#sw fic

The Commander's eyes lit up when he saw you, blowing wide with genuine surprise. The shock only lasted for a moment before his mouth did that thing: corner turning up in what you considered a condescending smirk, but what most people in the Resistance called his "sexy smile."

Ughh.

The whorish attire wasn't just for you. Your team dressed Poe in a black silk shirt, open in the front, the cut dipping past his sternum, almost to his stomach. Tight, matching pants hugged his ass and thighs and his high cut riding boots accentuated his legs even more.

You laughed out when you saw him. Was this a holodrama? Was he playing the role of a sexy space pirate? You'd encountered a few real space pirates. They dressed in found and stolen armor from head to toe, but in holos, pirates always had these huge slits and dips in their clothing, revealing copious amounts of skin.

"Shut up," he grumbled, his confidence taking a hit at the way you dismissed him.

So the two of you, scantily clad, undercover, ordered drinks and pretended to be obsessed with one another - Poe's idea. Damn him.

"You need to relax," he murmured against your bare neck. "So stiff, sweetheart. Have a drink."

"I am on a mission," you hissed. "I'm dressed like a whore. I'm following orders - your orders. I don't have to like it."

The way you said that - about following his orders - went straight to his crotch. He shifted uncomfortably. The pants were apparently the current fashion of this planet, but damn if they weren't tight. And rather smooth against his skin.

"Come on, we're gonna be here for a while. You couldn't look any less convincing," He murmured on your ear. "Sit on my lap. Act like you don't hate me for one mission. I'll get Leia to reassign you next time."

Your skin flared with heat at the invitation to sit on his lap, and he was already moving you there before you could protest.

But your heart sank at the thought of getting assigned to a new team. As infuriating as your Commander was, you loved your team and you were good at what you did. You all truly helped the Resistance.

"There, that's a little better," he told you, and, for once, you didn't detect condescension in his tone.

He'd hauled about half your body onto his, facing him. Your thigh was slung across his lap, breasts mashed against his half bare chest. This forced your already tiny skirt to ride up, placing your crotch against the thick meat of his thigh. Nearly.

No, you wouldn't do that. You swallowed thickly, using the strength of your core and your opposite knee, digging into the bench seat beside him, to hold your center up off his thigh.

He didn't seem to notice. One hand folded you close, mindlessly rubbing up and down the bare curve of your back, while the other reached for his drink. He downed it in one gulp, then raised two fingers at a passing server and tipped his head up to order another.

The server ogled him, and then you, smiling seductively, before scampering off to do their job.

"See, now we look convincing," he breathed against your cheek, holding his hand firmly in place, despite the temptation to slide down and squeeze your delicious ass.

"Fine. Good. I'll take that drink now." You sighed irritably.

The server returned a moment later, and you downed your drink, desperate for the liquid courage. You were already weary from holding your body up off of his, but you couldn't sit down, not like this.

If you did, he would feel your soaked panties. You were convinced by now, that you were so wet your desire would drench through his flimsy pants and then he would know.

And could not know.

Everybody wanted the Commander. You couldn't be just another one of them. He respected you. Requested you for missions. Trusted you.

So, no, you could not be on this whorish mission with him, dressed in this, and liking it. You would pass out from holding yourself up before you let him feel how wet you were.

Poe sipped his drink, eyes scanning the room carefully. You dutifully scanned behind him, noting people and groups. And weapons.

"I won't ask you to do this again," he said apologetically. "You could have said no. You're my best undercover. That's why I asked. Don't make me beg you to sit the fuck down."

That sobered you. "S-sorry. I thought this position was okay."

You were apologizing? Never happened. He expected a, "Fuck off, Dameron."

"You're so tense," he went on, setting his drink down and brushing his fingers up and down your bare arm. "You can kick my ass later. I'll probably even enjoy it, but -"

"Fine, dammit," you hissed, allowing your body to sink down on his, your drenched panties squelching as your core met his thick thigh. Fortunately the music boomed all around you, drowning out your soft moan.

He shifted to plant his boot more firmly and hold you up better. The motion pushed his thigh muscle hard against your barely covered cunt. You gasped out, reacting on instinct. Your hips canted forward, meeting his motion and the pressure was so...delicious.

"There we go." His hands gripped your hips now, heated breath teasing your ear. "Get comfortable. I won't bite. Not unless you're into that."

You predictably groaned in annoyance, which made him smile against your skin. "You're beautiful. I know you'll beat my ass for it, but I had to say it. Just this once, Lou."

You were his Lieutenant. So he called you Lou.

"D-don't say that. We're working. I can't...I can't." You couldn't concentrate. You had failed to scan your surroundings for the last few minutes.

"No, you're right. Sorry." He eased back, remembering to pay attention and do his duty. But he was distracted by how good you smelled, how you felt against him. And he could have sworn he heard a moan rumble from your chest to his.

The hot center of you rested on his thigh, driving him to distraction. Almost subconsciously, he shifted his leg again. You rocked your hips in response, your eyes fluttering closed.

Oh.

Oh.

His grip on your hips tightened. He cleared his throat. "Possible target on your six. Don't look." He subtly dragged you forward, pushing his thigh deliberately into your cunt.

"O-okay," you panted, barely rolling your hips in response. "Should I -"

"Just...stay." He dragged you forward again, pushing his leg up into you with less subtlety and more force. "Let me watch. Stay right here for me."

You hummed an agreement, eyes fluttering closed again as your back-and-forth tease crept closer and closer to outright scandal.

By now, Poe's fingertips dug into your flesh as he worked you back and forth on his thigh at a medium tempo. That's when he really felt it.

You were soaked. Wetness seeped through the fabric of his pants, hot and slippery. He groaned, deep and hot against your throat.

Your arms wrapped all the way around his neck and you started to grind.

He couldn't believe it. You, of all people. You couldn't stand him.

And now your panties were soaked?

"Just like that. That's good."

You slightly bristled at the sound of his voice. But he forced you down, helping you work yourself faster and harder, little gasps of pleasure passing your lips.

"I want you to stay right here. Can you do that for me?" He kissed your neck before breathing hotly on your ear. "You're fucking soaked. Using me so good. Don't stop, okay?"

"Poe," you gasped, fucking yourself faster, the friction of your panties rubbing your clit deliciously as the meat of his thigh pushed your lips apart. Your whole body flexed as you worked yourself eagerly down, chasing your release. "We should...w-we -"

"Don't stop. That's an order." His mouth found yours in the dark of the club. He sucked on your lips, growling as his tongue slipped in and tasted the alcohol on your breath.

You wanted to punch his lights out for giving you a fake order at a time like this, but it was wise of him to silence you with a kiss. On and on it went, wild and frantic and wet. The lace of your panties strained against your clit and pleasure surged through your body.

You seized in his arms, moaning loudly against his mouth, gushing wet and hot all over his pants. One strong forearm flexed along the curve of your back, supporting you as you collapsed against his chest.

Your thigh brushed his swollen, stiff cock and he hissed. You'd heard rumors, but to be the one to get this reaction out of him, was like an instant drug.

"Time for you to follow my orders, Commander," you lowly growled against his ear, climbing all the way across him. Straddling his lap, you rocked your hips against his erection, licking back into his mouth.

🦵🏽🦵🏽🦵🏽🦵🏽🦵🏽

But he isn't, and you know it. A few weeks ago, he'd left for a mission on the planet Saleucami, intent on tracking down General Grievous and bringing him in.

That night, the night he left, was the first time he kissed you.

You're taking your relationship with Rex slow. Trying, despite everything he makes you feel, not to get too attached in case something happens—in case there's a mission Rex doesn't come back from.

You know that over every mission, every goodbye, looms the threat of never seeing Rex again. Every time he leaves he promises he'll come back, but those promises are more often than not empty.

They're just reassurances, said to make you feel better, usually accompanied by a hug—or, in the case of last time, a lingering kiss that makes your heart flutter every time you think about it.

But really, how could he know? Rex is no Jedi, and despite how little you know about the ancient religion of warriors, you know that their ability to see the future is rare. To cheat death, even more so.

Rex is mortal.

You wish, selfishly and horribly, that he wasn't.

The memory of your first meeting flashes before your closed eyes. A cafe on the upper levels of Coruscant, open windows bathing the tables in sunlight, warm summer air wafting in through the open door. You were working on your datapad in the far corner, absently sipping your coffee, when a gaggle of identical soldiers walked through the front door.

"Is this seat taken?" Rex asked, then, and you were so starstruck by his sharp features, his gentle smile, his shock of blond hair—that all you could do was shake your head and stare.

He still throws you off your guard. Still makes your heart skip a beat with his smile. It's effortless for him but oh-so-beautiful to you. You smile sadly, eyes still closed as you imagine him carding his calloused fingers through your hair, making your tight bun come loose.

Cyar’ika, he calls you. Beloved.

"Cyar’ika?" asks a voice, and you can't help the gasp that escapes you, because you think you're dreaming—you must be dreaming.

Maybe you wished him into existence, you consider as you whip around in your chair to see a bleary-eyed Rex standing in the doorway to your bedroom. But no, Rex really is there, wearing a pair of boxer shorts and a simple grey t-shirt—both of which you bought for him, along with several other civilian outfits. Just one of the many things you did at the beginning of your friendship to make him feel like he belongs.

"Rex," you breathe in disbelief, standing up to meet him. His arm is in a sling and his cheekbone is bruised purple. "How—how long have you been here?"

He smiles, and though it's lopsided and half-asleep, it makes your stomach do backflips. You choke back a relieved sob and throw yourself into Rex's arms, not caring that your tears are wetting his shirt.

"Oof," he coughs out, tensing slightly. "Ow—cyar’ika, my arm—"

"Sorry, sorry," you say hurriedly, pulling away. Staring up at Rex now, you feel the sudden urge to kiss him with everything you have. You look down at his arm sling and frown. “You’re hurt.”

“I’ll live,” Rex says flippantly. “It’s not too bad.”

“If you’re sure,” you say quietly.

"I’m sure," he whispers into the quiet, uninjured hand coming to rest hesitantly at the nape of your neck. "I missed you."

Smiling widely, you stand on the tips of your toes and press a soft, chaste kiss to Rex's cheek. Just as you're about to pull away, though, you feel Rex pull you back against his body in another warm hug.

His injured arm is pressed underneath your chest, but his other hand is now on your waist as he buries his face into the crook of your neck and inhales deeply, sending chills all down your spine. Despite the shift in his mood, you huff a quiet laugh.

"What?" Rex asks, voice slightly hoarse as he pulls away to raise an eyebrow at you.

You swallow and shake your head, curling a strand of hair behind your ear. "Nothing, it's just—" you shake your head. "I've never seen you like... this."

And, you think happily, it's a pleasant surprise. You bought Rex clothes and gave him the code to your flat several months ago, long before any feelings were made clear—but you've never actually seen him in civvies, much less his underwear. You glance down, and feel your cheeks burn when you realize that they're not so much boxers as they are briefs, somewhere in the middle of skin-tight and loose-fitting.

You clear your throat and look away. "Anyway... yeah."

Rex's fingers under your chin, coaxing you to look up at him, make you blush even more-if that's possible.

Your face feels like it's about to burst into flames.

"I should be sorry," he says quietly, honey-brown eyes searching yours. "I didn't mean to put you in an uncomfortable position."

Rex's gaze is tender and soft, like sunlight spilling over a field after dawn. You can't help but bite your bottom lip briefly before replying, "No, no, you didn't. I’ve told you a million times that what’s mine is yours. I’m glad you’ve finally listened.” You pause. “I just... I had no idea you had the legs of an underwear model."

At this, Rex laughs, voice low and gravelly. His cheeks are flushed too, now, a pleasant pink color that makes you feel warm all over.

"Careful," Rex chides softly, smirking, "or you might overinflate my ego."

You let out a short giggle and feel the sudden urge to kiss him, but your relationship is still so new, so tender and uncertain. Yes, he kissed you before he left for the mission on Saleucami, but it was rushed and spur-of-the-moment.

And you've never kissed him. It's only ever been the other way around.

But as you look up at Rex's honey-coloured eyes, you start to build up the courage to initiate the kiss yourself this time—but he beats you to it.

Because the next second Rex is cupping your cheek with his uninjured hand and pressing his lips to yours.

The kiss seems to last forever. When Rex pulls away, he leaves you breathless and blushing, heart beating faster than you knew it could. After a moment of disbelieving silence, you smile widely and move your hand to the back of Rex's neck, pressing your forehead to his in what he once taught you was a kov'nyn—a Keldabe kiss.

"Thank you," you whisper, breath fanning onto Rex's mouth.

He cards a hand through your messy hair and chuckles softly. "For what?"

You pull away and press a soft, chaste kiss to Rex's lips before smiling widely at him. "For coming back."

"Always, cyar׳ika," Rex whispers. "This is the only place I want to be."

"Really? This dinky apartment?" you ask.

"With you," Rex clarifies. He takes a step closer, pressing your abdomens together, and kisses the corner of your mouth quickly. Then, expression suddenly turning almost apprehensive, he says, "I... I hope it's okay I spent the past few hours here."

You blink. "What?" you ask, taking Rex's hand and leading him to the kitchen. "Rex, why wouldn't it be okay? I keep telling you—I didn’t give you the code for no reason.”

In the several moments of silence it takes for Rex to answer, you hop up on the kitchen table, legs swinging back and forth. Rex is still holding onto your hand with his uninjured one, and it strikes you that you haven't even asked him what happened.

But then again, he rarely enjoys talking about his missions.

A throat clear from Rex makes you frown. He's blushing again. "Well, I just..." he trails off, hesitating. "I kind of fell asleep in your bed without meaning to. I wasn't thinking that maybe you're not comfortable with—"

"Rex." You lay a hand on his jawline. "It's okay. Really. I told you—I keep telling you—what’s mine is yours.”

He looks doubtful. "If—if you're sure..."

You nod. "I am. I promise." There's a long silence; Rex is searching your face like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. You smile reassuringly. "In fact, I’m so sure that… I was thinking of extending the offer to tonight."

Rex blinks. "Tonight...?"

"As in," you hesitate, swallowing your nerves, "I was going to say you could just sleep here tonight. My bed is big enough for both of us, and it's okay if you don’t want to stay but you really shouldn’t have to take yourself home in this state—I mean, you’re hurt—”

A small crease has appeared between Rex’s brows. His cheeks are flushed, his honey-coloured eyes blown wide. You frown and start to pull away, disentangling yourself slowly from Rex’s grasp.

“But,” you continue hurriedly, stumbling over your words, “but I’d completely understand if you’d prefer to go back to your barracks—if you don’t feel comfortable taking that step yet—”

Rex’s uninjured hand, large and firm and steady against your back, moves to take your smaller hand and draws it to his chest. Breath stolen, you stop talking abruptly.

“I do,” he says softly, voice firm but gentle. “Feel comfortable, that is. Here. With… with you.”

You inhale sharply, and move your free hand up to his cheek to run the pad of your thumb across his face—over the bridge of his nose, across his cheekbone, to the slightly-longer-than-regulation blond buzz of hair. "Really? You're sure?"

"Absolutely," Rex breathes. He squeezes your hand and presses a kiss to your forehead. "Your bed felt empty without you in it, you know."

"Hm." You return the kiss, this time on his lips, and it feels more than right. "Well, why don't we fix that?"

“Er,” Rex says.

You clear your throat.

Rex says nothing.

You are standing shoulder-to-shoulder in your bedroom, facing the door to your refresher with your backs to your bed.

Since the beginning of your friendship with Rex, you have always felt uncommonly comfortable with him. Only now that there is something new between you—now that there is a definition for this thing that you have finally decided to act upon, and now that you are faced with the real possibility of intimacy—you are overcome with nerves. It seems that Rex is, too.

“This is—” your voice cracks embarrassingly, and you clear your throat, drawing the sleeves of your work uniform shirt further down past your fingertips. “This is a lot more… intimate than I was expecting.”

Rex turns to you, looking somewhat panicked. “I can go, if—”

“No!” You say hurriedly, turning to face Rex, then feel your face heat up. Don’t sound so desperate. “No, it’s alright, I’ve just never… well, you know I’ve never really done anything like this before—or been with anyone in… in that way…” your voice is trailing off, growing more hushed as you continue.

“It’s—don’t just say that you’re okay with me being here for the night if you’re not,” Rex implores, taking a step closer to you. He reaches out with the arm that is not in a sling as if to take your hand, then seems to think better of it and steps back. “I’m just as lost here as you are.”

You smile, then, and feel a warmth settling over the two of you, and think that perhaps the fact that there is something new between you doesn’t have to make what the two of you have any different.

You take Rex’s hand. “Alright,” you say quietly. “That’s good to know. And I wouldn’t have offered it if I didn’t mean it.”

Rex huffs a laugh, his hand trailing up your arm to cup your cheek; it makes you shiver as warmth trails up your spine.

“Well… we can take it slowly,” he murmurs, and there is something reverent in his amber eyes, like he can’t bear to ever look away. He smiles, then, and it fills you with more warmth than you ever thought possible. “And anyway, I sort of just want to sleep.” He pauses, hesitating for a moment, then tilts his head slightly and drops his hand. “Preferably with you in my arms.”

You cannot help the smile that pulls on your lips or the flutter in your stomach. “I think that can be arranged. But first—I need to shower.” You roll your shoulders back, stretching out your spine. “It’s been a long day.”

On impulse, you lean forward and press another chaste kiss to Rex’s lips; his uninjured arm all but chases your body, drifting to your waist as he leans into the kiss—but you pull away almost immediately, giggling at his disappointed expression and flushed cheeks.

Rex sighs. “Don’t laugh at me. It just gets more addicting every time.”

This only makes you laugh more, walking over to your closet to pull out an oversized sleep shirt and a pair of clean underwear, along with a towel for the shower. You palm the control pad next to the refresher door; the door slides open, and at the same time the bedroom lights wink out, throwing the space into a cool darkness. A sliver of golden light from the refresher spills out, bathing you in warmth, and when you smile over your shoulder at him, Rex is gone.

“Get back in bed, okay?” you say. “I’ll be right out.”

You disappear into the refresher, leaving Rex alone in the quiet of your bedroom.

For a long moment, he simply stands there, listening as the sound of you pattering around in the refresher reaches him from the other side of the closed door. It hums softly around him, in a symphony of simple domesticity—the air filters circulating, the conservator humming from the kitchen, distant traffic whirring outside in the late Coruscant night. He has always loved your apartment, despite it being so different from the constant mechanical drone of the Resolute or the restless noise of the barracks.

In the beginning, the quiet—your quiet—left him disoriented. Now, it is all he waits for on long campaigns.

Carefully, slowly, Rex sits down on the edge of the bed. His injured arm still aches, wrapped up and bacta-slathered though it is. Not for the first time since leaving Saleucami, he thinks of Cut and Suu—of the love they share, and of the line they crossed. Rex wonders if, one day, the two of you might cross that line too.

The mattress dips beneath his weight as it did the first time, just hours ago when he found his way to your bed as you told him he could. He still feels guilty—for coming into your home while you’re not there, despite you explicitly stating that he can.

He runs his uninjured hand over one of the many plush pillows and inhales deeply. The faint scent of your shampoo lingers on the sheets.

What’s mine is yours.

Your words, unconditionally kind and so painfully you, echo in his head.

Rex glances toward the refresher door when the sound of running water begins. This, too—the fact that you have a running water shower, not a sonic, something he hadn’t experienced until you told him he could come to your apartment after campaigns—is a novelty. He imagines you standing under the spray, shoulders relaxing after the long day you endured at work, hair darkening with the water and trailing down your back. The thought makes his chest ache with something he can’t quite name.

Maker, how he’s missed you.

Without really meaning to, Rex lies back against the pillows. He blinks up at the ceiling above him; it is plain and unremarkable—but it isn’t a durasteel bunk above his head, and it isn’t the cold open sky of a battlefield. It’s yours.

Rex’s eyes drift shut for a moment—you did say to get back in bed, after all—but just then, the refresher door slides open with a quiet hiss and pulls him back to awareness. He pushes himself up onto his elbows, blinking sleepily towards the doorway, and watches as warm steam spills out into the bedroom, curling lazily in the air.

Then you step out.

Your hair is damp, the ends darkened with water, and the oversized sleep shirt hangs loosely off your shoulders, one side slipping just enough to show the curve of your collarbone. The hem brushes the tops of your thighs as you walk, toweling at your hair, face flushed from the hot water.

And despite your unreal beauty, Rex wasn’t staring before—he’s gotten better about it, since first meeting you. But now… now, he definitely is.

You catch the look immediately. Your brows lift, and a small, amused smile tugs at your mouth as you continue drying your hair.

“Enjoying the view, Captain?”

Rex startles like he’s been caught doing something illegal, sitting up suddenly and tucking one leg underneath himself. He clears his throat, willing his face to stop burning, and fiddles awkwardly with his arm sling.

“I—what—no,” he says quickly, voice rough. He clears his throat again and attempts a recovery. “I mean—I wasn’t staring.”

You’re smiling at him like you know something he doesn’t. “You were absolutely staring.”

“I was not.”

You drop the towel over the back of your desk chair and turn to face him fully, arms crossing loosely over your middle.

“Oh, really, now?” you ask sweetly.

Rex rubs the back of his neck with his good hand, looking everywhere except at you now—the floor, the wall, the ceiling, the nightstand. Anywhere but the oversized shirt that somehow manages to make his brain stop working. He wants to look back at you, but he knows that if he does, he’ll surely embarrass himself, either by being struck dumb and unable to look away or by succumbing to the insatiable urge to touch you. Which would be rather—well, improper.

“I was… observing,” Rex mutters. It sounds unconvincing even to his own ears.

You snort.

“Observing,” you repeat. “Right.”

Despite your teasing, warmth spreads through Rex’s chest, and he gives in to the desire to look at you again—and he truly cannot look away. The sight of you like this, hair damp and mussed, wearing sleep clothes, more skin bared to him than he’s ever seen—

It feels strangely domestic. Strangely right.

You move toward the bed, towards Rex, and nudge him gently to his feet. As he watches, you pull back the covers he’s been sitting on and climb in; it exposes more of the soft skin of your thighs, along with a quick glimpse of your underwear. Rex files that sighting away to think about later. In this moment, you deserve all of his focus.

“C’mon,” you say softly, scooting to the far side of the bed and fluffing the pillows. You hold out a hand. “Get in.”

Rex takes it—and then hesitates. You notice immediately.

“What is it?” you ask.

“I…” Rex swallows. “You’re sure?”

You frown and scoot closer to him, taking both of his hands.

“Of course,” you murmur, kneeling on the bed so that you’re at eye level with him. You move your hands to rest on his clothed chest, warm and small compared to his unforgiving, obtrusive bulkiness.

“Okay,” he says softly.

You lean in to press a soft kiss to his stubbled cheek, then pull away and look at him with your impossibly beautiful eyes, smiling slowly. “Okay.”

In the quiet, it’s easy to get lost in you—in your flowery scent, in the softness of your knees against his thighs, in the warmth of your presence. He leans in, drawn to you, and whispers, “Cyar’ika—”

You cut him off with a kiss, and this time, it’s different. Before, they were all soft, careful, almost shy—but this one lands with intent, like you know what you want.

For a heartbeat Rex freezes, startled that you were the one to close the distance, but then he feels something in him shift. His hand at your waist tightens of its own accord, reveling in the warmth of your skin even through the fabric of your shirt, and he leans into the kiss with a low inhale. You make a small sound against his mouth that he feels more than hears, and it sends a shiver through his entire body that makes the pain in his injured arm all but disappear.

Your hands move from his chest up to the nape of his neck, toying with the short blond fuzz there, and Rex cannot help the sigh that he releases into your mouth as his lips move against yours.

“Stars,” he whispers in between kisses, breathing the air between your mouths, “You’re so—so soft—”

You deepen the kiss without a word. Rex’s movements are still careful—he is always careful with you—but his hesitance from earlier melts away. His mouth moves against yours with a growing certainty, slow and thorough.

He feels you shift closer on your knees, and seizes the opportunity that comes to him as your balance wavers just slightly. Rex reacts on instinct, sliding his hand from your waist to the dip between your shoulder blades, and guides you back towards the mattress, shifting you so that your head is on the pillow.

Slowly, Rex lowers himself to lie beside you, careful of his bad arm, and props himself up on his good elbow. He turns to look at you, and the sight that greets him is dizzying—your hair, draped across the pillow, is haloing your face; your eyes are bright; your lips are flushed and swollen from kissing. As Rex stares, you smile and reach up to run your knuckles across his cheek.

“Hi,” you whisper.

“Hi,” Rex says softly.

He reaches down to pull the covers over the two of you, and you shift closer to him, moving to lie on your side as he turns into his back. Your arm snakes across his stomach and around his waist, while your leg tangles with his.

“Is your arm alright?” you ask, propping yourself up on your elbow to look up at him.

Rex nods, reaching up with his good arm to brush a stray curl from your face. “You have a way of taking the pain away.”

“I thought about you for weeks. About being here with you,” he says. “Out there, it was… it was all I thought about.”

You hum softly and trace circles over Rex’s chest; it makes him shiver.

“Well,” you murmur, “you’re here now. With me.” You’re talking so quietly that it’s only because of how close you are that he can hear you at all.

“Yeah,” Rex whispers. “It does look that way, doesn’t it?”

With a soft hum, you lean down, kissing him with a kind of reverence that makes Rex’s breath catch. It is the kind of reverence he kisses you with. His hand moves from your cheek to your waist, pulling you a little closer to him as the kiss lingers.

The world outside your apartment fades from his awareness—the city, the galaxy, everything but the warmth of you and the feel of your body against his. For the first time since he left for Saleucami, the war feels very far away.

Mando’a Translation: cyar’ika – darling/beloved

“Should close up shop.”

The familiar, modulated voice caresses over your shoulders and ensnares your senses. A small shiver creeps through your body, insignificant in its physicality but electric in your bones. It is the voice of the man that won’t leave you alone, that rains you with attention, that seeks you out constantly.

A bounty hunter. A warrior. A contract killer under Jabba’s employ.

Boba Fett.

The man you pretend to not care about, that you push away at times because the life he leads is dangerous, and a loss like that could crush you. Not that you dislike him. Far from it. Boba’s softness for you stirs a yearning in your chest that has long sat dormant.

You slowly turn, coming face-to-face with Mandalorian armor. It is faded in places where flecks of green paint have worn away revealing the beskar underneath. Specks of sand cling to the metal, giving the beskar a dusty quality. The armor is loved and cared for. Knowing what you do about Mandalorians, at least from the stories, the armor is passed from warrior to warrior. Perhaps Boba’s came from someone close to him.

“You’re in need of a shower,” you reply, blatantly giving him a once-over.

Boba chuckles. Reaching up, he grasps the sides of his helmet. A hiss follows, indicating the release of the oxygen seal. Then the helmet is off his head, coming to a rest on the countertop.

“Close up shop,” he reiterates, “and join me.”

A sudden whoosh washes over you, electrifying all your limbs. The offer is tantalizing but you’ve never taken this beyond what it already is. Endless flirting is fun. It is fine, but the physical must remain separate. You need to find yourself a nice moisture farmer and live the rest of your life in ignorant bliss. Boba is danger and excitement and a promise of adventure. But a life like that is precarious. It’s not always certain.

“You’d be bathing alone,” you counter, adding a teasing tone to your voice. Leaning forward, you rest your elbows on the counter. “That bother you?”

Boba smirks and your stomach flips. It’s unfair that he’s handsome underneath that metal. You could easily spurn him then.

“Not at all,” he replies, mimicking your movements. “Just want to know that you’re close.”

Your stomach flips again and this time you retreat, pushing off from the counter to fiddle with the items you’ve yet to put on shelves. The shop is severely disorganized but that’s the way on Tatooine. Every shop sells everything and there is no thought to presentation.

“Shouldn’t you be with Jabba?” you ask over your shoulder.

“No. I’ve been dismissed.” Boba’s boots lightly tap against the floor. He comes around the corner of the counter, stopping near you yet not moving closer. “Until he needs me again.”

You lick your lips, pretending not to notice how he steps closer…and closer…and closer. “And how will you spend your freedom?”

It is his touch that draws you in. That pulls your attention in his direction.

“Thought I’d spend it with you.”

“With me?” you nearly laugh. When Boba’s face remains passive, you realize the intent. “You’re serious.”

“As a sarlacc.”

You step away, but Boba is right there, matching each one. Reaching out, he pins you against the counter, a hand resting on either side of you. There is no escape, but it’s not like you’d flee. Closeness is sweet no matter how much you attempt to push him away. The man remains steadfast in his loyalty to you, in pursuit of you, and while you know his reputation, it’s nice to be admired.

To be wanted.

“Please,” he continues, voice lowering to a husky timbre. “Close up shop. Spend the rest of the day with me.”

You ask, “And do what?”

There is victory in Boba’s smile but also joy. He wants this, and you’ve given it to him.

Pushing off from the counter, he returns to where he was standing moments ago. Bending down, he grabs a large canvas tote bag. “I bought a few things from the market,” he says excitedly. “Thought you could taste test.”

“Me?” you laugh. “And what if it’s poisoned?”

“Then I’d save you,” he croons.

You consider your options and quickly squash any rising dissent. Boba is sweet on you, and why not indulge him?

“Fine,” you agree. “I can close up shop for the day.”

Boba slaps the counter and bolts toward the door, engaging the locking mechanism and shutting the mechanical blinds. You giggle into your hand at how fast he moves, the eagerness radiating off him.

From a pocket, Boba removes a strip of fabric. “For your eyes,” he says and you surrender, allowing him to place it over your eyes and secure it behind your head.

All you have are your other senses, but Boba doesn’t allow you to flounder. “This way. With me,” he urges, taking your hands in his, guiding you carefully from out and around the counter.

“The blindfold isn’t reassuring,” you mutter.

Boba clucks his tongue. “You’re about to like me less.”

Before you can form a retort, another strip of fabric wraps around your wrists.

“Boba!”

“Relax. I’m not kidnapping you.”

You exhale through your nostrils. “Says the bounty hunter.”

Boba’s voice lowers to a sultry purr. “Would you like that?”

“Like what?”

“If you were my bounty? If I kidnapped you?”

Everything in you stills but there is no cold—no fear. Warmth lingers, slowly unfurling at the idea of him stealing you away, keeping you somewhere only he knows.

“And if my answer is ‘yes?’”

The reply is not with words but with a tightening of the fabric around your wrists. You hear shuffling, of the tote bag being opened, of something soft landing on the countertop. It is followed by a crinkle, and then distraction as Boba’s thumb caresses the pulse point in your wrist.

“Open,” he instructs, and you follow with perfect submission.

A sticky, sweet substance lands on your tongue. It clings to his fingers, and you close your lips around them, sucking them clean. Boba groans and you shiver.

“What is it?” he asks, so softly you curl in on yourself, flustered at the blooming arousal.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “But I liked it.”

“More?”

“Please.”

Boba offers you another bite, this one more solid than the last. It must be some sort of cake, but the texture and flavor are unique. It’s not from Tatooine.

“Ready for the next?”

You nod with eagerness, awaiting the next sweet thing to pass your lips. But you wait, and it does not come. You linger. Then ask.

“Boba?”

His name is nearly extinguished on your lips. You expect his voice or something new to try, but it is neither. It is his lips connecting with yours. Not tentative or unsure but fierce and hungry. A claiming. A mark of ownership. It steals all breath and sends you melting like ice under Tatooine’s twin suns.

Physicality is broken. The boundary you told yourself you’d hold on to has fractured, ruptured into tiny particles of sand, blown away to be lost in the endless dusty desert. He tastes like the sweet, sticky cake you just ate, and you dive in for more, accepting each kiss he gives you like it’s the last.

Boba murmurs a word between kisses. The same one. Repeat repeat repeat until it too plays in your head.

Cyar’ika.

Cyar’ika.

Cyar’ika.

“Boba?”

“Hm?” he muses, slowing his attention to subtle, soft touches.

“That word,” you murmur. “What does it mean?”

With the blindfold, you’re unable to discern what he might be thinking. You desperately want to remove it, to gaze into his eyes, and find the truth.

You feel his fingers then, tracing your jaw, tilting your chin up a bit before coming in for another kiss. This one is deafening, sealing your fate and his. There is no going back. You cannot let this man go.