#echo imagines

watching maya in the ring gets you hot. especially when she’s fighting men and they can’t hold their own against her. she’s faster, anticipates better, hits harder, bounces back quicker. first time she invited you to a fight you worried you wouldn’t like seeing her get hit, but that fear dissolved when she took a mean cross to the jaw and found you in the crowd, flashed you a bloody grin, and pummeled her opponent into submission with heavy-handed blow after blow before the first round was up. when you kissed her in the locker room after the fight she tasted a little bit like blood even though she’d already cleaned up, but you didn’t mind. you kind of liked it. then she used her prize money to take you out to dinner where she touched you under the table while she ate steak tips and drank beer and you were left to grip your drink until your knuckles went white and every muscle in your body tensed. 

nowadays you’re front row at all of her fights with her leather jacket draped over your shoulders to keep it warm for her and so everyone knows exactly who you’re there for. who you belong to. 

tight hugs when she comes home from the gym in muscle shirts, nuzzling into a big bicep because it’s warm and hard and you’re never safer than when you’re wrapped up in her. kissing on her arm because you don’t want to pull away to free your hands to speak and you don’t think she wants to either and you like that her skin tastes a little like sweat and you really like how she flexes as soon as your mouth touches her.

it’s always the arms. reaching for her in bed at night, curling your hands around her arm, pulling it against your chest and snuggling it like you would a teddy bear while she snores softly at your side. tugging her arm around your shoulders while standing in line at the supermarket. digging your nails into her forearms when she plants her hands on either side of your head and looms over you with a presence as intimidating as it is dead fucking sexy. telling her she should get tattoos because she’s got the arms for it. she’s not big on pda but she doesn’t mind you hanging onto her arm in public because it makes her feel like you’re never going to leave her and as independent as she is you know she lusts after the loyalty she inspires in you.

when she hangs out topless in boxers at home you’re always ready to fucking fold. when she cooks in training shorts and a sports bra you like to sit and watch, following the ebb and flow of thick muscle beneath her skin as she moves through the kitchen and pretends not to notice how heavy your eyes are on her. when she works out in cropped tanks it’s hard not to drool and you get stuck between wanting to drop to your knees and worship her abs with your tongue and wanting to get pinned down and rendered helpless by her big strong arms.

sometimes you wake up in the morning to maya doing pushups on the floor beside the bed. you roll over to the edge and prop your chin on your hands and watch with a dreamy little smile on your face. when she’s done you drag her into the shower and throw yourself at her under the spray of hot water.

other times you wake up to maya doing pullups on the bar you installed in the doorjamb. sometimes on those days you’ll roll onto your back and prop your legs open and stroke yourself through your underwear while you watch her muscles bulge and flex, pausing to tell her, “ten more,” before going back to playing with your cunt. getting yourself ready for her while you watch her smirk and power through the last of her reps. by the time she’s done and crawling back into bed with you her chest is heaving and her skin is warm to the touch and when you take a fistful of her shirt and pull her down on top of you she’s heavy and solid and her hips fit so well between your legs.

bear hugs. her big muscly arms draped around your neck, your face nuzzled against her throat. her hands on your legs while you lay on the couch with a movie on in the background. her fingers working the knots from your back after a long day, pressing your skin, stroking your muscles like she can convince them to ease up and stay that way if only she touches you in the perfect spot. coming up behind you while you’re cooking and draping herself over your back, arms over your shoulders, cheek pressed to the side of your head as she rests her weight on you and you can’t even be annoyed about the fact that it’s very hard to cook with a big brawler putting all her weight on you because you love when she gets clingy. you set down the spatula and sign, “puppy,” because you know she’s watching your hands and it’ll make her roll her eyes and grin and because she really does act like a big lapdog sometimes and she knows it. 

wearing her shirts. her hoodies. they’re big on you but you like that, and you like that they smell like her, like she’s right there with you instead of working late. when she works late and you’re bored and lonely you’ll text her nonsensical strings of emojis, or you’ll tell her about whatever garbage television you’re watching in her absence. she’ll usually text back within minutes, always making sure you know you’re as much a priority as her job is. on the rare occasions when she doesn’t text back quickly, you’re not above playing the teasing game. pulling on one of her zip-up sweatshirts with nothing on underneath and sending her a selfie. stripping down and slipping into a pair of her boxers and posing for a picture in front of the standing mirror in her bedroom. her responses rarely betray how much she truly enjoys pictures like those, but an i’ll deal with you when i get home or a behave yourself from maya is the equivalent of a heart-eyes emoji from anyone else. and she does always deal with you when she gets home (and you rarely ever behave), though ‘dealing with you’ can mean anything from eating you out on the couch until you’re trembling and teary and too sensitive to take any more to throwing you over her lap, spanking you red and raw, and slipping her favorite little plug into your ass. 

maya likes to lounge. likes to kick back and sit with her knees propped open wide, likes you on her lap where you can see her and she can see you. claims it’s better even than the view of you bent over with an arch in your back because it’s all in the eyes. so she claims. but you’re fairly certain she just likes you on her lap so she can talk dirty to you. so you’re ready for it when she drops onto the couch and pulls you down to straddle her lap. “you look good,” she’ll say, hands moving slowly, deliberately, because she knows you hate waiting and she loves drawing out the teasing. “like you were made to be on top of me.” and you’ll start to blush, which she loves, too, and she’ll reach up and brush your rosy cheeks with her thumbs to draw attention to your bashfulness. meantime she’s just smiling that little secret half-smile that pulls at the corner of her lips as she gazes up at you through her lashes. “i want to watch you ride me,” she'll tell you, or, “let me sit back and watch you bounce on my dick,” or, “show me how you ride my cock.” doesn’t matter what she says, you’ll do whatever the fuck she wants.

win or lose (though maya has five wins for every loss) you’re her favorite prize, the one she can always count on. she’s indulgent after wins, likes dragging you into the locker room and sweet talking you into stripping down and joining her in the shower. she’ll soap you up until your skin’s all slippery and warm and then she’ll touch you for what feels like hours: coasting her hands down your back, taking handfuls of your ass, pulling you in until your hips are notched against hers, until you’re anchored to each other and nothing in the world could force you apart. she likes how you feel against her, your slick heat on her thigh always warmer even than the hot water, your nipples rubbing against her chest. she’ll kiss you nice and slow, she’ll suck your tongue into her mouth, will touch every inch of your body she can reach, reacquainting herself with how you feel when you’re laid bare for her. when she touches you between your legs where you need it most it’s all gentle, unrelenting pressure, and it’s all so soft. fighting’s her outlet, you’re her reward, and she treats you like you’re priceless. 

it’s different after a loss. when things don’t go her way in the ring she won’t bother with a shower, she’ll just grab her bag and then grab you and take you home. sometimes you don’t even make it to the bedroom before her aggression surfaces and she bends you over the kitchen counter, the dining table, or presses you up against the wall in the hallway and yanks your pants down and forces a knee between your thighs so she can rut against you, fucking you into a hard surface because there’s nowhere else to put her frustration and she knows you like to take it. when she loses, round two is you on your knees with her leg over your shoulder and a hand in your hair, holding you steady while she uses you to get off. fucks herself on your face, rubs her cunt against your mouth and nose while you do your best to keep up with your tongue without losing your breath. round three is you on your back, legs hooked around her waist, pussy stretched around her favorite strap while she pounds into you, fucks you open, one hand wrapped around your throat so she can feel every last little sound you make.

........

“General!” 

You shouldn’t let the voice distract you, not in the middle of a battle, but your head turns toward the sound anyway. Your lightsaber is still humming in your hands, raised in front of you to deflect stray shots.

“General, look out!” 

It’s one of those moments when time slows down - whether it’s to do with the Force or just the fact that you might die, you’re not sure. Suddenly everything is details. The click and zing of a blaster firing, close to you. The hiss of your breath, the bright arc of red racing toward you. 

And the blur of blue and white that hurtles into its path. 

“No!” The scream rips right from the depths of your chest, old and deep and primal. “No!”

A warp goes through the world: Echo collapses to the ground, and you sink to your knees beside him. Around you the battle rages, but it’s strangely muffled and far away. 

“Echo,” you whisper, hoarse. He’s not moving. Why? Why would be do this? “Echo,” you say, louder this time, and pull off his helmet. His eyes are closed, head lolling limply back. Your stomach heaves. Is he dead?

No...no, you can still feel his life, dim and fluttering in the Force. You lift his shoulders and hold him to you. “Please don’t leave,” you whimper. “Don’t leave me.”

Why me why me why me? His breathing is shallow.

“Echo! Please!” You don’t care how much attachment you’re showing; he could be dying. There’s something building in your lungs, an awful aching pressure.

Echo’s eyelids flutter; you lean closer as his lips move without sound.

“General,” he breathes. “You’re....safe.”

You throw your head back toward the sky, and scream out the agony in your chest.

.......

Why? Why did this happen? 

You’re numb - with the cold or with shock, it’s hard to tell at this point. You sit in the snow just outside the medic tent, head in your hands, eyes wide open and staring. You can’t bring yourself to move. 

There are tiny lights and a faint gleam from inside some of the tents - troopers getting ready to sleep, or settling in by the guard fires around the perimeter. The sky above is black as hell and swirling with snow that settles, steaming, on your hair and skin. You probably should get some warmer clothes or something before you freeze to death.

From the tent behind you, there’s a loud yell, and your unblinking eyes fill with tears. Oh, Force. Echo. 

This is your fault. There’s no other explanation. If you’d just been faster, more skilled, actually thought to use your saber, then he wouldn’t be possibly dying right now. 

Why would he do that for you? Why?

Get up, you tell yourself harshly. Now! Get up! You can’t shut down now, the men need their leader. 

You blink, breath shuddering. Let Rex take care of them, another side of you suggests. I can’t do it.

But you have to. You’re a Jedi - a general, too - and you have no more right than anyone else to collapse when there are people depending on you. You give your head a hard shake and force yourself to look up at the high, cold stars. With each breath - a conscious decision - you calm yourself and strengthen your resolve. Keep going, that’s what you’ll have to do. Keep going, pretend nothing’s wrong, keep going. You can collapse and cry later. Now is not the time. People need you.

You get to your feet, face set like stone. No one else will get hurt because of you.

......

You limp into the med-tent, teeth clenched tight to keep from wincing. Nobody needs to know you’re in pain - well, except maybe the medic. But you’re not here for you. 

“General?” Kix looks up from washing his hands, which are covered with blood. “Why are you limping?”

“I’m...I’m not,” you say, avoiding his eyes. “How’s Echo?”

“General.” Only a medic can sound so stern. “Sit. Why are you limping?”

Sighing, you sit on one of the unoccupied cots. “It doesn’t matter. They’re more hurt than me, you should be helping them -”

“Agh!” Kix rolls his eyes. “Really, General, you’re being childish. Just tell me what happened already.”

You look down at the ground. “My leg got caught under a tank. Only for a second though, I used the Force to push it off.” Every thumping beat of your heart is telling you to ask about Echo, but you don’t want him to get suspicious.

You bite back a hiss as Kix examines your ankle. “This needs splinting,” he mutters. “I’ll be right back.”

Biting your lip, you shut your eyes and try to meditate. Echo’s Force presence - the one you’re so sensitive to - feels much stronger now. You almost cry with relief. If he’d died defending you -

“Ow!” you let out a yell.

“Sorry,” Kix says, not really sounding all that sorry. Not that he wants to hurt you - he’s just focused on splinting your sprained ankle. “Echo’s alright, by the way, since you asked. You can see him if you want.”

You hold back and excited “Really?” in favor of a more subdued nod. “I’d like that. Thank you.”

He looks up - just for a second - and the lift of his eyebrow makes you wonder what exactly he knows. But mercifully, he says nothing.

Kix was right - the splint does help, but you’re still a little stiff walking to the sectioned-off bed where Echo’s lying.

Or, more accurately, sitting up. White bandages wrap around his middle, but his chest and shoulders are exposed. He smiles weakly as you approach. “Hey, General.”

“Echo.” You swallow thickly, ears ringing. This is my fault. My fault. My fault. “Thank you...thank you for saving my life.”

He winces, leaning back on the pillow. “Course. Why wouldn’t I? That’s what I’m here for.”

Something in you snaps then - you can almost hear it breaking. In vain, you try to hold back the flood of emotion, but it’s too much. Your eyes blur as they flood with tears. 

“That’s ridiculous,” you snap. “Don’t you know your life is worth something? Don’t you care?”

“What?” He sits up. “Of course I care. I just -”

“No.” The word, short and brutal, is almost a snarl. “Stop it. Just stop. Don’t ever do that again!”

“Do what?” His eyes have gone wide - you’re hurting him, you can see that, and you hate yourself for it. But you can’t stop. “Save you?”

“Yes.” A forced-out breath. “Don’t. I’m not worth your life.”

“You’re not...?” he scoffs, incredulous. “Of course you are. You’re a Jedi.”

“Enough!” you scream, holding your head in both hands. “Stop saying that. Stop. Just stop it!”

And ignoring his wounded, mystified face, you whirl around and storm out of the tent. Oh, Force, what the hell have I done?

......

You should not be hiding - but that’s exactly what you’re doing. Hiding and trying not to explode. Okay, sitting on a cot in your tent is not exactly hiding, but you should be out there. Leading. Functioning. Working.

Once again your head is in your hands and you’re utterly silent, so as not to betray the chaos of what you’re feeling. You’re just grateful there are no other Jedi around to sense your turmoil. 

Oh, gods. Echo. How could you do that to him? How could he say that? One part of you is scoffing at yourself for being so childish, so dramatic, so pathetic. The rest is crying out in pain. What are you supposed to do?

Breathe. Live. Be mindful of your thoughts, padawan. The voice of your old master has helped you before, and it’s helping again now. You’re not a volcano, now, but you still feel raw and bruised and spent.

A swirl of cold air and a flash of brightness at the door; Echo ducks inside and sits down beside you without a word. You squeeze your eyes shut, letting out a sob. “I’m sorry,” you whimper.

“Oh,” he sighs, as if hearing you speak is painful to him. “Aw, love, I - come ‘ere.” And he gathers you into him, safer and warmer than before, and with your ear against his heartbeat (strong and vibrant) the thoughts in your head aren’t quite so loud.

Everything about the way he touches you is a gentle caress - not like he’s afraid he’ll break you, but like he doesn’t quite feel he deserves to. And when his hand tilts your face up to his, it’s with only the slightest pressure. He searches your face - there is no anger in his, only warmth. With one thumb he wipes a tear from your cheek.

“I don’t understand,” he says. “I just....can you tell me why? I’d just like to know why it made you so angry.”

You turn your face away, taking a deep breath. What the hell? He may as well know, you think resignedly. “I....just don’t understand why you’d do that for me,” you say, trying not to let your voice wobble. The flash of pain in his eyes at your statement makes you wince. “Why should my life be worth more than yours?”

“It’s not about that,” he whispers, hands on your arms. “I didn’t save you because you’re the general, or because you’re a Jedi. I did it because I love you.”

You inhale sharply, whipping your head back to meet his eyes. He’s never said that before. I love you too, you want to say. I love you! I love you, Echo, I love you!

"Why?” you croak. “I’m just...me. Nothing special.”

For the first time, you see a muscle in his jaw working and the slightest glint of steel in his brown eyes. “Who told you that?”

“Nobody, I -”

“Who?”

The silence stretches, bitter and cold. Then -

“My parents,” you whisper, drawing your knees up. “I haven’t seen them since I was little, but they were glad to get rid of me when I left for the temple. They never wanted me in the first place.”

Echo makes a sound - a sound of distress, of anger - and pulls you to his chest again, as if he can’t bear to let go. He’s kissing you - tender, reverent brushes of his lips on your hair, your face, your neck.

“I want you,” he whispers. “I need you. I love you. Can’t you see getting shot is nothing when I love you this much? Oh, darling, you’re precious to me.”

His words are music and light, the first warm breath of spring in the dead of winter. You sob and hold him tighter. You have to tell him. Now. Force out the words you so want to say. It’s not a magical cure, you know that, but your head feels clearer and your heart lighter than they have in a long time.

“I love you,” you sniffle. “So much. Too much, probably, for a Jedi. I couldn’t bear losing you. That’s....that’s why I got so angry. I was afraid.”