boredom.

A few minutes pass without a word to break up the silence, just the gentle beeping of the monitoring station and the occasional song humming through the outer-rim broadcast that Droidbait has playing from one of the speakers.

It’s… quiet again, as it always is in the background of things. There’s scarcely a thing to do but stare at the empty screen and feel a gentle lull of drowsiness start to tug at your eyes—so you shouldn’t have been surprised when Hevy started to get handsy.

He’s had a hand on your shoulders since the moment you decided to sit down with him and lean into his side, so you don’t notice when that hand shifts from idly stroking the back of your neck and instead starts curling around your body so that his fingertips are at your throat, then slipping beneath the collar of your shirt to stroke your collarbone, then sternum, then-

Your body jumps almost instinctively when his fingertips pinch one of your nipples.

”Hm?” Hevy says, acting as if totally unaware. “Something wrong?”

You stiffen your back and reach a hand up to touch where his is /clearly/ still half in your shirt, eyes locked with his.

”Hevy,” you say, expression mixed between surprise and embarrassment while you try not to think about how he keeps teasing you between a thumb and forefinger, “you are actively on a shift.”

”Really? I haven’t noticed,” he turns his gaze momentarily to a screen showing the empty swath of the moon’s landscape, pockmarked by previous meteor showers. Afterwards his eyes turn back to you.

They are absolutely mischievous.

You are desperate not to let his touch break your firm expression—not of non-consent, just flushed-face judgement.

”I swear, if sergeant O’niner catches you…”

”He’s busy on the other side of the outpost with Fives,” Hevy purrs, his hand getting bolder as he gropes at your chest with open interest. “Besides, if he really gets mad then I’ll take all the blame.”

There's a gentle couch beside both of you, and your eyes quickly turn to see Cutup watching with eager interest. He raises a brow and chuckles.

”If I take half of th’blame, can I get in on half the action?”

”Fuck yeah,” Hevy answers before you can even open your mouth. “Last I checked, sharing is quite the virtue—wouldn’t you agree babydoll?”

”I didn’t-“ you fumble for words, warm face growing even hotter as the man turns so that both hands are actively trying to remove your shirt. “This is a horrible idea. Why /here/?”

”You said it y’self,” Cutup coos, his voice suddenly much closer to your ear, “We’re on duty. Can’t leave the console ‘cause someone’s gotta keep an eye on it.”

”Well, if only one of us needs to be looking…” Hevy‘s words trail off, but you can imagine that he and Cutup are sharing a look with one another—a horrible, dreadful, mischievous look.

It doesn’t take them more than a minute, tops, in order to get your shirt off. It’s lined with an anti-blaster material, but offers just as much resistance as you do in slipping it over your head: absolutely none. For all you protest, there really isn’t a sizeable part of you that doesn’t want to give into the clone’s hormonal urge. There is something a bit hot in getting fucked like this admittedly, in the open of the command room. You can feel Cutup’s eyes watching every motion as he sits back in his chair, glancing only occasionally at the observation feed from outside while Hevy continues to run his hands over your naked chest and purr in your ear.

”You must really wanna get fucked like this if you’re not stoppin’ me, baby.”

The petname sounds positively lascivious when he says it like that, voice so low that it’s nearly a growl. His hands roam further down, until they’re playing at the top hem of your pants and slowly undoing the belt holding them up—the joy of clothes for spouses often being too small or too large, simply depending on what was available.

While Hevy is messing with that, Cutup leans forward in his chair and props his chin on the heel of his palm.

”C’mon, sweetheart, give us an answer.”

”… please…”

“What’s that?” Hevy asks, lips brushing the back of your ear. “Thought I heard somethin’.” And just to make a point, he pulls his hands away from where they’ve practically undone your pants, just one movement shy of stripping your body of clothes from the stifling heat.

The soft noise of dismay you make must have been arousing, because both men stare at you like starving animals, pupils blown wide and their breathing quick. They look at one another as if confirming that to be a positive answer before you finally whine and pull Hevy’s hand back towards your pants.

”Yes,” you whisper, mouth suddenly feeling quite dry. “Please, take me like this. Here.”

”The man seems all too eager to remove the last bit of clothing from your body, leaving the layers in a pool of cloth at the base of the consoles and chairs. Before you can even breath you’re sitting on Hevy’s lap, his strong arms tugging you so that your back is to his chest and your hips precariously grinding back into a hard shape swiftly realized to be his cock. When the man had the time to undress you, remove the plastoid plate between his thighs and undue the fasteners, you’re not quite sure—and at this point, you’re just grateful to feel his naked flesh against your own.

”C’mere, baby,” the man coos in your ear, one arm wrapped securely around your waist while the other is out of sight—you’re not sure what he’s doing with it until he brings bare, gloveless fingers tips to your lips. “Why don’t you get these wet?”

You allow them with silent consent between your lips and against your tongue, sucking on Hevy’s fingers albeit sloppily as he purred dirty, half-heard whispers in your ear while grinding his cock between your thighs. The ache in your belly has twisted into something truly horrible, a need so strong that the mere debauchery of the moment is enough to make your nerves feel raw. Your tongue presses between the two fingers in your mouth, trying desperately to make them split-slick enough to meet the man’s satisfaction; it doesn’t take more than a minute before he’s gently pulling them back out, gleaming wet with saliva.

”Good job,” he murmurs, appreciatively. “Wanna make sure we get you wet enough for me, babydoll.”

His words send a shiver down your spine—for all his rugged personality, Hevy was never anything but a gentleman to you, even in moments like this. He seems to know all the buttons to push to make you need him all the more.

Still with one arm wrapped around you, his other moves down between your legs, fingertips prodding gently at your entrance. The spit may have not been entirely necessary in terms of lubricant, but it certainly did help in terms of arousal; you need him so much, want him so dearly, it’s hard not to shiver when Hevy finally dips his fingers inside of your body and harder still not to moan his name too loudly.

”Would’ja look at that,” Cutup says, his voice bringing you back into the moment. Your eyes shoot open (not realizing they were closed) and upon a glance to the other side of the console chairs, you find the man equally disrobed as Hevy—cock out and wrapped in a gloveless hand. He’s stroking it over carefully as his eyes linger over your body, hungry like a predator.

He smirks even wider when he sees you looking. “Don’tcha you worry now, sweetheart, you’ll get your turn on me soon enough.”

Oh. Oh. You had known somewhere in the back of your head that you would wind up taking care of both Hevy AND Cutup—it simply came with the territory of being in a polyamorous relationship with several men under a lot of stress—but you didn’t think about the /how/. Somehow, the idea of being passed between them, used and watched like a toy and show, it only made you more aroused. Your skin prickled with nervous desire, your heart racing and your belly hot and twisting with eagerness that only grows the longer you watch Cutup stroke himself while watching you.

You smile at him as best you can, face hot but body knowing exactly what to do in the moment as Hevy’s careful fingers ease your body open.

”You good, baby?” He asks gently. You nod, arms reaching so that you’re almost hugging yourself where his arm is around you already. Hevy breaths out, and then growls, “Good. Need t’ make sure you’re ready to take my cock—don’t wanna be breaking our precious little spouse now.”

He slides in with relative ease. Though the working of his wet fingers had helped a little, it’s mostly your arousal and need that helps him slide balls deep within the aching grip of your body.

Hevy wastes no time to start thrusting; the motions are hard, slow, and deep, angled so that they are almost perfectly striking what feels like a deep bundle of nerves desperate for stimulation. As if that isn’t enough, his free hand reaches down between your thighs and reminds you, keenly, of how deftly those fingers are with the many weapons he likes to train with.

You moan, words a garbled mess of need, and hold his arm around you in a desperate need to be anchored.

”Yeah, yeah—hold onto me, babydoll…” Hevy purrs, voice straining. “Tell me how much you want me.”

”… Hevy…” the sound of his name is a whisper. You’re getting closer, closer—and then, suddenly, the man stops moving. His cock sits inside of you.

”Say it louder,” he growls. The words are firm, a command. You’re hesitant to speak much louder if only out of embarrassment, not wanting to draw attention towards the carnal act of desperation you are partaking in with Hevy and Cutup—but the need to orgasm outweighs the nervousness.

”Hevy,” you whine, “Please, Hevy, make me cum—“ lungs burn with a need for air, your breathing too quick and shallow. “Hevy, Hevy, Hevyyy-!”

”Perfect,” he murmurs, then immediately begins moving his hips again—so fast and hard that it makes the chair squeak beneath the weight of both of you. No more than ten seconds pass before both of you are cresting over orgasm, the sweet blossom of heat coming unfurled with a shout into the cold air of the outpost.

The man growls as he presses inside you one last time, deep and possessive, and fills you with his seed that you don’t need to think twice about for one reason or another and enjoy the messy warmth all the same. Hevy takes a few moments to press a kiss to the nape of your neck, then carefully helps to lift your hips enough that his cock slips out from you.

You’re not able to take more than a moment to think before Cutup, who has pushed his chair closer to you, reaches out a hand and carefully takes your chin in his hand.

”Doin’ alright?” He asks, tone delicate with concern. The nod of your head confirms that you’re alright, simply tired from the orgasm and settled in the sweet afterglow.

With one hand still stroking his cock over, Cutup smirks and pulls your face towards his so that he can kiss you—it’s deep and needy. “Lil’ sweetheart lookin’ all tuckered out. Don’t worry then, I’ll do all the work for you.”

It doesn’t take much for the two men to shift you from one lap into another. You’ve seen their strength firsthand, their bodies perfected physically and biologically to handle gear and weapons that must have weight as much or more as you do. Cutup positions you comfortably astride his hips, and it doesn’t take much effort for his cock to slip inside you, your orgasm leaving muscles lax and Hevy’s orgasm leaving you dripping wet.

He was honest about doing all the work; Cutup’s hands hold your hips firm, but gentle, lifting you just enough so that his own body can close the gap between you over and over again as he races towards his own orgasm. You don’t think that you’ll be able to cum again, but there’s a satisfaction in feeling the man inside you and knowing that you are making him feel so good.

”Cutup,” you lean forward and whisper in his ear, voice low and sweet. “Oh, Cutup—please—won’t you cum inside me too?”

The poor thing must have been so pent-up watching you and Hevy fuck, because that’s all it takes for him to find release. You feel his grip tense on your skin, his motions go stiff and desperate, and the telltale warmth of his orgasm flooding your channel. It drips down your thighs in thick pearly droplets when you shakily pull yourself off of him, a dopey smile on both of your faces all the while.

“Well,” Hevy says, “that’s always a good way to waste some time n’ take the edge off.”

”You turn to look at him, and he’s already seemed to compose himself again—plastoid plate back in its spot, gloves on and even your clothes collected and laying in his lap as neatly as he could gather them up.

The smile on your lips is fueled a bit by the afterglow, but you laugh and raise a brow, “I think you should give me more credit than that.”

”I can say you always make my shifts at observation a helluva lot more interesting.”

A moment passes in silence before, suddenly, a forgotten fourth party in the room finally speaks up.

”Well, I mean—“ you swallow down the rock in your throat. “You can just call me whatever you like! My name is a good starting point, though I mean… a nickname could work. My friends used to call me-“

”Around these parts, you earn a nickname,” Icepick says, as sharp as his name. “And if you do somethin’ stupid or badass enough, then you’ll get one. Until then, you’re just a Civi.”

”Civi…?”

”He means ‘civilian’,” this time, one of the other clones reply—the one who had tried to correct Icepick before. He doesn’t have any tattoos or markings to differentiate himself, but his hair is long, all the way down to his shoulders and pulled back into a ponytail. He offers a smile all the same and says, “Please forgive Icepick, he’s a bit… unfriendly to new people. But I’m Ratchet.”

Scorch, Icepick, and Ratchet. You try to start pushing the names into the depth of your memory as the other clones in Umbra Squadron start to introduce themselves, one by one.

Doc identifies himself as the squadron medic, or as close as he can be as he wasn’t born and trained as one. He claims to be very knowledgeable about field medicine, and seems perfectly happy to start telling a story about one time that he had to patch up Ratchet from a rather gruesome blaster shot to the stomach—but luckily he’s interrupted with the next introduction.

Screwloose seems more comfortable to talk about the weapon he prefers to carry than about himself.

“The uh, DC-15A carbine is a really good and reliable weapon,” he says, never quite able to meet your gaze with his as he speaks. It almost sounds like he’s reciting facts and, after a moment, you realize he’s wringing his hands as he talks. “Standard issue, minimal kickback, and there’s more than a dozen mods to use depending on the situation…”

”He gets nervous ‘round new faces,” another clone says from beside him, arms crossed and posture nonplussed about the entire situation. “Name’s Dread, short for Dreadnaught. I handle the big guns and the bigger clankers.” He laughs after a moment, and the man’s body language finally loosens as he wraps an arm around the shoulder of the next clone to introduce.

Pinpoint isn’t just quiet, he’s entirely mute, or he is at least to you. Dread explains that Pinpoint is their sniper, and he just… doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t really talk to anyone outside of other clones, and even then what he says is curt and to the point—a no-nonsense kinda guy. Pinpoint does at least offer you something of a half-smile and a quiet wave, and you offer it in kind.

Next is Knick and Knack, a pair of clones who apparently earned their names not only for being nearly inseparable from one another, but also because they had a bad habit of picking up countless useless bits from missions—a shiny rock, a pretty bead, something or another that wasn’t against the regulations.

Last but certainly not least was Trigger—he stood beside Scorch when everyone came into the rec room, and called himself the second-in-command of the squad. He seemed a bit more tense than most of the rest, a bit less inclined to meet your eyes or offer much information about himself.

But that was all of them. You look at each of the clones one by one, committing each name to memory as best as you can in the short time you had been given them. Even if you were assigned to an entire squad, your work was certainly cut out for you; keep an eye on these boys.

“Well, we’re not the fanciest lot in the army,” Scorch jokes, “but Umbra squad isn’t short on good men fighting for the Republic.”

”I can see that,” you reply, trying to keep the smile on your lips when your heart is beating rapidly within your chest. All of their eyes are on you, watching, waiting; what will you do next? What will you ask? It’s weird to think that this is the first day to an entire relationship with each of these soldiers—one that very well may dive deeper than mere companionship, given the fact that you had indicated comfort for it on your application.

You take in a breath, then start speaking.

”Well, you already know my name, but let me tell you a little more about myself. I’m from Coruscant, born and raised there-“

”Is it true that the city goes all the way down to the core?” Dreadnaught asks. Pinpoint’s expression beside the man grows curious in tandem.

The problem begins with the fact that the Companion Program was created and approved by the Galactic Senate entirely without intervention from Palatine himself. It's a rogue variable, a completely unplanned part of the war, but the most dangerous thing is that Palpatine completely disregards it as being completely beneath him and his grand scheme.

So, how does it get through the Galactic Senate? In this AU, the senate and larger public eye has a semblance of sympathy for the clones even at the start of the war--maybe it's because of a rogue journalist, or maybe its just because the clones are seen as the military slaves they honestly are in the existing canon to begin with.

"Companionship is the right of any sentient being," one senator perhaps had argued, "And as long as there are people willing to make use of their skills in medicine, psychology, emergency first aid and so on, then there is no reason they can't be an asset to the Republic and a companion to its army."

The Companion Program is shuffled through the senate one way or another, and soon it becomes apparent that a large number of civilians are plenty happy to join--largely those from less wealthy or safe-guarded planets, though there's a multitude from Coruscant that apply to be part of the program as well. The applicants that make it through are those who are fairly well-prepared to deal with the fact that they are the equivalent of deployed military dependents, but it is that exact same situation that makes them a prominent culture of people within the Grand Army of the Republic.

Stress can do a lot of things to people, but in the case of war and armies, it often builds a sense of camaraderie that is impossible to develop elsewhere. Members of the Companion Program (soon casually called 'spouses') often get to know one another very well--and an entire network of relationships between spouses and the clones they're assigned to is woven from loose threads into an entire, intricate tapestry that stretches from one side of the galaxy to the other.

And it was this very network that Palpatine didn't expect--a group of people that cared about one another and the clones they had been with (for some spouses, since the start of the war), and it didn't take long before a rumor would come rumbling through: there's something wrong, stories of nightmares weaving with the offhand report of a clone who had gone berserk and tried to kill a Jedi, one spouse going missing when they tried to investigate the cause of a strange recurring headache a member of their squadron was experiencing.

It's one little piece of the puzzle after another, coming together until the conglomerate of the Companion Program--which was filled with admittedly experienced civilians across all walks of life, not to be underestimated by any means--learned the secret. The horrible, atrocious secret that was Order 66 and the implant of a control chip inside every clone that came out of Kamino; this discovery would be entirely hushed, kept to only the few who could be trusted with it while general knowledge continue to grow in what they could do to try and stop this from happening.

Spouses with medical knowledge and training enough to be allowed to operate the surgical wards started organizing secret operations to remove chips, while others passed on information they had gathered from the chips itself--going back to Kamino, to a dark plot, an order yet to be given by the very Chancellor himself.

Not every clone is able to be saved when it comes time for Palpatine to send out the call for Order 66. But, by that time in the war, when so many had done so much work in order to stop it, it means that scarcely any Jedi are killed, the clones in majority are spared from their waking nightmare, and Darth Sideous himself is exposed and tried for his crimes against the Republic.