Horny off main

CAPTAIN REX

Rex is awkward—awkward around you when he realizes how strong his feelings are and awkward doing anything about it. He does more fumbling than flirting in the beginning, stuck in his head and panicking about it, but he gets more comfortable over time.

Give him a break, he’s doing his best.

Despite being standoffish in his affections, Rex is a gentleman and he’ll prove it to you in a million little actions. When you’re commuting through Coruscant, he’ll always walk on the side of you closest to traffic. If there aren’t enough seats of everyone at a group gathering, he would immediately get up and give you his. The second that you admit to being cold, he’s giving you some of his spare blacks.

Speaking of letting you borrow his clothes… seeing you wearing them for the first time almost breaks his brain. He just stands there and stares at you, eyes wide and head buzzing. All he can think about is how karking gorgeous you are, and how he can get you to replace your entire wardrobe with his stuff.

Later, he tells you that you can “just keep it”, and that he has plenty of replacements. He is not subtle at all, and thus deserves all the shit he’s going to get for it.

Rex doesn’t often show up to plans that aren’t mission-critical, not unless a few members of Torrent Company drag him along. Or, if he knows that you’re going to be there.

He could be at the Mon Gala, with all the most famous and wealthy beings on Coruscant, and he’ll literally just show up and talk to you the entire time. If he can’t, if he’s trapped in a conversation that’s actually important or you’re pulled away, he’ll watch from a distance until he can make his way back.

Rex knows his priorities. With a little luck, he might just become as important to you as you are to him.

ARC TROOPER ECHO

Echo’s feelings are pretty contained, much like the trooper himself, but the way he looks at you gives it all away.

You can be doing anything and he’ll be staring at you with literal heart eyes, but he can’t help it. You’re cute. He’ll watch you go about your life, perfectly intent until the warmth in his chest spills over and forces his gaze away to sort through his thoughts.

He’s on the other side of the damn room and you’ve somehow made him go all shy.

Echo’s observant—kind of has to be, as an ARC trooper—and he’ll catalog every habit of yours down to the littlest detail. A part of him craves the intimacy of knowing everything about you, something that fuels his quiet delight at being able to suss out what you’re thinking when others can’t. 

More often than not, his insight into you catches you off guard. Convincing others that you aren’t scared out of your mind is practically a job requirement, but somehow, you can never fool Echo. Not even your bravest face can convince him that you don’t need to lean on him, tell him your frustrations, or hold hands under the table.

Usually, Echo keeps to himself, a little closed off to anyone but his closest vode. But the minute you walk into the room, his mood immediately brightens. He’s quicker to smile and laugh; it’s like all his stress melts away, and that doesn’t go unnoticed by the rest of Torrent Company.

Hardcase has sneakily captured more than a few clips of you two, edited over with so many pink filters and glitter hearts that you’re barely recognizable, and circulated them among the vode.

It doesn’t matter if Echo tries to scour them from the holonet, they become so well-known that clones from entirely different battalions will ask him about his cyare.

He's eternally grateful for the Prime’s dark complexion—you don’t even have to lift a finger to get under his skin. You fluster him too easily. He’s helpless but to forgive you, though, when you smile at him the way you do.

ARC TROOPER FIVES

Fives could care less whether other people are laughing at him or with him—he knows he’s hilarious, and that’s enough to satisfy his ego. The only person who makes him uncharacteristically self-conscious is, well, you.

Yes, Echo has (and will) tease him endlessly for this.

Whenever he’s around you, he’d feel an undeniable urge to do one thing: make you laugh. He cracks a joke and immediately peeks over to gauge your reaction. If he succeeds in making you chuckle, snort, or even just breathe a little harder out of your nose, he lights up. You’re gorgeous when you laugh, even more so when it’s because of him. He can’t help but double down on the bit until you’re too weak to breathe.

Complaining about your sides hurting only prompts him to apologize for “being too funny for you to handle”.

Fives is an incorrigible flirt on a good day, but when he’s around you it becomes 1000% worse. He’s guilty of every cheesy move in the playbook—pretending to yawn and stretch so that he can put his arm around your shoulders, asking you to “hold something” and taking your offered hand in his, or even faux-demanding that you kiss his injuries better. 

He means everything he says, but he’s very careful to make his overtures playful. Fives doesn’t want to scare you away if you don’t feel the same.

Being near to you puts him at ease, soothes an itch he didn’t even realize he had before you both met. He unconsciously seeks out contact with you all the time, pressing his knee to your under the table, bumping shoulders, playing with the fabric of your sleeves. Small things.

So, he’s touchy, and about half of the time he doesn’t even realize it. Why should he, when he’s always shared contact freely with his vode? 

Maybe he makes just one too many comments, gets a little too comfortable in your personal space, gives in to his desire to see you flustered—but when you decide to give him a taste of his own medicine, he’s toast. Smile a bit, touch him, and Fives goes from a cocky, formidable ARC trooper to a stammering cadet.

He’s kind of okay with his brain melting, though, because you’re so pleased with yourself. And although he’s hot-faced and grinning like an idiot, he’s your idiot.

LIEUTENANT JESSE

Much like Fives, Jesse is a joker—one of his favorite activities is making fun of you, and in a way that implies you’re the one who’s crushing instead of him. It’s merciless, especially when the rest of Torrent company catch on to the bit. Getting flustered only makes it worse, easier for him to tease you about “getting nervous around him”.

Watch what you say when he’s around, because anything that could be construed as innuendo will be. Ask an innocent question about if clone armor is hot to wear, and watch Jesse’s smirk grow as he says: “I think I should be asking you that, sugar.”

It’s kind of a way for him to test you, figure out how the idea of liking him affects you.

His vode discover his true feelings when he actually shares his food with you, sometimes without you even having to ask. It’s kind of mindboggling to see the same guy who threatened Kix for stealing his rations readily let you eat from his plate.

He’d be so happy if you shared your food with him, too. Even more so if you bring him things that aren’t rations. The closest he’s ever come to straight-up confessing his love for you is when you got a box of Mandalorian uj cake for him because he’d never tried it.

However, playful, joking Jesse can become a no-nonsense bodyguard at the drop of a hat. He has a protective streak a mile long, something that drives him to shield his brothers from allies and enemies alike, and more recently, you. 

Jesse is intimidating as haran, built like a tank and covered with tattoos, and it’s made so much worse when someone’s targeting you. He’s not afraid to get in people’s faces about it, either, over two hundred pounds of ARC fueled by rage and spite. A little “chat” is all they need to get them to apologize to you—though, in Jesse’s expert opinion, they don’t deserve your forgiveness.

All of his bravado melts when you quietly thank him for defending you. That’s his job, sugar, and don’t you forget it.

CLONE MEDIC KIX

Between carrying out his duty to the Republic and ensuring his idiot vode don’t keel over and die, Kix neither has the time nor the energy to be throwing himself at his crush. Even without his job running him ragged, he wouldn’t be the type—no matter how intense his feelings are.

Rather, Kix courts you. From a distance.

While Kix may not have much in terms of credits, he’ll do everything in his power to make your life a little easier; By virtue of his authority and near-legendary status amongst the troops, he has a lot of influence on his side. And if that doesn’t work, well… there’s many reasons why you don’t piss off a medic.

Little acts of service are it for him. Before you even get to the refractory, he’s set aside your favorite “flavor” of ration bar to ensure they don’t run out. If you complain about being tired, you’ll find an extra cup of caff—or a sedative—sitting innocently on your desk. 

Struggling with the mountain of stuff you’re carrying? Kix is hauling whatever items are in reach into his arms before you even ask for help. About to miss the turbolift? He’ll hold the door for you and glare at his vode if they complain too much.

Need a hand to hold during a procedure? Don’t worry honey, he’s got you.

Kix loves that you treat his time with respect, but sometimes getting you all to himself is a high-stakes negotiation. You’ll bicker back and forth, him insisting that no, you’re not intruding on him or his brothers, and you trying to reassure him that he isn’t obligated to hang out with you if he’s too tired or doesn’t want to be around natborns. He knows he isn’t, but you’re oblivious to how much he wants to.

Kix would get so slick about stealing you away. When he has the opportunity, he’ll casually strike up a conversation about field medicine and- oh, you don’t remember that training session? Well, he has a blank space on his schedule today and he’s more than happy to slot you in for a little extra help.

He’d be (quietly) over the moon if you decided to slip into his office and chat with him while he tears through paperwork or runs labs. While he fantasizes about hopes to take you out on a proper date someday, he’s content to bottle up your laughter as he complains about di’kute vode, hoarding the memory for the darkest moments of the war.

CLONE TROOPER HARDCASE

Congratulations! With Hardcase crushing on you, you’ve snagged a two-in-one deal: A personal hype man and an overexcited puppy.

In Hardcase’s eyes you’re superior at everything you do, period. He insists that you’re the best at your job any chance he gets, even going so far as to volunteer your name whenever some mission needs your kind of expertise—annoying, but it’s hard to stay mad at him for long.

Your competence is really attractive to him, and sometimes he forgets you’re not together and lets a few comments slip. Hardcase doesn’t even realize what he’s said after the fact, oblivious to the fact that your face feels like it’s been dipped in lava when he admires “how kriffing good you are at that” and how “hot” it is.

He praises you so much for doing the most mundane things, it’s like a compulsion for him. You could be helping tape him up after a battle and he’s making little observations about how perfect your wrapping is and how gentle you are with him.

Kix overhears this and tells him that he’d better go to you for wound dressing than the medbay, if you’re so much better at it. He just might, if that means he could get you to touch him again.

Hardcase loves your attention, and occasionally that translates into him being intentionally annoying. He’ll pop up all the time when he’s off duty, making himself at home in your office or at your side and bothering you to your wit’s end. He’ll hide your stylus and make you chase him around to get it, or he’ll call you acting as if he has something important to tell you and then manage to keep you on the line for an hour.

The second it seems like you’re getting upset at him, however, he cuts the crap immediately. If you’re not having fun, he’s not having fun, and he wants to make that abundantly clear to you in case… just in case it turns out you’re interested in him the same way he’s interested in you.

CLONE TROOPER TUP

Tup might not be as confident as Kix, or as widely renowned as Rex, or as charismatic as Fives and Echo… and that knowledge can weigh heavily on him. Thinking that, compared to his brothers, he doesn’t have much to offer you is part of why he hesitates to act on his feelings.

Take these thoughts with a mountain of salt—Tup excels at something else, and that’s being an absolute sweetheart. His patience is near-infinite when it comes to you. He’s always happy to explain something (however many times you need) and is the first to lend you a hand if you’re struggling.

Just don’t read too much into his full-body flinches whenever your fingers brush his, the way his words stumble when you get too close.

Being a standard, rank-and-file trooper makes it all the more difficult for him to even imagine catching your eye, but ironically, his status gives him unique opportunities. Doing grunt work around the ship means that you often cross paths, affording him the chance to say hello or strike up a passing conversation. If he’s lucky, he gets the chance to be beside you throughout his shift.

It’s useless to try and thank him for any of his help, he’ll just duck his head and insist that he’s more than happy to give you a hand. Your praise, however, has him sporting a smug little grin for the rest of the day,

The man melts under your hands like butter. You can convince him to do anything if you ask nicely enough, and on more than one occasion he’s left. He regrets it only when you’re half in his lap and doodling on his bare arm, too focused to notice his increasingly flustered demeanor even as you scold him for fidgeting. 

Privately, you worry that people are going to use Tup as a doormat—but if you mention it to the rest of Torrent, their hysterical laughter will shut you up fast. 

Don’t blame them too much, though. The last time Fives mimicked a whip cracking sound within Tup’s hearing range, he was applying bacta for weeks.

As his eyes focused in the early morning light, he quickly realized he was somewhere else. The pillow beneath his head was soft. His back was comfortable on a mattress, not in pain from the hard cot he spent his sleeping and waking hours on in the detainment facility.

A soft sound broke the silence, and Crosshair turned his head.

You were asleep, peaceful and beautiful, your chest slowly rising with each breath.

That’s right. He was here. With you.

Crosshair let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He could feel the familiar panic and anxiety in his gut fading. Seeing you next to him brought him back to reality.

Crosshair slowly lifted a hand, ever so gently brushing his fingers across your cheek.

You smiled, mumbling his name, but didn’t wake.

Your skin was warm and soft. You grounded him.

His fingers trembled slightly, but not from his anguished memories. His hands have steadied ever since being with you, though not fully gone.

Instead, they trembled with emotion. How could someone so perfect, so forgiving, so strong, be next to him every morning when he wakes.

He still didn’t think he deserves this, or deserves you.

He knows it’s a stupid thought, but Crosshair is still amazed daily that you continue to stand by him.

Crosshair had accepted his fate, ready to die in the Empire’s grasp, to rot away in a cell as they took what they needed from him.

All it took was someone to believe in him. Omega didn’t give up on him. Neither did his brothers. Neither did you.

Crosshair pressed his lips to your forehead, shifting himself closer to you, to feel your body fully against his.

You wrapped your arms around him, uttering something before nuzzling into his chest, quickly falling back to sleep.

Crosshair closed his eyes, focusing on both of your breathing. Crosshair felt himself slipping into a dream, a pleasant one filled with your warmth. His last thought before succumbing to sleep was maybe he did deserve this. Maybe it was time to forgive himself.

But that could wait until later. Right now, he just wanted to be held by you.

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Simon sees in slow-motion how you let your keys fall to the floor and you stagger up to him- he’s two shades of scared now, because your balance while drunk is notoriously inexistant. He gives a few hesitant steps in your direction, cautious arms extended in case you fall. Which you do. Right on his chest.

Suddenly, there’s a shortage of air. You are soft and warm. He’s big and close to having a panic attack. Your perfume has so many layers- and he can smell them all. Your hair is touching his neck, involuntary caress, and your hand is holding his bicep. That’s great: the next hundred times he’s at the gym training his ass off, he’ll be thinking of you. Exactly what he needed. As if it wasn’t enough having you haunt his dreams.

Your giggle he’s used to, but it still feels different when it vibrates so close to his ribs. Oh, and what he feels there is your chest, isn’t it? When you smile up at him, he thanks the god he doesn’t believe in that he was too frozen to hug you: it would have destroyed him.

Luckily, he manages to get a hold of himself and slowly push you away. It’s useless, though, because you take advantage of the small distance to grab his chin.

“Si! You’re home early! I missed your pretty eyes…”

He tries to force some sarcasm into his smile.

“You’re drunk.”

You laugh again, taking a step back.

“I just went to get some drinks with the girls, Mary got a promotion and…”

Still talking, you bend over to start unclasping your heels. All Simon can do is swallow, forcing his eyes to stay focused in your clumsy fingers and not in the hem of your dress- that was short to begin with, but now is probably by the middle of your ass. Definitely showing the full length of your legs. And at least, a sliver of your underwear…

No.

No, he reminds himself. Simon forces his face to stop blushing and kneels to help you take off the godforsaken heels. A quick escape from the view that will follow him to bed tonight- and the next couple thousand nights-, but a stupid move overall. Because now you’re smirking at him from above.

It’s fun, seeing his desperation. He’s such a big man, always in control of himself… Making Simon lose his cool always feels like an accomplishment. You mutter a giddy thanks, but still try to untie the ribbon around your ankle, forcing him to grab your hand to take it out of the way.

°°°

“Let me do it, okay? Or we’ll be here all night.”

You pout playfully, but let him do it. When you’re finally on your feet, you sigh and pat his shoulder. So much better. He’s now a couple feet taller than you- it’s always nice to feel comfortably small.

Without looking back, you wobble towards the bathroom. Over your humming, you can hear his steps. Usually, he’s quiet. Sometimes, though, he makes noise on purpose, to make sure you know he’s there. Based on experience, you’d say he hates to scare you.

You don’t close the door behind you. Why bother? You simply kneel to open the last drawer to grab the make up remover. Yeah, maybe the floor is a little cold and leaves your knees slightly red. It’s okay, the counter is cold too when you sit on it. Feels good, your skin is warm and you’re feeling fuzzy.

The mirror shows him looking at you from the door. His arms are crossed, tattoos at full view. Hands clenched.

Wiping your right eye, you try to soothe him.

“You’re home now. Safe. See? Just me. Relax, Simon.”

He chuckles. Sometimes he does that, too. You probably said something he finds almost funny. He relaxes against the door frame, but it still looks forced.

“Mrs. Byrne brought me cookies yesterday. They’re in the blue jar, if you want any. She got a new puppy. She’s grey, some small breed with a lot of hair. Her name is Princess. Sometimes she cries at night. I told Mrs. Byrne it’s okay, I just hope the poor puppy gets used to her new home soon, but she insisted on baking cookies for everyone in the building. I don’t think it bothers anyone, really…”

You keep yapping and Simon slowly starts to look calmer. More like he’s at home, and less like he wants to run away. You finish wiping your make-up off by carefully erasing any traces of red lipstick. It’s a shame, really, because it looks so nice. Simon seems to think so too, judging by the way his gaze caresses your reflection in the mirror.

Instead of just jumping off the counter and going to bed, you start taking your jewelry off.

“…and the café two blocks away has this new carrot muffin- that doesn’t sound tempting, I know, but it tastes so good!”

Okay, maybe you didn’t need to moan. In your defense, they are really that good. And you’re drunk, you’re allowed to have less inhibitions. Simon shifts against the doorframe.

“You need to try them. We could go tomorrow… Or, maybe you’ll want to sleep in. I bet you missed having an actual bed, huh? All warm and soft. By the way, I washed your sheets. They didn’t have our usual laundry detergent, but I got one that smells quite nice. Nothing too strong…”

Simon suppresses a groan. His sheets?

°°°

“… So you can have your beauty sleep. Not that you aren’t beautiful now, you just look tired. But dark circles never hide eyes like yours. Still, it’ll do you good to…”

Beautiful? Him? Is it too late to go back to base? Maybe if he’s a couple hundred kilometers away you won’t be able to see the way his blush makes a return, this time all the way down to his neck. It makes it even harder to not stare at your legs, that swing smoothly, skin reflecting the ceiling light.

Instead, he focuses on your hands, and the way you slide your rings off. You do it slowly, probably because it’s a task that requires a non-alcoholic level of coordination. Somehow, you can keep talking, though.

“… I mean, you are looking good. More muscles. You’re always so fit, I bet your abs are like a table… Like, all firm…”

You interrupt your yapping for a second, just to untangle one of your bracelets from the other. He pictures you eating at his table. Simon stops himself from closing the bathroom door- he isn’t sure which side he would like to stay in.

“And that hair! How come it’s so soft…? I mean, it looks soft. Can I touch it?”

One thing about you in this state is that you just do things. Invading his personal space is one of them. Usually, you just leave his body alone. You cross other lines, teasing and sarcasm being an everyday occurrence. But touching him? Not more than necessary.

Now, however, your hand is on his head. Your tiny fingers- everything is tiny next to him- are caressing his hair. He can feel your nails lightly stroking his scalp, going in gentle circles. Simon realizes he can’t move. The bathroom is not wide enough for him to step away. You’re sitting on the counter, barely leaning in his direction, but you’re everywhere.

Your perfume is in his chest, for the second time in a couple of minutes. It’s burning like his cheeks, and all he can do is stand there. Your eyes are so big and bright, how come they’re in his apartment and not up in the sky with the other stars? And your smile, it’s too round and pink for his sanity.

Not for the first time, he wonders what would happen. How would he live if he gave up and kissed you. If he was just a little brave. Not even brave enough to go for your lips, but for your cheek or your wrist. Maybe your shoulder.

But he’s not that kind of brave. He’s suicidal brave, instead. Heroic brave. The kind of brave that makes him a good soldier and a bad person. Simon is a coward, who can barely swallow a whine when you pull his hair playfully. He hides it by clearing his throat.

“I’ll tell you my beauty secrets when you’re sober enough to appreciate them. C’mon, you need to go to bed.”

Grabbing your wrist is easy. Pulling your hand away from him is the hardest thing he’s ever done. Holding your waist to help you get off the counter, easy. Taking a step away, new world record of hard.

Taking another step back, because you stepped close again; alarmingly harder.

And you step closer again. He doesn’t have the heart to step back this time. All Simon can do is hold his breath while you lean in. You stand on your toes and his hands start shaking. There it is again, your perfume. Your lips. Your smile. Oh, you’re smiling up at him. So, so close. Simon can see the look of want in his own face that’s reflected on your pupils.

“Simon?”

He means to reply, he really does. At the very least a “Yes, love?”- something gallant; something that’ll make you put your hands on his chest. Something that’ll open the door for him to grab your waist again, this time like he’s not hiding. Something that’ll bring you even closer.

Instead, he just exhales. A pathetic, pained, whiny breath. It seems to be enough of an answer for you, though.

“Si…”

He stops himself from nodding.

“You’re blocking the door.”

It takes Simon a second to process. You’re still looking at him with dreamy eyes, hair like a halo in front of the mirror light, cheeks rosy and fresh. When his stupid brain finally comes to terms with what you just said, Simon crumbles.

He throws himself to the other side of the hallway, tongue heavy with shame. It’s like his shoulders are glued to the wall, and his stomach to the floor. You don’t seem to notice, shuffling over to your room while humming the same pop song from earlier.

Sometimes, Simon is sure he must be in hell. He sure deserves it. He sees you walk away- bare feet, naked legs, messy hair- and he’s certain.

Some other times, though, he knows he’s in heaven. Shocking, because Simon doesn’t believe in heaven- and he doesn’t think he’s earned it, either way. But when things like this happen, when you pop your head out of your bedroom door to look back at him, it’s easy to pretend. It’s easy to laugh when you ask him why he’s not putting you to bed.

Simon stills himself and walks into your room. It’s tidy and warm, smells like you, and he makes a mental note to let you decorate the rest of the apartment. If he uses that as scenography for his fantasies- where he lives in your room, where you share it, where he can fall asleep in your space-, then it’s nobody’s business.

Luring Simon into your room is quite easy. Most things you do with him are easy. It makes you giggle again. It’s easy being like this, too. Open and bubbly, no mental barriers to stop you from touching him or saying whatever you happen to think. No inhibitions to forbid you from taking off your dress once you’re facing your open wardrobe.

°°°

You could swear you hear him choke. He coughs, and you ask him if he’s okay. There’s some water on your bedside table, if he wants a sip. You hear his steps. He does, great. You put on an oversized t-shirt and turn around.

His eyes are a little too wide. It’s not easy to catch him off guard: tonight is a lucky one. Simon is not the only one surprised, though- you could swear you’d left your purple vibrator on top of the bedside table, and not on the floor. Oh, well, a problem for tomorrow-you.

As you shuffle towards your bed, he steps back, putting distance between you.

“That’s my shirt.”

Sounds a bit like a question. You climb into bed.

“Nah. It’s my pajama. See?”

You look up at him from under the covers. You curl up, the sheets are cold. Luckily, his stare is hot against your face.

“…sure. Sure, it is.”

Simon doesn’t move. You blink a couple of times, before a yawn takes over.

“You’re not gonna turn the lights off?”

He hesitates. His eyes look at your bed, more than half empty. Then steps forward.

“Goodnight, then.”

Simon bends down and kisses your forehead. You’ll blame the sigh you let out on the alcohol. When he turns the lights off, becoming just a silhouette at the door, you wave your fingers at him.

“Sweet dreams, Si.”

Simon barely sleeps that night. He dreams with your forgotten heels on the bathroom floor, and your smile that looks like sunrise decided to light up his midnight.

°°°

He gives up before the actual sun comes out. His voice is so desperate when he calls Johnny, that his friend barely complains about the time. Simon warns him not to ring the doorbell- and maybe includes a little threat that Soap laughs off.

They are still chatting in the kitchen when you wake up. Luckily, you’re wearing pants now. But, by the look in your tired face, you weren’t ready to find a stranger in your house. Frowning, you mutter something like “good morning”- even though it’s closer to noon.

Johnny smiles, charming as always, and Simon squints. Before it can get too uncomfortable- for you, Soap can be uncomfortable all he wants-, he speaks. He keeps his voice low, anticipating your hungover.

“This is Johnny. Soap, this is my roommate.”

You wave at him and grab a cup. As you’re preparing your late breakfast, you start humming quietly the song from last night. It grabs Soap’s attention.

“Aye, I ken that song. Yer the lassie from last night, aren't ye?”

You freeze.

The music is loud. You yell along, grabbing one of your friend’s hands and making her do a spin. She does the same with you.

°°°

It’s a nice night. The bar started to empty some time ago- no more touchy men to bother you and your friends. It is a little hot, though, so you ask if anyone wants something to drink.

You slide up to the bar, not far from where you friends are still dancing. You need to gesture for the bartender to understand your order over the music, but he eventually nods and walks away. While you’re waiting, you feel someone stand next to you, back resting on the bar. You glance sideways- it’s a handsome man, with electric blue eyes that look at you like he’s found a pot of gold.

“Hi, bonnie. Are ye having fun?”

You smile politely and say yes. He doesn’t seem to hear it, but he understands nonetheless.

“What’s yer name? Ah’m John.”

Again, you reply. He seems nice enough- John’s not looking at your boobs or ass, so it counts as a win.

“Kin ah buy ye a drink?”

Now, he’s forcing you to decide. First option is saying yes, you can let him dance with you the next song and see where it goes. His eyes get more beautiful every second you spend looking at them, and his smile promises fun… Which leads you to option number two: saying no. He’s handsome, yes, but you don’t know him. You think about Simon. He’d scold you for considering going home with a stranger. Besides, he’d kill you if you brought him to the apartment.

Well, it’s not like he’ll find out, will he? Simon will be away for God knows how long.

You offer John your most sincere smile and a cheeky wink.

“Sorry, I don’t drink.”

Just on time, the bartender hands your bottle of water over the counter and you thank him. Without looking back, you join your girlfriends again.

It doesn’t take long for you to decide to head back home. The idea of an empty apartment is weighing on you. At least you can be sad in pajamas when you get home. As you hug your friend goodbye, you see John laughing next to a blonde at the back. Well, at least someone will have a happy night.

“Sorry, I don’t think I remember you.”

°°°

Johnny looks taken aback.

“Ah offered ye a drink, bit ye said...”

You cut him off, still not looking at them.

“Yeah, drinks. I had quite a few of those last night. I don’t remember much, sorry.”

Simon doesn’t like the way you close the cabinets, with a little too much force. Nor does your quick talking calm his nerves. Now he’s fully frowning at Johnny, who looks confused out of his mind.

Before he can keep bothering you, you grab your cup and turn around.

“Tylenol’s in the bathroom.”

His careful voice stops you in your tracks. You look guilty, almost sorry, when you offer a shy smile.

“…thanks, Si. Nice to meet you, Johnny. Sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have had that many drinks.”

Simon can barely hear your steps as you flee directly to your room. Your embarrassment, pink on your cheeks and nose, are added to the collection of things he’ll dream of every time he closes his eyes.

Next to him, Soap has a weird expression.

“Ah met her last night, she ainlie drank water. Ah swear… I watched’er all ni-”

“Shut up, Johnny.”

He doesn’t want to hear it. Doesn’t need to.

He’s worried you’ll hear Johnny’s annoyingly loud voice from your room. You’re innocent enough to think you can fool him. And Simon doesn’t have the guts to let you know that he knows just yet. There’s a reason he doesn’t say anything about the way you smell whenever you come home from the bar- all nice perfume and zero alcohol-, or how he knows you didn’t take any Tylenol. A reason why Simon lets you pretend to be drunk, grab his hair and smile at him. A reason why he himself pretends to believe you.

summer days when price had time off were meant for the two of you. price didn't want to open an email or respond to a phone call. he didn't want to think about work. all that mattered was the lovely lady in his arms.

when he woke up, he buried his nose into your hair and inhaled your scent. he then pulled himself closer to you. those strong arms draped around your middle. you were a good weight in his arms, something to grasp onto and hold tightly.

price learned many years ago that things are easily taken away. people are easily taken away, that was why he held you so close. why, when you two were at home, he lingered like an oversized shadow. his broad hands on your hips as he followed you around the small house you called home.

"good mornin', love." he said softly in your ear. then moved himself as close as he could get without squishing you. his eyes closed for a moment as he felt you stir awake.

you yawned and rolled over onto your back, your arm almost hitting him in the face. you blinked away as you murmured, "good morning, honey." then was greeted to a kiss on the lips from price. you yawned loudly and rubbed your hands against your eyes to get the sleep out of them.

even in the bright early light, you half asleep. you looked beautiful, perfect in ways that price couldn't formulate into coherent words. if he tried he'd only end up gesturing wildly at you until you got the memo.

you two looked at each other, he smiled at you. those blue eyed crinkled at the sight of you, the joy you brought him. he pulled you into his eyes and gave you a kiss on the lips. you melted a little and squirmed against him. you giggled into the kiss, and when he pulled away. the two of you looked at one another.

"you looked beautiful." he said.

you chuckled and snaked a hand under your lover's t-shirt and felt the hair on his body, you chuckled softly, "not as beautiful as you, honey."

price kissed you once more and his hands found the bottom of the t-shirt you wore to bed (that belonged to him). it felt like second nature to get one another undressed. even three years into marriage, price was amazed by your body.

"do you want it?" he asked softly.

you nodded, "i'll never say no to you, honey." you giggled a little and felt price run his hands across your bare body. you eyed the sight of his body and felt a sense of love bloom in your body.

"i always want to make sure. make sure you need it as much as i need you." he moved himself between your legs and looked down to admire you. his cock stood at full attention and the sight of it made you wet all over.

"i always want you." you admitted, "there's so much to love about you. the way you look at me, that hairy chest." you giggled, you then sighed contently as you felt him rub his cock up against you more.

"well, i appreciate it." he chuckled, "oh, my beautiful girl." he said as he cupped your face, "i missed you every day i was gone, i missed these lazy mornings beside ya." he felt a thump in his chest of nothing but sheer affection towards you.

"i could spend every morning of my life with you in bed." you giggled as you held onto the sheets under you. you watched him take you by the hips to be closer to him.

"good, because that's what i want." he said, "i want to feel my beautiful wife next to me every mornin'." he rubbed his cock up against you some more and you felt the heat flash in your cheeks.

when he eventually lined his erection up with your slit then pushed it all the way to the base. you tensed up for a moment to get accustomed to his size before you relaxed on the bed. he fit with relative ease after that, a snug fit but nothing that would hurt you.

he planted both hands on either side of you and crowded your space. he began to thrust up into you. he rolled his hips as he nudged against your softest areas. you were painfully adorable under him.

"please, honey." you panted as you felt the steady stream of pleasure go through your body. you whimpered and wrapped your legs around him.

he moved against you, he leaned in to kiss you on the lips. he bullied his cock into you as he rocked against you. you moaned into the kisses as he continued to move.

"i love you."

"i love you too." he said as he continued to thrust up into you.

he could feel his heart beat in his ears as he moved against you. you were just so painfully sweet under him. he looked at you with those blue eyes of his. he was so painfully handsome. as he moved against you, you felt the swirl of pleasure in your gut.

you started to meet his pace, feeling the heightened sense of lust as you met his thrusts. the feeling of his cock pushing up into you riled you up.

"you're so beautiful." he said, "you are so painfully sweet, love. you look so good underneath me. i'm glad i have you as my wife, i wouldn't want any other woman."

"you sweet talker." you said.

he chuckled, "only for you, love. now c'mon. cream around my cock." he held onto your hips tighter as he moved against you. the pleasure was built up in his head.

you let out a sweet moan.

he felt the pleasure crowd in his brain, it was all getting a bit too much. he continued to rut against you, the pleasure coursed through both of you as you moved together. you were the first to climax, you held onto him tightly as you arched your back and came.

"ah! honey! john!" you whimpered as you clenched around him. you panted heavily as you felt yourself wind down. your heart was racing.

price pulled you into a searing kiss. he worked his cock inside of you. his thrusts were fast, but not hard enough to hit you. the kiss was sloppy though, and with a few more strokes he finished inside of you. he felt the warmth in his gut bloom as he climaxed himself.

he slowed down his pace to a stop, then slipped out of your pussy. he laid out next to you on the bed and pulled you into his arms. he held you at your side and tangled your legs up in his. he panted heavily in your ear and felt his entire body relax.

"mmm, my love." he said softly.

"my everything, now and forever." you replied as you let him hold you. you felt yourself grow tired once more. it was easy to get comfortable in his arms.

Jango’s fingers absently slide over the pale green marking on his wrist. His soul mark is delicate-looking, twisting and curving until it looks like vines twining around his wrist. It’s not, perhaps, something that he would have chosen to put on his skin, but after 25 years Jango has come to love the delicate vines.

They’re physical proof that his soulmate is out there.

And, after waiting for 25 years, she’s now old enough for him to reach out.

Technically, she’s been old enough for seven years, but something about reaching out to an 18-year-old made him feel disgusting, so he elected to push searching for her back by several years.

It’s one of the more annoying aspects of being a vampire. It’s right up there with needing blood to survive and the severe sunburn he gets if he’s exposed to direct sunlight.

“If you’re not comfortable with this,” Miles says lightly from where he’s leaning against the wall, not far from where Jango is sitting on his throne, “We can wait another 5 years.”

Jango frowns at his oldest friend, “I’m not uncomfortable.”

“Well, you say that, but you haven’t uploaded your soul mark to the database yet.” Miles points out.

His frown becomes a scowl, “You know, most mortals have a hard time with their soulmate being a vampire, Miles.” Jango says sarcastically, “How did yours respond?”

“He tried to stab me,” Miles replies promptly, an adoring smile crossing his face.

“Thank you for proving my point nicely,”

Miles rolls his eyes, “Look, upload it or don’t, it’s your choice. But don’t you think it should be her, or his, choice on whether to get to know you, ‘alor?”

Jango’s gaze drifts to the computer, specifically to the submission page where his soul mark is clearly depicted. It’s ready to be added to the international database, he just has to hit submit.

“I hate it when you make sense.”

“Yes, I know.” Miles pushes away from the wall and stretches his arms over his head, “I’m going home. There’s supposed to be storms tonight, so most everyone will leave early I think.”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s fine.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jango.”

“You don’t have to.”

“No, I’m gonna.” Miles pushes his way out the side door with a wave over his shoulder and then he’s gone, the door slamming shut behind him with a bang.

And now that he’s alone, Jango hesitates for only a moment, before he hits submit.

Logically, he knows that it’ll take time for the database to do its thing. To search through all of the submissions to find the one identical to his will take days, if not longer. 

With a sigh, he moves to shut the laptop, only to pause when a ding and a sudden pop-up declaring that a match has been found distracts him. Surprised, because he expected it to take a lot longer, Jango settles back on his throne and clicks the notification.

His soul mark appears on the screen, next to an identical soul mark etched on a woman’s wrist, and when he clicks the woman’s picture, her profile pops up.

Jango glances at her picture and then scans the information sheet that she filled out. Her name, age, and birthday are all listed (though Jango knows her age and birthday as well as his own), and also listed is her career and where she currently lives.

She lives in a major city on the other side of the planet, and she works as a paleontologist. Many of the pictures show her in different places, covered in sand or dirt, though several of them show her standing next to giant fossils of skeletons in museums. 

She’s adorable.

She’s stunning.

He has to think of a reason to get her to Mandalore, to get her to him. 

Some fast thinking leads him to send her a message on the website, utilizing the built-in chat function. 

Used to be, the only way for long-distance soulmates to meet was to meet face to face in an agreed-upon location. But the world has changed since he was a child.

There have been hundreds of cases of people going to meet their soulmate, only for them to get physically assaulted, or, in a growing number of cases, murdered.

It’s enough of a problem that websites like the one that he’s using have become the norm. It’s safer, not to mention heavily monitored.

And, while Jango would sooner cut off his arm rather than hurt his soulmate, it’s better this way. The added security has been a boon to many people, and it’s saved the lives of more than one person.

He drums his fingers on the arm of his chair, his gaze lingering on a beaming image of his soulmate, and then he leans in and reaches out to the Paleontology department of the Museum she works for and sends a very polite email, telling them that his country has never been investigated for dinosaurs and that he would, very much, like to open a Natural Science Museum for his people, and wondering if they might have any suggestions.

And, with that done, Jango closes his laptop with a snap and pushes to his feet.

A 12-hour time difference means that he probably won’t get an answer until later, it’s barely the crack of dawn on the other side of the planet after all. So he might as well get some rest.

He might be a vampire, but that doesn’t mean that he’s able to work at night. The rest of the country operates when the sun is up, which means he has to operate when the sun is up too.

Good thing his culture allows him to wear armor all of the time.

Jango rolls his shoulder and his neck, and then he grabs his laptop and walks out of the throne room, starting the long trek to his bedroom several floors up.

With any luck, she will reach out to him. If he’s really lucky, the Museum will reach out to him as well.

But that’s a problem for later Jango.

“So this is Mandalore?” You lean into the front seat of the jeep so you’re better able to see out the front window, “Lots of mountains.”

Your coworker presses her hand against your face and pushes you back into the backseat, “Buckle your belt, are you dumb?” She bites out, refusing to say anything else until you’re settled back in your seat with your belt fastened, “And yeah, apparently the king has never allowed any sort of archeological or paleontological excavation. I wonder what changed?”

You know the answer to her question, but you don’t answer.

Why? Because it’s embarrassing.

The Mand’alor only made the offer to get you into the country.

You know this. He told you.

His exact words were, “A natural science museum would be nice, but my reasoning for requesting it in the first place was to get you to come to me.”

You made your account on the Soul Mark website shortly after you turned 18. You never assumed that your soulmate would be a world leader. Why would you?

Still, you are excited to meet him.

He is very handsome, based on his profile, and based on some of the pictures he texted you. Handsome and polite, he’s never pushed you to offer any information that you weren’t ready to give.

It makes him easy to trust.

Of course, you’re also a little nervous.

You’re just a scientist, after all. Soulmate or not, it wouldn’t be surprising if he wasn’t impressed with you.

Plus, he also said that he had something that he needed to tell you, something important. Something that will determine the path your relationship takes. 

And that wasn’t an anxiety-inducing comment, at all.

“Oh, we’re here.” You pull yourself out of your thoughts as the jeep comes to a stop in front of a palace that, honestly, wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Regency novel.

“Uh…are you sure?” You ask, as you unfasten your belt and open the door, “Cause it kind of looks like Queen Victoria is going to waltz down the steps and order us beheaded.”

Your coworker rolls her eyes, “Did you even bother to learn history, like at all?”

“Yeah! I just like saying wrong things because it annoys you.”

She opens her mouth to say something but stops as the massive doors swing open and a pair of armored men step onto the stairs. The leader is tall and broad, and wearing silver and blue armor. While his companion is slightly shorter but broader and is wearing black and red. 

The two men stop several feet away from the pair of you, and you note that the man in silver is staring at you.

That must be Mand’alor Fett, you realize as you hop out of the jeep and grab your backpack from the floor.

“Thank you for inviting us, Mand’alor.” You chirp with a bright grin at the silver man, glad that you had been practicing his language, at least a little.

“Thank you for coming so quickly.”

His voice is deep, deep enough that it sends shivers down your spine, though you quickly hide your reaction. Not fast enough that he doesn’t see it, but then you’re not trying to hide your reaction from him.

“Please, come inside,” The man clad in red and black says as he walks over to you and lightly takes your bag from your unresisting hands, “As we understand, the pair of you need to take a look at some maps before you begin?”

“That’s correct.” Your coworker says brusquely, “Fossils and skeletons can be found anywhere, in theory, but there are certain places where they’re more likely.”

“Any maps of the region from the last couple of decades will help us decide where to start looking,” You add helpfully, as you follow the men into the palace.

Once the four of you are inside the palace and the doors are shut, the two men remove their helmets and hang them on their belts. Jango, the Mand’alor, is just as handsome as his pictures suggest, and you’re eager to get him alone.

But work, as ever, comes before pleasure.

The men introduce themselves as Jango and Miles as they escort you through the massive building until you reach the library.

“I took the liberty of gathering all of the maps I have of the region,” Jango says as he gestures to a table that is piled with dozens of protected documents. “The maps go back nearly 1000 years, though if you need anything older than that, we’ll have to go somewhere else.”

You gape a Jango, “Uh…we normally only get to work with maps that are, maybe, 100 years old. These will be more than fine.”

He smiles at you, and your stomach flips with excited nerves, “Good. We’ve,” He gestures to himself and Miles, “made arrangements for you both to remain in the palace for the time being.”

Miles smiles at your coworker, who hasn’t taken her eyes off the maps, “Your room is located a little further down the hall from here,” And then he looks at you, “Unfortunately, we had a string of severe storms, and several windows were broken to the guest rooms, so you’ll be staying in the family wing. It’s several floors up.” He says apologetically.

“Oh, no one was injured, were they?” You ask.

Jango’s smile is kind, “There were a few injuries, but thankfully, nothing serious. Now, if you,” he glances at you, “would come with me, I’ll show you how to get from the library to your room.”

The nervous excitement returns with a vengeance, and you flash a bright smile at him, “Thank you.”

Your coworker doesn’t even notice you leaving the room.

You’re not surprised, if you were anywhere else, with anyone else, you would be doing much the same.

Jango is an excellent tour guide, stopping and explaining the various portraits and tapestries when he notices that they’ve caught your attention.

And before you know it, you’re several floors above the library, standing in front of a, very, ornate door. Jango unlocks the door with a key and pushes the door open for you.

Curious, you peek around him to peer into the room.

It’s massive. A huge bed, twin doors that lead to a balcony, and a separate door that leads to a bathroom, if you had to guess.

“This will be your room, for as long as you want it.” Jango murmurs, and you turn to look at him. His gaze is dark, and there’s a small smirk on his face as he stares at you, “My room is next door.”

You peek down the hallway, and then look up at him, “This seems like a lot, I would have been fine with something smaller.”

His smirk morphs into something soft and he takes your left hand in his, flipping your hand so that the pale green soul mark is exposed. His gloved fingers glide across the marking and you shiver, “I would give you everything, and more if you asked.” Jango breathes out as he lifts your wrist to his lips and kisses the soul mark.

You want him.

The thought hits you with all of the subtly of a brick to the face, and you feel your face heat in slightly flustered embarrassment. 

“I don’t want everything,” You whisper, “Just—” You trail off before you finish the sentence.

“Just?” Jango prompts, his voice low as his lips linger against your wrist.

“You. Just you.”

Something flares in his eyes, something hot and needy, and he gently pushes you into the bedroom before he kicks the door shut behind him. He tugs your wrist so that you tumble against his chest, and his lips catch yours.

You wrap your free arm around his neck and eagerly kiss him back. He’s warm and his kiss is almost desperate, so much so that you have the feeling that he’s been waiting for this day for ages.

Jango tears his lips away from yours, so he’s able to pepper kisses down your neck and across to your throat, and you feel his teeth scrape against your thin skin. You’re surprised at the feeling of something sharp scraping against your throat.

But, honestly, you don’t think twice about it as you tangle your fingers in his curls and tug on his hair when he presses a hot, and lingering, kiss against a spot under your jaw that makes you moan.

Your moan seems to pull him back to himself as he pulls his lips from your throat, putting some distance between the two of you, much to your dismay. You tug on his hair again, “Jango—” His name is little more than a whine on your tongue, and it’s obvious that he likes it, based on how he looks at you when you say his name like that.

“I need to tell you something,” Jango breathes out, even as he allows you to tug his head back in so his lips are hovering over yours.

“Can it wait?” You ask.

“It’s important.”

You kiss him and he surges into the kiss enthusiastically, walking you further into the room until the back of your legs hit the bed and you topple to your back with him standing over you.

Jango watches you hungrily, his sharp gaze dragging down your body as you lay before him. And it’s almost as if he can’t stop himself from climbing over you and pinning you to the bed beneath him. 

He pins both of your hands over your head with one strong hand, and then he pulls the glove off his other hand with his teeth, tossing it to the side to lay, forgotten, next to the bed.

And then his free hand slips beneath your shirt, pushing it higher and higher, until he quickly pulls it over your head, and uses the material to bind your hands together. 

That done, though you have the feeling that it wasn’t intentional, he brings both of his hands to your breasts.

You’ve never been so glad in your life that you decided to be lazy and bought the front clasping bras, he swiftly unhooks the bra and allows the material to fall open, exposing your bare breasts to his appreciative gaze, and his warm hands. 

He pinches your nipples and you release a keening moan as you squirm under him, “Sensitive?”

“You’re the only person who’s ever touched them, other than myself.” You admit.

He groans at your words and adjusts so that he’s settled between your thighs, “Do you touch yourself often?” Jango asks.

Your face heats, “Whenever I need a release. It’s been more often, recently.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Jango tugs his codpiece off and tosses it to the side, and you shiver when you feel his hard erection against you, even though the material of your pants. “What changed?” He murmurs.

“I met you.”

Jango stops moving for a moment, his gaze locked with yours, and then he chuckles, “I need to be inside you, beautiful. I need you to be mine.” His hands fly to the waist of your pants and, with surprising swiftness, he manages to remove them to toss them to the side.

He grinds his erection against you and then tugs his bottoms down just enough that his cock bounces free. You’re not positioned in such a way that you’re able to see him, but you can feel that he’s nice and girthy. 

Jango slides his cock against your slit, the head bumping against your clit, pulling a moan from you. “You’re already so wet, cyare.” He murmurs, “You don’t even need any prep.”

You squirm to get some friction against your clit, “I’ve been aroused since I met you.”

He chuckles and leans in to catch your lips in a deep kiss, “ad’ika,” Jango purrs as he eases the head of his cock just inside you, “You need to know,”

“Need to know what?” You gasp out, your head falling back as he slowly eases his cock deep inside you, causing you to stretch, deliciously, around him.

Jango doesn’t answer until he’s completely sheathed inside you, and he buries his face against your neck, “Kriff, you’re so tight—” He breathes out, not moving so that both of you can adjust to the new sensation, “ad’ika, I’m a vampire.”

You blink at him, as best as you can with him pressed against you like he is.

Vampire.

You should be afraid. Or something.

But, honestly, you don’t care. 

He’s your soulmate. He’s your Jango.

So you squirm under him, to try and tempt him to move, “Okay, will you move, please?”

He pulls back slightly, “Okay? That’s it?”

“Jango, please—”

He chuckles and slowly pulls out, so only the head of his cock is buried inside you, and then thrusts, hard, back in. The sensation pulls a delighted cry from you, and he buries his face in your neck again.

“I’m gonna bite you, cyare.” He warns as he drags his fangs against your throat.

You don’t verbally reply, but you do tilt your head to the side to allow him better access to your throat.

Jango chuckles once more and starts thrusting even harder and faster, pulling whining moans from you as you clench, tightly, around him. Close, already, from how roughly he’s fucking you.

And, just as you topple over the edge, his fangs sink into your throat, the sheer pleasure you're feeling overwriting the pain from him biting you. In fact, the sensation of him biting you, mixed with the sensation of him still thrusting hard and fast inside you, pushes you to another orgasm embarrassingly quickly.

Or it would be embarrassing if you were thinking about anything other than him.

Jango pulls his fangs and his cock out of you at the same time, pulling a quiet noise of discontent from you, but all he does is murmur something soothing, before he flips you onto your stomach, and pull you so you’re resting on your knees.

He doesn’t slide back in you right away, though.

Vaguely, you hear the sound of his armor and clothes landing on the floor, but you don’t have time to consider anything else, as he eases your legs apart and buries himself back inside you.

This new position allows him to hit deeper and you’re helpless but to release a cry of pleasure as he continues his quick, almost punishing, pace from earlier.

Jango’s lips press just under your ear, down your neck, and then settle over the bite mark he left on your neck. You’re not sure if you’re still bleeding, and honestly, you don’t care if you are.

His lips pressed over that spot send waves of pleasure through your body, and you’re pretty sure that you’re actually seeing stars. 

“I’m going to fill you with my cum, pretty girl.” Jango murmurs against your skin, “Over and over and over, until you’re marked as mine inside and out.”

You whimper as his thrusts get a little harder, and your hands curl into fists in the material of your shirt, needing to use it as a lifeline to keep you grounded.

“Can you cum for me, cyare?” He murmurs, “One more time? Just once more.”

“I-” You want to say that you can’t, that you don’t have the energy for it, but Jango’s hand slides around you and presses, just right, against your clit and you fall apart with a cry of his name.

“Good girl,” Jango murmurs in your ear as he thrusts once, twice, three more times and then stills as he spills his release deep inside.

You feel warm and spent and sore in all of the best ways, and a sleepy smile crosses your face as he carefully adjusts you so that you’re head is settled on a pillow and you’re able to see him. 

He’s watching you with a look that can only be called adoration, you recognize it even though it’s never been directed at you before. “Are you okay?”

“Mm.”

He chuckles, “I need you to use your words, cyare.”

“M’okay.” You nuzzle into your pillow and absently wish it was his chest, “Should get up and go to work.” You mumble, as your eyes drift shut, “Those maps will be so useful-”

Jango chuckles and smoothes some hair out of your face, “I think you’re a bit too exhausted to work.”

“Mm…just a…small nap.” You mumble, “10 minutes…15 maybe…no more than 45…”

Jango presses a light kiss to your forehead, “Get some sleep, cyar’ika. Everything will work out in the end. I’ll take care of it.”

His words send a wave of relief through you, and you wrap your arms around your pillow, “Love you, Jango.”

You stir awake at the light knock on the door, and you smile at the familiar face that pokes into the room. Familiar, in part, because Wolffe has millions of identical brothers, but also because he’s Wolffe, and you’d recognize your riduur even if he was dressed identically to his brothers.

“Hey, can I come in?”

A warm smile crosses your face, “You don’t have to ask, love.” You reply gently.

He slips into the room, silently closing the door behind him, “Just making sure.” Wolffe crosses the room and takes a seat next to you, and then he immediately reaches out and smooths some hair out of your face, “How are you feeling, cyare?”

“Exhausted.” You reply with a small smile, “But also, really good.” You lean into his touch, “How are you?”

“I wish I had been here for you.”

You hum softly, “Not your fault.”

“I still feel bad,” He takes your hand in his and brings your joined hands to his lips to press a light kiss against your fingers, his gaze is locked on the small cradle next to your hospital bed, “Is that her?”

You laugh softly, “It is. Our Ellie.” You extend your fingers to brush against his cheek, “Go on and introduce yourself.”

He starts, “Am I allowed?”

A slightly louder laugh falls from you, “She’s your daughter, Wolffe. Of course you can.”

He releases your hand and stands to walk around the bed. Once he’s at the small cradle he just stares into it for a moment, “She’s so…small.”

“She’s only a couple of hours old, riduur.”

“The Tubies never looked so small back on Kamino. Is she healthy?”

“She is. Just small. My fault, I’m afraid.” You reply with a small smile. And your smile grows as you watch him reach into the cradle to scoop the infant into his arms. 

“She looks like you,” Wolffe murmurs as he cradles Ellie in his arms.

“Really? I think she looks like you.” He turns to sit on the edge of the bed, bringing Ellie into reach. She’s still asleep. “Those Fett genes run true,” You joke quietly, as you brush a light finger against Ellie’s dark cheek, and then up through her dark curls.

“My coloring, maybe.” Wolffe allows, “but she has your features. A perfect mix of us.” He pauses, “Cyare,” He admits, his voice quiet, “I don’t know anything about being a parent-”

“Shh. Neither do I. We’ll learn together.” You smile at the baby, and then up at Wolffe, “We’re going to be fine, I know it.”

“Well, if you say so then it must be true.” Wolffe teases as he leans in and kisses your forehead, “My brothers and General Koon are in the lobby, can I take her to meet them?”

You hum thoughtfully, “Why don’t you give Ellie to me, and then you can bring them in here to meet her?” You offer.

Wolffe flashes a small grin, “Even better idea, I know they’re worried about you too. Cody made the mistake of asking General Kenobi about natborn childbirth, and they were convinced that you were going to die.”

“Well, not on Coruscant.” You admit with a tired smile as you take your baby from him.

Wolffe blinks, “Wait, what?”

“Women generally don’t die in childbirth on Coruscant unless something goes really wrong.” You clarify as you adjust Ellie on your chest, “If my midwife had been concerned, I would have reached out to the temple for help, Wolffe. So, no need to worry.”

“...okay. I’m going to go and get the others.” He kisses your forehead once more, and then he ducks his head to kiss Ellie’s head, before he circles the room again, and steps into the hallway.

Only minutes later, the room is flooded with people. General Koon immediately takes a place next to the bed to quietly talk to you while Wolffe shows Ellie off to his brothers.

And when they leave an hour later, Ellie’s picture has been taken a dozen times, and she’s been officially named as the Wolfpack’s mascot. And also the mascot for most of the other Battalions as well.

Comforter expertly smoothed over a large mattress, dipping underneath your combined weight, you’re interested to see how strewn about it’ll be by the time he’s done with you. Ravenous eyes peer at you through heavy lids, the complete opposite to the patience of his hands as he gently strokes the exposed skin of your thighs. Fat kisses press to the side of your calf as he lifts your leg, trailing down to your ankle until he reaches the strap of your shoes. Your foot falls free as he undoes the buckle, tossing the heel behind him where it clatters on the hardwood floor of his bedroom. 

“How often do you have to think about me to get off when you’re filming with other actors?” he asks nonchalantly. 

White hot embarrassment prickles underneath the skin of your cheeks and neck. Superheats you so furiously you’re certain Kyle can feel the warmth radiating off of you by touch alone. He’s quick. No beating around the bush, even though the patience of his hands would have you believe otherwise. Still, he moves with delicate intentions as he awaits your answer, removing your other shoe without taking his eyes off of you. 

“No one does it like you do,” you answer, voice trembling with want. 

He smirks, hands gliding toward the inside of your thighs before pushing them apart. Clothes still shroud both of your bodies, yet you feel the most exposed you’ve ever felt in your entire life. 

“No need for flattery, doll. There’s no cameras. No one on the viewfinder. Nothin’ but us. Tell me. I want the truth,” he urges, voice sweet as syrup.

You swallow. “It’s… not just on set.” His hands continue up along your thighs, thumbs brushing against the thin — nearly sheer — fabric of your panties. Your body lurches, demanding more, but you hold yourself back. “I think of you more than I should, I…”

“Do you think of me while you touch yourself?” he prods. 

It’s a question he already knows the answer to. One he can read in the DNA of your cells and the widening of your eyes. Shock echoes throughout your body at his insinuation, but you shouldn’t be surprised at how well he can read you. Kyle has been able to see right through you this whole time — some transparent being; skin made of cellophane. 

“Yes,” you breathe, hips writhing underneath his touch. A pathetic worm, yearning for more, longing for what he’s withholding from you. 

“Why? Is it because of how good I fuck you?” he asks. With each word he speaks, he’s sinking closer and closer to you, hands on either side of your head as his face dips into the crook of your neck — close enough that you can feel his breath on the shell of your ear. “Or is it because of something else? Something more?”

His lips part and you can feel the way the spit breaks in his mouth — already salivating at just the sight of you. 

“Were you also thinking of me when you said I love you on set today?” 

Palpable trepidation ripples through your skin; unforgiving and all consuming. Shaky hands brush along his back, following the defined ridge of his spine until you’re cupping either side of his face. You nudge him back, encouraging him to look at you. Throat tight, heart thumping — you pray you won’t regret this. 

“You’re the only person who makes me feel like this,” you say in a whisper, the pad of your thumb caressing the small scar on his cheek. “Kyle I… I don’t just follow anyone home. I’m not here just for you to fuck me. I’m here because I love you. And I want you to love me, too.” 

There is no breaking point. No instance in which the water boils over, flooding the stove with starch and foam. There is only warm fire. Campfire flames dancing in a pit; enticing and loving. A little spark. A sharp crack. Wood charring from the heat so that you can melt, sticky and sweet into the bed. 

His only response to you is his lips on yours, soft and savory as he licks up the faint alcohol on your tongue. There is no rush. No director calling out position changes, no bright lights, no camera in your face; just you and Kyle. Stone crumbles, cracks and breaks free — walls tumble until you’re open, bare and free. There is nothing — no apprehension or worry — there is only love. 

Dulcet kisses render your lips raw and fuzzy before traveling along your jaw, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Kyle tugs at the top of your dress, and you aid him in wiggling the straps down your shoulders where he pulls until your tits flow free from the fabric. He continues, embracing the line between your breasts, gracing your sternum with adoration, all while murmuring I love you, I love you between each one. 

His mantra continues, a repetitive notion as if he fears you might one day forget it if it’s not engraved in your skin. He says it into your chest, into your stomach, your pelvis; he continues his chant until he’s pushing up the skirt of your dress and placing kisses on your clothed pussy. Each pitched groan he pulls out of you is music — a symphonic melody he wants your mouth to emulate forever more.

“My girl,” he mumbles, fingers snaking underneath the band of your panties before dragging them down your legs. “Told you I’d get you alone. Wanna love you properly… wanna…” 

He cuts himself off, mouth swallowing the view of your cunt. Hips bucking up, Kyle’s name falls from your lips like a prayer as his tongue slides along your clit. It’s torturous, and already has your nerves sparking like live, frayed wires. It’s a familiar feeling — a nirvana he’s able to pull out of you on set — but there’s something different about it. The film is removed. The edges are sharper. There’s no fear or worry to muddle the bliss that’s mixing with your very blood. 

When he pulls away, he doesn’t leave you unstimulated for long before his fingers are prodding and pushing at your cunt. Your head lifts with a gasp, hands reaching for your chest as you look between your legs. Long, adept fingers glide in and out of you, aided both by your arousal and Kyle’s spit. His lips part as he stares down at his work, enchanted by the way you swallow him whole. 

It’s then that he realizes he can finally stop and smell the roses. Can take his time with you without the pressure to rush. And he is languid with it. Stuck in a dumbfounded stupor as he watches his fingers pump in and out of you over, and over, and over, and over —

“Kyle…”

Gentle hands slicing through the air, you reach for him until you’ve got a hold of his shirt. Dressy, perfect for the over-important party the two of you attended earlier. One by one, you undo the buttons separating his skin from yours before yanking him forward. He tries to keep his fingers inside of you, tries to unravel you, but you’re stripping him bare. Cloth undone, crumpled on the foot of the bed — he looks heavenly in the dim light of his bedroom. Silky smooth skin, dark loving eyes; you want to be unbound. Become nothing but stray chords and muscle, entangle yourself with whatever mess Kyle is about to render himself into. 

“I need you,” you whisper. You say it like a secret. Something nobody knows but you; as if the whole world isn’t afraid to burn to a crisp over your passion. 

He descends. Bare skin warm against yours, chest pressed against your breasts, lips on your neck, hands slowly guiding himself into you. He rests there for a moment, cock barely pressing against you, lined up perfectly yet refusing to further pursue you. Though Kyle enjoys teasing you — revels in the large pout and needy whines — everything he does is deliberate. It’s not to prod and upset you, not to rile you up; it’s a preparation. An agreement. Once he starts, he won’t stop until neither of you are sure where your bodies begin and end. 

There’s a gentle brush against your cheek. Fingers curling into the back of your head. A searing kiss that chars your lips and leaves them still begging for the heat. To seal the pact, he fills your cunt with one celeritous thrust of his hips, and he swallows the guttural moan he rips from your body. Tender. Consuming. He continues, shockwaves rippling throughout your body, moaning back into your mouth as the head of his cock splits you apart. 

You have fucked Kyle many times before, but it’s never been like this. Not with his body engulfing the expanse of your skin or his fingers interlocked with yours. You’ve never fucked like you were lovers. There’s never been such unrestrained ardor; something past simple concupiscence. The affection rotting your DNA is enough to destroy you, and you’d gladly crumble in his hands — as long as it meant Kyle gets to hold you. 

Maybe it’s the alcohol, but you sound more unrestrained than when you are on set. Like you’re not afraid to hide anything in fear that it’ll be burnt into film for the rest of your existence. Kyle leans back, lips leaving your skin for the first time in what feels like hours. A blazing incalescence sparks in his eyes as they flit across your face. He catches on to every expression that morphs in your features, how he can make your brows knit together with a particularly deep thrust, or how your lips part when he thumbs over your clit. Such a beautiful creature, laid out bare for him to witness in all her glory. 

“So fucking beautiful,” he whispers, whiskey breath panting across your face. “Look at you, my pretty girl. My girl. Could never tire of lookin’ at you.” 

Praise falls from his lips like water from a fountain, and he feels the way you clamp around him. His pretty girl, always eager for praise. His thumb grinds against your clit, adding pressure ever so slowly to the point you’re nearly seeing stars. Your hands reach out for him, grabbing for any sort of purchase you can get to keep yourself steady as your body rocks against the mattress. Nails digging into his skin, he knows you’re close. 

“Could do this every night. Have you in my bed. In my arms. I just wanna take care of you, doll.” He’s practically dancing on the edge. So close to his own euphoric release, yet stuttering to hold himself back. Not until you, he thinks. Not until you. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Give you that true love you deserve.” 

Your hips wiggle, fighting against his thumb as it unravels those sweet nerves underneath your skin. Eyelids fluttering, you try to keep your eyes on him; a fruitless effort. Your head presses back into the pillows — of which smell just like the same, spicy cologne Kyle always uses — as every muscle in your body tenses to the point of fracturing. 

“I need that. Need you,” you stutter through chattering teeth. “I love you. Fuck, I love you. P-Please, Kyle…”

“I know,” he shushes. His movements are steadfast — even and firm as he feels your muscles turn to mush under his very fingertips. You whine so sweetly, delicious honey and milk against his mouth as you fall apart at the seams. “There we go, there she is. Such a good girl, coming on my cock like that. F-Fuck. Gonna milk this cock next, yeah? Won’t ya, doll? My beautiful girl…”

When he finally lets go, he feels his entire body seize. Legs wrapping around his hips, you pull him closer to you as he twitches inside of you, dumping every last bit of spend he has to give you while his face presses against the side of your neck. A rhapsodic silence sits somewhere between heavy panting and faint giggles. There is no one to shout about the scene ending. No bored huffs as the set is torn down around you. There is only Kyle’s heat on top of your body, the faint glow of his living room lamp pouring through his bedroom door, and a gentle kiss on your jaw. 

When his arms and legs start to give out underneath him, Kyle rolls to the side, body colliding with the soft cot as he drags you along with him. Glorious giggles leave your lips as you nuzzle your nose into the center of his chest. It’s nice to just lay. To be embraced without prying, impatient eyes. To be loved. All along, you have been adored with such fervor; you were just never able to feel it through the barrier forced around your body because of work. 

“You smell good,” you mumble, once you’ve finally caught your breath. 

“Oh?” he prompts. 

“Mhm. Could eat you up.” 

“Feisty,” Kyle quips. 

A hum rumbles deep in his chest as he kisses the top of your head, arms snaking impossibly tight around you as he draws you close. You dissolve into him, limbs entangled, knotting until they’ll never come undone again. The pounding drum of his heart slowly relaxes into a steady rhythm, and you find yourself nearly falling asleep as he traces the dips of your hip. 

“So,” Kyle speaks up. There’s something off about his tone — like he’s grinning too hard to say his words properly. “How did Simon react when you said my name instead of his?” 

You groan, embarrassment flooding your face as you try to hide away. His laughter at you feels playfully mocking as he pulls you closer and wiggles around, as if he can shake the answer out of you. 

“I don’t even want to think about it,” you whine. 

“Come on, I wanna know,” he eggs. 

You sigh with a heavy pout forming on your lips. “He… grinned. Like the fucking bastard he is. Like he knew all along. He didn’t say anything on set, but when we were done he… mentioned that I should try to find you at the party tonight. He actually pointed you out to me while you were moping in the corner.” 

Despite your dig at him, he laughs. Sweet and deep. Comforting. Like he’s finally found home. 

“Well, at least he knows whose girl you are.” 

He feels your smile curve against his chest. “Garrick’s girl.” 

You feel your breath get heavier, eyes hazy, and mind cloudy from the immense pleasure you feel. You can feel his eyes on you, watching your every move like hawk as his cock begins to twitch.

His hand begins to move faster and you can hear the sound of your slickness as he fingers you. One of your hand goes to your nipple, fingers pinching and rubbing lightly. With your other, you grasp Kyle's leaky cock in your hand, squeezing him lightly as you begin to stroke him.

"Fuck, you're doing so well for me," His praise shoots straight to your core as you start squirming in bed. "You wanna cum, baby?" He doesn't falter in his pace, inserting another digit as your walls begin to clench on his fingers.

"Y-yeah, wanna cum so bad Kyle.."

"Mmm.. that right? You wanna cum on my fingers?" You nod, unable to speak. You feel pressure build as your heart begins to beat faster, you were so, so, close.

And then he stops.

You whine out in protest and stare at him in confusion. You feel the pressure subside as Kyle grins at you, stroking himself.

"The only thing you're cumming on is my cock, baby." You couldn't even protest, legs spreading immediately to accommodate him. He hums at your submission and strokes your thigh. You hear a plastic rip and you see him about to put a condom on. Using protection was a normal part of your sex life, but today, something in you didn't want the latex barrier between you and Kyle.

You sit up and grab the condom on his hand as he looks at you questioningly. One of his eyebrow raises and you feel heat rise to your cheeks.

"Can we.. not use the condom?" You ask shyly. He was motionless for a second, before his face morphs into a cocky grin.

"Yeah? You want me to fuck you raw?" He inches his face closer to you, lips a breath away from touching. Nodding, you slowly take the condom away from his hand and throw it on the floor.

"Say it." He goads as he slowly pushes you back. "Say what you want me to do to you." He taps his cock on your clit a few times, dragging it over your slick folds and positioning it at your hole. You stay silent, hand over your face in embarrassment. He leans over you and pulls your hand away.

"I'm not gonna fuck you until you say it." He threatens. You huff out, pouting as you stare up at him.

"Kyle.." He only raises an eyebrow, continuing to thrust shallowly, the tip almost slipping in. The head of his cock rubs on your clit teasingly and you feel lightheaded. "Tell me what you want."

"I want you to fuck me raw, want to feel all of you in me. Need you to feel you cum inside me." You plead, hand going to his neck and dragging his mouth down to you as his cock slips in your walls. He groans into your lips and begins rocking forwards, inching more of himself into you.

"So fucking good for me, telling me what you want." He's fully in you now, hips moving to pull out halfway before slamming in fully.

"Don't worry baby, I'll give you what you want. I'll fill you up nicely, keep all of me inside you until it takes, yeah?" He whispers breathily. Your legs cross between his back, pulling him closer every time he bottoms out.

"Y-yeah.. fill me up Kyle, want it so bad, want you so bad." You whimper when his tip hits the gooey spot inside you. With the way your bodies are pressed together, you feel every clench of his abdomen as he thrusts his leaky cock in you, the raw feel of him causing tingles up and down your spine.

"You're so fucking tight, how long have you wanted this huh?" His hand grabs both your cheeks as you can feel yourself start to drool a little. Tears fill your eyes at the immense pleasure Kyle is giving you.

Your walls clench to his rhythm, hips colliding against one another as he grunts with every thrust. The combined mess of your juices are spilling out of your hole, causing a wet mess on the bed.

You can only grunt out 'ah, ah, ah's as Kyle fucks you absolutely stupid. His dick is overwhelmingly thick, filling you like never before and the heat of him causes more pleasure to shoot through your body.

"You're gonna let me fuck you raw from now on, aren't you? Let me fill your sweet little pussy?" The logical part of your brain knows you should think about it more, but with every snap of his hips and the tip of his cock hitting your cervix you know you could never go back.

"Yeah, yeah. Gonna let you fuck me raw whenever you want," You nod, tears fully flowing from your face from the sheer pleasure. "Want you to cum inside me," Whining, you stick your tongue out, searching for his desperately.

He coos at you and relents, giving you what you want. Your tongue continues to explore his mouth when you feel his finger rub at your clit again.

"You gonna cum for me, sweetheart?." He whispers, moving his finger in circles as your body begins to twitch.

"S-so close, Kyle. Please, let me cum." You beg, legs dangling uselessly behind him as he's basically folding you in half now.

"Been so good to me, go on. Cum for me." Instantly, you feel your core clench hard on his cock as your back arches. Your entire body tightens as your mouth opens despite no sound coming out. Your orgasm washes over you in pulses, legs still twitching as you come down from your high.

Kyle continues fucking you slowly through it, eyes staring at you in wonder. He wipes the tears from your cheeks and presses kisses to your face.

"Beautiful." He whispers on your skin, fucking you slowly but deeply still. You were still slowly coming down from your high, not knowing how long Kyle stays moving inside you. The wetness from your cum helps him move even easier now as he starts moving faster again. Putting your mouth to his ear, you begin to whisper in his ear.

"Cum in me Kyle, want to feel you dripping out of me," He groans at your words as his rhythm starts to become frantic and you know he's close.

"Oh fuck," He grinds deeply into you, moaning. You feel the hot spurts of his cum coat the inside of your walls, branding you from the inside as his.

You moan out at the feeling and pull him closer to your chest as his cock continues to twitch out every last drop of his cum. He huffs, breathing heavily for a few minutes.

When he starts to pull out, you feel globs of his cum begin to leak out of you when he grabs your hips and tilts them upwards, preventing anymore from leaking out. He flops down, using both his arms to prevent his full weight from crushing you.

You were running your hand through his hair slowly, feeling yourself start to drift off when Kyle speaks.

"Hope you know I was serious about fucking you raw from now on."

There was nothing better than sliding out of bed and slinking off into the kitchen, still blinking the sleep from your eyes, where you would quickly be greeted by a fresh caffeine rush. Invigorating. Tantalizing. A delicious, earthy roast would coat your tongue as you savored the warmth of the mug seeping into the palm of your hands. Birds would chirp outside the window as your husband would approach you from behind where loving arms would wrap around your waist. Soft lips on your earlobe. A whispered promise. Rough stubble against your jaw. 

It’s all a sour memory now — something that makes your stomach twist and flutter, and it’s not due to the tiny life growing inside of you. Now, you wake up in an empty bed. The only aroma that greets you is the strange mixture of a stuffy room and the rotten city air that drifts through your open bedroom window. Stale. Decaying. Getting out of bed is difficult now that you don’t have anything to look forward to. If it weren’t for the growing weight on your bladder, and your eighteen week ultrasound appointment, you probably wouldn’t have gotten out of bed at all today. 

Fresh cut flowers greet you as you exit your bedroom, and their blooms attempt to fight off the stale scent of your new apartment. They’re a beautiful gift from your supervisor, Lilah, that you received yesterday afternoon — complete with a get well soon card and everything. Curly handwriting. Soft, vibrant petals. They’re the only bit of color that exists in your otherwise pale and barren kitchen. You try to use it as a reminder to stay calm and positive; it’s certainly a better reminder than the hospital discharge papers you had sitting there previously. 

The last week has been rough. More than rough. Despite your best efforts at decorating, your new apartment has become a prison. White cell walls — stuck in solitary confinement. Alone with your vicious thoughts. There’s nothing more in the world that you want other than to just go outside and enjoy the new summer weather, but with the way your hormones and emotions have been treating you, you’ve realized that’s not the best idea. If you go to the market and see a sweet husband with his kids one more time, you don’t think you’ll ever recover. 

What was supposed to be you on a wonderful, calming medical leave has quickly turned into terrible, lonely self isolation. 

No matter; everything feels less lonesome when you’re surrounded by good art. Or, maybe you’re still alone, but the colorful paintings you’ve spent half the morning hanging up in your studio are at least a bit comforting. That’s why it’s created, isn’t it? Not only to convey emotion and share a story, but ultimately to make the painter feel less alone? Brilliant turquoise water and soft lilac flowers; Monet’s work has been some of your favorites for as long as you can remember. It certainly brightens up the room, at least. You’re sure you remembered reading somewhere in your lease that you weren’t supposed to use nails to hang things up, but at this point you don’t care. If you get charged extra, you’ll just take it out of Isaac’s account. 

Lord knows the bastard can afford it. 

All goes well until you’re trying to hang up The Water Lily Pond. The minimal amount of nails you were able to steal from your soon-to-be-ex-husband have run dry, and you’ve still got more paintings to hang. Its ethereal bridge and rippling river will have to wait to be displayed in all its printed glory. No matter. You’ve got to get headed out for your appointment anyway, and maybe on your way back you can pick some up at a hardware store. 

That thought makes you pause, and you stop in the center of your half decorated room. Your tongue shrivels up in your mouth. Prunes. Cracks. Turns to a dust that threatens to choke you. Maybe you’d be better off asking someone if they have extras instead. 

There’s not much for you to write on. Just simple scraps of paper and old hospital papers you keep around yet can’t stand to look at anymore. You blindly rip off the corners of one of these spare pages and quickly jot down your message: 

Hey, do you have any extra nails you’re willing to part with? 

- 209

You don’t bother to sign off with your name. You doubt anyone remembers it, anyway, and your apartment number is plenty recognizable. All packed and prepared for your appointment, you make a quick drop by apartment 205 and slide it under Grandma’s door. You’re not sure if an old lady like her would even have what you’re looking for, but between her and Kyle, she’s certainly the less embarrassing one to ask. As soon as that slip of paper is out of sight, you turn on your heels, walk to the end of the hallway — bypassing the still broken lift — and try not to think about anything. 

It’s something you fail at. Miserably. Clear mind turns foggy, you think of everything. How stuffy the bus is. How the perfume the receptionist is wearing makes your stomach upset. Synthetic. Strong. How dark the ultrasound room is. The hum of the machines. The warmth from the computer. There’s something sharp that itches your skin in the gown they have you change into, and you don’t like the feeling of the warm gel sliding along your stomach. The tech is putting too much pressure on your stomach. It’s uncomfortable. Pressing. You want someone to hold your hand. 

Someone should be holding your hand, but you’re alone. Even though you know it’s better that way — isolated in that room, abandoned — it doesn’t ease the sting. A wave of thoughts wash over you in a salty assault as you wonder what it would have been like if Isaac was there. If he still loved you. If he hadn’t broken you the way that he did. Would his eyes light up at that black and white screen? Would he talk about how proud he is of you? It’s a voracious want — to be loved in the way you always thought you were; the way you should be. 

“Would you like to know the gender?” 

Gentle and soft, the tech’s voice pulls you out of your mind and you’re brought back to that dark room. Her eyes are trained on the screen as she taps away, taking measurements and tracking progress, yet they flicker over to you, waiting for your answer. 

The lump that’s been forming in your throat all morning snakes down your throat painfully slow as you swallow. Before he had decided to get his dick wet, Isaac had insisted that the two of you do a proper gender reveal. Neither of you would find out the gender until later. He’d order catering, invite — mostly his — family; there would be pictures and glorious celebration. Proper excitement for the life the two of you would welcome into the world in a few months —

But now…

“Please,” you say with a smile. 

But now, it’s just you.

Giddy, the tech carefully turns the monitor towards you while trying to maintain her angle on your stomach. She’s still pressing vexingly hard on your bladder, but you try not to think about it as you take in the sight of your unborn child as the image pulses on the screen. Dancing in fluid, the little blip floats across the screen with still forming appendages and round head. They’re still surprisingly small for how much room they’re taking up; rearranging your organs, pushing out so terribly on your stomach. Your throat constricts. This is your child. 

Yours, and only yours.

“This is the head here, as I’m sure you guessed,” she continues, finger carefully ghosting over the monitor. “Arms, legs, torso… properly formed skull, kidneys look good, lungs are coming in nicely… missing those extra bits, so I’m happy to tell you that you’ve got a healthy little girl cooking in there.” 

A girl. 

You watch her on the screen. Moisture pricks the corners of your eyes, makes them sting bitterly. How joy can elicit such odd pain is beyond you, but you ignore it in favor of attempting to savor the moment. Her legs kick, and you feel that flutter inside of you. Butterfly wings. Gentle rain on glass. You smile, and it’s just as bitter as everything else brewing inside of you, but your laugh smothers it with honey. 

“You’ll let me keep prints, right?” you ask.

The technician nods her head, and ignores the way your voice cracks. “Of course. I’ll print several copies for friends and family, if you’d like?”

“Please.” 

Maybe Grandma will take a copy. 

This tiny being caught on black and white film is the only thing you can focus on. Even as your OB rattles off about keeping your stress levels down and increasing your potassium intake; your daughter is the only thing you can see. She’s all that matters. Your doctor talks about how high risk you are, and you’re busy counting fingers. There’s concern about your health after you ended up in the hospital a few weeks back, and her words fall on deaf ears. She mentions bed rest, and you’re comparing the size of your daughter's head to the palm of your hand. Small. Impossibly tiny. Still growing. Alluring. 

Your baby girl is beautiful already. 

Once you’ve made your next appointment for four weeks out, you head back home with a weight lifted off your shoulders. There’s still something insidious lurking around the corner. Tethering you to some pole. Pulling at your feet as you walk up the stairs next to the broken lift. It’s always there. Somewhere hidden. Something unnamed. You ignore it as you open your door and check to see if Grandma has answered your note yet. There’s no sort of response from her, and judging by the fact she’s not in her usual perch in the enclave in the hallway, you imagine she’s out and about doing… old lady things. 

Maybe she’s got a family, which is more than you can say for yourself at the moment.

Regardless, you have no interest in decorating the rest of your studio anymore; not when you have the greatest work of art in the palm of your hands. Gentle fragrance washes over you as you enter your kitchen and place the ultrasound photos next to your vase of flowers. You giggle to yourself. What a perfect little shrine. Not even born yet, and you’re already decorating your devotion to her. 

Now, you can plan. Put your energy toward something more rewarding than stressing or self depreciation. There are outfits to be bought, essentials to stock up on; names. Beautiful names, regal names, lovable names. Names you get to coo at night when she’s wanting to feed; a name that rolls off of your tongue as you call for her when she’s older. Your lips curl into a trembling smile as your thumb rubs over the smooth surface of the sonogram. You are terrified, but you are so in love. 

Then your eyes wander — because they always do — around the counter. That same, pale lettering on the card your supervisor gave you stares back at you like an omen. Haunting. Get well soon! Your throat tightens as your smile fades, and you remember that you’re living in a delusion. What happiness is there to be found carrying the child of a man who couldn’t stay faithful? Or at least not fuck another woman in your shared bed? 

With your mood already ruined by Isaac’s mere existence, you push away from the counter as you yank your phone free from your pocket. It’s been neglected these last few days as you’ve been doing your best to ignore him, but whether you like it or not, you’re still stuck with him. Answering his questions, keeping him updated on the baby; because if you don’t, then he’ll find some way to torture it out of you anyway. You’d rather do it on your terms.

You pull up his contact. The last message you had gotten from him was one you hadn’t seen from this morning: 

Good morning my lovely.

You try not to gag as you type out your response: 

The baby’s a girl. 

Rapid knuckles rap against the wood of your door, and you nearly jump out of your skin as you shoot a glare at the entrance. Biting into your lip, you close your phone and discard it back into your pocket as you peer through the peephole. You’re surprised to find Kyle on the other side wearing a grey t-shirt and a dusty, Union Jack cap. Confused, though not repulsed, by his presence, you open the door and greet him with tight-drawn brows. 

“Hey.” It’s awkward. Short. You’re certain he can smell your confusion from a mile away. 

Instead of calling you out on it, he holds up a small plastic bag that jingles like Christmas bells as he shakes it. Several, miscellaneous-sized nails jump around, bumping into one another with an odd melody. “Got your note.” 

He holds the bag out for you to take — polite and cautious — and once you have them in your hands, you can’t help but squint at them. You could have sworn you had slipped that note under Grandma’s door. Well, at least you’ve only made a slight fool of yourself. 

“Oh, right, thank you,” you say with a smile, as if this had been the plan all along. 

“We’re not supposed to use nails to hang things up, but I always keep extra lying around. They’re more useful and less damaging than that peel-n-stick crap they want you to use,” Kyle humors.

“That, and they’re significantly better at hanging up paintings. Don’t have to worry about them falling off the damn walls,” you chuckle. 

Kyle hums as the corner of his lips quirk up. Everything about him is kind and sweet — especially his eyes, which not-so-tactfully look you up and down, lingering on your swelling stomach. It’s a look you’ve gotten used to. Pregnancy has a way of drawing attention. “Need help hangin’ anything?” 

You should say no — you want to say no — but you can hear your OB in the back of your mind. Keep stress levels low. Rest in bed as much as possible. And please, keep strenuous activity to a minimum. 

“If you’ve got the time.” That sentence leaves your voice shaking. Half finished. Not entirely convinced. “It’s… always better to have a second set of eyes to make sure they’re even, anyway.” 

This isn’t the first time Kyle’s been in your apartment. He was in here last week to help you move your monster of a mattress into your bedroom — which you’re still not sure if you’ve thanked him properly for or not. For some reason, your stomach dips when you bring him into your studio. It’s not a place many people see. Or, that many people ever saw when it was still your proper set up when you were living with Isaac. It’s bare bones and gutted, at the moment. A lonely easel sits in the center of the room with no canvas to hold, surrounded by a mixture of works from your favorite artists. Sunlight seeps through the open windows, painting the dull white of the room an alluring gold; for a moment, it almost feels like home. 

“Did you paint these?” Kyle asks. He’s staring at one of John William Waterhouse’s paintings. Miranda. A beautiful, fair skinned woman with flaxen hair sits on a large rock on the grey shoreline of a windy beach. Her hands are folded in her lap, patient, as if waiting for something. 

“I’m very flattered you think I could paint as well as Waterhouse himself, but that’s just a print,” you chuckle. 

“Could’ve fooled me.” 

With Kyle’s mastery at maneuvering canvases, and your keen eye, it doesn’t take long to turn your studio from a half finished mess, into a beautifully covered masterpiece. There’s hardly a single inch of wall visible in that entire room.Natural lighting reflects off of the myriad of colors, casting a vibrant glow throughout the room. You smile with your hands on your hips. This is the first bit of triumph you’ve felt in weeks. 

“Oh, bloody hell,” Kyle hisses. He’s made the mistake of turning the studio light on, and the bulb overhead sputters and flashes at seizure-inducing speed. He quickly shuts it off, and looks at you with a sheepish grin before clearing his throat. “I’ve got an extra bulb too, if you need it.” 

“Don’t worry about it, I put a ticket in with maintenance,” you excuse. 

Kyle hums, but doesn’t look entirely convinced that’s going to fix your issue. Still, he keeps quiet as you lead him out of the studio and back through the kitchen toward the exit. Goodbyes are always awkward, especially for someone who was technically accidentally invited over in the first place, and you feel your palms sweating about it already. 

While you’re brainstorming ways to excuse him, Kyle’s eyes are wandering. It’s only natural that they do. That floral arrangement is beautiful, after all. Pristine, bright daisies, dainty sunflowers; glorious yellows and greens and whites. It looks too cheerful to be propped up next to a get well card. You can feel the question burning the tip of his tongue, because it’s what everyone always asks. How are you? Feeling any better? Hope things are going well for you-

Your phone buzzes. 

It burns a hole in your pocket. You know you shouldn’t look at it. It’s malicious. Evil. Writhing against your body, begging to be paid attention to. Attracting your fingers like a moth to a flame, and before you know it, your hands are ensnared in the web Isaac so painfully crafted for you. 

The screen burns your eyes as you look at his message: 

I was hoping for a boy.

That memory of Isaac talking about doing a gender reveal party haunts you. He spoke about it as if he were ecstatic; as if he would have been happy no matter the gender. That it was supposed to be a mirthful celebration of the two of you and your unborn child — is this what you had to look forward to? I was hoping for a boy? Would he have looked at you, dejected and torn apart over the fact that this child is a girl? Would he have cheered as loud? Smiled as big? Did he just recently turn into this fiend, or have you been blind this entire time? 

How long have you been loving a monster?

“What’s this?”

 Kind curiosity interrupts your thoughts, and you look up from your phone to find Kyle scrutinizing over the sonograms on the counter. Your daughter's beautiful features captured on translucent film are muddied against the dark counter top that sits underneath it. There’s hardly a head or torso to be seen in that mess. 

“Oh, I had an ultrasound of the kid today. It’s a sonogram,” you explain simply. 

He’s bending at the hips now, eyes squinting as he tries to make sense of it. There’s something oddly respectful about the way he doesn’t touch it. Like he’s worried about intruding if he does. 

“Here, it’s easier to see if you hold it up to the light. Like this…” 

You grab the sonogram off the counter, and you hold it up to the natural light pouring through the open window on the other side of the room. Kyle tilts his head, enamored by the way the image clears up. A whisper of a laugh hangs in the back of his throat. 

“I’ve never seen one in person before. Neat thing,” he admits. 

It’s strange being so close to him. You can smell brass and soot on his skin, an odd scent you’ve never encountered before, yet one that isn’t entirely unwelcome. Certainly better than the overdose of perfume your receptionist used. 

“Do you know what it is?” he asks as you lower the sonogram. He looks at you with genuine curiosity as you lower the picture back to the counter. 

“A girl,” you answer sheepishly. 

Kyle grins so bright you swear it’s blinding. “Granny’ll be happy to hear that. She placed a bet that you were havin’ a girl.” 

Your laugh erupts from your throat without warning, and you find your hand flying to your stomach by reflex. “Did she really?” He nods. “And what did you bet, then?” 

His shining grin melts more into a cheeky smirk as he glances towards the exit before looking back at you. “I bet on it being a girl, too. Guess we’re both winners.” He pauses, eyes once again falling to your stomach before landing back on your face, eyes softening. “But no one’s more lucky than you, I imagine.” 

Most days, you don’t feel lucky. If anything, you’re haunted. Carrying around some sort of terrible ghost that lingers in your pocket. Cunning. Malicious. But today, in that room, getting to see your daughter? Knowing that this is your daughter? It made you feel like the happiest woman on earth, if only for a moment.

“You might be right about that,” you giggle in agreement. 

There’s a gentle moment the two of you share. A hidden jocundity that you weren’t able to properly share with anyone else. But it’s short lived. Smothered and snuffed out before it can properly blossom, and then you’re walking Kyle to the door. He hesitates to step through the threshold, fingers twitching with intent, digging deep into the pocket of his jeans before holding out a small piece of paper toward you. 

You recognize it as the note that you wrote on earlier — and swore you gave to Grandma and not him — but it’s got extra writing on the back. A phone number; scrawled in some of the most perfect handwriting you’ve ever seen. 

“Take this. Just in case you need anything else. I’m usually gone most of the day because of work, so texting or calling is easier. If it’s all the same to you,” he explains. 

You slip the paper between your fingers before folding it into your pocket where you silently pray you’ll never need it. Kyle is a good man, truly. Sweet, charismatic, and more than handsome — a model citizen, you suppose. But you know how it looks. A — soon to be — single, hopefully soon-to-be-divorced woman, pregnant, and living on her own? If people don’t think Kyle’s doing charity work, they’ll certainly think more malevolent of you. 

Gold digger, pathetic, lonely woman that can’t take care of herself, can hardly keep a relationship, only hanging around this poor sod so he’ll take care of her kid no doubt. Lord knows she can’t take care of it herself-

“Thanks,” you smile. 

When the door closes behind Kyle, he notices Grandma has magically appeared in her usual spot. Old, creaking rocking chair, same frail hands working yarn into clothes; she sits unbothered. She wasn’t there when he first arrived home, but she’s apparated like a damn witch. 

“Was that your doing?” he asks, thumb jamming over his shoulder as he approaches the ancient crone. 

“You’ll have to be more specific, dear,” she chirps. 

“The note, asking about extra nails? She didn’t slide that under my door, did she?” Kyle explains. 

Grandma shrugs. “I didn’t have any. Figured an able-bodied man like yourself would.” 

A peeved sigh passes between Kyle’s teeth as he fumbles for his keys, head hanging low. Gunpowder and dirt cling to his body like a second skin. Filthy. Rotten like he is when he’s out in the field. He’d spent most of the day out at the range. You probably thought he was disgusting. 

“Well, a little warning next time, if you would. She looked at me like I was crazy when she opened that door,” he requests as he turns toward his door. He pauses, hand outstretched and ready to unlock the door, when he remembers something. “Oh, we were right. She’s havin’ a girl.” 

Crooked, yellow teeth flash in a quick grin as Grandma chuckles and pulls her knitting close to her chest. “Oh, good. I’ve already knitted three pink hats for the darling.” 

Her happiness is an infectious sort of jovial that seeps into even Kyle’s skin, but his smile is quick to fade when he thinks back to the flowers and card that sat next to those sonograms. Something so bleak next to literal gifts of life — get well soon.

“You think she’s alright? Living on her own, I mean,” Kyle asks, voice low and quiet as if the very walls will whisper his words to you if he’s too loud. “I know it’s not my place but… it’s a little odd, isn’t it?” 

A tangible solemness taints the air, forcing Grandma’s smile into a down-turned frown. Then, her lips set straight as she gets back to knitting. 

“She’s in a lot of pain,” is all she says in answer. 

“You think she lost her husband? She’s got ring rash, but no ring,” Kyle ventures. 

The sound that exudes from Grandma is something he’s never heard from her before. It’s sour, bilious even. Her hands begin to work twice as fast than they did before. 

“A woman who loses her husband is beside herself. She’s got too much anger for that, Kyle, and I think you’re smart enough to figure that out, too,” she replies. 

That was a possibility he had imagined as well. Some idiot bastard, abandoning his pregnant wife during her time of need. It’s not unheard of. There are a lot of odious people on this earth — he’s very aware. Yet, a part of him had hoped — as sick as it is — that whoever you had been with had only died. It’s a different type of betrayal. To be loved beyond death would certainly be more comforting than to be loved until that affection suddenly ran dry. 

“Suppose you’re right,” Kyle mutters. 

The key slides into the lock easily, like a knife through flesh, and it almost makes him laugh. Look at him. What a tricky little monster, trying to care for someone so soft when he can recall the way blood gushes free around cold steel. 

“Keep an eye on her, Kyle. I’m getting old. Won’t be around forever,” Grandma says, tone too steady to be joking. 

He doesn’t look back as he opens the door. 

You seemed responsible, tidy, and overall like someone he could get along with. But there was something more about you that intrigued him. Maybe it was the way you wrote about your love for cooking and how you were looking for a quiet and peaceful place to call home. Or maybe it was the photo you attached to your application, a warm smile on your face that made Simon feel at ease. 

Maybe this could work out after all. 

And work out it did, maybe a little too well. It has now been a little over a year since you moved in, and despite Simon being gone on deployment more often than not the two of you have become very close. You cook meals together. You watch movies on lazy nights, where you will sometimes fall asleep on the couch, your lashes kissing your cheek as the soft glow of the tv illuminates your face, and Simon can’t help but feel a warmth in his heart as he tucks the fluffy blanket, that you had brought with you when you moved in, over your sleeping form.

After you moved in, his flat feels more like a home than it ever had before. It’s like you were always meant to be there, filling up the empty space in his life that he didn’t even realise was there. 

There is something so oddly domestic about all the small things you do together – sharing a cup of tea in the evenings as you talk about your day, or even playfully arguing over who gets to do the dishes that night, even though he secretly never actually minds doing them. 

Pushing the trolley down the aisles of the supermarket as the two of you do the big shop together on Sundays are one of his favourites, though. Because he knows what it looks like from the outside – just a couple doing their weekly grocery shopping. The only thing that would make the scene even more picturesque would be with a little baby in the trolley, a perfect blend of the two of you, giggling and reaching out to try and grab for the items on the shelves as you both laugh and try to keep them entertained.

These thoughts will sometimes sneak into Simon’s mind, and he will quickly shake them away, reminding himself that it is just his imagination running wild. He can’t think like that, it isn’t fair to you or to himself. But still, the idea lingers in the back of his mind, growing stronger with each passing day.

It has started to get harder and harder to ignore these thoughts, these feelings. He tries to push them away, to bury them deep down, but they keep resurfacing. He never really expected to feel this way about you, about anyone, really. But now that he has you in his life, so close yet so far from what he actually wants to be he can’t help but dream about a different life, to have a family, a future, a life outside of the military and his flat.

Suddenly, Simon starts to notice more and more babies around him. Whether it’s at the park when he is on his runs, in Tesco, or even on TV, they seem to be everywhere. And each time he sees a baby, his heart aches with longing. It doesn’t help that your neighbours just had a baby, and he has to watch you coo over the little boy every chance you get. It is like a knife twisting in his chest, knowing that he will never have that with you.

It has always been a secret desire of his, a wish he knew he would never be worthy of having fulfilled. And yet, it linger in the depths of his heart, elusive and shimmering like a mirage in the desert. The dream of someday having a family of his own, of doing things right, of breaking the cycle he had grown up in. After meeting you, his dreams became more vivid, more concrete. 

He has fallen in love with you, and that scares the living daylights out of him. He never thought he would be in this situation, especially after all the sick shit he has been through. But here you are, filling up the empty space in his heart, making him yearn for a life he never thought he could have.

But Simon is good at keeping his emotions in check, so he continues to play his part, to act like everything is okay, like he doesn’t feel this overwhelming love for you that threatens to consume him. 

But late at night, Simon lies awake in bed, when he is sure you’re sleeping and he is staring at the ceiling, his heart feels heavy with the weight of his unspoken feelings. 

And when he tries to decompress, by fisting his aching cock in his hand, guilty thoughts of you will flood his mind, making him ache with longing. 

He knows it’s wrong, he knows he shouldn’t be thinking of you in that way. But the images of you, of your smile, of your laughter, of your kindness, they linger in his mind, fueling his desires. The way you smile and laugh and light up his life in ways he never thought possible, it fuels a fire within him so all consuming, so intense, that he can’t help but give in to it, even if just in the confines of his own mind.

And as he strokes himself, he can’t help but imagine what it would be like to have you in his bed, to feel your touch, to hear your moans of pleasure. He imagines what it would be like to hold you close, to feel your warmth against his skin, to hear you whisper words of love and affection in his ear. To have you beg for him to fill your womb and mark himself as yours. He would love it – to pump you so full with his cum, for it to take, to see your body change with his child, to create a life with you, to have a family of his own. 

He will have to bite down on his own hand to stifle his groans and to stop himself from moaning your name out loud. It’s a dangerous game he plays in the silence of the night, as he knows that these feelings, these desires, can never be acted upon. But still, he can’t help but indulge in these fantasies, in these dreams of a life that he may never have.

You had turned your face into Paz’s neck, trying to get his scent on you. You could not believe how you had only known this man for a few days – a week, at most! – and yet his scent was the only thing that seemed to calm you down. And it was no different for him.

The alpha’s hand immediately found your scent gland and you shivered as the soft leather brushed over your skin. It did not take long until he pulled his gloves off, settling them into your lap, before resuming his motions.

The nervous energy in the room was palpable but it was practically radiating off him and it inevitably affected you as well. Where you had been excited, if a bit reluctant, a few weeks ago at the prospect of reclaiming Mandalore, now there was only a strange sense of dread in your stomach. One that even the alpha could not dissolve.

“When you wake up tomorrow, some of us will set foot on our homeland for the first time in too many years,” Briggs announced, his serious gaze roaming over the packed hall, “I cannot promise you it will be easy. I cannot promise we will all wake up to the sight of Mandalore. But we will die trying.”

You could see Ragnar looking back at his father who tilted his head. A gesture meant to be reassuring but only resulted in you questioning whether Paz would be one of those dying. You shifted nervously, causing Paz to tighten his hold on your waist.

“Calm down, love,” he rumbled quietly behind you, “It will be alright.”

Forcing yourself to nod, you gripped his large hand tightly, trying to burn into your brain what it was like to touch him,

“Rest well and rest assured that tomorrow will mark the start of a brand new era,” Briggs raised his glass, “And let us toast to our home!”

“To our home!”

Everyone lifted their glasses and the conversations resumed, a constant background roar that reminded you of the countless fates that were tied to the success of this mission. A strange feeling started in your chest, and not the kind that Paz’s presence usually caused.

You shifted again, watching as the crowd dissipated and the foundlings were walked off to bed. Their excited chatter moved down the hall and something cold clenched your heart when you watched Ragnar wave at his father.

Immediately everything quieted down. With everyone returning to their own conversations and the hall being considerably more empty now, Paz did not waste any time. His hands landed on your thighs and you managed a wobbly smile.

 “What is going on in your pretty head?” he asked you, his fingers skimming over your thighs, “You’ve been squirmy all evening.”

“Who says something is on my mind?”, you popped a berry into your mouth, grimacing at the sudden sour taste.

“True,” he laughed, “You might have just spent dinner thinking about when you can finally sit on my cock again.”

“Paz!” you gasped, “you cannot – I mean – what if –“ You glanced around with flushed cheeks, relieved to see that no one had seemed to hear his indecent theory.

He laughed again and the sound made your heart and body melt. “I will never tire of making you flustered,” he murmured, his big hands pulling you closer, “Though I actually would not mind having you cockwarm me tonight, sweet omega,” his fingers brushed the underside of your breasts and you shivered, “I would be lying if I said I could ever get enough of you.”

“I actually had something similar in mind,” you admitted shyly, slipping off his lap and enjoying the way his hands followed you and his body leant into you. As if he wanted to keep touching you, as if he never wanted to let you go. Your heart skipped a beat and you smiled.

“I … would like to try something?”

He leant back, his legs spreading with the movement and your teeth dug into your bottom lip at the sight of the obvious bulge in his pants. “Oh yeah, omega, and what would that be?”

You made a few steps away, making sure that your robe (a dark blue, just like his armour) swished around your form as enticingly as possible. Paz’s head turned to follow your movement from your place in front of him to a chair in a dark alcove, dressed in shadows where you knelt down right in front of it.

The big alapha hummed, rising to his feet, knowing exactly what it was you had in mind. “I think I can get behind that idea.”

From the other sounds that were floating through the cantina, you knew that illicit things were already well underway. Most of them likely more graphic and adventurous than what you had in mind. Still, you felt a little nervous at the prospect of sucking Paz Vizsla’s cock.

But for some reason, this was exactly what you needed. You wanted to bring him pleasure, so much pleasure.

You watched as he pulled off his cape, folding it expertly before motioning for you to stand. He dropped it on the floor, his hand steadying your elbow as you sunk down on the soft fabric. “Don’t want you uncomfortable,” he announced, before sitting down in the chair.

He looked big like this, bigger than usual. And oh so confident it already made your panties wet. His knees spread, the trunks he called thigh caging you in and you watched with bated breath as his fingers undid his codpiece, expertly freeing his cock.

He was already hard and dripping precome, the knot at the base slightly inflated and you squeezed your thighs. It was not like you had never seen his cock before and it certainly was not as if he had not fucked you before. Yet, the sheer size of him and the thought of taking him in your mouth overwhelmed you a little.

Where were you supposed to start?

But when one big rough hand closed around his shaft and Paz started to jerk off right in front of you, you could not help but to simply … dive in.

Opening your mouth as far as it would go, you closed your lips around his tip, one hand struggling to fit around him. The grunt he let out, paired with a twitch of his hips, had you smiling around him.

“Stars above,” he cursed, “Warn a man next time, won’t you, love?”

You looked up at him, teary-eyed, while your tongue licked the underside of him. Or at least the part you could reach. He was heavy in your mouth, heavy and big and he tasted of something that made you want more. Slowly, you moved forward trying to take more of him but soon enough, he bumped something at the back of your throat and you sputtered.

Before you could panic about breathing, Paz had pulled out of you, his large hand cupping your cheek while the other was still wrapped around the base of his cock. “Deep breaths, omega,” he soothed you, his hand leisurely stroking himself, “You are doing so good for, trying to take it all.”

“You’re so big,” you marvelled, wrapping your hands around him, “I want it all, alpha, I – Paz, I really want it all.”

“Want my help?” he asked, “Might have to be a little rougher, though, sweet omega, and I can smell how much that turns you on but I need you to tell me – Are you sure?”

You nodded eagerly, darting your tongue out to lick at him. “I am sure, alpha,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to the tip, “I promise.”

“If it is too much, tap my thigh three times, understood?”

You nodded again, shifting on your makeshift pillowed. Your thighs were already drenched at this point and you wondered whether you could come just from sucking him off. It seemed like you would be able to do a lot of things when it came to Paz.

His grip on your face loosened just the tiniest bit. “Open up for me,” he ordered, pulling your face towards him, “There we fucking go. Gorgeous.”

“I will never tire of this sight,” he groaned, “You struggling to take my size, trying to be so good for me,” he shifted, his hips surging forward and you smiled with pride when you did not gag this time, “Can I go deeper, love? Is that okay?”

With your position between his legs, your jaw wide open around him, you could not really nod. But Paz seemed to recognize the excited twinkle in your eye because you could hear the grin in his voice when he muttered a “Stars, you’re perfect.”

You took great care to keep your breathing even and through your nose, experimentally swirling your tongue around him every time he pulled out of your mouth. His thrusts grew heavier, his hold on you tighter and you swore you were this close to coming just from the sheer sight of his shaft covered in the sheen of you.

It was not long before he came in thick spurts on your tongue. You struggled to swallow it all, your throat working overtime as you did your best to swallow around him. “Good girl,” he praised you, “My good fucking girl.”

Your heart jumped in your chest as you licked him clean, not quite ready to let go of this intimacy.

His hand came to your chin, gently scooping up some of the come that had spilt from your lips. “Here you go,” he offered his coated thumb and you sucked the digit into your mouth without hesitation. You could never get enough of his taste.

“Let’s retire for the night, love,” he suggested, “We have a long day ahead of us.”

*

By the time you got settled in your bunk, you knew it was only a few hours before everything would start. Before you had to say goodbye.

Paz had excused himself, leaving you to get ready for bed alone before he appeared by your side, dressed completely in his armour.

“Are you okay?”

“Said goodbye to Ragnar,” he explained, sitting down on the little cot, hunching his shoulders over so he would not hit his head.

“Oh.”

Somewhere behind the curtains, someone snored.

Paz grunted when he laid down, his giant arm reaching out and pulling your back to his front.

“Is this okay?” you asked quietly, “It’s a tight fit.”

“It’ll be okay,” he murmured, grunting when he pulled the curtain closed, “I will not spend my last night without my calmer.”

“Aren't you uncomfortable?” you asked, your voice small, “With – with the armours and me and all the …”

“I will not spend my last night without my calmer,” he repeated, leaving no room for doubt. It took a bit of shuffling to turn you around but when you finally were facing him, you already felt much better. You tucked your face into his neck, breathing in his scent as he wrapped both arms around you.

Your heart was squeezing so hard in your chest that the emotional pain became physical.

What if this was his last night? What if you would never see him again?

And what if you did? Would it ever be like this again? Would he want to keep you as his calmer (or more?) when Mandalore was finally reclaimed?

Paz shifted, his large hands running over your back until one settled at the back of your neck.

“I got you,” he rumbled, “You’ll be safe, omega, I promise.”

You swallowed away the need to tell him that it wasn’t your safety you were worried about.

 *

The next morning was worse. It barely qualified as morning and you were sure you had not found any sleep. You had just been shifting all night from side to side, desperately burying your nose in his neck to soak up every little bit of his scent that he could give you.

You were not sure if Paz had slept either but when the alarms sounded in the room at the same time, it took him a minute to get up. Everyone was shuffling around the packed room silently, most of them already dressed and armoured. Ready to descend to the surface of Mandalore.

Despair was clawing at your insides. You felt like you were watching something from the outside that you knew would fail. That you knew would destroy everything you held close to your heart.

And yet, you watched helplessly as they lined up, preparing to board the ship that would take them into the atmosphere.

It was silent – eerie – as if everyone knew something big was about to happen. And you couldn’t move from his side. You couldn’t even if you wanted to. You needed to be here with him.

You watched as Paz double-checked his weapons and your mouth quirked up as you remembered how the man had seemed like a weapon on his own the very first time you had seen him. And how true it was, now that you saw guns and rifles packed to every piece of his armour that could carry it.

Your smile fell just as quickly as it had appeared. Would this be the last time you got to see him?

You had been scared a lot of times in your life. Like when your parents had taught you how to swim and you had been convinced you would sink to the bottom of the sea. Or when you had taken a bad fall in one of the hiding places and scuffed your knee. But that childish fear of creatures and heights was nothing compared to the existential dread that settled in your stomach.

It wasn’t fear that something could go wrong it was fear that you knew something was going to go wrong.

And could you really risk this?

“You, uh, you will come back, right?” you whispered, already hating how needy you sounded. But you needed to hear him say it. You needed Paz Vizsla’s words to be the ones to tie you to the hope of a future together.

“Someone already scared for me?” Paz tilted his head and while you knew this was supposed to be a joke, his voice did not sound very light. Like he knew it too. That feeling.

“Well, I mean you have Ragnar,” you shrugged, pulling the cloak closer around you, “And I mean your tribe needs you, you are a great warrior and –“

“Exactly,” he interrupted you gently. You watched as he approached you, his steps heavy and measured and you swallowed. “I am a great warrior,” he repeated with his fingers under your chin, tilting your head up to look at him, “Which is why I will come back to you.”

“But –“

“Listen to me,” he whispered, his hand cupping the side of your neck, scenting you so gently your eyes fluttered close, “I vow to the stars, I will come back to you, love.”

That was the last thing he said to you before he boarded the ship.

*

If somebody asked you what happened during the time you were waiting, you would not be able to tell them. As soon as Paz embarked on the with the scouting group, it felt like time stood still. You barely knew what you were doing. You were pacing the entire length of the ship it seemed, Ragnar keeping you company for a few of those pacing trips before he distracted himself by playing with the other foundlings.

You tried to approach your feelings rationally. You had spent a lot of your time these past few days in close proximity with Paz. He was an alpha, you were an omega, obviously there were some biological components that could have contributed to your feelings for him.

But that was exactly it. Your feelings …

At the thought of Paz not coming back, it felt like your heart ripped into two. You could not fathom a world without him in it and, more importantly perhaps, you could not fathom your life without him in it. You wanted him to come back and when all the tribes settled in their parts of Mandalore, you wanted to be as close to him as now. You wanted to spend your evening with him and Ragnar and you wanted to know what his days were like, what his role was in his clan.

Whether he wanted to keep you in his life as well.

Waiting was pure torture. Communications were cut and all that remained was the cold silence of the ship. You avoided the cockpit and strategy meetings, Briggs (thankfully) seemed to understand your reluctance and did not press you on the matter. Until Axe Woves came to warn the ship of the Imperial that had settled on the planet and the fight that had broken loose.

That was the meeting you had insisted on attending, hoping that – in whatever capacity – the stoic alpha might drop some comments about the people on the surface.

“Is,” you swallowed, “Is he well?”

The beskar-clad man, much to your frustration, said nothing at all.

Which was not very helpful.

The fight continued and troops were dispatched and you stayed, keeping the foundlings safe and quiet. In fitful dreams, you heard yourself confessing your love to him just before he disappeared never to return again. You woke up with cold sweats until you crawled into his bunk, pressing your nose into his pillow and willing yourself to think of a future in which he came back to you unharmed.

Sometimes, you could hear Sluice and Chants converse about what to do if it all failed. Whether to settle back in Nevarro was another possibility or if the tribes should stick together to find a new home.

All you could think was that you would not leave Paz on this planet.

You could not leave him.

It was morning when the announcement came. You had buried yourself in his cot, his sheets pressed to your nose as you took trembling breaths when the PA system stuttered to life, the mechanical voice echoing through the empty hallways.

You had retaken Mandalore. The air was breathable and you could safely land on the surface to meet the victorious troops.

The joy and excitement that spread through your entire body could not be described. Nothing could happen to wipe the smile off your face as you frantically searched for the one good dress you wanted to wear when you saw Paz again. You wanted to please him and kiss him and tell him you loved him. And maybe, if you were very lucky, he loved you too.

Stars, how you hoped he would.

But that elation stopped short when you set foot onto Mandalore. You could not even look at the surrounding landscapes, the fallen home of your ancestors – when you spotted the group but no Paz. A quick glance around did not reveal him either and suddenly the feeling of dread was back again.

Briggs was standing there too, and you knew the man long enough that when you saw his eyes getting glassy at your sight, he did not need to say anything anymore for the tears to fall.

This was it then.

You always wondered what it would feel like to live with a broken heart. Now you knew.

The pain in your heart was unbearable and you suddenly wished that you had never left the bunk this morning. That you were still curled up in his scent and his blankets without the knowledge that the alpha you wanted to spend your life with was dead.

“Where is my buir?” Ragnar asked somewhere behind you and you could hear it in his voice. How he tried to sound strong but he was just a child. A child without his father.

He made his way to the front and stopped by your side. You put your hands on his shoulder.

“I am sure he will be fine,” you assured him, not believing your own words, “He – he must have … another mission somewhere, right?” you looked to Axe Woves who avoided your gaze, “Right?”

Ragnar grabbed your hand. “Bu said if he is late, I need to distract you.”

“What? Why?”

“Because we're family,” he said it so effortlessly, “and because I know he will come back but you might worry and you shouldn’t worry.”

You were not sure what happened first: the stopping of your heart or the break in your breath. Paz told him you were his family? Ragnar considered you … his family?

“Do you wanna play a board game?” the boy asked and the breath rushed back into your lungs, “Bu taught me a few games for when I wait for him to come back.”

“He did?” you asked, your voice faint as you followed him back to where someone had set up a small open-air cantina at the ramp of the ship. You ignored the looks Briggs and Chants gave you. Ignored the way that Bo Katan bowed her head as if to pay respect to you as if you had something to mourn.

Not now, you told yourself as your heart cracked in your chest. Maybe tomorrow you could bury yourself in Paz’s bunk, breathing in his scent until there was nothing left but your own grief.

Tomorrow, you promised yourself, Tomorrow I will know he is dead.

*

The sun was setting over the mountains and Ragnar made no sign of stopping the game anytime soon. He had patiently explained the elaborate card game to you before dealing the cards. And then he had continued to play with you the entire day. Sometimes, people joined you for a round or two. The first had been Din Djarin – the man with the green baby. He had not said anything but you could feel the sadness coming off him in waves.

Then there had been The Armourer who had stayed for only one round, occasionally speaking to Ragnar about his helmet ceremony (the first having been interrupted only a few weeks prior). She was followed by Sluice, Bo Katan and finally, Briggs.

“Mind if I join?” the older man had asked, only sitting down when you nodded.

“Not at all,” Ragnar spoke up, relieving you of the to find the energy, “Do you know the rules?”

Briggs had left after two rounds, his warm hand on your shoulder the only indication of what he had come here to say. My condolences for your loss.

The tears had burned hot in your eyes but you forced yourself to keep playing. Ragnar won most rounds and the one he did not, you were fairly sure he lost on purpose. “No worries,” he assured you with childish wisdom, “Sometimes it takes a little longer to get the rules.”

“That is okay,” you forced yourself to smile, “How about we take a break for some food?”

“Good idea!” the boy jumped up, “I will get some of the berries and you stay here and watch the cards!”

Before you could protest, he had raced to the small buffet table.

You both welcomed and feared the moment of solitude this afforded you. It allowed you to take a deep breath, to let your shoulders and your guard fall. Maybe even a few tears if you were quick about it. You did not want Ragner to see you like this. He seemed to be determined that his father was alive and well – that he would return – that you could not bear to be the one to break his heart.

“Bu!” Ragnar shouted and you whipped around immediately. It took you a moment to find Ragnar but when you did, he had his arms wrapped around the legs of a large man. A man dressed in dark blue armour.

 “Paz,” you sighed, feeling tons lighter. Ragnar threw himself at his father who caught him though you did not fail to notice the way his legs almost buckled.

Stars he was hurt.

A new wave of panic washed over you and you did not realise you had stood up until the stoll toppled behind you. Several pairs of eyes were on you but you only cared about one.

Paz set Ragnar down and whispered something to him. You watched as the boy nodded, skipping off to Din and the Armourer. And then Paz walked towards you. Though walk seemed too weak a word for the way his heavy steps came closer and closer, his looming figure soon right in front of you.

Paz was right in front of you.

“You,” he growled, taking your hand without slowing his stride, “Come with me.”

“Paz, what happened?” you asked, trying to look him over, “Are you hurt? Did – Were those Imperials we spotted on the radar? Axe Woves and Briggs and – oh stars, we need to get you checked out and wait – are you bleeding? Where does it hurt maybe I can –“

A door swished open and you glanced around in confusion. This was not the infirmary. This was not even a proper room if the cleaning supplies on the shelves were anything to go by.

“Paz, you need – oh!” your hands gripped his shoulders tightly when he lifted you onto a surface. Was it a table? A counter? Stars, you could not bring yourself to care. Not when he was standing in front of you, panting like he had the fight of his life behind him.

Which he probably did.

Your heart clenched again, from fear or joy you could not tell.

His large hand fiddled with your dress and with a rip, your entire front piece was hanging off you in tatters.

“Alpha,” you cried, moving your hands from his shoulders to his chest, “Alpha, are you all right? I was so worried.”

The big man stepped between your open legs and you took a deep breath. The smell of adrenaline burned your nose but you could not help but notice the arousal that was in the air as well. He was angry and determined and the way he did not even look at his hands when he tugged on his belt made you glad you were already sitting down.

“Keep calling me that and I will be,” he grunted, opening the snaps of his armour and finally his fly.

Your eyes were fixated on his hand around his cock. “Pull down your dress,” he instructed instead, “I want to see your tits.”

You hurried to do so, almost ripping the fabric entirely in the process but you could not care less. Not when you had your dream of an alpha standing between your open legs, getting ready to fuck you. The ruined fabric pooled around your hips and the cool air made your nipple pebble. But then Paz was right there, the bulk of his body between yours and you could feel his cock against the inside of your thigh.

He pushed the tip of his cock against your folds, slowly circling your clit and you whimpered. Why did everything he did feel so good? “Ready?” he asked, spreading your wetness around and you found yourself wishing that you could see. That you could see how big he was against you, how his hand gripped himself, how his brows might furrow in determination and the set of his lips as he pushed inside you.

But you could not have everything in life. And for this moment, the feeling of his cock stretching your walls was enough. He was here, he was alive and he made you feel so stars forsaken good.

“Fuck,” you sighed, “Paz …”

“That’s good, huh?” he grumbled, slowly pulling out before pushing back in. You could feel your walls ease around him, your juices covering his shaft and the gland on your neck pulsed with the need to have him scent you.

He remained still for a few moments and you took a deep breath, breathing him in again and trying to get yourself to realize that he was alive. Your alpha was alive.

Paz started to move, then, and slowly pushed inside you again before building up a steady rhythm that had him deep, deep inside you. And all you could think, between bouts of pleasure, was that he was alive. Paz was alive.

“Fuck,” you whispered, your hand shaking as you gripped the edge of the table, overcome with emotion, “A-alpha, I was so scared. “

A particularly hard thrust had your hands fly around his neck. “I was protecting you,” he replied, his voice shaking, “You were never in any danger, omega, I would not allow it.”

“I wasn’t scared for me, you di’kut,” you cursed as you hastily wiped away the tears streaming down your face, “I was scared for you!”

Paz grunted at your admission, pushing inside you again and pulling you as close as he could with the armour in the way. “And I was scared of never seeing you again,” he confessed into the darkness between your faces, “That I was breaking my promise to you.”

“Wh-What,” you gasped, feeling his cock grow inside you, “Alpha, what is happening?”

“Oh fuck,” he grunted, “Sorry, ‘mega, sorry, I didn't mean to – oh shit, love, you gotta stop squeezing me.”

Easier said than done. In fact, it seemed impossible. Because as soon as you realized that it was his knot swelling inside of you, all you could think about was what it would be like to be knotted by him. Which turned you on beyond belief.

The mental image of him filling you up to the brim, the giant size of him staying inside you, made your walls flutter and your high approach so much faster. Paz’s movements did not stop and you could feel the ring at his base growing and growing, catching on your entrance with every thrust and making you yearn to keep him inside.

“Alpha, will you – Can you – oh!” he hit that spot inside you again that made your blood sing and you fell back against the wall, completely at his mercy.

And then the light went out.

Your body tensed with fright and you squeaked, thinking something had gone horribly wrong. But Paz did not seem deterred and you faintly remembered that the light switch was somewhere on his side of the room.

There was a sound you could not pinpoint, followed by a loud clatter and then his hand was at the back of your neck, pulling you to him and you squirmed at how he folded you in half, his cock still nestled deep inside you and then he was … kissing you.

You gasped, the feeling of his lips familiar against yours and everything you had dreamed of.

“Fuck it feels good to fill you up,” he murmured, the praise making your cheeks warm.

Your legs were still trembling around his hips and you tightened your hold around his neck. Your nose bumped against his scent gland. Add that to the feeling of his smile against your shoulder and even retaking Mandalore could never rival the feeling of being scented by him.

“That good, huh?” he teased you, his lips moving against your skin.

He had some stubble that tickled your sensitive skin and you gasped, the sensation opening you up even more.

And then he pushed inside you one last time as you came around him. The knot at his base swelled with no signs of stopping, locking you together as he filled you up. You shivered at the feeling of him twitching inside you, spurts of come filling you up in a way you had never experienced before, increasing the pressure inside you that made your walls clench. He continued to rut against you, causing your clit to rub against his pelvis again and again, prolonging your peak.

After what felt like an eternity, you came down from your high, relishing in the feeling of him still pulsing inside of you. It was strange, something you had never experienced before, but the closeness made you sigh contentedly against his lips.

Paz was quiet save for a few grunts, his hands grabbing your hips, keeping you as close as possible.

“I’ve never been knotted before,” you admitted between kisses.

“Really?” Paz asked, his mouth pausing on yours, “How does it feel?”

“It feels kinda nice, alpha,” you whispered, pulling his face closer to yours again.

Paz did not say anything for a moment, his laboured breath loud in the small room. Then his hands cupped your face and you could feel his eyes on you and you wondered if he was able to see you despite the darkness. Probably not, after all, it was his visor that usually enabled him to do so. But he made you feel seen with how his thumbs brushed over the apples of your cheeks, still wet with tear tracks or how his lips softly landed on yours.

“I don’t think I told you yet,” he said against your mouth, “But you are beautiful. To me, you are the – the most stunning omega I have ever seen. When I was down there – when I … I dreamt of what it would be like to see you with my own eyes.”

A flutter started in your chest. An awful flutter of hope that had you thinking of futures beyond the next few days. He could not mean what you thought he meant, right?

“But you helmet –“ you started, trying to rationalize away the hope in your voice.

But Paz had other plans. “I want to court you,” he said, sounding as determined as ever, “Stars, I want to properly court you, love, whatever that entails for your clan but I asked Briggs and –“

“What?”

“I wanted to make sure that I did everything right,” he explained, his hand warm on your back, “So I asked him about any customs I might have to know, that last night before we left and – and for a second there it looked like I would never get to ask you. But I can, love, I can ask you now. Will you let me court you, ‘mega? Will you let me spend the rest of my life with you and Ragnar and all the other foundlings the stars let us have?”

“You – you want children, too?” you asked, feeling like the breath was stolen out of your lungs, “M-more than Rganar, I mean?”

You could feel his smile against your neck, the tip of his nose buried in the valley beneath your ear. “Course I do,” he confirmed, “Ragnar is the biggest gift of my life, I won't say no to that joy again.”

A laugh bubbled up in your chest and you could feel your walls clench around him. Paz moaned, his cock twitching inside you. “Is that a yes, then?” he asked carefully, his hand wandering up to cup the back of your neck. He moved away from you,

“Yes,” you breathed out with the biggest smile on your face, “Yes, Paz.”

The scent that surrounded you made you euphoric and you realized that it had been Paz all along. That sweet scent that made your heart beat faster and a smile appear on your lips? Paz fucking Vizsla.

“Open your eyes, mesh’la,” he asked you quietly, his breath warm on your face, “Look at me, sweetheart.”

And you did. Your eyes blinked open and it took you both an eternity and a second to get your eyes used to the seemingly blinding light of the storage room. But then your eyes met his and you saw Paz Vizsla for the first time.

He had dark eyes, just like you had daydreamed, and his hair looked just as soft as it had always felt. It was matted to his forehead in places and he looked … exhausted, like he had not slept in days. There were bruises on his cheekbones and you could see some dried blood and dirt on his jaw. But all of that was overshadowed by the brightest, biggest grin on his face.

It made the corners of his eyes crinkle and you could not help but smile back, absolutely in awe of the man in front of you. What were you supposed to say the first time you saw the face of the man you had fallen hopelessly in love with?

“You are handsome,” is what you settled on finally, carefully brushing your fingertip over his crooked nose.

He huffed out a laugh, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “Thank you, my love,” he rumbled and your heart skipped a beat at him calling you his. Because you were, truly, whether you had realised it before or not, his.

“I love you,” you blurted out, feeling oddly shy.

“I love you too,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, “There is no version of this life in which I do not love you.”

“You will have to tell me about your scars,” you whispered, your eyes roaming over his face, catching on one that cut through his eyebrow, “Every single one.”

oOo

He doesn't notice, but it's okay.

He doesn't notice that you notice him, and that's okay.

That's perfectly A-OK with Johnny. Just perfectly fine, really. He more often than not catches you staring after Kyle's back like an entranced mutt after its dear owner, and its sweet. Way too sickeningly sweet to the point where it hurts his gums chewing through his half-dead cigarette. It's Simon's last stick. No one notices.

"He's going to be pissed about that, you know." Oh, so he does notice. The bastard can't notice you pining at every second, at every expanse of the base, but somehow notices that Johnny snagged the last cigarette in the quiet hours before the heli started. He's somehow able to notice every single letter of John's messy debrief notes, a target more than a thousand meters away with his gun, but can't notice someone literally begging to be taken to bed, to be told to do any command. And they'd do it willingly with no hesitation. Absolutely rich. Laughable, really. It makes him stomp out the light with the edge of his boot and stare at the eejit with a glance that spared no intentional notice.

"He won't notice."

He won't really.

"He won't ever notice."

And that's okay with him. Because Kyle doesn't notice that the 'he' isn't Simon in this case, and retreats into the heli while logistics finishes off their readings. Turns his back like he always does while little Ms. Lovesick in the shadows finally peeps her head up and darts her eyes back and forth, taking in all the angles of her muse. Johnny knows she only does this when she thinks no one notices, like a little mouse hiding desperately until the coast seemed clear. Except the coast wasn't clear, Kyle was as oblivious as ever, and he could still hear you pray under your breath.

Praying, checking, fiddling with your lips as you trail after him like a guardian angel. Mammie said sharing was caring when he was young, but Johnny isn't a wee lad anymore, and one didn't get rewarded for keeping their mouths closed. No recognition. You have to toot your own horn, as Laswell pointed out. Whatever the hell it meant meant him cutting Kyle. He never had patience to just notice. He can't have patience after more than a good year of you passing silent soliloquies at the expense of the other man's back while he watches. If Kyle wasn't going to take, then he was.

Too little too late. Kyle may be irate, but Johnny has his hand to play.

Johnny stops only noticing, and acts.

"So you just got a salad today. What's up with that?"

oOo

There's a man speaking to you. It's-Oh. Johnny's speaking to you. He asks why you got a salad today, and you instinctively duck your head down. He noticed that you got a salad today?

When did he ever notice you? Know you?

"Hello?"

Hello? What was a hello from a man you thought never knew you even existed? A few congratulations and greetings on missions before and after, and that was all. He was as far away to you as much as...Kyle.

Except Kyle had no words to spare, and once again, your peer at his retreating back. No exceptions. Except, now, there did seem to be an exception, because he stalls in his steps, and much to your horror, turns around and looks.

He notices. He's looking. He's looking at you as much as Johnny is, the latter looming over you as if to block Kyle's gaze. He's looking, he's walking, he's coming over to your table right now, and you're gripping the fork in your hands so hard it hurts. Johnny doesn't notice. You notice. Kyle clearly notices. The closer he strides over, the lower your head gets. You're practically staring at your lap.

"This bloke bothering you?" Those are his first words to you besides a thanks and a hello from formalities, and it's about another man. Someone else. it's not about you. It's not about how you quiver, unable to meet his gaze, and how you pick at your pants while Johnny seems to hover ever so close. Kyle stands a good few feet back, too close yet too far away, and you're stunted in silence, linoleum floor eating up your view. Your burgers getting cold. But you feel hot. The scent of Johnny's aftershave...No, was it Kyle's? The heat of Johnny's presence...No, was it Kyle's, who suddenly was right in front of you? Their eyes. Their bodies blocking out the harsh lights of the dining area. Their stares.

"N-No," you think you say. Well, you say, apparently, because Johnny's cocking his head to the side and Kyle's not buying your response. "He's not bothering me..."

Impishly is more like the description rather than normally. Johnny's teeth flash into a grin, but you think you see a rare sort of edge when he directs it to the left, to where Kyle is. They're good friends. Close in age, close in military prowess, and albeit Kyle doesn't mind standing out of the limelight, equally on par with female attention. You try not to read into anything, but the air between them seems odd and now pull you into the fray. Kyle's not grinning; he lazily smiles, but you're observant enough to know that it doesn't reach his eyes.

You notice the grin Johnny has doesn't reach his eyes, either. Your spine stiffens.

"Just trying to be friendly. Saw her friend left her and she was all alone." As usual. Alone. "Can't a man be friendly?"

Kyle's not buying this, either. "You call this friendly?"

"Oh, I can call this whatever I want before you started playing bobby, my good man," Johnny jokingly shoots back, but it's more of a retort than a casual trade between friends. You're not sure what you're caught up in. But your back is now ramrod straight and soon the two men follow, except you're no longer in their gaze, and they cast their eyes on each other. It seemed akin to male lions sizing each other up before they tore into flesh, save more pretentious smiles that moved only their mouths. What. Was. Happening. Everything seemed to transpire way too fast, way too close, way too out of your league, with the both of them already out of your league. Way too random on a busy Monday morning where your salad wilted and your new haircut was hideous and the coffee was crap today and you stayed up way too late writing that wrap-up report from the last mission and how your stupid hormonal acne ignored that new face wash you spent way too much money on and how your sister brought up how you were already old but never had a real boyfriend and to stop being a shy loser for once in your life and how that self-help book you ordered didn't really help your speech impediment-

"Guys! Follow-up brief in room 3C!" What? "Let's get a move-on." and Price breaks the silence, the combative hold that was on the men. It breaks your inner spiral into your own thoughts, as well. The trance comes to a startling halt which droops your head down even further and lets you quietly observe the thuds of Ghost's boots following after the captain. Out the doors of one of the meeting rooms to the cafeteria to wherever room 3C was. Except Kyle and Johnny aren't moving, both of them assuming casual airs betrayed by a strange acuteness in their eyes while they regarded you.

The floor was really interesting. Two pairs of boots in front of you. White floors. Air conditioner was on full blast in the chow hall. One pair of boots turns in your direction, and Johnny hovers over you once more before he was interrupted. You dare a peek.

"I'm sorry we were...interrupted." Interrupted from what, exactly? "Got to go die by PowerPoint, but I'll swing by later when I'm free, okay, lass?" You don't get a change to tell him whether it was okay or not, because the boots stride away without a second to spare.

You only wish Kyle spared a second in contrast.

oOo

Everything goes to shit since that day.

He's tried to quit smoking. Knows you're not a smoker, he always notices, but the acrid taste in his mouth these days isn't from too many lights, but the recollection of the other man ruining his monotony. Since that day in the cafeteria. Since that day you got that sickeningly sweet haircut and the way you nervously trembled and seemed too terrified to meet his gaze that he desperately wanted to see. Since Johnny butted in and couldn't even let him notice you in peace, all for himself. You were supposed to be his. In the shadows. Backs flush against the wall at every party, in every meeting, a silent camaraderie in understanding. His to observe, to notice, to muse over fondly when he's up in the heli after a blinding firefight.

Now Johnny's there, and he's all too there for Kyle to simply regard. He's there right after they land from the bird, beelining straight towards you, patting your head while he stuffs your hands full of candy and other trinkets from every single exotic location. He's there in the corner of his eyes chatting to you about something stupid like sitcoms and shitty underground sports leagues. You nod, even with your head down, and your hands still quake as they tuck your hair behind your reddened ears. God, the sight of them made his gums ache with how much he wanted to tease them with his lips. But he still tastes acid with how Johnny exits from briefings and no longer stalls to sing off-key or toss out crappy gags. He hastens his steps to sit next to you, look at you, speak to you, even eat with you in the dining hall. Resentment pools in his gut when he sees the both of you eat burgers, no salad, two cold cokes with a serving of cake.

The cake was meant to be shared. It made him grind his boot with ash while he lit another cigarette.

Why weren't you protesting? Why weren't you telling him no, to fuck off? He already knows the answer. You're too sweet, too nice. Johnny doesn't ask if you want to see a movie with him; he tells you you're going to see a movie with him, down to what movie, the time, how he was going to buy you a cherry slushie and a popcorn you can't even finish. If he's on base, you're not allowed to buy anything, because the man flashes his wallet and walks off with you, even for something as simple as a bottle of water. Summer rolls around and he's apparently whisking you off to the beach. So what did that mean? You agreed. Or you let Johnny let you agree, because he sees you protest when the other man hoists your bag out of your arms and load it up into his car, that you can do it yourself. Even ushers you inside personally before he gets in the driver's seat and speeds off, leaving the dust to mingle with the smoke from Kyle's Marlboro.

He wonders if you had fun. If you let the other man chat you up, if the flush on your skin was either from the sun or the lilt from his words. The thoughts coil up the expanse of his skin like thorns, but he can't get the accursed hypotheticals out of his head. Did you let Johnny rest his hands on the small of your back, seemingly to guide you through the crowds? Let him sit next to you in the sand and brush his knee against yours? It was just due to how you both naturally sat, of course. Just due to a fun day at the beach, playing in the waves, hanging out, eating shaved ice. It's a decent way to spend the weekend after a harrowing mission.

A decent way that lead to indecent thoughts. Those thorns tighten over him the most, because he knows the other man. Knows him because he's a man himself, and what man would do all that just for something as naive as friendship? He notices, and he hopes you notice, but you seem not to. Oblivious as ever. You think Johnny would think twice about pinning you down even with others around, if he knew you relented? That he wouldn't run game all the way up those legs? Up and over the curve of your calves and thighs, petting gently, at first, of course, cooing into the shell of your rouged ears. He'd never be brainless in that moment. He'd feed you honeyed words to get to those lips that were sweetened with ice cream. And then try to get to those other lips. The other lips that he also wanted to part, slick with the haze of summer and ambrosia in the form of wordplay. Kyle wondered if you would give in, to shyly part your legs ever so slightly, before you let Johnny take control and have them splayed out wide. He wondered if you wanted to let Johnny take over, to lay any guilt and decisions on him of such a tryst. Maybe such willingness lead to wanton moans and thrusts of your hips, of pebbled nipples and hands pulling on Johnny's hair, of harsh creaks of the bed in some godforsaken overpriced hotel at the beachfront. Scratching up his back. Meeting him thrust for thrust. Letting him do anything and everything he ever wanted-

His lip burns, and he spits the fag onto the ground. Way too caught up in his own prison by his own thoughts, and he didn't even realize that he smoked through the filter. Chewed through the tar. Didn't even notice it was already ten minutes before he has to board. First time late, but not late. He slaps his cap back on his head and jogs his way to the heli pad, unable to look Price in the eyes, as if the former knew what dreadful introspections caused him to not be there an hour early, as usual.

The chopper deafens the area, but he doesn't miss how your head no longer stays down. You lift it for Johnny, not him, not ever for him, and bid your farewell. Not to him. To Johnny. And this time, Kyle can't afford to notice, because Johnny can.