#sw x reader

It was a slow night at 79’s; you wouldn’t have had it any other way. A clone bar was pretty far from your typical scene, but it was the only bar on Coruscant that you knew had decent drinks.

It wasn’t really the “scene” of your… friends, if they could be called that, either. They were clones, yes, but not normal ones. 

To most? Ten times more prickly, with an air of superiority about them that made them intolerable to other clones. But to you? There weren’t a set of clones in the galaxy you’d rather be spending an evening with.

They’d just gotten back from a mission, and considering it was rare that you were all on the same planet at once… you’d taken the opportunity to invite them out. Well, it was actually Wrecker who invited you here, but you’d mentioned wanting to get together.

You were laughing off your second drink now, losing it over another stupid joke Hunter made. Or, more specifically, at the way Crosshair glared at him for saying it.

“You guys up for round three?” You quirked an eyebrow at the table. 

“That even a question?” Wrecker grinned, already standing up. But you held a hand up, insisting on getting everyone’s drinks. They seemed reluctant to watch you go alone, but… the bar was mostly empty at this hour. 

They shared a look: what could go wrong? 

And so you left the booth, taking a seat at the bar and listing off their orders, plus your own, like second nature. 

The bartending droid got to work, and you relaxed a bit against the bar, a light smile curving your lips. 

“Well, aren’t you a pretty thing.”

You turned your head. There was a clone a couple seats away from you at the bar, nursing a half-empty drink you doubted was his first. Your smile faltered for a second before transforming into a more polite one. You nodded respectfully, trying to make it obvious you weren’t interested in conversation.

He didn’t take the hint. He stood up from his seat, abandoning his drink to lean against the bar right next to you.

“Ah… enjoying your night, soldier?” you tried, laughing awkwardly.

His face twisted in consideration as he shrugged. “Eh. Little quiet. Little boring.” Then his gaze flicked to you, and he grinned. “Until now. Haven’t seen you around here before.”

“Oh, yeah, uh… not my typical joint.”

“Figured. You look like you should be somewhere much nicer, little lady.”

Was that supposed to be a compliment? You just laughed again, shifting in your seat. The bartending droid was done with three of the six drinks you needed.

“You here all alone?” 

“No, I’m here with friends.” An apologetic smile accompanied your response. You were hoping that would be enough to get him away. “They’re just sitting at a booth over there.”

He didn’t look. “Well, you’re alone right now.” 

Another uncomfortable laugh left you, and you looked at the droid almost desperately. Work faster, you goddamn—

“I’ll keep you company, if you don’t mind…” His hand slid across the bar towards your crossed arms resting on the counter, and you quickly sat up straight, intertwining your fingers tightly in your lap.

“No, that’s okay. I’ll probably be… you know. Walking away in a second.” Take the hint, dude. 

“Oh, but your friends can wait a few minutes, can’t they? I don’t think I’m ready to watch a pretty girl like you get away so soon.” He smiled, chuckling softly. 

You just narrowed your eyes, no longer smiling as you desperately stared at the drinks on the platter. Five drinks. Just one more…

Your head was jerked back to look at the clone when he grabbed your chin, laughing at your startled expression. “You’ve got gorgeous eyes. Very expressive.”

“Excuse me,” a (thankfully) familiar voice chirped on your other side. “Can you make that Fire Dancer a double shot?” He’d been addressing the droid, but from his sharp tone… he was probably taking a jab at the clone, too.

The clone’s grip on your chin loosened just enough for you to turn your head. Tech was drumming his fingers on the bar on your other side, looking directly at the clone out of the corner of his eye.

“I don’t think she’s interested,” he deadpanned, expression unreadable.

The clone’s face twitched. “Hey… you’re one of those bad batchers,” he sneered. “Why don’t you go back to whatever corner you’re hiding in, and stop trying to act like you know everything?”

“I’ve got a better idea for you.” A sharp voice, low and gravelly, sliced the air. You turned again to see Crosshair standing behind the clone, one arm braced on the bar to box him between you and Crosshair.

“Get it through your head that she’s. Not. Interested,” he drawled, narrowing his eyes in that glare that was eerily similar to his sniping abilities—precise, intentional, and deadly.

Tech was leaning over your shoulder, trying to read a serial number printed on the clone’s armor. “CT-3889,” he read. “I’ll remember that.”

“What, are you gonna report me?” The clone snorted.

“Report? Oh, no. I can think of things that are worse than reporting. And easier, too.” He nodded, accepting his drink from the bartending droid. 

“... You’re bluffing,” the clone narrowed his eyes, glancing once at Crosshair behind him.

“You wanna find out?” Crosshair practically hissed.

The droid set a platter on the bar with the other five drinks you needed, and just as soon as it hit the surface, CT-3889 was up and gone, grumbling curses under his breath.

“... I don’t like that guy.” Crosshair narrowed his eyes, never letting his gaze leave the trooper once until he was out of the establishment. Then he looked at you, examining your face closely. “He touched you.” 

You blinked. Watching them scare that guy off… you almost forgot that you were a part of this whole ordeal. “Oh. Uh…”

“Is he finally gone?” Echo drawled, eyeing the door carefully as he stepped closer. Hunter and Wrecker were behind him.

“If I ever see that guy on Kamino…” Wrecker snarled, cracking his knuckles irritably, “I’m gonna—”

“You’re not gonna do anything,” Hunter warned him. Then he looked at you. “Are you alright?”

“I was going to ask that,” Tech interjected quietly, taking a sip of his drink.

“You guys. I’m fine,” you almost had to laugh. Almost. “He was just…” you gestured vaguely. You didn’t want to say anything nice, but saying something mean would make it seem like you weren’t fine. Which, to be fair, you sort of weren’t. 

“Insufferable,” Crosshair grumbled, picking up his own drink to throw it back.

“Ugly,” Wrecker added, then guffawed. That got you to laugh, too.

“Bothering you.” Tech said finally, and you nodded. He hummed. “Well then. I’m glad I intervened.”

“We shouldn’t have let you go off on your own,” Hunter said, almost apologetically. 

“Yeah, regs can be…” Echo made a face, gesturing to the door. “... Like that.”

“And you guys are so much better,” you teased, putting your hands on your hips. “You probably scared that guy all the way back to his incubation chamber.”

Crosshair snorted. “Good.” After a slow sip of his drink, he just shook his head, almost imperceptibly. “I’d never stoop that low.”

“Wouldn’t you, now?” You raised an eyebrow, smirking. 

Crosshair matched your grin. “Why would I harass some lady at a bar when I’ve already got you?”

Wrecker burst out laughing; a contagious sound. Soon you were all chuckling into your drinks again, but in those silent breaths between more jokes and stories…

You let yourself feel a little lighter. From what Crosshair said (and from how the boys were still eyeing the other bargoers suspiciously)... you had a feeling you wouldn’t have to worry about “suitors” like that again for a long time.

He takes a deep breath and runs his hand over his face. "Alright," Anakin sighs. "It starts on Tatooine. I'm with my mother and I can still feel the slave tracker in my neck. She's telling me about her life before everything... before Gardulla and Watto… Just like it used to be." He pauses. He always pauses there. The next part is what he wants to forget.

"And then?"

"And then she's dying," he says after swallowing hard. "I can't see her, but I can feel her slipping away... No, not slipping. She's being ripped away. And—and I can't do anything to help her. She's calling for me, but I can't help her. It's like my hands are tied, and I’m powerless." 

You're silent for a moment as you try your best to fully consider this. "Maybe," you begin. Then you sigh. "Maybe, it's just fear. I have bad dreams, too. They're not likely to come true."

Anakin opens his eyes and sits up to look into your eyes. "You have... dreams?"

The ghastly images of your dreams spring into your mind. The Jedi temple in ruins, the searing heat of a burning planet, the very garden you sit in now—the garden both of you have claimed as a sanctuary—nothing but char. Anakin's eyes glowing gold. It's only fear that fuels the dreams, you know that. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Since you realized the crippling attachment you have to Anakin, the fear of the very worst that could happen has plagued you.

"They're not important," you say.

Anakin brushes the hair away from your face and strokes your cheeks with his thumbs. "They're important to me," he insists.

Oh, he's looking so intensely at you that you might pass out. A Jedi padawan reduced to unconsciousness by a pair of clear blue eyes and warm hands. You'll never pass the trials at this rate.

You take Anakin's hands and bring them away from your face. "Ani... You shouldn't do that..."

"Why not?" Anakin questions.

The only reason is that if anyone sees it, you'll both be in trouble with both Master Kenobi and Master Fisto. And Anakin won't care. Besides, Master Kenobi is often as liberal with him as Master Fisto is with you. A firm talking-to might be the most you'd get. But there's still your position in the order to think of.

Nevertheless, you have no desire to sour a quiet moment with the bitterness of responsibilities. "Because you're being ridiculous," you tease with a smile and a playful punch to his shoulder.

Anakin returns your smile. "I don't feel ridiculous," he says with a hint of a laugh. "Obi-Wan tells me to trust my feelings."

"Obi-Wan says a lot of things you don't listen to," you point out.

"Well, maybe I feel like starting."

"Anakin," you say, more sharply this time. Too sharply.

He pulls his hands back. "I'm sorry," he says quietly.

Of course, once his hands are gone, you begin to miss them. You want them to linger on your face. You want them to trace the column of your neck. You want his lips to follow them. A shudder builds in you just thinking about it—a shudder you have to work hard to suppress.

But he's looking at you like he wants the same thing so badly that it scares him.

With a sigh, you reach for his shoulder. A shoulder is safe. It isn't a cheek or a neck. Or lips, Maker forbid. "I didn't mean to snap like that," you say. "It's just... We're supposed to be meditating here."

Anakin reaches to lay his hand over yours. "You keep me focused."

You're about to protest the point. More often than not, you're his primary distraction and vice versa, but he closes his eyes before you can say anything and takes a deep breath. His hand is still on yours.You ought to meditate, but he's giving you a perfect opportunity to study his face, a luxury you rarely have. So often, you're afraid to stare at him. Afraid of someone seeing and guessing why you'd want to.

“I like it here,” he says, keeping his eyes closed and gripping your hand just a little tighter. “I always have, ever since I was young.”

“We’re still young,” you point out.

Anakin smiles. “Younger.”

In the following silence, you finally make yourself close your eyes, focusing only on the feeling of Anakin’s hand on yours. It is, funnily enough, something of a tether rather than a hindrance. There is a sense of belonging that comes with it that can almost erase the fear.

When enough time has passed, you take one more deep breath and open your eyes to find Anakin looking at you again. You pull your hand reluctantly away.

“We should go soon,” you whisper, and Anakin nods. 

There’s no point in lingering any longer, really. Together, you stand and head for the door.

“I really hate to leave this place sometimes,” you admit, just before you leave. “I’ve always liked it here, too.”

Anakin hums.

“Do you know what Master Fisto told me once?”

He gives you a questioning look, urging you to continue.

“He said: the Jedi who keeps the garden keeps the peace,” you say. “I didn’t understand what that meant at first, but I think I do now.”

“What does it mean?” he asks.

“Look at this place,” you urge him. “Where else can any one of us go to better soothe a troubled mind?”

If he agrees, he doesn’t say so, and now your time with him is up. Before you part ways, he grabs your hand and squeezes it tightly.

The next months are a whirlwind. By the time you pass your trials, the Clone Wars have begun. One by one, Jedi are called to the battlefront. Even Master Fisto goes, and that’s not a parting without its hardships. Yet, worse even than saying goodbye to your former master is saying goodbye to Anakin.

When he approaches you, you’re working in the temple gardens which seems to be a more or less permanent position. Not that you can complain; you’re very satisfied with your work, and Anakin’s visits have been frequent.

This one begins as any other. The minute he enters the garden, he finds you. He’s lost an arm recently, and his hair has gotten longer since his trials, just like he talked about. It suits him, you find. It suits him very well. You can’t stand to look at him for very long.

“I heard you were headed to the front,” you whisper as he approaches before he can say anything to you. You’re making a notably impressive effort to pretend to be unbothered by that information. It’s all you’ve thought about since you heard it days ago.

“Hello to you, too,” he says. There’s a strange energy brimming from him. Excitement, almost. It doesn’t suit him as well as his other changes. It fits him strangely. “We leave next week after the garrison is finished with their training.”

A deep burden takes root in you, but you nod, accepting it. “I wish you the best, my friend,” you say. “Stay safe for me, will you?”

His gaze darts anxiously around the gardens as he steps closer. “That’s actually why I came,” he says. “I wanted to talk to you.”

A glance over either shoulder tells you that you’re alone, so you step closer to Anakin and nod. “Yes?” you say.

He’s caught you firmly in his gaze, but you watch him falter with the grasp. The confidence and excitement that he approached you with begins to wane, and there is the beginning of something like fear behind his eyes.

“What’s the matter, Ani?” you ask, keeping your voice soft.

He drops his gaze down to the floor and swallows hard as his fingers twitch at his sides. “You know, don’t you?” he asks you without ever once looking at you. “I suppose you have to know by now.”

“Know what?” you press, ducking to try to catch his eyes once again. “Anakin…”

It all happens in a moment. The moment you recapture his gaze and fully understand the whole world of feeling behind it, he kisses you, and it’s equally everything you dreamed and your very worst nightmare. For a moment, you allow it, as much as you allow yourself to pretend that this can be more than what it is. Somehow, your hands come to rest on the back of his neck, inadvertently encouraging him to deepen the kiss.

His thumbs are brushing the apples of your cheeks, and you always knew this kind of tenderness was in him. You don't know how to handle it with the care that it deserves. When he pulls away, you don’t know what to say.

The silence is ripping a hole in the ground. You stand on fraying threads, waiting at any time to fall through.

Maybe it isn’t what you ought to say, but it’s the only thing you can muster up. “Don’t do this,” you say, half through your teeth.

“Everything I do is for you,” he admits slowly, hands still resting lightly on your arms. “I don’t know how else to be.”

“Not like this,” you tell him, trying to mean it.

It’s too much to watch him come to an understanding, but you watch it anyway. Like a shipwreck that you can’t tear your eyes away from… You want to fix it, immediately. There is no way you can. The feeling of his hands leaving you is an even stronger feeling than when he touches you at all.

You turn away from him at his first backward step, and you don’t watch when he finally leaves you. It’s nearly three years before you truly see him again.

All this time, he’s known where he can find you, of course; but there’s been no effort on his part or yours, for that matter. Sometimes, in the Temple, you think you catch glimpses of him. Worse, you see him from behind and turn yourself in the other direction. You make it easier by convincing yourself that he must do the same thing. 

But in the gardens, there’s no denying each other’s presence. You always feel him the minute he walks in, infrequent though his visits are. You have to wonder if he feels the same inescapable pull. 

Three years ago, you wouldn’t let him tell you how deeply his feelings for you ran. Now, it’s all you can think about. It’s a kind of torture that even the gardens can rarely soothe, and for three years, you’ve dealt with it the best you can. Yet, despite your best efforts, Anakin throws a wrench into the machine of your masterful self-control.

He approaches you from behind, but (of course) you don’t need him to announce himself. You’ve felt him the moment he stepped inside, his hesitation, his fear. He needs the gardens as much as you do, you’ve always known that.

Still, you refuse to look at him as you clip away the dead leaves of a dying plant. “What are you doing here?” you demand, voice too sharp to belong to this place. You’re forgetting yourself already, dammit.

“I had to see you,” he says, desperate and terrified.

With a deep breath, you turn to face him. To let him see you. You see him in turn, his hair long and features dark. He’s beautiful, and you could very nearly hate him for it. “Alright?” you press, choking it out over your caught breath. When he says nothing, you press all the more. “Why are you here?” you ask him once again.

“I keep having dreams,” he whispers to you after another long moment. But as quiet as his voice is, nothing can hide the panic laced in it. "Like the ones I used to have about my mother before she died."

You set the shears down and look around you. “What do you mean?”

“They’re about you,” he continues.

This stuns you to silence for a long while. When, eventually, you find your words again they come few and far between. “Me?” you ask. “What…?”

“If this war continues, you won’t make it through,” he says. “I’m sure of it.”

“Anakin,” you sigh, making an effort to tamp down the sudden panic that’s shot through you. “How could you be sure of something like that?”

“Because it’s happened before,” he says. “I need you to listen to me. You need to leave this place.”

“Leave?” you ask him. “And go where?”

“Anywhere,” he answers. “Anywhere but here.”

You can see it now, the fear that would lead him there. If this is, indeed, a world where dreams can come true, it falls to you to do everything in your power to stop them. With shaking hands, you reach out, placing your hands on either side of his head, his hair threading through your fingers. “Listen to me now, Ani. Old friend,” you say slowly. Perhaps a little over careful. “It won’t happen. There’s nothing here that can touch me, and I’ve had no word from the council about deploying me for battle. I am safe. You are safe. We’re both fine.”

Anakin shakes his head free of your hands. “You don’t know that,” he tells you. “I know what I’ve seen. I know these kinds of things become real.”

Once again, you try to reach for him, but he flinches away from you. You suppose you earned that, in a way. All you want is to bring him some comfort, but you’ve surrendered that privilege. “Have you spoken to Master Yoda?” you ask him.

“Yes.”

You nod. “What was his advice?”

Anakin clenches his jaw and turns his gaze upward, eyelids fluttering. “He advised that I leave you alone,” he says. “But I can’t do that. Not to you.”

You could bring up the past three years in which you’ve both done a decent job of leaving each other well enough alone, but you don’t. Instead, you say, “Master Yoda is wise. Moreso than we can imagine at our age.”

“Why,” Anakin snaps, “does everyone assume that we’re ignorant just because we’re young?”

His sudden flare of anger is palpable and nearly debilitating. At the very least, it shocks you into silence. It isn’t that it’s unlike him, rather his anger is composed of him. It’s the most of him that you believe you’ve ever seen, and you don’t find that you’re afraid. Instead, you’re fascinated, almost protective. 

“We are all ignorant,” you say. “Every last one of us, not only the young.”

Anakin paces away from you before returning again. “Well, I’m not,” he says. “I won’t allow myself to be.”

“Ani, think,” you sigh. “Who among us can truly know the path ahead? I have dreams, too, don’t forget.”

At this, he grabs up your hands between his own in a vice-like grip. “What are they?” he demands. “Please, tell me.”

If there was ever a time, this would be it. The desperation in his voice necessitates the uttering of nothing but the truth. Yet, the words catch in your throat as you see that awful nightmare once again. Even in the safety of your garden, you can nearly smell the smoke. “I can’t…” you whisper, choking on it. Speaking it would seem to give it power in a way. You cannot do that. Not to him.

At your refusal, your rejection, he seems to have reached the final straw. He leaves you there again to your shrubs and trees and little flowers. These comforting greens keep the peace, you remind yourself. Keeping them is your only duty of any value, but you wonder for a bitter moment if you’ll ever see him again.

In the following months, those old dreams that you couldn’t even speak return to you. Once again you see the golden-red shine of Anakin’s eyes as the temple burns all around him. The visions rob you of your sleep and make your work slow and stilted. Still, it’s only fear that’s affecting you so. You believe it’s only fear. You have to believe it.

The number of attendees to the gardens reduces even more if that’s possible. Those who remain assure you that the war is coming to an end, and once it does, the Jedi will return to this place of peace. This, you have to believe, as well.

There comes a day when there are no Jedi in the gardens at all, and the whole planet seems to have gone strangely still. You work through the morning, trying your utmost to keep the disquiet of your mind at bay. Yet, there are forces at work that you cannot deny. Something has begun that you cannot ignore—a great disturbance.

It’s late in the evening when you hear the sound of the first blaster shot, followed by the ignition of lightsabers that seem to do nothing against the onslaught. Instinctually, you reach for your own lightsaber clipped to your belt, but you don’t ignite it yet. Mentally, you make a desperate attempt to rationalize what must be happening. The Separatist forces have organized a strike against Coruscant, a desperate attempt at retaliation for Count Dooku. Surely… you think. Surely, that’s what this is: just another battle that must be seen to the end.

Yet, your feelings tell you what your mind will not. The very worst of your fears have come to pass.

There are Clone Troopers at the door, dozens of them from what your senses can tell. You stand ready for them, igniting your saber and bracing yourself for the fight, but it never comes. The moment the door opens to them a voice commands, “Hold your fire!” You would recognize that voice anywhere.

Anakin parts the wall of troopers with ease and comes close enough to really look at you. His eyes are gold. 

“Anakin…” you whisper, disarming your lightsaber and reaching for his hands. It would be pointless against these numbers, anyway. “What is happening?”

He doesn’t answer, not immediately, but there’s no need. Already, you’re beginning to understand that you would rather not know.

A trooper jogs to the rest and catches Anakin from behind. “Lord Vader,” he says, “We’ve cleared the first three floors.”

It takes you too long to realize that the trooper is addressing him as Lord Vader, and yet you instantly recognize it as a dark name. A Sith name. Anakin doesn’t acknowledge the trooper at all, watching you instead. Watching the horror come across your face as you pull your hands back. The silence between you allows for the sound of death to flourish from the distant reaches of the temple.

“What have you done,” you finally whisper.

“Only what I had to do,” he says. That’s all the acknowledgment you get before he’s turning back to the clones to give more orders. Through a blood rush, you hear the secret corners of this sacred temple, your home, marked for destruction.

As for you, you stay completely still—a moment frozen in amber, unable to grow past the events unfolding before your very eyes. The next moment, Anakin is pulling you through the temple as it burns. This is what he has to do, or so he believes. The words wind through you slowly like the spreading of dark ink across paper until you are completely saturated with it. This is your fault. All of this death, dealt out with childish abandon, is to save you.

If there’s anything you can say to cut catastrophe off at the head, you don’t know it. Yet, it won’t stop you from trying as you reach the exit of the temple. Perhaps, perhaps… You could contain it here. “Anakin, Anakin… The war is ending soon,” you tell him desperately, repeating the assurances of so many masters that now lay dead on the Temple floor. With the children. Dear maker, the children. “Why don’t you let it?”

“That’s not possible,” Anakin tells you. “The war will continue unless the Emperor himself puts an end to it. But don’t you understand? I can overthrow him once it’s done. No more Jedi. No more Dark Lords. The Force will truly be balanced once and for all.”

“Don’t be blind,” you say.

“I’m not blind,” he insists, flatly. “I’m the only one who sees the truth. The lies of the Jedi—”

“I am a Jedi,” you remind him, nearly doubling yourself over as you stumble to grab onto him once again. “Have I lied to you?”

He doesn’t shift an inch once he’s under your hands. Not at first. Instead, he stays stock-still as if the slightest movement would shatter you. Or him. Or even both at once. Then, without any warning, he straightens his spine and his eyes go suddenly cold. “I won’t make you join me,” he tells you. “But I won’t let you die.”

It should be a comfort to you, but it unsettles you as much as anything else he’s said up to this point. You release him from your grasp and match his posture.

“Will you come willingly?” he asks, holding his hand out to you. “Or will I have to force you?”

You know better than to refuse, even if your hand hovers over his, hesitant and terrified. It doesn’t matter. He takes you by the wrist and leads you away from the only life you’ve ever known. You’ve never seen Coruscant so dark, every light out but the one behind you. When you look over your shoulder, the fire from the temple is the only thing that lights up the world. You watch the ashes from the garden rise into the sky.

You don’t feel anything at all. Distantly, that frightens you, but it makes the trip through space easier. He keeps you in the cabin of his transport, waiting for some hint of your destination other than the stomach-pull of hyperspeed. In the muttered conversations of the troopers around you, you think you hear something about the Mustafar system.

An eternity passes before you land, and the thud of the ship touching stone jolts you harshly into a new reality. The troopers insist that you’re not to leave the ship on Lord Vader’s orders. Even so, out the windows you see nothing but more fire, more ash.

Death lingers over this place. Whatever Anakin’s purpose is in this place must be some other heinous act to add to all of those he’s committed within the past few hours. It sits rotten in the pit of your belly and nearly overwhelms you when he finally comes to fetch you from the transport. Your knees wobble as you walk across the obsidian ground, and he steadies you with a firm and powerful hand at your waist.

He escorts you to a serviceable bedroom and sets you on the cot there. Standing over you, he runs his gloved hand through your hair and tilts your head back, searching for something you couldn’t name if you wanted to. The tug of his fingers is markedly not uncomfortable, and you’re tired enough to allow yourself to push your head into his hand ever so slightly. You almost convince yourself that you can’t feel the blood that, though invisible, coats those hands.

“You understand, don’t you?” he asks you, quiet as a grave, the leather of his thumb pressing over your hairline. “You understand why I had to do it. You would, above all others.”

It takes more effort than it should to tap into his emotions, and you’re sure he feels it when you do. There is a raw wound at the core of him, bleeding and open for you and you alone. It may just be love.

That same rot that sits in your belly is creeping in at the edges of his mind. It will not be long before even that is choked out and lost to the will of the Dark Side. Thus, there are no other words you can muster to respond. “Nothing grows here,” you remark quietly.

To this, Anakin has no answer. He untangles his fingers from your hair and paces to the far end of the room. “Hate me if that’s what you want,” he tells you instead. “Nothing will change. I will still hold my power, and I will still use it however I need to in order to keep you safe.”

“I don’t hate you,” you tell him, rising carefully to your feet and finding it remarkably true. “But think, Anakin, please. Think of your dreams. How do they end?”

He has no answer. He won’t even look you in the eye.

Again, you say, “How do they end?”

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” he says.

“Anakin,” you try.

“Stop it,” he orders you, grabbing you by the throat. “Stop it.”

His grip goes beyond the point of pain. You can’t take a breath no matter how much you try for one, and the edges of your vision are slowly fading to a dark purple. You may die here in his hands, you realize, and you don’t have the time or the breath for any kind of parting words.

Again, you say, “Anakin,” and it’s a barely intelligible, squeaking word. Yet, he has to understand you. Above all others, he has to understand you.

In the next moment, he releases you, and you collapse onto your hands and knees. He leaves, wordless. It is this moment, breathless and nauseating, that proves to be the beginning of the end.

The world is clouded here, and even time is difficult to parse, only marked by eating and sleeping. You’re not sure how long you spend pacing the halls of this dark palace alone, but at times you are able to catch the corners of Anakin’s thoughts and understand why. He is waiting for Master Kenobi, you realize. Waiting for his Master to come and scold him like a child. Then what?  Sometimes you catch him within the winding maze giving orders to the troopers at his command, and he always stops to give you his undivided attention for a moment or two. He loves to play as though nothing is wrong. To the outside observer, he has made you queen of his little Empire, nestled safely upon a pedestal where nothing can touch you. In fairness, very little does, but not even the great Darth Vader can stop the slow creep of death. For all the fire this planet holds, you are cold. Since the first day, you have been moved to a room befitting an empress, and even in that room there is no warmth.

You’ve hardly had time to settle yourself before Anakin comes to you, whatever darkness that lingers in his mind expertly cloaked from your probing. You’ve had little time to speak to him in private since you came here.

There is a prolonged silence as his eyes roam your body before he finally speaks to you. “I wasn’t mistaken all those years ago,” he says.

It isn’t a question, but you couldn’t deny it even if it was. There isn’t a doubt that he’s referring to that singular kiss that you shared. It has become a ghost in its own right, and you have been the willing place it haunts.

He takes a step towards you, tentative, a matter of testing the waters. As for you, you don’t move a muscle, equal parts unwilling and unable. It’s an animalistic dance, this pacing. For all of his confident words, his uncertainty shows through his movements.

When he’s at last close enough to touch, it’s you who finally reaches out, fingers at his waistband, promising what you shouldn’t. Only then does he touch you, his hands combing through your hair as once they did. You close your eyes against the feeling, whether unwilling or unable to look directly at him, though you cannot be sure which.

From these touches, the whole of the world spirals out of your control. You don’t feel as though you’re a part of your own being as you work together to remove all barriers between you, little piece by little piece until nothing separates your bodies but space. Even that disappears in short order. His good hand traces the length of your body, skin over skin.

There’s nothing left to do except to let yourself be taken. You feel yourself going limp, pliable and willing to be so as long as no thought is required of you.

Everything is in contradiction to itself. He makes quick work of entering you, hips stuttering as he presses in, mouth opened in an abandoned gasp. It’s insult and comfort in one. Under such circumstances, you could hardly make yourself match his increasingly frantic movements, but you cannot help but hold onto him. When he finishes in you, it is a warm feeling, and a bitter one.

He huffs heavy breaths into the curve of your neck until he falls soundly asleep but never says another word to you. Your hands stay splayed over his skin as though you couldn’t bear to move them.

The nights are long on Mustafar, and you sleep as often as Anakin and your mind will allow. At least you dream, feverish though your dreams tend to be. In your mind, you follow rivers of blood until they clear into fresh and sparkling water. You drink from the springs (the water is sweet) and look up across the stream to Anakin as you once knew him. He wears a shirt of white linen and looks up at the triplet suns that shine across the sky of an unknown planet. With a breath, he closes his eyes. Your dreams do more than comfort you. They give you hope, even as you feel your life slipping away.

On another night like that one, after Anakin has summoned you to his chambers and had his way, he lingers for a moment in silence. He is seated on the edge of the bed, and where his emotions were difficult to reach before, they scream at you now. All of the guilt and the uncertainty… As though you are enmeshed with him: one creature.

“Don’t you think we’re too young for this?” you ask.

He doesn’t turn around. “Get out,” he tells you, not even offering you the dignity of looking to see if you do.

There is an endlessly long and silent chasm between you for some time. Silent, perhaps, and yet never empty. Confusion fills it—chaos, too. That uncertainty flows from him and fills the space that he drives between you. It is so close to the end; you can feel it in every inch of your limbs now.

You know the long silence, the darkness is over when he comes to you in the middle of the night on the third day of the same. His intent is clear, and yet, he is slow to action. Perhaps any other night, you would spur him into it, having long since grown impatient with his indecision. Not tonight. 

Tonight you rest with your back against the wall and watch him pace the length of the room once, slowly and deliberately. When he turns on his heel to face you, he demands, “Well? Aren’t you going to say something?”

“What do you think I’m going to say?”

“What you usually do,” he answers. “What you always say with your mind if not your words.”

You only hum because, of course, there is nothing to say that hasn’t already been said. The grief you still hold over everything he was—over everything you were—has been overwhelming since its inception. To reach out with it another time may prove more than you could bear.

He sits on the edge of the bed and draws your hands into his. Flesh and metal. “Speak to me,” he demands. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Perhaps it would be in your best interests to lie—to give him exactly what you know he wants as you have since the slaughter. He’s stubborn when it comes to getting his way, after all. The truth, however, is all you can bear to give. “I’m going to die,” you tell him.

He flinches but doesn’t speak.

“If I stay here,” you clarify. “There’s something about this place… It’s inhospitable. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know,” he mumbles. “I know.”

“I won’t be here forever, and I don’t know what comes next. Where I’ll go… What I’ll do… Whether I’ll even survive…” you say. “But I know where I belong.”

He doesn’t press, to your surprise. That, in itself, is another good sign.

“I miss my garden,” you tell him, feeling enough at liberty to be candid with him. “It was all I had for so long. The only place I felt at peace…”

It’s another long moment before he speaks. “You were always my garden,” he says quietly. “I never could keep you.”

You push your hand into his long hair, keeping your thumb softly against his brow bone. He closes his eyes.

“I will do anything you ask,” he tells you in a hoarse whisper. “Please, just tell me what I can give you.”

At first, all that comes to mind is everything he could not possibly give you. The temple and its garden… The peace that the galaxy once held… The lives of thousands of friends and mentors… Above it all, you think of three long, wasted years that marked the foolishness of your youth. These he could never give to you because you never gave them to him.

It doesn’t matter anymore. All of those things are dead and gone. What remains is yours to have if you’ll only ask for it. Even so, there is only one thing you can think to wish for.

“Get on your knees.”

You expect your request to shock him, but it doesn’t. Perhaps this is what he always expected of you. His eyes flutter open, and he drops to his knees in an instant.

“You know what I’m going to ask you, don’t you?” you say, and he responds with a nod so slight you might’ve missed it if you couldn’t feel his head move under your hands. Yet, the briefest of affirmation tells you what you need to know: he is ready to leave all of this behind.

“We’ll have to leave this place,” you tell him. “And I don’t doubt we’ll be hunted for the rest of our lives.” The truth of it strikes you where you’re sensitive. This man in your hands has committed unspeakable horrors without excuse. Even so, you hold him there.

“I will follow you,” he promises. “All my life, I have served none but you. I will serve none but you.”

“Then I’ll keep you safe,” you say. “Above all others, I will keep you safe.”

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.

We ran out of water a few days ago. The only reason he shared what little he had with me was so he didn't have to drag around dead weight. I've been stuck on a forest planet with one General Hux handcuffed to my left hand for days now. The chain connecting us must've been made for some giant beast because it drags against the floor if we are not standing far enough apart. Apparently, he didn't want me running off. Most of his time is spent glaring at me and grumbling disagreements with every decision that has been made since we crashed. "We should be staying with the ship, waiting for rescue" His ever-present annoyance makes itself evident with his continued whining; he tramples his way through the flora, making sure every creature around can hear his privilege in every footstep. "Do you want to die of dehydration?" I finally turn toward him, no longer dragging him behind but glaring at him from my disadvantaged height.

"Your rescue isn't coming, at least not anytime soon" He fails to comprehend that his rescue means my ruin, and I can not stand idly by while my downfall grows ever near. He was getting mad too, this whole venture had just been silence and yelling taking turns filling the air between us. "So what? We wander the woods aimlessly till we find water?" I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. How dumb does this guy think I am? "No dumbass, unlike you, I have a handful of survival skills. We're following the moss" If he wasn't looking at me like I'm crazy before, he sure is now. "The moss... We're following... the moss." His pissed tone transitioned nicely to a sarcastic one. It was apparent that he didn't believe a word I was saying and probably thought I was trying to waste his time and energy. This is partially true, but I really do want to find water, and following the direction of moss is the best way I can think of.

He stepped so close to me that our faces were a breath apart. We've both been very easy to aggravate since we ran out of water. I try to force him away from me to re-form what little space possible with our current situation. But he takes my light shove as a sign of aggression and grabs my wrist hard. He pushes me and drives my back against a nearby tree. I can feel the roughness of the barks through my clothes from the amount of pressure he uses to pin me between his body and the tree. "Fuck off Red" I bite back.

His anger is now only visible from the tension in the air and the strain on my wrist he has yet to release. His face holds a calm and cold expression I can't read. I try to squirm out of his grasp but he only leans against me harder. His head lowers to my ear as he practically whispers "You should show more respect towards your betters" Smugness coating his voice.

Heat overtakes me, from the anger boiling under my skin to the warmth of his body pressed against mine. There are other feelings present, that I don't want to think about or admit. He may be hot as hell, but he is still the enemy. To think about how damn alluring I find him, or how his scent takes over my senses whenever he is near, is a betrayal of my home and the rebellion.

Speaking of smells. I smelled it before I heard it; sniffing the air a few times to make sure my mind wasn't playing tricks. He looks at me strangely but loosens his grip on me when he notices my attention is elsewhere. I can smell the moisture in the air, and hear the soft sound of a stream. I pick up my pace, dragging him behind me the best I can to the source of my excitement. The long chain connecting us helped.

I come face to face with a cliffside. There is a slight alcove with a steady stream of water rolling from the top of the cliff to disappear on the floor of the rocky nook. All too suddenly I am jolted backward from a hard tug on the long chain connecting us. Hux pulled me close with a hard look in his eyes that told me all he wanted to say. 'Me first, rebel scum' He walked with purpose past me. Oh fuck no. I grab the chain with both hands and yank it as hard as possible. He stumbles backward as I take the opportunity to sprint towards the water.

I feel tension against the chain before slamming against the ground. My side hits the dirt as my chained hand falls above my head. I roll onto my back and let out a low pained groan. The sun above me shines bright and blinding. Hux's shadow drifts over me as he strolls over. The reprieve from the sun's light was almost welcomed if it didn't come from him. He holds a smug smirk as he looks down at me and my resentful expression. "I hope you know how much I hate you" I grumble out as I glare up at him. "The feeling is mutual" He states flatly before making his way to the stream. I push myself off of the ground before following after.

He practically drags me forward, his focus is solely on the source of water. I have to stand and watch as he points his head high and drinks from the only nearby water source; his Adam's apple is prominent with water cascading down his face and neck. He closes his eyes as he drinks; a slight moan of relief passes his lips. Once he had his full he washed his face and wet his hair. Slicking it back in one swoop. The sight was almost... appealing.

Too bad there's an obnoxious prick beneath the nice view. He opens his eyes to immediate eye contact with me. Without a word he slowly moved away from the stream, still close enough that the chain dragged on the floor. I turn my back towards him as I raise my hands to the water.

I repeat his action with a few slight differences. I faced away from him and actively stopped myself from recreating his moan of relief with my own. The second one was hard, it had been too long since I had had water, my lips were chapped and my throat dry. I could feel them absorbing the moisture and alleviating my troubles. Most of my troubles anyway; they cured my physical headache caused by dehydration, but I am still left with the walking talking headache chained to my non-dominant hand.

I hear a sound. Rustling from the woods. Our heads whip in its direction and our bodies make the space between us disappear. Our odds are better together after all. The rustling stops but my fear of what could be lurking stays. "Thoughts on staying here for a while?" I broach the ever-present subject in the air "I hate when I find myself agreeing with you" Contradictory to his words, his voice seemed to lack its usual hateful tone. 

We sit in the alcove, which is too shallow to call a proper cave system; it is more like an indentation that leads nowhere. However, it is spacious enough for us to sit on opposite sides of the cave with the chain pulled taut between us. We sit there in silence for a while, which is how we spent most of our time on this desolate planet; each of us too stubborn to speak to the other about anything other than our mutual disdain.

As time passes he gets more fidgety. His impatience is evident in the way he wrings his hands and bounces his leg. I watch from the corner of my eye as he stands and paces back and forth. "Could you not?" My annoyed tone cuts through the once-quiet cave. Stopping in his tracks he whips his head to glower in my direction. "We are wasting daylight sitting around in this dirt hole." He rages through gritted teeth. I roll my eyes at his anger. "You lack patience. We don't know the kind of creatures that live here, and if we leave too soon we might end up it's feast." I am completely disinterested in explaining to this grown man why it would be a bad idea to trek through these unfamiliar woods with nothing on our person to defend ourselves against an animal we definitely heard rummaging out there.

He storms closer, looming over my person and invading my personal space. "We've waited long enough! We must get back to the ship before the sun sets!" It is almost amusing that he keeps referring to that glorified hunk of scrap metal as a ship. I am still of the opinion that we need to give it more time before we can be confident that whatever is out there has moved on. I don't even look at him when I reply, the rocky walls of the cave somehow being more entertaining. "Give it a moment more time"

Suddenly he pulls me up from my position on the floor, his fists full of my bunched-up shirt. "No more waiting we are leaving!" His grip on me is tight as he pulls me close to better shout at me. I practically have to lean back to keep our noses from touching. "I am not going out there just to be eaten, because you can't get your nerves in check!" My voice raises as we glare at each other.  "It wasn't a request" Who does he think he is to order me around?!  "Good luck trying to make me comply with any demand you give" There's a strong tension in the air as we stare daggers of contempt into each other. His hands have yet to leave my shirt, still holding me close. I can feel his breath tickling my face.

Unexpectedly, the tension in the air changes to something much thicker. My breath gets caught in my throat. Why is he looking at me like that? His eyes drift down to my lips; I'm caught wondering if he kissed me would I let him? I don't have time to fully ponder as he pulls me in hard, crashing us together hungrily. He takes a step forward, forcing me to take a step back, continuing until my back is flush against the rough wall of the cave.

I was raised in war. I've killed in the name of the Resistance. And yet my heart races when his lips are against mine, his hips grinding into mine as our groans get swallowed by the collision of our mouths. While we messily clash together his hands go for my pants and begin to undo them. I help him pull them from my overheating skin, discarding them across the cave. His hands find their place squeezing my ass before lifting me off the ground; my legs wrap around his waist, making the friction between us even more satisfying. 

My hands snake down from their position around his neck to his bucking hips. The bruising kiss breaks as we pant for air. My hands busy themselves by undoing his belt, then his pants all together. His lips return to work, this time on the crook of my neck. He sucks, bites, and licks my skin while I take his girth into my hand. He lets out a low muffled rumble into me at the sensation.

I pump his length and message its sensitive head a few times the creamy moisture leaking from the tip being used as a lubricant. I use my other hand to pull my soaking undergarments to the side as I rub him against me. The general's lips roam higher on my neck and begin to leave bruising kisses against the pressure point below my ear. His groans are like music to my ears. With a thrust of his hips, he enters me unceremoniously causing me great discomfort. The pain turns to pleasure as he slowly rocks back and forth inside me.

My legs squeeze around him, telling him to pick up the pace. I look at his face for the first time since we started all this. His eyes hold a piercing, burning focus in them; sweat beads across his forehead as he pushes ruthlessly deeper into me. My hands go to cup his face, a hand pushing his once pristine hair out of his face. The shared look between us is so intense, it's more intimate than him plunging himself into me as his nails dig into my ass. I break the eye contact by grabbing the nape of his neck and pulling his lips back onto mine. His teeth nipping at my bottom lip we devour each other. 

  My other hand snakes between our colliding bodies, lowering itself to pleasure myself fully. I can feel my release building rapidly as my body tenses. My legs start to shake and our breathing becomes cumbersome. I can feel him shake slightly, his groans becoming more prevalent and his pace quickening with urgency.

He throws his head back, his Adam's apple bobbing as he loudly moans out into the air. He continues to thrust into me as he rides out his orgasm and brings me to mine. I bite my lip hard as I try to muffle my exclamations. My walls clenched down around his dick, milking it for all its worth. We pant for a moment and a moment only as he pulls himself from me swiftly, making as much space between us as possible. I hurriedly have to get my feet under me as he pushes me off of him. Regret no doubt consumes us both at this moment.

We gather and clean ourselves hastily to get what just happened as far into the past as it can go. What was he thinking? What was I thinking? He is my enemy for a reason and I can't forget it now. More than anything I am pissed at him for kissing me, fucking me, then acting like I am the most repulsive thing on this disgusting planet.

Once clothed I walk past him and out of the cave. If he wanted to leave so bad then I'm not going to stay here a moment longer. The hike felt excruciatingly longer than before with the thick burning tension in the air. I haven't looked at him since he pushed me off of him and I don't plan to. My rage against him has newfound fuel. 

You curl tighter into your blankets, trying to make the silence less heavy. The sheets have almost lost his smell— blaster oil, leather, the rough issued soap he uses down at the barracks. You bury your face into them anyway.

You breathe in, long and deep, trying your best to keep your mind from coming up with unwelcome, unpleasant thoughts.

Maybe he’s busy. Maybe he’s hurt. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

War isn’t kind to dreamers. It keeps you waiting with a clenched fist, teeth gritted, hope wrapping itself around your heart in painful tugs. And still, you wait anyway.

You check the comm again. Still nothing.

You laugh under your breath, bitter and aching. It’s stupid, this waiting. This craving. You knew what he was when you fell for him. A soldier. A commander. Someone who belonged more to the war than to you. You read the fine print when you met Rex.

And yet every night you find yourself here anyway.

The comm stays dark. You wonder where he is. As the war draws on, more and more of the missions are becoming unpredictable. Rex himself hardly knows where he’s going until he’s on the ship. You wonder if he’s thinking of you, if he’s already got a script in his head.

When the comm finally lights up, a tiny blue flare in the dark, you nearly drop it scrambling to answer.

“Mesh’la,” comes the voice. Rough. Tired. Beautiful. “I don’t have long.”

Rex sounds worn down to the bone. But there’s something in his voice — something soft, something breaking.

Your eyes squeeze shut. You want to tell him a thousand times over how much you miss him, how you wish he was here, safe with you. How scared you are. “I just needed to hear you,” you whisper.

There’s a crackle of static.

Then his sigh, low and shaky through the line. “You’re the only thing keeping me together out here.”

The words splinter something inside you. You clutch the comm tighter, as you’re holding him.

“Please just make it home to me.” you say, voice cracking.

Another long pause. You can almost picture him there, hamlet off, brow frowning, teeth gritted to keep everything he can’t say inside.

“I will.” His promise is soft, fierce. “No matter how long it takes.”

The comm flickers… and then goes dark again.

Gone.

The days blend into each other. Your work keeps you occupied for most of the hours of the day. Distracted enough to keep your thoughts away from Rex. The comm stays silent.

You check it every morning you wake up and every night you come home. You leave it charged, sitting by the window like a candle. But it’s hopeless, because weeks pass and nothing comes through.

At first, you tell yourself it’s normal. He’s busy. He can’t always get through. But as the week stretches out, the thoughts start to get worse.

Maybe he can’t call. Maybe he’s hurt. Maybe he’s been captured. Maybe he’s—

You choke on the thought before it can even finish itself. You know it’s foolish thinking. It’s just loneliness getting the best of you. You fill the empty spaces with restless sleeping and endless pacing.

One night, in the middle of your take out dinner, the comm flashes. You abandon your food on the couch, lounging for the comm.

At first it’s just static, a connection trying to come through. And then, a simple “Hey,” comes through. It’s home, voice heavier than before.

Tears blur in your eyes instantly. “Rex!” You gasp. “Where have you been, I thought—“

He cuts in, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, mesh’la. Couldn’t get through, I tried everyday but the seppie’s had our comms blocked.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Please tell me you’re coming home.”

“I am. I’m alive, and I love you,” The words tumble out of him, urgent, like he knows the comm can’t hold the signal. “and we’re shipping out of here at first light. I’m coming home.”