The Library of Lily

He's freshly showered, smelling like that cedar body wash he's been using since rehab, and his mohawk is styled the way he only bothers with when he's feeling good enough to exert the kind of effort that signals intent.

"Define 'a while,'" Kyle says mildly, not looking up from his phone beneath the table.

"Months, mate. Fuckin’ months." Johnny takes a long drink and scans the pub with the lazy, appreciative gaze of a man on the hunt. "I'm dryin' up over here. Witherin' on the vine. 'S embarrassin'."

"That's one word for it," Simon mutters into his whisky.

Kyle's thumb pauses on his phone screen. He doesn't look at Simon, and Simon doesn't look at him, but the silence between them is loaded with a practiced, wordless exchange refined over months of navigating nights exactly like this one.

Because Johnny has not, in fact, gone months without getting laid.

Johnny had sex with his wife four days ago. Kyle knows this because you'd texted the group chat—the one Johnny doesn't know exists, one labelled "Ops" on Kyle's phone and "X" on Simon's—to let them know Johnny was having a good week.

Remembering things. Sleeping through the night without nightmares. Being present.

Four days ago. And now he's sitting in a pub in Hereford telling his mates he's been in a drought, and his eyes are doing that thing they do when a bad episode is ramping up; brighter than usual, slightly too wide, running hot with a manic energy that looks like confidence if you don't know what you're looking at.

But Kyle knows what he's looking at.

He glances at Simon. Simon gives the smallest nod—a millimetre of movement, barely perceptible—and Kyle opens the Ops chat beneath the table.

Bad night. Swan. Come when you can.

Swan is the code. You'd all agreed on it together in the early days, back when the episodes were frequent and terrifying and no one knew the rules yet. Swan means he doesn't know you. Pub means to come find him. Home means they'll bring him to you immediately.

Your reply comes seconds later as if you’ve been bracing for it, which you have. Just in case.

Omw. 20 min. How bad?

Kyle replies,

Flirty. Scanning the room. Hasn't clocked it yet.

Three dots, then: Dress up or down?

Kyle looks at Johnny, who is now leaning back in his chair with his arms spread wide, grinning across the room, radiating the particular Scottish charm that made him dangerous in pubs long before the injury and wedding.

Up. He's in a good mood.

Three dots appear again, longer this time, and one simple word follows because Kyle hesitated sending it.

Horny…

Got it.

He puts his phone away and picks up his pint casually. "So what's your type again, Johnny? Since you're on the pull tonight."

Johnny snorts, mumbling into his glass. "Ye know my type."

"Mm. Remind me."

"Funny. Smart," he takes a sip of his drink, smacks his lips while his eyes keep scanning, “Can handle her drink. Someone who doesnae take my shite." He pauses, something flickering behind his eyes—a shadow, there and gone again, like a cloud passing over the sun. "Someone who laughs at ma’ jokes even when they're rubbish and rides me like it’s our last day on bloody earth." He grins; baby blue’s gleaming mischievously.

Simon turns away to roll his eyes while Kyle's chest tightens but smiles anyway. "High bloody standards for a man with that fuckass haircut."

"Fuck off, Garrick. This haircut is iconic."

Simon says nothing. He drinks his whisky, watches the door, waits.

You arrive in eighteen minutes.

You're wearing the deep green dress—the one Johnny told you made you look like "somethin' oot of a Bond film" on your second anniversary, the one you now keep in the back of the wardrobe now specifically for nights like this. Your hair is done. You're wearing the perfume he bought you three Christmases ago that he won't remember buying right now.

You pause outside the pub, sit in your car for thirty seconds, and breathe.

This is the seventh time. You know because you keep count, not physically, but in your body. In the specific way your hands shake when Kyle's text comes through while he is out with Johnny and the practiced steadiness you layer over it like gauze over a wound.

The first time was the worst. Two months post-injury, Johnny still in a neck brace, waking up in the hospital and looking at you with polite confusion and asking the nurse who you were. You'd made it to the corridor before your legs gave out, and Simon had caught you with one strong arm and no words, holding you upright against the wall while Price talked to the doctors and Kyle distracted Johnny.

You'd learned the rules since then. The triggers and early tells. The protocols. You'd built a system—you and his brothers in more than arms, the lot of you holding Johnny's world together like scaffolding around a building that keeps forgetting its own foundations.

On good days, Johnny knows you; he knows the house, the wedding photos, the way you take your tea. On those days, he calls you by the nickname only he uses and reaches for you in his sleep and laughs at the same terrible jokes he's been telling for years.

On bad days, you're a stranger.

Tonight is a bad day, even though it had started good initially. And sometimes that happens, too.

You check your reflection one more time; smooth the dress, tuck your wedding ring into your jacket pocket, because he can't see it yet, not until the timing is right, and you saunter into the pub, hips swaying.

You spot them immediately. Corner booth, usual spot. Kyle is facing the door, which means he sees you first, and his expression does a complicated thing—relief and grief and a non-verbal "Go on then, you've got this,"—before he schools it into easy neutrality.

Simon is beside him, facing away from the door now, though you know he clocked you the moment you walked in, always does. He can feel a change in a room's atmosphere the way other people feel a draft, and your presence has become one of the things he's attuned to, though he'd rather be waterboarded again than admit it.

And Johnny.

Johnny is mid-sentence, gesticulating with his pint, lit up and alive and devastating, and he hasn't seen you yet.

You order a drink at the bar. Gin and tonic. You position yourself where his sightline will catch you naturally—not too close, not too obvious, like setting a lure and waiting for the current to do its work.

It barely takes a minute.

His gaze sweeps the room, passes over you, and snaps back. You watch it happen in your peripherals; the double-take, the slight parting of his naturally pouty lips, the way his entire body reorients towards you like a compass needle finding north.

"Ho-ly shite," he breathes, still staring. "Lads. Lads. Two o'clock."

Kyle makes a show of looking when his arm is being nudged repeatedly. "Yeah? Which one?"

"The—Are ye blind?" He scoffs, offended on your behalf. "Her. Right there. At the bar."

"She's alright." Kyle shrugs, and the casualness of it is Oscar-worthy.

"Alright? She's fuckin'—" Johnny runs a hand over his mohawk, a nervous tell he's had since he was a teenager and will probably have until he's ninety. "She's fuckin' gorgeous is what she is."

Simon lifts his glass. Takes a slow drink, sets it down deliberately.

"Go talk to her then," he says with a shrug, and his voice is perfectly flat, perfectly controlled, and if anyone at this table could hear the hairline fracture running through those five words, they'd understand something that Simon has long decided to take to his next grave, because he's watched this happen too many times now.

He's watched Johnny fall in love with you for the first time seven more times after the real one, the first time, and each time, he involuntarily catalogues the way Johnny looks at you—stunned and reverent, immediately and irrevocably gone—and files it beside the thing he keeps locked in the deepest, most fortified room in his chest cavity.

He doesn't want you instead of Johnny. That's not what this is. It's worse than that, and quieter, and it has no name because he refuses to give it one.

What he wants is to be someone who could be loved the way you love Johnny; he wants to understand what it feels like to be chosen over seven times by a brain that can't hold onto anything else.

What he desperately wants—is to stop fucking wanting.

"Go on," Simon says again, when Johnny hesitates. "Before someone else does."

Johnny grins wider and slides out of the booth.

And he approaches you with more confidence than caution along with a smile that could talk its way out of an international incident.

"A'right?" He leans against the bar beside you with all his bulk, leaving just enough space for plausible deniability, and you almost laugh because it's exactly how he did it the first time—the real first time—at a pub in Edinburgh six years ago.

"A'right," you reply, letting the corner of your mouth lift.

"Johnny." He extends his hand. "John MacTavish."

You take it. His palm is warm and rough and so achingly familiar that you have to swallow hard against the lump that rises in your throat.

And you give him your name in return; no surname, because hearing his own last name come out of your mouth would raise questions you're not ready to choreograph around yet.

"Can I buy ye a drink?" he asks casually, nodding at your gin and tonic. "Or are ye waitin' for someone?"

"I might be."

"Oh, aye?" His eyebrows lift, and the grin sharpens. "Lucky bloke."

Your lips purse. "Who says it's a bloke?"

He barks a genuine laugh and the sound of it hits you right in the sternum because it's the same laugh, it's always the same laugh, whether he knows you or not.

"Fair enough. Can I buy ye a drink while ye wait for whoever's lucky enough to have ye, then?"

You hold his gaze, eyes crinkling in the corners as you suppress a smile before you cave in. "Go on."

Johnny buys you a cocktail, then a water, and you let him.

He tells you he's military—"Aye, the kind ye cannae ask aboot, sorry, love"—and that he's recently recovered from an injury he's vague about; he points at his two mates sitting in the corner booth who are "Absolutely shite wingmen, don't even look at ‘em." And he tells you that you have the best laugh he's ever heard, and he says it with such disarming sincerity that you almost believe he's saying it for the first time.

He might be. That's the thing. To him, he is.

You tell him you're a—and you pause here, every time, because this is the part where you have to build a version of yourself that's close enough to the truth that you won't trip over the details but far enough from reality that he won't start connecting dots prematurely. You tell him what you do, where you live, staying vague, and you make him laugh, and his hand finds the small of your back at some point and stays there, warm and heavy through the dress, and you let it because it belongs there.

At the booth, Kyle is watching with the practiced eye of a director monitoring a scene he's staged before. He tracks the beats—the body language closing in, the first touch, the moment Johnny leans down to hear you over the music and stays close—and he nods to himself, satisfied with the outcome.

Simon is staring at the table. His glass is empty. He doesn't order another.

"He's doing well tonight," Kyle says quietly, because someone should break the silence, and Simon sure won't.

Simon nods, not lifting his eyes from the sticky surface. "He always does well with ‘er."

The sentence hangs between them. Kyle looks at Simon and sees something in the set of his Lieutenant's jaw that he files away and will never, ever mention aloud.

"You good, LT?"

"Fine."

He's not fine. Kyle knows, but he chooses not to push it.

Johnny drives you home after assuring you he only had two pints.

This is the part that always makes your chest tighten—the navigation and logistics of getting him into his own house without it feeling like a trap. You give him directions, turn by turn, and he follows them cheerfully, one hand on the wheel of your car (his car, technically; the one you drove to the pub) and the other on your thigh, thumb tracing idle patterns on your skin.

"Nice neighbourhood," he remarks as you turn onto the street. His street. Your street.

"It's alright," you manage, and your voice is steady, which is a miracle.

He pulls into the driveway and kills the engine, and you watch his eyes move over the front of the house; over the garden you maintain together, the blue door he painted last spring during a particularly good month, the porch light that you left on tonight because you knew you'd be bringing him home.

"Lovely place," he says, and there's nothing in his voice but genuine appreciation, no recognition, no alarm, and the absence of it is a knife you've learned to hold without flinching.

"Come inside then," you tell him, and he grins genuinely. "Thought ye'd never ask."

The front door is where it starts getting tricky.

His boots are by the mat. Not a guest's boots—his boots, broken in and muddy, sitting beside a pair of your trainers in the easy domesticity of a shared household. Johnny glances down at them, and you see the first flicker; not quite recognition yet, just a stutter, a brief glitch in the narrative he's been building all evening.

"Those are—" he starts, then stops, and shakes his head. "Those look like mine."

He lets out a short laugh, but there's an edge to it. A hesitation. His eyes move from the boots to you, narrowing playfully, but you can see the question forming underneath.

"Ye're not married, are ye?" He asks it like a joke, but his gaze drops to your left hand—still bare, ring safely tucked in your jacket pocket—and then sweeps back to the boots. "Because I'm no' that kind of bloke, love. I don’t do that."

"I'm not married," you lie, and it tastes like glass shards in your mouth.

"Good." The grin returns full force, satisfied, and he reaches for your waist again. "'Cause I'd hate to have to fight some poor bastard for ye."

He moves on, pulling you towards him, and you let out a breath you were holding. Then he pauses, looks down at his own left hand, still resting on your hip, and you watch his brow furrow.

"What the—" He lifts his hand, turning it in the dim hallway light. The gold band sits on his ring finger, catching the glow from the porch light through the glass panel in the door. He stares at it like it appeared there by magic, and you always wonder if he only notices it at this point, because some part in his brain does recognize the terrain subconsciously.

"When did I—" He touches the ring with his other thumb, turning it as he mutters. "I don't—Why am I wearin' a—"

"Johnny," you say softly, and take his hand, folding your fingers over his. "Come to the bedroom with me."

He looks at the ring, then at you. The furrow deepens, but the panic hasn't arrived yet—just confusion surfacing, sitting like sediment at the bottom of a glass that hasn't been stirred yet.

"Aye," he says slowly, nodding. "Aye, alright."

The hallway is next.

You've learned to control the environment—certain photos stay up because removing them would make the house feel wrong, and a wrong-feeling house agitates him in ways that are harder to manage than the photos themselves. The wedding portrait stays on the wall at the end of the corridor, but the hallway lighting is dim enough that it doesn't register unless he's looking for it.

He's not looking at anything but you; one hand finding your waist as you move through the darkened house, his mouth is close to your ear.

"Ye smell incredible," he murmurs, nose brushing through your hair. "Been thinkin' aboot this all night."

You chuckle softly with a knot in your chest. "Have you?"

"Since the second I saw ye in that pub." His grip tightens, pulling you back against him, and his lips find the side of your neck. "Couldn't think about anythin' else."

You lean into him; let him hold you and his hands wander over the fabric of your dress while his mouth traces a warm, open path along your throat.

"Bedroom?" you whisper.

"Christ, yes."

You lead him by the hand. Down the hall, past the closed door of the bathroom where his toothbrush sits in the holder beside yours and the spare room where Simon once slept on the floor for three days during a particularly bad episode because he refused to leave either of you alone to deal with it and refused a bed on top of it.

The bedroom.

You open the door and let him walk in first, which is a deliberate choice—it lets you watch his face as the room registers. The king-sized bed you share. The nightstand with his book on it, dog-eared and half-read. Your wardrobe, open slightly, his fatigues visible on the shelf beside your clothes.

And on the dresser, in a simple frame—a photograph. Not the wedding portrait. A smaller, candid snapshot. Him and you, laughing at something you don’t even remember off-camera, his arm around your shoulders, your face turned into his chest. Kyle took it at a barbecue over eighteen months ago, back when things were still normal, back before the world broke.

And because his vigilance training is seared somewhere deeper into his brain, Johnny sees the photograph first.

He goes still. Not the easy stillness of before, but tighter and alert. The stillness of a soldier who's walked into a room and sensed that the intel doesn't match the terrain.

"What—" He drops your hand and crosses to the dresser to pick up the frame without asking. His brow furrows deeper while his thumb traces the edge of it.

"That's me," he says slowly.

Your stomach drops; you stay back, swallowing hard. "Yes."

"That's—" He looks at you. Back at the photo, then back at you. His breathing changes, shallow and faster now, and you can see the confusion calcifying into something harder, edged with the beginning of panic.

"Why is there a fuckin’ photo of me in yer house?"

"Johnny—"

"Why are my fuckin’ things here?" He's turning now, scanning the room with fresh eyes, and you watch the details hit him one by one—the boots downstairs, the book on the nightstand, the fatigues in the wardrobe. His toothbrush. His cologne on the bathroom shelf. The indent on his side of the bed.

"What the fuck is this?!" His voice pitches up and his chest is heaving, and you recognise the spiral; the moment the ground drops out from under him, and he can't find the edges of what is real. "Who the fuck are ye? What—Why do ye have—"

"Johnny." You step towards him, hands raised, palms open, the way you'd approach a wounded animal. The way the counsellor taught you. "Johnny, listen to my voice."

"Don't fuckin'—" He backs away and bumps into the dresser, and the frame rattles, and his hands are shaking. "Tell me what's goin' on. Now!"

"You live here," you say carefully, evenly. "This is your house. Our house."

"No. No, I've got a flat, I've got—"

Your expression drops to something pained yet soft. "You don't have a flat, sweetheart. You haven't had a flat in three years. You live here. With me."

He stares at you. His jaw is working, his fists are clenched at his sides, and his eyes are wild with the terror of a man whose own mind has suddenly become enemy territory.

"We're married, Johnny." You keep your voice steady and warm. You don't move closer yet, but you produce your own wedding band from your pocket and slip it on deliberately, matching his. "Three years. We got married at your mum's church in Glasgow, and you cried during the vows, and Kyle was your best man and he cried even harder."

Something flickers. Not memory, not quite yet, but a tremor, a fault line opening in the panic.

"Kyle—" he repeats, and his voice cracks on the name.

You nod enthusiastically. "Kyle Garrick. Gaz. Your best mate. He was at the pub tonight. So was Simon."

His blue eyes widen and flicker to meet yours. "Simon…"

"Ghost. Your Lieutenant. Tall, angry, won't take his mask off. He's probably sitting in his car outside right now making sure you got home safe, because that's what he does."

Johnny's breathing is ragged. His eyes are darting around the room, and you can see him trying to force the pieces together, grasping for edges that won't line up.

"I don't—" His voice breaks. "I don't remember."

Your heart breaks all over again; hands clenching and unclenching at your sides while you suppress the reflex to reach for him.

"I know."

"Why don't I remember?"

You sigh and your shoulders drop with it. "Because you were hurt. On a mission, ten months ago. You were shot, Johnny. In the head."

His hand moves before he's conscious of it—fingers lifting to his temple, searching, and you watch the exact moment they find it. The ridge of scar tissue above his left ear and temple, healed but tight, a furrow carved into the skin where the bullet grazed bone instead of passing through it.

He should be dead. The doctors said so. Kyle said so. Simon said so, once, in the kitchen at one a.m., in a voice so flat it sounded like a weather report. He should be dead. The bullet was two millimetres from killing him.

Two millimetres. The width of a pencil lead. The margin between a funeral and a life that keeps resetting.

Johnny's fingers trace the scar slowly, mapping the terrain of a wound he doesn't remember receiving. His face goes blank, not calm, but emptied, like the shock has pushed everything else out to make room for this one impossible fact.

"I was shot in the head," he repeats, toneless.

"By a man named Makarov. On a mission in," you sigh again, rubbing both hands over your face before regaining some composure. "It doesn't matter where. What matters is you survived, Johnny. You're here… With me."

"I don't—" His fingers press harder against the scar, like he's trying to push through it into the memory underneath. "I can't feel—It doesn't hurt."

"It pulls sometimes. When you're tired, or when the weather changes. You rub at it without realising. And then you ask me to put Bepanthen on it for you."

He drops his hand. Stares at it like it belongs to someone else.

A sound comes out of him that you've heard before and will never get used to—a small, gutted noise from deep in his throat, barely human, like something being torn at the root.

His gaze lifts. "I forget you?"

"Sometimes." Your voice is steady, but your eyes are not. "But you always come back. Every time, Johnny. You always come back."

He's staring at you with an expression that is no longer panic but something rawer, more exposed. The look of a man standing in the wreckage of a life he can't remember building and trying to find anything solid enough to hold on to.

"Come here," you say softly, finally, and you open your arms to him.

And Johnny doesn’t hesitate. He crosses the room in two strides and crashes into you.

His arms wrap around you so tightly it hurts, his face burying into the crook of your neck, and the ragged, broken sound he makes fills the bedroom and settles into the walls like a stain that will never come out.

You hold him like always. One hand on the back of his head, fingers carding through the short hair at the nape of his neck, the other arm banded around his broad back. You press your lips to his temple and breathe him in; cedar and sweat and the faint antiseptic undertone that hasn't fully left his skin since the hospital.

"It's okay," you murmur into his hair. "I'm here. I've got you."

"'M sorry—" He's shaking in your embrace. "I'm so fuckin' sorry, I didn't—I didnae know."

"You don't have to be sorry."

"I was chattin' ye up like some—like ye were some random—"

"I know." You pull back just enough to take his face in your hands, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. His eyes are red and wet and searching yours desperately, looking for the anchor he can feel but can't see.

"You chat me up every time," you tell him, and you let yourself smile wetly because he needs to see it, needs to see that this isn't a tragedy to you—it's a Tuesday. It's the life you chose, and you'd choose it again. Every day for the rest of your shared life. "Same lines, same moves. You always lead with buying me a drink."

A wet, startled laugh punches out of him. "Aye?"

"Every time. Kyle says your material is tragic."

"Kyle can fuck off." He sniffs hard, blinking, and his hands are still gripping the fabric of your dress at your hips like he's afraid you'll evaporate. "Do I—Do I at least have good chat?"

You snort. "The worst."

His eyes widen comically. "The worst?"

"Absolutely appalling. I fall for it every time."

He laughs again, and this time it's closer to real and his forehead drops against yours as you breathe the same air, and the room settles around you like a held breath being released.

"Ye married me," he whispers, like he's testing the shape of it. "Ye actually married me."

You nod again, nuzzling your forehead against his. "Voluntarily and everything."

"Yer off yer heid."

"Probably," you brush your nose against his tenderly, "but you're stuck with me, MacTavish."

His hands slide from your hips to your waist, pulling you closer, and when his mouth finds yours, the kiss is tentative at first; careful and questioning, the kiss of a man who isn't sure what he's allowed to take yet.

You answer by threading your fingers into his mohawk, pulling him deeper, and kissing him back with every ounce of the love you've been carrying all evening behind the heavy mask of a stranger.

He groans into your mouth; his hands tighten on your waist, and the tentativeness dissolves into urgency, warm and achingly familiar.

"Tell me what ye like," he murmurs against your lips, and the earnestness in his voice—the genuine desire to get it right and learn you, not knowing he already has—makes your heart crack along an old fault line.

"I'll show you," you whisper. "I'll show you everything."

You undress him slowly.

The henley first, peeled over his head, and your hands trace the landscape of him; the scars he doesn't remember getting, the ink he doesn't remember sitting for, the topography of muscle and damage that your fingers have memorised over years of exactly this. Touching and mapping him; loving the body that keeps forgetting it's loved.

He watches you with wonder, his chest rising and falling unevenly. You trace each scar you find and when your fingers reach his jaw, you let your thumb drift up to his temple, brushing feather-light over the ridge of scar tissue there.

He flinches. Not from pain but from the strangeness of being touched somewhere he didn't know existed until twenty minutes ago.

"Does that bother you?" you ask, pulling your hand back.

"No." He catches your wrist and guides your fingers back. "Do it again."

You trace the scar slowly, gently, and his eyes flutter closed, and for a moment his face is so open and so unguarded that you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself together.

"Sounds aboot right," he murmurs, half to himself. "Hero and an eejit."

You push him back onto the bed, your marital bed, and he goes willingly, pulling you with him until you're straddling his lap, the skirt of your dress riding up around your thighs. His hands grip your hips, and he looks up at you with those bright blue eyes—burning with more than just lust.

"Christ, yer beautiful," he breathes. "D'ye know that?"

"You tell me." You lean down and press your mouth to the hinge of his stubbled jaw. "Every time."

"Good," he murmurs. "'S important ye hear it."

You kiss down his neck, his hairy chest, tracing the lines of his tattoos with your tongue and flicking one of his nipples. He groans and his hips roll up against you, the hard line of his fat cock pressing against your inner thigh through his jeans, and his fingers dig into the meat of your hips.

"Fuck. Ye don't have to—" You shake your head with a smile, shushing him. "I want to. Always do. I love sucking you off."

Johnny grins wolfishly. "I can see why I married ye."

And he groans with delight as you slide off his lap to kneel between his legs while the look on his face makes your eyes sting again, though you’ve become good at blinking it away. You undo his belt carefully, his button, his zipper, and free him from his briefs, and his cock springs up thick and hard.

You know this cock well; know the weight of it on your tongue, the exact pressure to stroke it that makes his abs clench, the spot beneath the mushroomy head where he's most sensitive. You know that he likes it slow at first and messy by the end, that he'll try to be polite about it until he can't, that his hand will find the back of your head and his hips will stutter and he'll warn you in a voice that's already gone before he comes down your throat in needy pulses.

You take him in your mouth, and the relieved, guttural sound he makes fills the room.

His eyes squeeze shut; his chest heaves. "Oh Christ—oh fuck—!"

You work him slowly. Tongue flat against the underside of his shaft, lips tight around the flushed tip, one hand wrapped around the base. You hollow your cheeks and take him deeper, and his hand flies to the back of your head—not pushing but needing to touch you—and his thighs tense on either side of your shoulders.

Johnny babbles through it, always does when you give him oral; accent thickening with random gibberish and praise.

You pull off with a slick pop and look up at him through your lashes, stroking him slowly from root to cockhead before you duck lower, and you lick a long, slow stripe over his balls, tonguing along the seam until you feel the exact moment his brain short-circuits.

"Holy shite—oh my God—nghh—" He grits his teeth, his eyes squeeze shut, and John MacTavish whines when you take one into your mouth gently, sucking softly, while his entire body arches off the mattress. His hand fists in the sheets; another sound comes out of him that is less word than sensation, more guttural and ecstatic.

"How did ye—Nobody does—How do ye know—"

You release him and press a kiss to his inner thigh, looking up at him with eyes that are bright and wet, but steadier.

"Because I'm your wife, Johnny."

The words land. You watch them hit; watch his expression cycle through shock and confusion and then something that isn't memory but is adjacent to it, deeper than recall, carved into the bedrock beneath the damaged circuitry.

Recognition.

"My wife," he repeats, and his voice is thick and full of awe.

You kiss his hip, nodding. "Your wife."

"Christ Almighty." His hand comes up to cover his mouth, and his eyes are shining as he pulls it back just enough to stare at his wedding ring again. "Oh my God, ye're my wife."

"I am."

"And ye—ye know—ye know exactly what I—"

"Everything." You crawl back up his body and straddle him again, cupping his face, pressing your forehead to his. "I know everything, Johnny. Every filthy, unhinged, ridiculous thing you're into, because you've spent years showing me, and I love it, and I love you, and you don't have to hold back."

And then Johnny kisses you hard and desperately; his hands suddenly everywhere at once—your hair, your waist, tugging at your dress, pulling it over your head with shaking fingers. He gets it off and throws it somewhere and then his hands are on your bare skin and the sound he makes is reverent.

"Ye're not—This isn't—"

"This isn't a hookup," you finish for him. "This is us. And I want all of it."

The dam breaks open behind his eyes, not quite memory, but permission, and the shift is seismic. His grip and breathing changes. The careful, polite restraint of a man on a first date incinerates, and what replaces it is raw, hungry, and known.

He flips you onto your back in one fluid motion, and the strength of it, the ease, makes you gasp. He's between your thighs before you can draw your next breath, yanking your underwear down your legs and tossing them over his shoulder, and then his mouth is on you without preamble, just his tongue on your clit, furious with intent.

Your head tips back with a shameless moan as he sucks and laps at your cunt.

"Tell me," he growls against you, the vibration making your hips buck. "Tell me what ye like, tell me everything, I wanna know—I wanna know every fuckin' thing—"

"Your fingers—Two—Hah, yes! Yes, like that—"

He drives two thick fingers into you, curls them, and your spine lifts off the bed. He reads you like a detonation sequence; adapting to your needs, adjusting pressure and angle and rhythm with the same tactical precision he brought to every mission, and within minutes you're shaking apart under his mouth, your hands fisted in his mohawk, his name tearing out of you on a scream.

And he doesn't let up but works you through the orgasm, licking you through the aftershocks, and when you drag him up by the shoulders and pull him over your body like a weighted blanket, his chin is slick and his eyes are blazing and the grin on his face is the most Johnny thing you've seen all night.

"Good?" he asks, like he genuinely needs the feedback.

Your hand curls around his nape as you pull him down, breathing against his lips. "Get inside me. Now."

"Fuck. Yes, ma'am."

He lines himself up, drags his cock through your drenched cunt and pushes in, slow at first, until your breath catches at the stretch and fullness, the feeling of home that hits you every time no matter how many times you do this, and he is fully sheathed inside.

Johnny cusses under his breath, his voice strained, and his arms braced on either side of your head; his face close enough that you can see every flicker of sensation crossing his features whenever you squeeze and clench around him.

"Move," you breathe. "Don't hold back. You never hold back with me."

"Don’t hold back," Johnny repeats and groans breathlessly, head hanging with the resigned realization that this will have a quick end, before he nods and folds your legs up, draping them over his shoulders. "Aye… I can do that."

And then his hips drive forward in a thrust that knocks the headboard against the wall, and the sound that punches out of both of you is obscene. He sets a relentless pace, hard and deep, fucking you the way you asked him to—with everything and nothing held in reserve—and the slap of skin on skin fills the bedroom along with your cries and his grunts and the rhythmic bang of the headboard.

"This what ye like?" he pants, one hand gripping the wooden frame for leverage. "This how I fuck ma wife?"

"Yes!" you cry out. "God, yes, please—Harder!"

"Harder she says—Fuckin' hell!" He adjusts your right leg over his shoulder, canting your hip up even further, and the change in angle makes you see stars, his cock massaging that spot inside you that makes your pussy tighten and your vision white out. "Look at ye takin' it. Fuckin’ look at ye. Yer a fuckin' dream, ye know that?"

"Johnny, 'm close," you mewl while your nails dig into his flexing biceps.

"Aye, I can fuckin’ feel it." His hand slides between your bodies, thumb rubbing your clit with unerring accuracy while a beads of sweat run down his chest, disappearing into the coarse hair. "C'mon, love. Gimme it, lemme feel ye."

And when he makes you tip over and your inner walls convulse around his cock in rhythmic, desperate pulses, Johnny follows you over the edge barely three thrusts later with a guttural moan and your name bitten into the skin of your shoulder as he buries himself to the hilt, spilling his load inside you.

He collapses over you, trembling, his face pressed into your neck while your legs slide off his shoulders with a satisfied sigh, and you hold him through the aftershocks the way you always did in nights like this one; a hand in his hair, the other on his sweat-slick back, feeling his heart pound against your chest.

For a long time, neither of you moves as the room settles. Your breathing evens out, syncs up, falls into the rhythm of two people who've been sharing a bed long enough that their bodies know how to find each other even in the dark.

"Hey," Johnny says eventually, muffled against your neck.

You smile despite everything, eyes welling up with tears. "Hey."

"I love ye."

You press your lips to his temple and whisper, "I love you too."

"D'ye think—" He lifts his head; his eyes are glossy and he suddenly looks unbearably young. "D'ye think I'll remember this tomorrow?"

The question sits between you, heavy and terrible but honest. You swallow hard, consider lying, but choosing not to.

"I don't know. Sometimes you do, other times you don’t," you say truthfully, because you promised yourself early on that you'd never lie to him about this. "But if you don't, I'll remember for both of us."

A tear slips down his face. Then another. He wipes them roughly with the back of his hand and lets out a wet, shaky laugh.

"And then ye'll just… What, fall in love with me again?"

"Johnny." You take his face in your hands and hold his gaze. "I've never stopped."

He makes a choked sound and kisses you again, slower this time, tasting of salt and beer.

He falls asleep with his head on your chest and his arms around your waist, and you stay awake longer than necessary, fingers carding through his short hair, listening to the slow rhythm of his breathing.

Outside, across the street, a black truck sits with its engine off.

Simon Riley watches the bedroom light go on through the upstairs window, and he watches it stay on for a long time before it’s switched off again.

And then he sits in the dark, in the quiet, and he wonders.

Not about what is happening inside. Not about them, specifically.

About the shape of a life where someone waits for you; where someone takes a phone call at nine p.m. on a Friday and puts on the green dress and drives to a pub and falls in love with you again because you asked her to, even though you didn't know you were asking.

He wonders what it would feel like to walk into a room and have someone's entire body reorient towards you; to be the answer to a question someone didn't know they were carrying.

And Simon wonders if he's capable of that. If the thing inside him that was broken long before any mission, long before any scar, is the kind of broken that someone could love around, the way you love around Johnny's.

He wonders, and he doesn't find an answer—somehow never does—and after a while, he starts the car and drives home to an empty flat.

Eventually he just starts showing up at your place instead and eats with you at your bar counter. He didn’t really ask, and you definitely didn’t, but there he is all the same, and… if you're honest? He’s just so easy to be around, it quickly feels natural having him there. He puts you off your guard, puts you at ease and makes you smile, like those are somehow the most natural things in the world.

From that first night, Johnny has insisted on helping with dishes. Starting the second, he’s always got groceries with him. Even manages to talk you out of your discomfort over accepting them, so well that on his fourth night, you’ve got a small shopping list ready. He’s cheeky, you don’t think he’ll mind. And he is right, after all: you're probably feeding him at least three or four nights out of the week, what with all the leftovers.

You start eating better, and trying new things you'd always planned on “getting around to,” now that you've got a reason to cook beyond not starving. Everything comes out fine the first time you make it, when you’re closely following a recipe, and Johnny has no qualms about trying anything you put in front of him. You’ve never met someone so genuinely un-fussy when it comes to food.

A couple months after he’s started eating at your place, he disappears for a while. “Work trip,” is all he'll say, and you don’t pry, even though you really want to. 

Once he’s back, he starts coming over weekend afternoons sometimes. You do brunch with beer or fancy drinks in champagne flutes, or occasional breakfast on the roof before other people are awake, him in a big hoodie or jumper, and you wearing a thick blanket like it's trying to digest you, looking like a half-drowned cat because no living being is meant to be awake at such an hour. 

You cut fruit into mangled flowers and vague geometric shapes for the brunches, usually while just spending time with him. He tries his hand at it once, with you pulling up videos, laughing the whole time you’re explaining how it’s supposed to work, and the utter bastard is better at it on his first go than you were after weeks. His hands are confoundingly steady, and his hand-eye coordination borders on the unnatural.

That’s probably the official start of his sous chef arc. And that’s what has him spending a night judging your knives and marveling, repeatedly and loudly, that you still have all your fingers.

You might put a piece of eggshell into his omelet that night in retaliation, and he might not even have the decency to react to it.

“...Johnny I can hear it crunching, oh my God would you spit it out!” You manage between laughter that’s got your face hurting.

That happens a lot around him. Smiling so much it hurts.

“Nah, i’s nice texture,” he says around the mouthful, then starts enunciating the longer words. “Very advanced technique. Shows a great awareness of the culinary experience–”

“You’re being such a prat. Why are you being such a prat!”

He talks over you as if he can’t hear you, as if he’s doing some mockingly posh review. “And honestly, the crunching–” he pauses and chomps down on the shell for effect, and how is it still intact, “it really engages the senses. Keeps me immersed in my dining experience.”

You regret loaning him your cooking books. Never again.

After that, though, he steals your knives, takes them home, and they come back so sharp you can cut windowpane slices of potato. He offers to teach you how to do it yourself–after stipulating with heart-clenching eagerness that he’s happy to come over and do it for you any time.

Johnny gets weirdly into shopping farmer’s markets, walking around discovering new produce and varieties of things he’s never seen before. “Fuck would I know tomatoes come in this color? Look at this thing, it’s like a feckin’... it’s a wee lumpy sunset, isn’t it? And this! Like someone took the heart of a dragon,” his voice had gone terribly dramatic, and you definitely hadn’t covered your face, “and stuck it on a bush somewhere.”

“Baby how are you so huge, but so adorable?” You don't know when the pet names started, but you know he started them; sometimes it feels like you two grew up together. 

You like the challenge of the new and unexpected ingredients that come from his trips, and by this point, he’s keeping your kitchen pretty stocked with whatever oddball pantry items you ask for, so you're set up to deal with almost anything. But on rare occasions he’ll call you with a question, too. You’ve had each other’s numbers for a while, it just made coordinating easier. 

“Oi can you make sommat with uh… fiddlehead ferns?”

You always can, whatever he asks about. It just takes a quick internet search to find out if you can tackle it that same night, or if it needs to wait for another day. Sometimes it ends up disastrous, but like a shot, Johnny has you laughing or throwing something at him (usually-but-not-always also while laughing) before guilt or shame can get a proper foothold.

There was a night when he was too excited about something to wait for you to answer the door when he knocked, and since then, he just sort of comes in on his own after he announces himself—at least when you know to expect him. That feels right, too, just like having him at your counter had.

You’re feeding the both of you almost every night of the week by now, even if you’re still not cooking often. You like being around him so much, you can’t imagine doing it less, not even when cooking is the last thing you want to be doing. It’s like there’s a bubbly little sun in your chest when he’s around.

Johnny makes you so happy, in fact, and you’re so afraid of losing your time with him, it’s nearly six months before the first time you have to tap out of a dinner, too knackered to make yourself even casually presentable, nevermind cook so much as instant noodles.

He reacts like it’s no problem at all, which of course he’d do, because he’s wonderful, but you don’t manage to keep your heart from dropping that he’s not at least a little sad. That he doesn’t, maybe, look forward to the nights like you do. You know your arrangement is practical, and he’s never been over unless there was food involved, but… well… seeing him seems to have become rather… vital to you.

Which means it’s better to put it away, anyhow, right?

So when, an hour after you’d texted him and basically all he’d said was No problem, thinking takeout, any votes?, he’s coming through your front door with delivery bags and talking a mile a minute like it’s just another night, you're left with your mouth open and your hand on the knob, because… because he's here.

You're not cooking, but he's still here.

You just stand there gobsmacked as he sits on the couch, nattering away, half the food out before he even realizes you’re still playing doorstop. He asks if you’re having the time of your life or if you’re going to come sit down, those horrible (wonderful) crinkles at the sides of his eyes, brows pulled up in the middle.

He looks confused when you say you want to freshen up, like he can’t see that your hair might’ve lost a row with a feral rodent, or that you’re wearing clothes that shouldn’t even be outside of a bin, nevermind on a person. He just tells you the food will get cold, and that it’ll be no good that way.

So you run your hands through your hair and sit, subdued and uncertain like you haven’t been around him in ages, as he amiably fills the silence. You know he can tell you’re not right, but he’s just… acting like it’s ok that you aren’t.

Midway through the meal, he reaches forward to grab a container and put it in front of you, and it makes his knee come up against yours. 

It doesn’t move away when he sits back.

Then, as the night wears on and the very most jagged edges of your weariness have eased, he makes a joke and you bump your shoulder into him in retaliation. It pushes your legs flush… and neither of you do anything to separate them. He just keeps on being Johnny like nothing is different, like nothing strange is happening, like he can’t see how bloody flushed you must be, like the room hasn't turned to glass and burst, leaving the both of you toppling through the air.

You're not stupid, so you have to tell yourself repeatedly that he’s just trying to comfort you. He’s acting completely normal otherwise—for Johnny—and you look like a person in need of a friend tonight. And same as him, you’re at all your meal nights instead of off with friends or dates. At least for him, it’s because of his career. You haven’t even seen him bringing up a new fling in ages.

…You’re not stupid. Right?

After the food is finished, Johnny putters about cleaning up, working his way around your kitchen like he knows it exactly as well as he does. He puts all but one container of leftovers in your fridge. 

You hug your knees comfortably, just sort of watching him, too full of static to be paranoid about it, and he either doesn’t realize or isn’t bothered by it. Not being a complete creep, you don’t keep it up for too long, anyhow. You’ve got plenty to occupy your thoughts.

He surprises you on his way out by casually setting a mug in front of you. He’d made you something hot to drink while he was cleaning up, and you were so spaced you hadn’t realized. He just gives you a little smile, a gentle squeeze on the shoulder with a stroke of his thumb, says, “Wednesday, yeah?” (the night of your next normal get-together), and moves on toward the door. All normal. But there’s some metal in your chest painfully bending itself into unaccustomed shapes, jabbing places that aren’t used to the pressure, pushing into your windpipe until it’s hard to breathe, and you can’t stop yourself from telling him that you made up a new seasoning blend for popcorn, if he’d maybe like to watch a movie before he goes.

He stands there by the door looking at you just for a split second too long, opens his mouth, closes it, then settles right back onto the couch up next to you. He reaches out an arm and pulls you gently into his side, moving in a way that makes it an invitation and not a demand, while he’s talking about what to watch.

You fall asleep there. So does he.

Things turn a bit funny after that in a way you can’t quite put your finger on. At the surface, everything is the same. But nothing feels the same. Every time there’s a tease, casual touches, close quarters, you have to chant not stupid not stupid not stupid on repeat in your head. He’s just Johnny, that’s all. The guy you could have grown up with.

You keep up the dinners and the weekends, and eventually, finally realize that with him around to take all your extras, you can bake. It’s something you’ve wanted to try forever, but recipes don’t really make single servings, and you never had anyone to pawn off the other 22 muffins or ¾ of the cake onto, or the sheet of croissants, because you absolutely want to try the most fussy, difficult things. And it turns out, when at last he tells you what he does, that Johnny works at the local military base–which at least explains his size–so if he can’t polish something off, well, he knows some blokes.

You’re so excited after that, things almost seem to return to normal. He even comes over and hangs out while you’re baking sometimes. Just knocking about, licking the beaters and the spoons and the bowls, doing dishes as you go, fidgeting with this or that, all while knowing you’re equally as likely to produce something inedible as you are a treat.

Johnny tells you a little about his career one evening. He says that it means he’s in real danger often, there’s a lot of secrecy with people in his personal life, long absences and surprise ones, shit pay, and likely a brief expiration date. (You don’t really let that last one in). He’s got a bit of a funny look in his eyes when he shares about all of it. Quite focused on you, in a way? It makes your cheeks heat. It isn’t as if it’s on you to approve of his life.

But at least now you understand why he’s on his own. And you suppose you’re a bit small, because while you’re incredibly sad for him, part of you is thrilled that it means he’s not likely to be swept away by someone else too soon.

You just gather yourself up, smile, and tell him that at least he’s spending the time he has as best he can, which is a hell of a lot more than a lot of people do–although you personally hope there’s a lot more of it. And that… at the end, you're glad for all the times you're involved.

Johnny’s leaning against the counter while you fold nuts and rum-soaked fruit into a thick batter, his normally busy hands jammed into his pockets, posture a bit off, and so close you almost keep elbowing him on accident, the two of you just bantering back and forth. 

You turn your head toward him to fire back, and–

–his mouth is just there, on yours.

He lingers, but doesn’t move otherwise. It’s… testing, you think. You feel his lips shake against yours, in fact, just once. 

Your shock dies fast and your eyes slip closed, and while it’s a brief kiss, when he pulls away, you don’t open them. You can’t. Because if you’re honest, you’ve probably been gone for him since the first time you gave him a friendly hug goodnight, and it’s only ever gotten worse. If you open your eyes, this won’t be real, or it won’t have happened, or it will shatter somehow.

After a pause, he runs the back of a finger down your temple, trailing the side of your face to your jaw. You still won’t open your eyes, so he just toys with your face until you do.

He’s got a soul-crushing smile at the corners of his eyes.

“Been wanting to do that for a long time,” he admits into the quiet.

“...Oh?” Your voice is embarrassingly, unhelpfully breathy. It’d probably be mortifying, if you had the mental capacity to fully register embarrassment at the moment.

He pauses, smile making its way to his lips, and curling them up at the corners, bit by bit. He cants his head, just a little, like he wants to see you from another angle. “Aye. …Might’ve been since the first time I saw you at the mailboxes.”

“Oh?” 

That had been one of the first times you remember ever seeing him. He never said a word to you other than, “Mornin’” or “Evenin’,” if he said anything at all.

His smile blooms until you can see his teeth. “You were wearing this little shirt. Green, thin. Bit worn, like it was a favorite. Showed a wee spot of skin at your back.” His fingers brush the spot, soft and testing, near the base of your spine, and it jolts you from scalp to toes. “Might’ve… lost some time, thinking about what it’d feel like if I slid my hand up there.” He toys with the hem of your shirt and steps in, voice going deeper and rougher around the edges. “Might’ve imagined pushing it up, getting a bit closer. Really might’ve imagined putting your back up to the slots, mo–”

You kiss him this time, before he can go on, and it’s anything but testing.

And just like everything else about him, this fits. 

His mouth fits against yours. His body fits against yours. And as if some band of control snaps, so abruptly you swear you feel it jolt through his skin, he's got you up on the counter, his thighs between yours, both of you already breathing hard.

His hands on you are perfect, calloused, slipping up under the back of your shirt, smoothing and gripping, making your chest and your thighs feel molten. It's ravenous, like he just has to touch your skin, has to get you closer. You arch toward him, fingers running up through his hair, legs curling around his and pulling him nearer.

His hips are carefully, stubbornly, infuriatingly back from you, but the kiss is so full of need, so close, that some of his breaths sound hollow against your mouth. It's like he can't decide whether inhaling or devouring you is more important, so he just doesn't choose.

When you're at the point of moaning unintentionally, of hungry little sounds forcing their way out of your chest, of your hips moving against the counter in desperation, when you're moments from outright begging, Johnny pulls back, and goes further when you try to chase his mouth.

His lips are red and full, his face dark--much worse when he catches sight of how completely drunk you must look--and he's panting. His fingers dig into your hips like he's trying to keep one or both of you from drowning. He squeezes his eyes shut.

You don't mean to, you really don't, but you look down, and lord help you but–

“That looks painful,” you tell him. Your voice sounds like it's been run over a washboard. He's tented against his denim, and his size is… proportional.

…You can't seem to remember how to make yourself look up.

“Really rather not talk about my cock just now, love,” he gravels, fingers clenching briefly against you. His head tips forward onto your shoulder, breaths panting out against your collar bone, leaving you to pick up every bit of heat he's trying to get out of himself.

You hum, teasing. “Shame, because I can't think of anything I'd rather talk ab—”

His big paw covers your mouth. “For the love of every Saint, I’m beggi—”

You cut him off right back. By licking his palm.

He recoils in horror, but the moment your eyes meet, you both burst into laughter, made worse every time he tries to tell you how disgusting that is, something about his sisters as kids, you don't know what else.

You're the first to sober, breathing almost back to normal, thoughts already whirring on fast-forward. You look down, pulling your knees together, hands gripping the edge of the counter. “Are we…. Will we be ok, after this?”

You peek up to see him looking at you like you're daft.

“‘S been the better part of a year,” he says softly, moving forward and running his thumbs over your knees. Asking your legs to make room again, to let him get close again. “Have you really not figured it out, all this time?” 

Your legs open hesitantly, and he steps in and, when you look up at him, kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other, slow and warm and so tender it feels like your chest is cracking right down the center.

Eyes closed, brows a little pinched, you murmur, “We can't all be SAS savants, Johnny.” Maybe you know. Maybe. But it has been all this time, so maybe you need to hear it, too.

He's still kissing, pace unhurried and savouring, making his way to your jaw and just beneath it. But it's calming now, somewhere between reverential and still trying to bring the both of you down. Himself especially, you think.

“Then let me spell it out for you. Gladly.” He noses up against the bottom of your ear and roughs, “You are fucking stuck with me. Glued. Bloody welded.” He huffs a laugh and leans back upright—but not all the way, not too far back. “This isnae a new thing for me. You know that, right? I just….” He shakes his head and abandons the thought, “Hell, my mates have already been asking when they can come over for dinner, the dobbers.”

Your brows shoot up. “You've talked about me at work?”

He looks down, and while his face is in half a scowl, you'd swear he does it to hide a slight flush, too. “Haven't shut up about you, more like. Should hear what my Lieutenant– Ach, nevermind that.”

You hurry to say that they're welcome any time, but it makes him scowl fully.

“Not exactly keen on the idea just yet.” He puts his arms around you, buries his face in your neck, and just stands there, breathing you in. He mutters into the crook of your shoulder, “Mind if I stay like this for a bit? Just while I, uh… calm down.”

His hips are still well back from you. You’re not sure you’ve ever adored and hated him so much at once.

“I’d really like that,” you tell him softly, arms going around his ribs, hands on his shoulders, chest to chest.

It's warm and resounding like this, so after a spell, without thinking, you bite his shoulder. Just sink your teeth in and leave them there. It’s not even entirely conscious, it's just so comfortable and comforting.

“All good, there, wee piranha?” he eventually asks, a smile in his voice.

You detach instantly. “Ah, sorry! I, uh, might have a tiny bit of an oral fixation.”

He groans. “Are ye trying to do me in?”

“I’m not the one who said we had to stop, Mr. Military Discipline.”

His eyes darken in a flash, but he tamps down on it just as quickly and gets that godawful cocky look on his face, instead. “Pardon me for not wanting to rush something that really matters.” His tone goes so soft at the end that you can’t even be mad at him--exactly as you know he intended, the great bastard.

“How did I not know what a sadist you are?”

And that look means he’s about to make you eat your words.

“Johnny I will happily kill you in your sleep.”

“I could handle that. Means you'd be in my bed, aye?”

He pulls your hands up from the death grip they've found on the edge of the counter and laces your fingers together. “I dinnae….” He clears his throat, frowns. “Just being away on deployment is shite now, and I love what I do. But I miss you while I'm gone, think about you back here all the bloody time, and we havnae even….”

When he doesn’t finish, you whisper, heart clenching with the realization, “You really don't want to rush this.”

He laughs quietly like he wants to argue. But what he says is, “No. I don't. But while that's true….” He steps in, chin ducking, eyes darkening even as they shine, voice lowering. “What do you say we turn the oven off? I've a funny feeling you willnae be getting around to that bake today.”

Your face turns to look over your shoulder at Cody, your brows furrowing in confusion. He’s fixing the straps of his armor, strapping the plate across his chest as he shoots a look you way. You follow his gaze, to where you had kicked the blankets down to pool around your thighs, to where your sleep shorts are hiked up over the round curve of your ass.

Understanding, you flip over, sliding down to the end of the bed, letting his hand grasp yours as he pulls you into his chest. Your hands slide over his armor, his hands dropping to slide under the long edge of your shirt, fingers brushing your thighs.

“Are you trying to distract me?” He murmurs as you lean up to kiss him, his head tilting down to meet you half-way.

“Is it working?” You grin back, fingers hooking around the back of his neck, pressing yourself against him as his lips press against yours.

“Mm,” He kisses you again, “Flashing your sweet ass at me always works.”

You cheeks flush and you bury your head in his shoulder, words muffled, “Don’t know why you like it so much.”

“Fuck, you don’t want to know the things I want to do to it.” His lips curve in a smile, his hand coming up to cup and squeeze one of your cheeks, pressing you even more snugly against him as his codpiece digging into your hip.

So you ask, in a hushed voice - and his teeth sink into his lip as he considers, before his voice goes low as he groans.

“Eat it. Fuck it. Make it mine, cyare.”

You almost choke on your own breath as his words, as his hand kneads your flesh.

“I could make you feel so goddamn good. Make you cum so hard with my cock buried in that tight little ass.” His mouth is so close to yours, and you’re leaning up to kiss him another time when he releases you, stepping away.

“Can’t be late, sweetheart.” He presses a quick kiss against your temple, his lips pulling into a smirk at the dazed look in your eyes.

You watch him as he leaves, the comfortable confidence in his steps, slumping down on the bed as the door shuts behind him.

How are you ever going to make it through your day now?

——

You last only a few days before you tell him you want it.

It bubbles up until it bursts out of you, when the two of you are making dinner together in the evening. The holopad in his hand tilts dangerously as he leans against the counter, the closest you’ve ever seen to him dropping something.

He looks at you with stunned surprise, his lips parting as he asks you to say it again.

So you do - and you take a little bit of time to talk it through, working out the details as he confirms again that you want this. And you do, you really do.

You spend some time researching and preparing yourself - and in the meantime, he explores all of you with his tongue when he eats you out, getting you comfortable with the new sensations, leaving you aching for more.

And then it’s time, and you’re thrumming with anticipation, stripped and spread out on the bed as Cody straddles your thighs. His thick finger circles your tight rim, just starting to press a fingertip inside.

“Has anyone ever been here before?” He asks in hushed tones, as your lips press together to hold in the moan.

“N-no one.” You shake your head, “Just you.”

“Fuck,” he draws the word out, this voice deep and low as he breaches you, sinking to the first knuckle. “Fuck, baby.”

His finger works slowly inside, carefully pumping it, slicking it up with more lube until he is down to another knuckle, until you’re rocking back against his hand.

“How do you feel, cyar’ika?” He checks in, his hand smoothing down your back, his thumb hooking around to slide against your folds.

You whimper, your head dropping between your shoulders, “Good, Cody. Feels so full already, I want more.”

He gives it to you, working his first finger all the way inside until it’s comfortable, carefully pressing the tip of a second. You hold your breath and he leans forward to press a kiss against your back as he presses, stretching you carefully open to take both.

His fingers are thick and it feels like so much, but he waits, adding more lube, carefully scissoring you open until you relax, and your hips start to rock back to meet him.

Every thrust of his hand sends his thumb sliding across your clit, pulling soft whimpers and moans as you press your face into the mattress. One of your hands grips the sheets as the other slides beneath you to cup your breast, your body clenching when a fingertip slides across your nipple, earning a low “shit” from Cody.

Your fingers roll over you nipple again and fuck, you realize you’re really close, the heat in your belly roaring and coiling by the second. You both groan as you clench around him again.

“Are you going to come with my fingers in your ass, cyar’ika?” He asks, his voice low as his movements adjust, focusing on your clit.

“Yes,” Your mouth is open, your breath coming in short pants and moans, “Fuck, yes, Cody - please-”

The words break off into a cry as your thrust back hard and arch against him, as your muscles stiffen. Cody keeps his hand buried in you, thumb sliding down to collect the slick dripping from you, bringing it back to draw out the way you shake as the pleasure arcs up your spine.

When you can finally move, you look over your shoulder at him, and are momentarily breathless. He looks beautiful, kneeling behind you, looking at you with such reverence, though you’re just you and he’s - him.

You want to give him this, share it with him.

“I’m ready.” Your voice comes out low, hoarse from moaning and you clear your throat.

“You sure? I can keep going.” His eyes scan your face, there’s no impatience in his expression - just concern.

“I’m sure,” You smile warmly, and his fingers ease out, leaving you whining.

The fingers at your clit dip into you, gathering your release before he brings it to his cock, tilting his head back in a moan as he strokes it, covering his length in you. Then he’s adding more lube, until he’s wet and slick, and moves to line himself up.

You head presses into the mattress, eyes screwed shut as you wait.

“Cyare,” He coaxes, leaning over you to press a kiss into your neck. “You’re going to have to relax, baby. It’s going to be okay, I’ll go slow.”

His fingers tease you, gently rubbing at your clit, at your folds, until the tension leaves your muscles, and the tip of his cock is brushing your rim. Cody pushes forward carefully, leaving you gasping as he starts to ease into you.

He freezes, but you coax him to keep going, “It feels good, it’s just new.”

You breathe slowly through your mouth as he sinks in, taking time to press kisses into your neck, keeping a gentle, circling pressure on your clit. He stretches you wide, it’s not uncomfortable but it’s intense, the pressure almost overwhelming. You’ve taken his cock before but it seems longer, wider like this, and you wonder briefly if it’s going to fit.

He gives a slow, gentle thrust, and with the movements on your clit, it makes you moan. His breathing is heavy, low groans coming from his lips when you clench around his cock. And then, here’s there, his hips pressing smug against yours.

Your hips give an experimental wiggle, pressing back against him, and the moan he makes is closer to a growl, low and needy in his throat. He adjusts his hand, moving his thumb to your clit, his first two fingers to press and slide against your folds.

He starts a slow rhythm, a steady grind of his hips, just barely moving in and out of you, until you’re whimpering, a steady stream of “please, please, please” sliding out of you, as the pressure starts to feel good, as the fingers against your pussy bring you closer to the edge.

“Stars, you’re so fucking tight.” He grits, his hips giving a small, quick thrust, like he can’t help himself, like he needs to go deeper, “Love watching your ass bounce on my cock, cyare. So fucking perfect.”

You start to rock back against him, and he picks up the pace, his hips starting to slap against yours, the room full of your echoing moans and wet flesh, until your mouth is open in a long cry as you press it against the mattress.

He has you close, and you don’t have the words to tell him, you just clench tighter and tighter until the invisible string snaps, your voice pitching high as you pulse around him. You feel weightless, stars bursting behind closed eyelids as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you.

“Fuck yes, sweetheart.” He’s grunting, not far behind you, “Gods, you look so good coming on my cock.”

Cody’s breathing is heavy, and you’re still clenching around him when he grunts, his hands gripping your hips as he arches against you, pressing his cock deep as he empties himself in you, splashing your walls with his release. Your name is on his lips as he groans, his hips working in small thrusts until you’ve milked everything out of him, until his chest is pressing against yours as he tilts your head to kiss him.

You’re still coming down from your high when he slides out of you, and you wince at the empty feeling afterwards. The mattress is soft beneath you and you slump, your stomach and then your hips slowly sliding down until you’re lying prone, and you’re sighing in contentment and exhaustion.

Cody is still behind you, his hands starting at your shoulders, and running down, until his large hands are cupping the globes of your ass.

“Oh, sweetheart. Look at how you’re gaping for me.” He says the words in a growl, thumbs pressing into your cheeks to spread you wide, as the flush creeps down your neck, “So fucking pretty.”

His hands let go, and the bed sinks as he lays down next to you, pressing a kiss to your temple, your cheek, your lips. When he pulls back there’s a tenderness in his eyes, in the dimple of his cheek when he smiles.

“Thank you, you did so good for me.” His arms wrap around you, gently tugging you against him as he sits up, “Now, come on cyar’ika.”

“I’ll run you a bath. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“She’s real cute,” Ellis offers, mistaking his silence as hesitation instead of confusion. 

“Parker, I have a girlfriend.”

“Oh,” she says, surprise in her voice as she glances over at Shen quickly. “I didn’t… never mind.”

“You didn’t, what?” Jack presses, frowning at the shared look between his colleagues. “You’ve met her before.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I guess, I’ve never heard you two refer to each other that way. Didn’t know you made it official.”

Made it official? “We’ve been together for five months.”

“And you two had the talk, you asked her to be your girlfriend?” John asks, taking a sip and cringing at the awful hot breakroom coffee he has to settle for until he gets out in a couple of hours. 

“Asked her… well,” Jack thinks. He’s definitely introduced you to his friends as his girlfriend… right? Except, the only people he’s ever had to introduce you to is everyone he works with, most of which you already knew because of Trinity and the others you’d introduced yourself. You think you’re his girlfriend, obviously. 

Right?

Parker and John quickly notice the shift in Jack’s demeanor and try to soothe him over. 

“Do you think she’s seeing other people?” He says, his mouth set but the frown is the tone of his voice, and Parker feels the guilt settle in her stomach for making him second-guess your relationship. 

“No, probably not.”

“Probably?” Jack says, almost pulling a muscle in his neck from how fast he looks in Shen’s direction. 

“Of course she isn’t,” Parker says, trying to remedy the situation she unknowingly created, “she’s crazy about you.”

But Jack can’t hear anything except the ringing in his ears, and the actual ringing coming from the bay. 

After a brutal last three hours of nonstop emergency, the nightshift is finally handing over their load to the day crew, and Jack’s mind has not seemed to stop buzzing after what Parker said. But he’s come to realize this is a quick fix. He’ll ask you if you can meet for lunch and he’ll talk to you about where your head’s at, and he’ll tell you with no room for error that he is one hundred percent only interested in a committed relationship with you. 

“You okay?” Robby looks at his friend curiously – he hasn’t seen this look on his face in awhile. Jack’s expression feels… empty, void. 

“Fine,” Jack sighs, running a hand over his face. “Just… when you and Heather… did you ask her to be your girlfriend?”

Robby cleared his throat, his face heating. “Well, we weren’t… we didn’t really define the relationship. I don’t think there was ever really a solid relationship to define. It kind of ended when I thought it might be starting to become something. If that makes sense.”

“Sure,” Jack mumbles, but that makes fuck all sense to him. Before he can say anything else, their conversation is interrupted by the sound of yours and Trinity’s laughter. They turn to see you both walking over to the nurse hub, where Robby and Jack are talking to each other. 

“He was totally hitting on you. Again.”

“He was not,” you insist, quietly, giving Jack a small smile. The side of his mouth lifts involuntarily, the way it always does when he sees you. 

“So, when are you putting that poor guy out of his misery?”

You turn away from Jack, your eyebrows pulling in as you look at Frank.

“The EMT who so clearly is in love with you,” he clarifies, nodding at Jack and Robby in greeting, sliding his arm around Dana’s shoulders. 

“Told you,” Trinity says, reaching into your pocket for a scrunchie to tie her hair up. 

“He’s just friendly,” you defend, feeling uncomfortable talking about this in front of Jack. 

“He asked you if you wanted to get a beer after his shift.”

“He invited both of us,” you say, rolling your eyes. “His entire team is going. It’s a Thursday shift thing.”

“He invited me as a courtesy,” Trinity shakes her head, a smirk painting her features. “He obviously wants you.”

Jack’s never been particularly insecure about the age gap between you two–no one around you ever bats an eye, never makes a remark. When he’s got you in his bed, underneath him, there hasn’t been a complaint about his stamina and he’s never not been able to satisfy you in the ways you need, physically or emotionally. But then he gets to thinking about how all the rules that come with modern dating fly completely over his head. 

“You should go,” he finds himself saying, causing everyone to look over at him, confused. Most of all you. “What?”

“You think… she should… go out with the EMT?” Robby lets out, slowly, just to make sure Jack was on the same page as everyone else. Jack shrugs. 

“Why not?”Jack knows he should stop talking, especially when he sees the looks everyone else is giving him, but he still hasn’t been able to meet your eyes. 

“Alright,” Robby says, nodding over his shoulder. “Santos, Langdon – you’ve got cases to check on.” He shepherds his residents away, neither him nor Jack missing the cold look Trinity gives Jack when she brushes past him a little more aggressively than necessary. Robby gives you a nod as he pats Jack on the shoulder, leaving you two alone. 

You two don’t say anything for a few seconds, your eyes hovering over his face while his pointedly do not meet yours still. 

“Walk me out?” You ask finally, to which he gives you a nod, hiking his backpack higher up his shoulder. When you two make it outside, you wordlessly walk across the street toward the park and Jack follows you, not needing to be told to. The entire two minutes it takes to cross the street and find an excluded enough place to talk, Jack is thinking that this is it. He doesn’t know why he suggested you go out with the EMT – the point was to talk to you and eliminate any idea of either of you seeing other people. He wanted to go into a conversation with you and be selfish and tell you that the thought of you spending your time with a man that wasn’t him made him physically ill, and though it’s only been five months he’s sure he loves you and if you ever went away he’d miss the mess you make in his apartment. He’ll miss begging you to leave your stuff scattered, calming your anxious mind that you’re making a mess in his otherwise neat house, but he doesn’t mind the mess because it’s proof you’ve tangled your life in his. There’s proof he has some parts of you that no one else gets. He’s never told you that, though. He was so afraid it’d freak you out so early in the relationship. He’s so stupid. 

You’re going to turn around and tell him you will go out with that EMT after work and that you’re so happy you two are on the same page of not wanting a committed relationship, and he’ll be fine with the – what did Samira call Santos and Garcia’s pairing? A situationship? – situationship deal because apparently that’s what modern dating is, and he doesn’t want to lose you completely so he’ll–

“Did you break up with me at some point and I missed it?” You ask, stopping abruptly and turning on him, causing him to stumble forward as he tried to stop, his arms coming out to grasp your arms. 

“What?” He asks, blinking at you slowly, trying to get his bearings back. 

“‘You should go’,” you say, lowering your voice to mock him. He was expecting you to be a little confused, sure, but he wasn’t expecting you to be so angry. There’s a flush of red crawling up your neck, and he can see it spread over the top of your chest. “What the hell was that, Jack?”

“I just… we–I was talking to Parker, she was asking if I wanted her to set me up with her friend.” He watches your face to catch your expressions, and he’s gotten very good at reading you, so he sees the second your eyes go from angry to sad. And it feels like you’ve reached your hand into his chest and pulled his heart out; he’d much rather you be angry at him. 

“Oh, I see,” you say, and you have to divert your eyes so you can blink away your tears without him noticing. Of course this was too good to be true, you think. Jack says he loves your mess, the way all guys do in the beginning of your relationships, but he doesn’t really. You leave you product out of order in his bathroom, your perfume is littered on everything he wears, your favorite books are strewn all over his living room and you’re just taking up too much space. Granted, Jack lasted longer than most guys do. But all good things come to an end. 

“You see what?” Jack asks, taking a step closer to you to try to redirect you to look at him again. When you’re sure you aren’t going to cry, you grant him his silent wish, your eyes meeting his. 

“If I go out with the EMT, you get to go out with Parker’s friend,” when you see him frown, you think he’s trying to spare you a pitying look. “Jack, if you didn’t want to be in a relationship with me, you could have just said so. Before I basically invaded your space. What’s going to happen if the date goes well and you take her home?”

“Take her home?” Jack’s shaking his head now–this conversation has been derailed significantly. 

“She’s going to see another woman’s things all over your place, she’s going to see all that mess everywhere. Won’t that be off putting?”

“Wait,” he stops you, his arms coming back up to grip your arms, “you said relationship. You think we’re in a relationship?”

“Jesus, Jack. What the fuck?” You lift your arms to shrug him off but his grip just tightens a little bit, pulling you closer to him so you’re almost flush against him. 

“That came out wrong, wait,” he pleads, eyes searching yours, “I just need you to answer me yes or no, please. You’re my girlfriend.”

“Is that a question?” 

“Baby, yes or no,” he pleads again, the pet name slipping out and softening your hurt a little bit. 

“Yes. Or – well, yes. I thought so.” And before you can question him or ask him what the fuck he’s talking about, his mouth is on yours – and it feels desperate. His hands raise your arms so they’re circled around his shoulders and his arms trail back down to wind around your waist, tightening around you so you stumble into him completely. Your fingers card through his curls as you try to match his pace, opening your mouth when you feel his tongue glide against your teeth. You only pull away when you hear the trill of a bicycle, someone yelling for you to get a room. 

“Don’t you dare go on that fucking date,” Jack breathes out, his mouth not completely pulling away from you. “Parker mentioned I never asked you to be my girlfriend officially – I didn’t even know that was something I needed to do. I’m sorry, the old is catching up to me.”

“Shut up,” you mumble, pressing your lips lightly against his again for a quick peck, smiling when his mouth chases after yours again when you pull away. “I’m basically living in your house, Jack,” you mumble, “I figured the conversation about girlfriend and boyfriends was settled a long time ago.”

“Thank God,” he whispers, kissing you one more time before he pulls away, only to grab your hand and kiss your knuckles. “Stop calling your stuff a mess,” he scolds, beginning his walk back to his house, tugging you along with him. “It’s decor.” He smiles when you snort, tightening his grip on your hand. 

“It is a mess, Hurricane Me has taken over your entire home.”

“I love it,” he says quietly, letting go of your hand in favor of wrapping an arm around your shoulder, wanting you nestled against him as close as possible. “I love seeing your stuff everywhere. Seeing it there… makes me feel special. Like, you chose me to make a home for you.”

“Jack,” you whisper, your voice soft and your arm around his waist squeezing him. 

“I love it,” he repeats, slowing his pace until you both stop so he can turn and face you, his hand moving to cup your face so you have to look at him when he says, “and I love you.”

For the record, you never signed up for this.

“You’re not supposed to write kaboom,” you slammed the flimsi back on your desk. The little clone trooper bobblehead one of the shinies had left you bobbled its ridiculously big head in silent mockery. “How the hell am I supposed to explain to the Republic Oversight Committee that Sector G6, Level 3761 was partly demolished because one commando decided ‘kaboom’ was a sufficient justification? That was messy.”

RC-1262 stretched in the chair he’d dragged into your cubicle, helmet propped on his knee, grin plastered across his heavily scarred face, a fresh cut slicing the left corner of his mouth. “Well, it was accurate, wasn’t it?”

You pressed your fingers into your temples, picturing Senate auditors tearing into your unit’s quarterly report. The reparations bill for G6 would be astronomical. Worse, it was in the underworld - meaning months of subcontractor corruption, workers bribed or bullied into silence, citizens filing claims that the Republic would drag its feet on settling. Not that Coruscant’s lower levels ever believed the Republic gave a damn about them anyway. Well, that part was true, the Republic gives no shit, but that was beside the point.

“Accurate isn’t the same as professional,” you bit out. “There’s a reason the template asks for structural damage estimates, blast radius, munition type—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Scorch twirled a stylus between his trigger fingers. “But you’d rather I wrote a novel? ‘Dear bureaucrats, today’s fireworks were brought to you by one well-placed thermal detonator and my sparkling personality.’”

You leveled a flat stare at him. “Honestly? That would’ve been better than ‘kaboom.’ At least then I’d have a word count.”

He barked a laugh, leaning forward onto your desk so abruptly the bobblehead toppled over. “Careful, sweetheart, I might just drag you on our next underworld op so you can see for yourself how fantastic my explosion is. Soooooo good it doesn’t need justification.” He shoved the flimsi back towards you with one finger. “Next one’s Benduday. Like Skirata says, we’re not stopping until every last seppie cell is dust.”

“Sweetheart?” you scoffed, jabbing a finger at the flimsi. “The only thing you’re getting from me is a rewritten report that won’t have the Oversight Committee slashing our budget in half.”

“Oh, come on,” he drawled. “You’d miss me if I stopped turning them in like this. Admit it. Gives you something to yell about.”

Before you could retort, a head appeared around the cubicle wall. Fixer. Somehow the only reasonable man in that squad. The one who didn’t act like (1) an edgelord sociopath, (2) a hyperactive kid high on detonator fumes, or (3) an unhinged trash-talking sergeant whose only contribution during his rare visits to your office was to stand stiffly in the corner and mutter “fuck me, not again.” Not what again? You’d never know.

Fixer looked between you and Scorch with a pair of dead bored eyes. “Scorch,” he said flatly. “Stop flirting with the officer and finish your paperwork. Boss wanted us to be done with it yesterday.”

“We’re not flirting,” you and Scorch said in unison.

Fixer sighed, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “kill me now,” and disappeared behind the manual sliding door that separated your cubicle from the rest of the office. Not that you’d ever demanded exclusivity, but apparently being the Safety and Compliance Officer (temporarily covering Risk Assessment too, since the sleemo who held the post resigned last quarter to become a holonet fashion influencer) meant your desk had turned into a revolving door of frontline troopers and spec-ops. It had gotten bad enough that upper management finally decided your constant parade of armour-plated visitors was “disruptive to the peace and productivity of the workplace.” Their solution was to wall you off and install a door. A flimsy little thing, manual slide, but it did the job. Honestly? You were grateful for the privacy.

“Fine,” you sighed. “Twenty-four hours. I want it in my inbox. Written in your own words. Not churned out by those automated generators you troopers love so much. They strip context, blur accountability, and interfere with transparency. The Senate committee will gut us if they think frontline reports are being fabricated by software instead of actual operators.”

“Last time I checked,” Scorch scoffed, “I’m not one of the GAR’s comm officers. So if I want to use those automated tools, I will. Not a part of my job des—”

“Or I’ll personally call your Mandalorian handler and get you disciplined.”

That shut him up for a second before he leaned in and hissed through a grin, “Oh, you would never. Because if you did, I’d call your—”

“SCORCH.” The bark came from behind your door. You both turned to see another figure behind the frosted transparisteel window in orange-and-white armour, and a standard regulation cut. “We were supposed to be at Qibbu’s an hour ago,” Boss snapped.

Scorch winced as he rose, helmet under his arm. “Guess I’ll have to finish threatening you later, sweetheart.”

You groaned and immediately grabbed the little bottle of overpriced “relaxing” room spray you’d panic-bought from some wellness shop at the Embassy Mall. One quick spritz, two, three - still not enough to kill the smell of armour, sweat, and whatever seppie-fueled hell Delta Squad had just crawled out of. When was the last time they showered? You didn’t even want to know.

Sinking back into your chair, you pulled the flimsi towards you and forced yourself to reread the report.

GAR Incident Report  Filed by: RC-1262, “Scorch” Mission Code: [Redacted] Sector: G6, Level 3761 Objective: Root out separatist cell. Blow stuff up. Actions Taken: Kaboom. Threw thermal (bigger boom). Collateral Damage: Approx. 1/3 of the block is now “modern open-plan design.” G6 train station maybe offline. Check with locals? Civilian casualties: none witnessed. Notes: Explosion was fantastic. Recommend giving me more thermals for future ops. Blast radius: “big enough.” Structural damage: “see attached doodle.” 

You pulled out an attachment with a crude sketch of a building with little “boom” clouds drawn in, and a stick figure (labeled “ME”) holding what looked like a thermal detonator.

Conclusion: Kaboom. 🎉

The flimsi fluttered as you let it drop back onto your desk. You stared at the stick figure drawing hoping it might spontaneously combust and put you out of your misery. Somewhere out in the office, someone’s caf machine hissed. You pressed your forehead to the desk.

“I’ve told you to ask for a transfer if this job frustrates you so much,” Besany from the Logistics Center said as she slid a tray across to you, steam rising from the white ceramic bowl of dumpling soup and a rice noodle on the side. She’d been your only semi-sane friend in the building since last year, which meant she’d appointed herself your unofficial career counselor. 

“Go apply to the Republic Science and Technical Center,” she continued, unwrapping her burger and squeezed out a sachet of spicy condiment. “I heard they’ve got a compliance officer vacancy. And you know how those scientists are, they’ll happily push a prototype into testing without documenting blast limits or failure contingencies. Someone has to babysit their ‘brilliant’ ideas before they vaporise half a lab.”

“Eh. I’m good here.” You shrugged, picking up your spoon. “Besides, the pay’s decent. I’m on a permanent contract now. Don’t feel like starting over in a quarterly contract at the Science and Tech Center. Yes, I saw the ad.”

“I mean, you always complain about troopers, especially commandos, not giving you a proper compliance report after finishing high-stakes missions.” She bit into her burger, muffling her next words. “Funny. Guess these lot are better as friends, not colleagues.”

“To be fair,” you stirred your soup, “maybe a select few would make good colleagues. I’ve never heard Zita complain. That guy works with the Corries at the Senate Building, and apparently his desk is blissfully quiet. No commandos barging in, no stick-figure doodles attached to reports.”

“Is this about Scorch again?” Besany perked up immediately. “I swear to whoever created this wretched galaxy, you always have a problem with that one! I thought the edgy one would be trouble.” She barked a laugh. “You know, I saw him zoning out in one of the hangar lifts once. I asked him what was wrong, and he simply said, ‘Oh right, forgot to push the buttons,’ and walked straight out. Didn’t even look embarrassed.” She cackled, shaking her head. “Those commandos are such a riot.”

“Oh, of course,” you murmured. “You’re biased. You’re dating one of them.” Chuckling quietly, you kept your volume low so the analysts at the next table wouldn’t overhear.

Besany almost choked on her nerf burger. “Excuse me? There is nothing between me and Ordo.”

“Nobody said anything about Ordo,” you laughed, pointing at her with your spoon. “Oooooh—unless…”

Her cheeks flushed the faintest pink, and she jabbed her straw into her drink. “Don’t start,” 

“Maker, I knew it. All this time you’ve been lecturing me about my so-called commando problem, and you’ve been sneaking off for caf with ‘one of the most esteemed ARCs’ himself.”

“It was one time,” she whispered fiercely. “One caf. For work.”

“Uh huh. Sure. Totally professional. Just like my office smells totally professional after Scorch drags in half the underworld with him.”

Besany groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “Stars, you’re insufferable.”

“I better see Scorch’s revision in my inbox before sunrise tomorrow. Otherwise it’s over for him and his—ooh, wait.” Your datapad pinged, cutting you off. “It’s only been six hours?”

The sender glowed in bold blue text: [email protected]

“That was… surprisingly fast.”

You opened the mail. No attachment. Only a single line in the body text:

Subject: (no subject) Message: kaboom

Underneath, he’d slapped in a blurry photograph of himself giving a thumbs-up with a half-eaten ration bar hanging out of his mouth. Behind him was Sector G6, judging from the cracked street sign hanging at an angle,a blast site he was supposed to report properly.

You unceremoniously flipped your datapad to Besany.

Across the table, Besany nearly spat her drink. “Oh my stars, is that what counts as work correspondence with him?”

“I… hate him. I really do.” You stared at the screen, equal parts furious and begrudgingly amused. 

Your datapad pinged again.

Second message from [email protected]

Subject: addendum Message: pls tell the oversight committee the blast radius was ‘yay big’ (see attached) and literally zero casualties.

You opened the attachment and groaned. A photo of Boss and Sev, standing at the centre of the blast site, both pointing vaguely at the background. Nothing in the frame except scorched duracrete, shattered piping, and a blackened transit sign. The entire sector was scorched, pun fully intended.

Sighing, you turned back to Besany. “He says ‘literally zero casualties.’ Which means I now need to triple-check it with Civilian Affairs for property claims, Health and Welfare for casualty cross-reference, and the bloody Coruscant Guard Incident Registry in case the CSF down there already filed complaints. And then I have to do the Risk Assessment report with all three reconciled before I can even draft my compliance note for the Oversight Committee.”

Besany winced. “That’s like… five offices.”

“Six if Infrastructure and Utilities decides to scream about the train station.” You jabbed your spoon into your soup. “Scorch gets to write ‘kaboom,’ and I get to chase down hundreds of divisions and a thousand subcommittees for the next two weeks.”

“If I were you, I’d just take him out for a caf and ask him nicely.” Besany finished the last of her meal. “Sometimes it’s the only way to get through to them. You know how the Republic treats them. Their BAS is abysmal, their rations are worse, and on top of that, they’re expected to blow things up and do paperwork afterward? I understand compliance is important, but stars, it must be exhausting for them.” She sighed, softening for a moment.

You rolled your eyes as you chug down your soup. “Boss and Fixer never complained. Sev either, oh especially Sev, he gets very descriptive. It’s scary how detailed his reports are sometimes. He once wrote two pages on what a body looked like after a flamethrower exposure.” You shuddered. “The Omega Squad’s been compliant too, and they’re deployed out of system most cycles. So no, I don’t think this is about exhaustion.”

“Mm.” Besany chewed thoughtfully, eyes narrowing. “So it’s just him.”

“No. Don’t.” You pointed your spoon in her direction. “Hardcase from the 501st also behaves the same way, but—”

“But he’s not like Scorch?” Besany’s smile curved.

You ignored it, plowing on. “But his captain and lieutenant actually review everything before submitting in bulk to me.”

“Really? An entire legion? Rex and Jesse do that?”

“No, just Torrent Company,” you muttered. “Anyway, that’s beside—”

“I still think a caf is on the table,” Besany interrupted smoothly, leaning back with that maddeningly smug look.

“You’re supposed to be on my side.” You groaned, dragging a hand down your face.

“I am,” she said sweetly. “And my side says, stop drowning in subcommittees and bribe him with caf.”

To his credit, Scorch did eventually submit a revised report before the deadline. It wasn’t good, but it was legible. Well, legible enough that you could scrape together actual data points and build a compliance file that wouldn’t get shredded by the Oversight Committee. Of course, that meant you had to spend the next few days chasing down Civilian Affairs for casualty verification, cross-referencing the Coruscant Guard’s incident logs, and pulling in Infrastructure and Utilities to sign off that the transit lines were “structurally compromised but not a total write-off.” By the time you packaged the whole thing into a neat document, you were running on two hours of sleep, three cups of strong black caf, and the faint hope that your inbox wouldn’t ping with another disaster before noon.

So when Delta Squad’s next mission file hit your desk, you braced for more flames, rubble, and the usual stick-figure doodles. Instead, you got Boss himself dropping a stack of flimsi on your desk.

“No detonation this time?” you asked warily, flipping through the report. “No broken infrastructure?”

Boss scratched his jaw. “Well… our sniper shot down two speeders when they started tailing him. Had to, or we’d be fucking toast.” He pointed a finger at the report. “Double-check with Jusik if you don’t believe me. Fi was there too. Recon mission was ass. Boring as fuck.”

“Boss.”

“Minimal damage,” he said quickly, holding up a hand. “Couple engines slagged, one karking crash into a kriffing wall. Building didn’t fall down, so that’s a fucking win in my book.” He scowled. “Do you know how fucking hard it is to haul a team of commandos through the underworld without blowing the place sky-high? It’s like sneaking a herd of rancors into a civilian speeder. Filthy, heavy, smells like shit. And the higher ups still expect us to write a polite little fucking compliance report about it?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Boss—”

“Look,” he huffed, planting his hands on your desk, “you’ll get your compliance forms, love, but don’t you dare tell me we didn’t do the galaxy a favour by not turning half the district into scrap metal. That’s me behaving, in case you missed it. So stamp it, sign it, send it, whatever the fuck you do back here, and let me get the hell out before my boys throw a house party at Qibbu's.”

He turned towards the door before he paused to look over his shoulder. “Oh, and Scorch said something about sending you proof there were no explosions this mission. Expect it by noon. Kid’s floating in bacta right now, pulled a couple muscles. Fucking hilarious. Let him loose with a satchel of thermals and he’s skipping like a fucking cadet, but tell him to sneak around quietly and he injured himself.”

You spent the better part of the morning scanning the paperwork Boss had submitted, and filed them one by one to the laggy GAR intranet system. It was the kind of thing that made you want to file another report directed at the HR division for subjecting you to psychological torture. Every line had to be combed over at least three times. For instance, Boss had written “minimal damage” in three separate places, but in one section he also admitted that “a rowdy speeder chase was happening in the Entertainment District.” He’d called it “on-site improv,” which you had to rewrite into “counter-surveillance measures taken to prevent compromise of mission objectives.” Then there was the line where he described the local gang who’d been doing some intel work for the Separatists as “shit-for-brains street scum.” That one, you spent an entire ten minutes debating how to sanitise into acceptable language before finally settling on “local non-state actors engaged in obstructive activities.” By the time you reached the conclusion section, where Boss had simply written ‘job’s done, fuck off,’ you had your head in your hands and the beginnings of a headache behind your eyes.

So when your datapad pinged again with a message from [email protected], you knew, deep in your bones, that you were about to regret opening it.

Subject: proof no kaboom Message: told ya. zero explosions. all stealth. 10/10 would do it again.

Attached was not, as you desperately hoped, a proper incident log or even a schematic showing zero detonation evidence. It was another blurry bacta tank selfie of himself, submerged up to his neck in bacta fluid, giving a smug thumbs-up with one hand whilst the other floated limp in its waterproof sling. Behind him, Sev peeked behind the tub with his sniper rifle, and Boss’ and Fixer’s reflection could be seen in the mirror behind Sev with their middle fingers raised directly at the camera.

You stared at it in silence for a long moment before you locked your datapad and let your forehead rest against your cold metal desk.

The datapad pinged again, and you lifted it lazily to see a follow-up message.

Subject: addendum Message: see?? no kaboom but my body’s cracked (because no kaboom).  

You closed your eyes, and prayed for patience. Sitting up straighter, you cracked your knuckles before typing the driest, most by-the-book soul-sucking response you could muster.

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: Re: proof no kaboom Dear RC-1262, Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately, the attachment provided does not constitute acceptable compliance documentation under Republic Oversight Committee standards. As per GAR Compliance Directive 14-C, missions where no detonations are used must still include proof of compliance. Minimum documentation required: - Ordnance Inventory Log signed by your squad’s quartermaster (to confirm no issued explosives were deployed). - Weapons Discharge Record (to verify engagements were limited to small arms/sniper fire as reported). - Structural Integrity Clearance from the local Infrastructure and Utilities division (to confirm no damage to public works). - Civilian Casualty Cross-Check with Civilian Affairs/Coruscant Guard (to verify zero civilian injuries or fatalities). - After-Action Statement from your squad leader, in full sentences, detailing operational measures taken in place of demolition. Please revise and resubmit within 12 standard hours. A photo of yourself in a bacta tank does not qualify as acceptable evidence. Regards, Safety & Compliance Officer 894 GAR Risk and Compliance Division Commlink Code: 990808

You sent it off, satisfied at the blunt professionalism. For all of thirty seconds.

Your datapad pinged again.

Subject: Re: proof no kaboom Message: rude. that bacta selfie took effort. had to hold my breath so the bubbles wouldn’t ruin it.

You let out the longest sigh of the week as you massaged your temples. You told yourself not to reply, though your fingers had brains on their own.

Subject: Re: proof no kaboom Message: Effort would have been filling out the form correctly the first time. Best.

Ping.

Subject: Re: proof no kaboom Message: i’m injured, you know. you’re bullying a wounded soldier.

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt and hammered back a reply.

Subject: Re: proof no kaboom Message: I will gladly call your CO and ask him to discipline you if you keep misusing government email.

Barely a minute later—

Subject: Re: proof no kaboom Message: do it. boss loves when you call him. says your voice makes you sound like you’re about to strangle someone. he’s into it.

“For fuck’s sake.” You shut off your datapad before you could throw it across the cubicle, and forced yourself back to the stack of work on your desk. Grabbing your desk comlink, you punched in the line for the Coruscant Guard’s admin desk to double-check incident filings before you even thought about finalising Delta’s compliance package.

Next to their ever-growing pile was Omega Squad’s, not much better, though at least Niner could string together coherent sentences. Beside that sat a smaller pile from Ordo and Mereel. All three groups had been tied up in the same underworld op, which meant triple-checking overlapping claims, reconciling their different reports, and trying to build one consistent narrative the Oversight Committee wouldn’t laugh you out of the chamber for.

In your inbox, another mountain waited for you. Wolfpack’s compliance from a joint sweep, plus a possible bundle from the 212th’s spec-op squad once they got back from their deployment in the neighbouring system. Which meant your week was about to dissolve into a carousel of “urgent” cross-checks and signatures from people who’d rather eat their expired rations than fill in a Form-62B.

You scrolled down the shared staff directory, debating who you could bother to make your life easier. Risk & Compliance was technically a division, not just you, but after the last round of budget cuts, most of the junior staff had been shuffled to other offices. You still had Leebee, your long-suffering data clerk, who could chase casualty records and fast-track other clearances if you bribed him with decent lunch. Ravi handled Policy and Procedures, half the time they answered your pings, half the time they ignored you until you showed up at their desk in person with that nice caf from Fabosi District. Investigation and Resolution had their own rep, a tired middle-aged officer named Colin, who was usually willing to fast-track your requests if you’re willing to sit and listen to him yap for two hours. For cross-system missions, you sometimes had to lean on Regional Oversight liaisons, poor bastards stuck parsing comms reports from across Mid Rim and Outer Rim. And when things got really bad, you had a list of rotating interns from the Administrative Office who could be worked into data entry shifts.

The quick call with the Corries confirmed it - no explosions, no secondary blasts, no panicked civvie complaints in their registry. Which was, frankly, a miracle. Great. Wonderful. That meant you could strike one nightmare off your list which was you didn’t have to draft a ten-page letter to the Ethics Office of the Republic and the Republic Oversight Committee explaining why a thermal detonator had been “operationally necessary”. No tedious citations of tactical plan, no rehearsed lines about “minimising civilian risk.” No having to attach a signed memo about why blowing a hole in a water main was actually essential to rooting out a Separatist cell. Stars, you could cry from relief.

Still, you had no idea how the other Safety and Compliance officers spread across the GAR handled their workloads. Were they all drowning in the same endless tide of half-assed reports, conflicting testimonies, and “oops, the building collapsed, but don’t worry, minimal casualties”? Or had you just been cursed by some cruel twist of fate to be assigned to every spec-ops lunatic in rotation? You had the pick of the litter: the 501st’s Torrent Company and their stray tookas; the 212th, who had a charming habit of “redecorating” entire sectors in pursuit of one droid nest; the 104th, steady but prone to sudden wolfpack rampages that left you reconciling insurance claims from an entire district; and, of course, the commandos. Delta, Omega, the strays that answered to Mandalorian handlers - all funneled their paperwork disasters directly into your inbox.

Some days you daydreamed about packing up, sneaking aboard the next supply shuttle headed for the Unknown Regions, and vanishing without a trace. No datapad, no flimsis, no reports stamped URGENT. Quiet. Stars, even a primitive outpost with no comms relay would be better than filing one more compliance memo defending the use of military-grade explosives inside city limits.

Later that evening, you packed up like it was any other bland Coruscant evening. Datapad powered down, flimsis stacked into a neat “tomorrow’s problem” pile, the office lights dimming to that corporate-sterile glow that meant the night shift droids were clocking in. You swiped your ID, rode the lift down, and did the exact same thing you did every night when the day finally let you go - stopped by the bodega tucked into the corner of the plaza. The clerk didn’t even look at you as you grabbed a pre-packaged dinner from the warmer, a sad excuse for bantha steak, an overly-salted protato mash, and a small chocolate brownie.

You trudged the familiar walk back to Tomkip Towers, the same old high-rise packed with other tired non-clone GAR employees pretending not to notice each other in the lift. In your flat, you tossed your bag on the counter, peeled off your jacket, and collapsed onto the couch. Holovision flickered to life with its usual cycle. The evening news showing the same war footage and Senate updates you already heard at work, followed by some aggressively stupid holo sitcom about smugglers running a café on Tatooine. You forked down the steak without tasting it, mind blissfully numbed out.

Then your comlink pinged with an unknown code plastered on the screen. You frowned, thumb hovering, before curiosity got the better of you.

Unknown: hey, i got some nice snacks from kal. i will bring it up for you on my next visit so you wont be such an angy officer

Your brow furrowed. 

You: Who is this?

The answer came almost instantly.

Unknown: it’s scorch dummy. before you ask, you had your number in your email signature. i’m not being creepy. yes something poofed again. can you believe that?”

You groaned. Of course. Of course he’d find a way to invade your off-hours. The comlink buzzed again before you even put it down.

Scorch: i’m injured and DID A KABOOM. ISN’T THAT BADASS?

You set the tray aside, threw your commlink on the sofa behind you, buried your face in your hands, and seriously considered whether flinging yourself out of Tomkip Towers’ thirty-second floor window would be less painful than dealing with this man.

Still, your fingers itched, because if you didn’t reply he’d probably spam your inbox until morning. You snatched the commlink back up with a sigh.

You: That will be your next visit’s problem. I’m trying to enjoy dinner now.

It was strange, really. No trooper ever texted you personally. Not unless it was a commanding officer chasing paperwork on behalf of his company. Jesse and Rex sometimes, Cody when he didn’t trust his lieutenants, Wolffe once or twice. They were the ones who had enough responsibility to care about compliance deadlines. The only real exception was Fox, the poor marshal commander of the Coruscant Guard, who had an alarming habit of messaging you at three in the morning with things like “please confirm: do demolitions count as collateral if the Corries did it to defend Republic’s sector in level 4781?” or “delta squad in your office again? tell me everything.” He never admitted it, but most of his messages were just gossip under the pretense of “coordination.” You always entertained them, partly because you needed the Guard on your side for smooth verification, and partly because you pitied the man. Fox worked twenty-four hours a day, five days a week. Sometimes you wondered if he even remembered what sleep felt like.

Your commlink buzzed again.

Scorch: snacks are worth texting abt. kal got some nice ones this week he’s such a nice dad. u like sweet or salty? You: I like compliance reports that don’t make me want to strangle someone.

Ping.

Scorch: salty then. also you ever notice how your texts read like email? “i like compliance reports” who even talks like that 🤓

You sank deeper into the couch.

You: This is harassment of a government employee. I can and will file a report. Scorch: oh please. you love it. if i didn’t text you’d be bored watching whatever garbage holo u got on right now

Your eyes turned guiltily to the holovision, where a laugh track blared over the sitcom that was, in fact, absolute garbage. 

You: I’d prefer garbage holos to your selfies, thanks. Scorch: liar. you saved that selfie didn’t u You: I DID NOT Scorch: liar again. bet it’s in your “important documents” folder 🤣

Setting your commlink down, you exhaled sharply through your mouth before picking your device up again, because you knew if you didn’t shut him down properly he’d keep going.

You: If you ever send me another selfie instead of an actual revised report, I will personally request the Ethics Office to draft a new policy banning you from GAR communications. Scorch: worth iiiiittttt

“I told you I’d bring snacks!” The demolition expert gave you a shit-eating grin as he dropped a cardboard box full of things you’d never seen before. Crisps in transparent no-brand bags, nuna jerkies, protato crips covered in cheesy dust and supposedly barbecue powder in questionable neon packaging. Most of them you vaguely remembered spotting in markets buried in the lower levels. “All salty! For the salty compliance officer,” he added smugly.

“You bleached your hair.” You squinted up at him. The roots were still dark, but the rest was uneven - some toned to a nice cool shade, the other half brassy yellow. 

“Why didn’t you reply to my last text?” He only grinned wider.

“Because you asked me how to bypass the reporting system if you hypothetically destroyed an entire city block in Sector C97, Southern Underground. Did you actually?”

“I would,” he shrugged as if it wasn’t worth the effort, “but of course I didn’t. That place is crawling with seppie hideouts. Southern Underground’s vile. I’d rather be stationed in the Outer Rim.” He said it so casually you almost missed the important part, which was the fact that he hadn’t denied considering it.

Sighing, you dragged the flimsi across your desk and pointed a stylus at the worst of it. “You actually wrote more than kaboom this time, so I’ll give you that. But I still need clarity here—” you tapped the line item, “Section 4B: Munition Type, Quantity, and Serial Registration. You put ‘two thermals, both compact.’”

The commando gasped.

You tapped your stylus lower. “And here, Section 5C: Collateral Damage Assessment. You wrote ‘building now has big window’ I need confirmation, was the wall load-bearing or not?”

“It was a load-bearing wall. But the seppies were behind it. So… better no wall than more clankers, right?” Scorch leaned over the desk. 

You closed your eyes and counted to three, imagining the Senate Oversight Committee tearing this flimsi apart line by line whilst the man in front of you popped open one of the mystery snack bags without asking, “See, you’re making it sound worse than it was.”

“Because you wrote it worse than it was,” you muttered and yanked the snack from his hand.

“Relax, angy officer.” He reached into a pouch that he had been carrying to pull out his datapad, and started swiping through his gallery with greasy cheesy fingers. “I got proof. Look—see? This one’s the wall before.”

He shoved the datapad across your desk. Grainy picture of a dingy underworld corridor, mouldy grey wall intact, and then he swiped to the next picture. “And this one’s after. See? Barely a boom. Clean breach. Load-bearing? Sure. Catastrophic collapse? Nah. Building’s still standing. Bit more… breezy, that’s all.” 

The corridor was now open-air rubble, at least that’s what you could see from your seat, with thick dust covering its surroundings. “Barely a boom? Scorch, that’s structural damage.”

“Destructive? Sure. But not catastrophic. That’s compliance-friendly, yeah?” He waved it off, digging another handful of chips.

“Just show me the damage report from the other site.”

Scorch simply chewed his crisps, and swiped his datapad. Suddenly, a picture of Sev deadpanning into the camera while Scorch himself posed behind him with two dead battle droids’ heads. Another swipe, Fixer, caught unflatteringly with his mouth wide open, datapad in hand. Another swipe, and it was a picture of Boss sleeping upright in a chair, helmet propped on top of his head like a hat.

“Compliance documentation, huh?”

His cheek flushed red, thumb fumbling as he swiped too fast. “Uh. Fun shots. Y’know. Internal use only.”

“Right.”

Grinning again, he finally landed back on the proper documentation. At least a metre tall pile of battle droid limbs, and the ‘barely a boom’ breach expanding wide behind them. “See? Totally minimal.”

“Minimal. Uh huh. I’ll be sure to phrase it exactly like that in my summary for the Senate Oversight Committee.”

“Oh, come on.”

You ignored him and quickly finished typing the last of the clarifications into your computer, cross-checking the photo against the flimsis until it was at least borderline acceptable. Scorch, meanwhile, was still munching happily, easily sweeping the crumbs collecting on the edge of your desk to the floor.

“You are dismissed. Why are you still here?” You hit the enter button with a force. 

“Dunno. Got nowhere to be right now.”

“You don’t have drills? Debriefs? A whole entire block of city to blow up, maybe?”

“Nah,” he said easily, kicking his boots up onto the corner of your desk. “Meeting with Skirata and his boys isn’t until Primeday. My brothers are busy running laps around the BlasTech Gikosphere.” He made a disgusted face. “I don’t like running. Prefer classic PT. Weights. Push-ups. Y’know, real exercise. Not chasing your own ass around a track like some fresh-off-Kamino cadet.”

You glared at his boots, nudged them off your desk with your stylus, and sighed. “This is an office, not your barracks. And not a gym. I’m not here to babysit you when you’re bored.”

“Eh, I didn’t ask.”

“So?” You shooed him towards the door.

“Umm. No thanks?” He popped another crisp into his mouth. “Oh stars, this is so good. Think it’s the spice powder. Whatever it is, fits me. Salty, addictive, bad for your health.”

“That’s the most accurate self-assessment you’ve ever made. Actually…” you gave him a look over your monitors“...probably the only accurate self-assessment you’ve ever made.”

“Whatever,” he said around another mouthful. “I’m starving. Could go for lunch right now, and no, not the mess hall.” He punctuated it with a sudden loud and unapologetic burp.

“Ugh. Then go, Scorch. No one’s keeping you here.” You wrinkled your nose. 

“Don’t pretend I didn’t hear your stomach growl back there,” he cackled. “Come on, it’s almost twelve.” 

“Are you serious?” You stared at him flatly.

“Duh,” he said, smiling from ear to ear. “Because you work too much, and because I know you’re dying for something better than whatever sad microwave slop you eat every night.”

“I don’t—”

“I know where you live.”

“That’s fucking creepy.” You blinked. 

“Well,” he said with a shrug, crumpling the crisp packaging into a ball and tossed it to the rubbish bin, “to be honest, Boss told me not to say that to you. But I promise it was strictly professional intel. We were investigating a GAR officer running double as a Separatist agent—” He paused, his grin faltering for a split second. “Oop. I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

“Scorch.”

“Forget I said it. Totally classified. You never heard it.” He held up both hands.

“Maker, give me strength.”

“Please just go for lunch,” he picked the clone trooper bobblehead and shoved it in your face. “I’m starving. And if I’m starved, technically you’d be responsible for starving a child cause I’m eleven.”

You gave him a long, dead-eyed look. “You’re eleven in clone years. You’re twenty four in natborn years.”

“Heh. Natborn,” he repeated, chuckling to himself. “You mean randomly ejected individuals?”

“I don’t care,” you said again.

“Well, tough luck. I’m not leaving until you get your ass up and eat lunch with me.” He leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed, and crumbs dusting his fitted black undershirt.

With your head buried in your hands, you tried to go back to your flimsis, forcing your eyes onto Section 6A. You could almost make sense of the nonsense Scorch had scrawled there, something about “local criminals discouraged by intimidation (see attached doodle).” You silently told yourself if you ignored him long enough, he’d get bored and leave.

But no. Of course not. Every time you moved in your chair, you heard the obnoxious crunch of another crisp, the rustle of foil packaging, the occasional satisfied hum as if he was intentionally testing your patience. And when you risked a glance, he was still there, eating the snacks he had given to you happily, completely immovable. You realised, with a sinking feeling, that he wasn’t bluffing. He could sit here for hours, perfectly content to snack his way through your workday, derailing your schedule, driving you insane until you cracked.

“Okay, fine,” you groaned, kicking your chair back so hard it screeched against the floor. You stood, grabbed your jacket in one angry motion, and stomped towards the door.

Behind you, Scorch popped up immediately. “Knew you’d see reason.”

“This is not reason. This is giving up.”

“Eh, same difference.” He followed you out.

The walk didn’t take long, Scorch seemed to know every shortcut through the military district, cutting your route past uniformed officers, military barracks blocks, and supply depots until you ended up in a shadowed corner behind a supermarket. A literal hole carved into the duracrete wall of the parking structure, no signage, no tables, only a couple of greasy counters wedged in the wall, some plastic chairs, and a thin haze of steam curling out. A man stood behind it, ladling broth into white bowls with vintage nuna illustrations. A cluster of troopers loitered nearby with plates in one hand, eating like this was the finest dining Coruscant had to offer.

“This,” Scorch announced proudly as he grabbed his order, “is where the boys like to eat.” His eyes lit up as the vendor handed him a steaming bowl piled high with noodles and meatballs, which he dug in immediately. “So? What’d you order?” He glanced at you over the rim of the bowl.

You held up your plate when the server handed it over. Not noodles, not soup. Just a heaping plate of rice, doused in broth, with two slabs of fried soy-cakes stacked on top, a ladle of curried greens on the side, and some fried gluten crisps thrown in for good measure. Cheap, fast, greasy, exactly the kind of meal you’d lived on since moving to the capital of the Galaxy.

Scorch paused to gawk at your plate. “Heh. You know your stuff. Most Republic officers wander up and order noodles cause it looks safe. You went straight for the soy-cakes.”

“You know this place isn’t a novelty, right? There’s one under my apartment. Their soy-cakes taste better than this, spicier too. This one’s good,” you admitted, taking a bite, “but the one near mine? Heavenly. Proper kick that makes you sweat.”

“Heavenly soy-cakes, huh? Subtly offering to take me there, or am I supposed to show up under your apartment and guess which stall sells ‘em?” 

Rolling your eyes, you shoved a spoonful of rice into your mouth to avoid answering.

“Yeah, thought so.” He cackled as he pointed his chopsticks at your tray. “Still. Respect. You climbed about three ranks up the cool people hierarchy.”

Both of you ate in silence for a few moments, letting the grease and spice work their magic, watching the line of troopers in plain fatigues and various coloured armours filtering into the hidden corner. They clustered in twos and threes, laughing with their mouths full. The air was filled with the scent of the steaming broth, the clatter of cutlery, the background noise of a dozen conversations you weren’t supposed to overhear.

Scorch gestured with his chopsticks towards the little crowd. “This is why we eat here. Mess hall’s efficient, sure. Ration bars, protein cubes, vegetable soup, choice of carbohydrates, all very nutritionally balanced, but it tastes like kriffing plastoid. We feel more like people here. Nobody checks your portion, nobody times how fast you eat. You pay the guy a few credits, get your food, and sit or stand where you like. No saluting, no marching, no eyes up your ass.”

It was true. None of them looked like soldiers here, only a bunch of identical young men with different haircuts wolfing down cheap food in the middle of a long shift.

“Guess that explains why this place is packed.” You picked at your soy-cake, chewing thoughtfully. Before you could stop yourself, the question slipped out. “So why do you commandos always look… bigger? Broader? Everyone else is built lean, but you lot walk in like you’ve been hoarding growth serums.”

Scorch snorted into his broth, coughing before he could answer. “Hoarding growth serums… Hah, that’s a new one.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still chuckling. “We’re bigger cause they made us that way. Different program. Heavier PT, higher-calorie rations. They wanted us bulked up to carry twice the gear, smash through twice the doors, take twice the hits. Supposed to look scarier for ‘intimidation factor,’ too, I think that’s what Fi called it.” He jabbed a chopstick at his own chest. “Which basically means more food, more weights, more bruises. You should’ve seen our intake while the CTs and CCs were running obstacle courses, we were hauling massive cannons till our arms gave out. Push-ups till we puked, then another set because according to Vau, we should never give up even if our guts hate it.”

“That’s brutal.” You winced, setting your spoon down. 

“Eh,” he shrugged. “Built me into this fine specimen, didn’t it? Salty, addictive, bad for your health. Remember?”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t miss the way he was watching you as he said it. “Whatever. I have to finish this fast and be back in my office in less than thirty minutes. And you… You will go back to your pack.”

“No,” he immediately refused.

“No?”

“I will go back to your office too.”

“No, you will not.”

“Yes, I will.” He slurped another mouthful of noodles, finishing it. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to do my job properly.”

You stared at him, waiting.

“Because my mission logs are in my datapad, which I, uh…” He waved his chopsticks vaguely. “…left in your office.”

“You what?” your face was a study in both offence and confusion. 

“Left it in your office,” he repeated. “See? I gotta come back. Can’t log a mission without my datapad.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You can’t get rid of me.”

And from then on, it became a habit. Somehow, Scorch decided he was the one who would deliver Delta Squad’s paperwork instead of Boss. At first you fought it, insisted the squad leader was supposed to handle formal submissions, and he could only be there to give clarity to his otherwise blank reports, but eventually you gave up because every time Scorch sauntered in, he carried not only the flimsi but the entire story of the mission in his mouth. Where Boss would’ve written “mission completed, minimal interference,” Scorch would yap with his mouth full of snack, describing exactly which stairwell they’d taken, which civilians ran screaming, how many times Sev acted like a smartass, how Fixer suddenly became a maniac in the field. He’d tell the story, and you’d take notes, piecing together actual compliance-friendly language from his rambling. 

Once the report was patched and filed, he’d drag you out to eat. Always. You stopped pretending you could say no. It was easier to let him talk you into whatever hidden stall or hole-in-the-wall he’d discovered than to fight him whilst he laughed like he knew you’d cave anyway. Lunch with Scorch became part of your calendar, sandwiched between audits and verification calls, an annoying interruption that you found yourself looking forward to in spite of yourself.

The routine bled wider than you meant it to. You learnt the ins and outs of Delta without ever trying. Who did what in the field, which ops went sideways, almost-confidential details about the infamous Triple Zero mission. He didn’t even realise how much he was giving away. He would just sit in your office chair, recounting how Walon Vau screamed at Kal Skirata for having different ways of raising the soldiers, or how Sev and Atin are in this perpetual beef. You weren’t supposed to know these things, but you did, and it felt oddly intimate.

And then came the texts. At first it was an extension of work, “kaboom happened again, i’ll bring proof” or “boss says send in a good example for form 98-A or he’ll strangle someone.” But soon it changed into absolute nonsense - from tooka memes pulled from the holonet, group selfies of Delta Squad crammed into a speeder, Fixer sleeping under his bunk, Sev flipping the camera off with dead eyes. Half the time the photos were useless, grainy, badly lit, but they made you laugh anyway. He’d double text, triple text, no shame whatsoever. Your commlink became a dumping ground for his stream-of-consciousness nonsense, and somehow, you didn’t mind.

Scorch: hey. Scorch: u awake? Scorch: [attached image: tooka with its face smashed against transparisteel] me waiting outside your office You: It’s 1am. I am not awake. Scorch: ooo. are your pants on fire? Scorch: [attached image: Fixer asleep at his datapad] this man has been talking abt hacking and encryption for 6 hrs Scorch: should i draw a dick on his helmet You: If you do, I’ll make you write a 40-page memo on vandalism of GAR equipment. Scorch: [attached image: Sev with both middle fingers raised] he loves me. You: Tell Sev I’ll approve his request to have you gagged during debriefs Scorch: wow betrayal Scorch: anyway just wanted to say your dumpling place recommendation near the republic mil base >>> the noodle place. i owe u. You: Finally, something we agree on. Now sleep. Scorch: k night salty ❤️

One fine morning you trudged into the office expecting your inbox to have at least 89 unread compliance updates, a red URGENT flag from Infrastructure, and a polite but passive-aggressive reminder from the Oversight Committee about “timely submission of finalised reports.” Business as usual.

You grabbed a mug of caf from the mess hall before clocking in, the bitter sludge enough to make your brain semi-functional. By the time you dropped into the chair, you were already scrolling through the day’s firestorm in your datapad when your commlink buzzed.

Scorch: [attached image: a bowl of stir fried soy-cakes drenched in chili oil] breakfast of champions. bet you can’t handle this heat

You snorted into your caf, almost spilling it on your desk. Another buzz.

Scorch: forget it, my stomach just gave up on me

That brought a laugh out of you, which you immediately stifled, but it was too late. Besany appeared out of nowhere with her caf in hand, and eyes narrowed in. “What,” she sank into the chair in front of you, “is making you smile before nine in the morning?”

“Nothing,” You said quickly, flipping the commlink face down on the desk. “Work.”

“Uh-huh.” She leaned over, sipping her caf, gaze locked on you. “Work doesn’t make you laugh like that. What was it? Another message from your favourite demolition expert?”

“Besany.” Heat crept up your neck.

Besany’s eyebrows shot up as she beamed. “Oh my stars. He’s already trained you to smile at your commlink like a lovesick shiny at 79’s.”

“I am not lovesick!” you snatched the commlink up to silence it. “I’m just managing him.”

“Mmhm.” She gave you a wicked smile. “Well, from where I’m sitting, it looks like he’s managing you.”

“Hey.” You rolled your eyes. “That’s more like what Ordo does to you.”

Her smirk faltered for a second. “That’s unfair. Besides, I’ve admitted to you that yes, Ordo and I have gone on a couple of dates. At least I admit it.”

“They’re wrapping up their missions here by the way. So that means your man is also leaving?” You leaned back in your chair, victorious for all of three seconds.

That wiped the smirk clean off her face. Besany glanced away, fiddling with the handle of her caf cup. “It’s not—he’s not—” She sighed, the bravado draining out of her. “Yeah. Probably. Soon.”

Tilting your head, you watched her carefully. It wasn’t often Besany Wennen went soft; usually she carried the hard edge of someone who’d survived years in the Republic Treasury Audit Division. Yeah, not Logistics like she let most people assume. A few days ago, as the Triple Zero mission wrapped up, you’d learned the truth, that she’d been posing as a Logistics officer all along to investigate Vinna Jiss. But now, for once, she looked more human. “…You’ll miss him,” you said.

“Maybe.” She said quietly before aiming her finger at you. “But don’t change the subject. You and Scorch. Admit it.”

“Literally nothing.” You pressed your datapad to your chest and stood up. “Lunch later?”

Besany smirked. “Only if a certain RC isn’t kidnapping you.”

You groaned, tugging your jacket straighter. “He doesn’t kidnap me. He… ambushes me.”

“Ambush or ambush?” She stretched her arms upwards before sipping her caf with infuriating calm. “Well, if you disappear around noon, I’ll know who dragged you into some back-alley food stall again.”

“Stars help me,” 

Behind you, Besany’s voice piped up the empty mess hall. “It’s a date, whether you admit it or not!”

“One, two, three. Gotcha—not a couple. I win again.” You pointed your spoon, triumphant even with your mouth still full of rice. Across the restaurant’s corner, two massive Nautolan men sat shoulder-to-shoulder, hunched over steaming bowls of curry, chatting animatedly with their head-tendrils moving in sync.

Scorch threw his hands up. “How the hell are you so good at this? They look like a couple. Beefy, cute, sitting close. If this was a holoseries, they’d be sharing noodles by now.”

“Nope. Brothers. Cousins, maybe. Look how they mirror each other when they eat? That’s family, not date, fraternal twins possibly. Pay attention.”

He squinted, following your line of sight. “Kriff. You’re right. They both sip at the same time.”

“Mmhm. Synchronised slurping, familial trait.” You shoveled another bite into your mouth.

Scorch slapped his chopsticks on the rims of his bowl. “Fine. But that one—” he pointed at a table by the far wall where a human woman was leaning across to fix her companion’s collar, “is definitely a couple. Look at that. Intimate grooming!”

“Intimate grooming? You make it sound like they’re tookas licking each other’s ears. That’s her coworker, Scorch. She’s fixing his uniform because he clearly can’t keep a proper fold.” A scoff escaped your lips.

“What kind of monster helps a coworker fix their collar if it’s not romantic?”

“The kind who cares enough so the other doesn’t get chewed out in inspection,” you shot back.

“AH HA!” His voice shot up loud enough that two nearby troopers looked over. “They kissed!” He slapped a hand over his own mouth so fast it was almost comical. “I knew I’d win one day,” he hissed through his fingers.

“Congratulations. You identified a couple in a food court. Would you like me to draft you a commendation?”

“Yes, please. Make it official. To whom it may concern, RC-1262 is an expert in guessing game, please promote him immediately.” He propped his elbows on the table, grinning like an idiot. 

“Right.” You checked your chrono and pushed your tray away. “I have a meeting at two, which means I have to sprint back. You good?”

“Yeah,” he said with a shrug, still chewing on the last of his meal. “Oh, almost forgot. They’re shipping us out to the Chaykin Cluster. Some ghost ship thing. The briefing note said it’s an assault ship that went missing months ago and then just, poof, reappeared. We’re supposed to get the data core.”

Your eyebrows touched a stray fringe. “Sounds simple.”

“Simple, sure,” he gave a sheepish smile. “Except ships don’t just wander off into the void and stroll back on their own. So, naturally, they’re sending us.”

Filing away the mental note that if Delta came back in one piece, you’d be drowning in more illegible reports for safety and compliance. “And you’re telling me this because?”

“Because you’ll miss me,” he said immediately. “And also because when I get back, I expect deep fried soy-cakes with that umami batter. The spicy ones from your apartment block.”

“You’re not dragging me to lunch the minute you return from a mission,” you warned.

“Wrong,” he said cheerfully, standing to dump his tray. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. Call it part of the routine.”

By the third day without a single ping from RC-1262, you told yourself it was peace. Your inbox was quiet, free of incoherent reports about accidental destruction of city infrastructures, no late-night memes, no interruptions at your desk. You had time to clear Omega’s tidy paperwork, process Wolfpack’s accident reports, and even file a full 212th compliance bundle without once being forced into a hole-in-the-wall lunch. The silence should have been a blessing.

By the fifth day, it started gnawing at you. Every time your datapad and commlink chimed you checked them too fast, and every time it wasn’t him you shoved it aside. 

By the seventh, you’d convinced yourself you didn’t think about it anymore until your inbox finally pinged with a message from [email protected]

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: still alive Message: hey salt, in case you miss me (you do), i’m still alive. turns out the Prosecutor is a real piece of work. we boarded fine, then all hell broke loose. comms cut, we had to split our way. boss went aft, fixer to the port, sev is retrieving the sensor logs. i ended up searching for the bio metric logs. haven’t linked back up yet. ship’s half alive and it's eating our signals on purpose. been living on ration bars and whatever the galley didn’t rot. fun times! datapad’s running low but figured i’d check in, cause i know if i don’t you’ll miss me! anyway, yell at me so i know you got this. – scorch

The message caught you off guard. You knew how these commandos were, you knew the risks, the endless dangers written into every deployment. Hell, you were the one filing safety and compliance reports based on their flimsi scribbles, the one measuring the damage they caused and the injuries they sustained. You knew, better than anyone, how dangerous the missions were that they were sent on. And never, not once, had you let yourself hesitate over them. They were just names on your desk, soldiers you worked with, nothing more.

So why was this different?

You typed slower than usual, forcing your brain to think of an appropriate reply.

Subject: Re: still alive Message: No need to report to me as no Republic-owned infrastructure is broken in this mission. Therefore, there is no compliance assessment required on my end.

You paused, staring at the blinking cursor. A single bead of sweat slid down your temple, and you wiped it away with the back of your hand. Another sigh escaped you, and before you could stop yourself, you added:

But feel free to send me your status update anyway.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath before finally hitting transmit.

The message left your outbox with a soft ping, and you closed your datapad shut, sighing long and heavy, already hating yourself for cracking first.

The reply didn’t take long. Your datapad buzzed with a new message.

Subject: re: still alive Message: ha! knew it. you said no need to report but then said i could anyway. don’t worry salt, i’ll keep u updated. better than yelling into the void. heading for the forward data core now. i’m pinging advisor and the boys too so everyone’s in the loop but comms still choppy as hell, lots of static. it’s kinda cool that my message found you! sev says the ship is haunted. fixer says i’m an idiot. boss says both of us are idiots. 

anyway. i’ll grab the logs, link back up, and send you something funny so you don’t look so grumpy at your desk.

p.s. miss me yet?

You stared at the screen, lips pressed tight, before giving him a quick ‘good luck’ reply. According to your services, it was sent, but not delivered.

And that was the last you heard.

No pings. No blurry selfies. No smug “kaboom” updates. Silence, for days.

Things like this happened often, the communications officers reminded you when you finally caved and asked. Signal traffic was their wheelhouse, not yours. Operations and Communications clerks in the command center, Signal Intelligence techs on the fleet side, even the Advisor staff who monitored spec ops comm channels. They were used to it. A mission went dark, signals dropped, sometimes for days. You knew the routine. You knew the systems. And you had never once worried before, because it wasn’t your business. Above your pay grade. Not your fight.

But curiosity clawed its way past your good sense. So you asked again, and this time, someone gave you the answer.

A Trandoshan dropship had been spotted squatting in one of the Prosecutor’s hangars, scavengers planning to sell the cruiser to the Separatists in exchange for battle droids. Delta Squad was ordered to destroy the dropship and eliminate the Trandoshan threat. Standard sweep-and-clear. Except somewhere along the line, Scorch had been cut off from the rest. You barely absorbed the rest of the briefing your colleague rattled off. Just fragments. Within moments of the Trandoshan ship’s destruction, a Droid Control Ship arrived to claim the Prosecutor. Advisor sent a distress signal. The Republic starship Arrestor is en route to assist.

The gnawing anxiety slowly consumed you, biting at the edges of your thoughts, disturbing your sleep. You told yourself it wasn’t about him, you disputed it every time the idea crept in. Your worry did not stem from growing care for what you used to call the most annoying clone in the galaxy. No, it was just the silence. The absence of noise in your inbox. That was all.

Days went by, and still no news. If there were updates, they were highly confidential. You knew your place in the Republic war machine - you weren’t Intelligence, you weren’t Operations Command, you weren’t even Fleet Comms. Who were you, really, in the grand scheme of a galactic war? Just a paper pusher.

A Safety and Compliance Officer. You took the reports others dashed off in frustration or exhaustion and rewrote them into neat, audit-ready documents that the Oversight Committee could parse without triggering a headache. You chased signatures, logged structural assessments, confirmed casualty numbers. And because the officer who handled Risk Assessment had quit to become some kind of holonet influencer, you covered that too. Which meant you also drafted impact statements, ran cost estimates for collateral damage, and flagged repeat safety violations for internal review. You were there to make sure the Republic’s own war didn’t bankrupt itself in insurance claims and repair bills.

It was unglamorous work. Necessary, but invisible.Your name never left the paperwork, and nobody thanked you for doing it right. The only time you got noticed was when you failed to catch something and the Senate committees were very good at noticing failures.

So no, you weren’t supposed to care whether an RC operator you’d threatened with disciplinary review every other day was alive or dead on some derelict assault ship in the Chaykin Cluster. It wasn’t your business. It wasn’t your responsibility. It wasn’t your place.

And yet, there he was, living rent-free in your head.

Days turned into weeks, and you shoved that gnawing curiosity deep down where it couldn’t eat you alive. Back to work, back to being the corporate slave you were. Wolfpack casualties to process, 212th spec-ops damage reports, Torrent Company once again doing something so reckless that left a crater in some backwater planet and a furious senator filing a complaint. You grumbled your way through it, quietly grateful you were only assigned to a handful of elite companies and special operations units. You couldn’t imagine handling an entire legion or battalion’s worth of damage reports. No wonder GAR had opened another vacancy for Safety and Compliance last week.

Usually, you barely left your wing in that massive Republic Military Base. Your cubicle, your files, your inbox. But lately, you’d caught yourself wandering farther than you needed to. Drifting towards the main buildings, the hangars, even the crowded main mess hall. Telling yourself it was just to avoid another sad canteen lunch, when really it was just… searching. Hoping to catch a glimpse of—

Knock. Knock.

Your head snapped up. “Come in,” you called.

“BET YOU THOUGHT YOU’D SEEN THE LAST OF ME!” That obnoxiously cheery voice filled your office, bouncing off the walls.

There he was. Helmet under one arm, armour still scuffed and battered, hair a mess and overgrown, grin wide as ever. RC-1262. Scorch.

You blinked at him, heart beating faster than you cared to admit, but you would never, never in a million years say that you—

“Why are you still alive?” you snapped, regaining composure, clinging to the only defense you had - sarcasm. You had to hold back the conflicting urge to punch him and hug him at the same time.

“Oh, you think you can get rid of me that easily?” the commando flashed his teeth. “The answer is no. Also, cool thing, after we finished that ghost ship mission, we answered a distress call!”

“Oh god,” you groaned, burying your face in your hand at the dangerous level of excitement in his voice. That tone only meant that he was about to yap for days. Stars, you’d missed it.

“Uh huh! A Red Zero distress signal, no less. Sent out by none other than Omega Squad!” He plunked his helmet on your desk, squeezing himself - armour and all - into the chair across from you until it squealed. “Of course, hah, they’d be helpless without us - the superior squad. So we grabbed a Neimoidian shuttle we’d found aboard the Prosecutor, flew it right into the mess, and pulled them out.” He mimed piloting with one hand as he relieved every moment.

You stared at him, equal parts exhausted and relieved. “And somehow, no one’s dead.”

“Exactly!” He beamed. “Anyway, hi!”

“So… no public infrastructure damage for me to explain to the Republic Oversight Committee this time, right?”

“Nope,” he said cheerfully, popping the p for emphasis. “Ghost ship, remember?”

You frowned. “Then why are you here?”

Scorch shrugged. “Dunno. Thought I’d stop by. Say hi. Annoy you. Keep you company while you do all that boring paper stuff.”

“So you’re wasting my time.” With arms folded, you groaned. 

“Exactly,” he grinned, utterly unrepentant.

You huffed, trying to summon your usual exasperation, but it came out softer than you meant. “…You’re insufferable.”

“And yet.” He propped his elbows on his knees. “You didn’t tell me to leave.”

The inbox pinged with another details of the compliance report you were working on, Foxtrot Group this time. They’d been newly assigned to you just last week, fresh from their posting on some Outer Rim campaign. Their captain, Gregor, had already managed to charm the entire office when he first dropped off their compliance report, all easy smiles, great hair and polite words, as if he hadn’t just survived a brutal frontline assignment. 

When you looked up again, Scorch was still there, in the chair across from you. Still beaming like he’d never left. His hands were busy toying with the handmade clone trooper bobblehead perched on your desk.

You rolled your eyes, fighting a smile of your own. “Fine. If you’re going to loiter, at least make yourself useful. Hand me that flimsi stack.”

Scorch picked it up obediently. “See? You would miss me.”

You ignored him but the warmth blooming in your chest betrayed the mask. The silence that had haunted you for weeks finally shuddered apart under his presence.

“Ooh, Foxtrot!” he blurted suddenly, pointing at the header of the flimsi you’d just opened. “They’ve got cool armour, you know? But a completely different function since they’re attached to battalions. Do you even know how that works?”

A content sigh came out of you as you braced yourself for the incoming lecture, but there was no hiding the small smile tugging at your mouth.

Scorch’s voice faltered for a moment. He tilted his head, watching you with that mischievous glint in his eyes. “…You’re smiling again.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are.” He grinned wider. “Maybe we should go for dinner later tonight.”

“Maybe.” You shrugged. 

“It’s a date then!” He smiled brightly, hands waving animatedly as he continued with his stories about armour upgrades, and way too many inside jokes you couldn’t follow. You let him yap, stylus scratching half-heartedly at your notes, listening more than you wrote. The inbox in your computer pinged again with another incoming report, and you didn’t bother to check it.

“I have come to a decision,” you announce as you step into the kitchen.

“Have you decided you’re never going to cook again?” Cody asks dryly from where he’s standing in front of the kitchen sink, eyeing his cast iron skillet critically, “I think you killed it.”

“Excuse you, I’m an amazing cook.”

“If you count burning food to char as cooking, then sure.”

You scowl at him and set a hand on your hip, “I decided,” you repeat, “That I’m going to go on a date tonight.”

Cody pauses, just long enough for you to notice, and then he turns to look at you critically, “You have a date?”

“Why do you sound like you don’t believe me?”

“Because you said, and I quote, ‘men are trash, I’m never dating again’ after your ex cheated on you.”

“That was clearly the devil talking through me!” You counter, waving his words away.

“Clearly.”

You huff out an annoyed breath, “Look. It’s time I put myself back out there, yeah? I can’t become a hermit.”

“Why not? We can be hermits together.”

You point at him, “No.”

Cody leans against the counter for a moment, his expression amused, “You know,” He starts, “I bet your date is going to talk about himself non-stop.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I bet he won’t even bring his wallet, to make you pay for his meal.”

“Wow, you have a stellar opinion on people.”

“You know what, you should let me run a background check on him. Just to be safe.”

“Cody—”

“You never know! He might be sith.”

A laugh slips from your lips, “Cody, I’m pretty sure Sith Lords don’t use Spinder.”

“They might. How else are they supposed to recruit new baby Siths?” He straightens and snatches your phone from your hand, “Here, let me see—”

“Cody! Give me back my phone!” You try to snatch it from his hand, only he lifts it over his head where you can’t grab it, “Cody!”

He presses his free hand over your face, “Shush, I’m working.”

“You’re being nosy, it what you are!” You pull his hand off your face and stand on your toes to grab his wrist. Sadly, you would need to work out a lot more than you do before you’d ever be able to over-power him.

And so, he opens the app to your one, single match.

“This is him?” Cody asks. “Where are the other matches?”

“There aren’t any. I’m not exactly a catch, Codes.”

“See, this is why you shouldn’t use these things. They’re programmed to make you feel bad about yourself.”

You roll your eyes, “Sure, sure. Give me my phone—”

“Not yet. Sweetheart, are you sure you want to go out with this guy? He’s a walking red flag.”

“How do you even know that term?” You demand.

“Fives.”

“Of course.” You jump to try and snatch your phone back, but he’s too quick for you, “Cody!”

“Let’s see.” Cody scrolls through your dates profile, “See, he still lives with his parents.”

“So do a lot of people. It’s not cheap living on Coruscant.”

“You manage on your own.”

“I have a roommate. You. You dingus!”

“...oh, yeah.”

“Honestly, Cody. There’s nothing wrong with him.”

“Hmm...oh, he doesn’t have a job.”

“I...his profile doesn’t say that.”

“No, no. It does. Right here. See, here under career, ‘an employee of life’.” Cody waves your phone in your face, “You’ll be paying for everything, sunshine. In my professional opinion, he’s a leech.”

“You don’t even know him. Maybe he’s just a—a hippie, or something.”

“You’re stretching there, sweets.”

“I already agreed to the date, and we already agreed where to meet up, so I’m going.”

“Sure, sure.” Cody twists away from you and opens the messaging app.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t worry about it,” He replies as he sends a message. And then two more.

“Cody? Cody! What did you do?”

“Ooh, he messaged back.” Cody says cheerfully, “Wow, he’s not nice. He’s calling you a two-credit whore here. And this message suggests that he wants to break your nose.”

“What did you do?”

“I told him you needed to push the date back an hour due to work things.” Cody tosses you your phone, which you fumble with and nearly drop, and then you look at the messages.

And your shoulders slump.

Cody’s message was exactly what he said it was. But the messages your date sent you were twice as abusive as he actually said. “...I’m glad I didn’t go anywhere alone with him.” You finally admit.

“There’s no need to be disappointed, we can order dinner and watch that movie you’ve wanted to see. The spy one.”

“I’m going to die alone and unloved.” You say dramatically as you cancel the date, and delete the app.

“Don’t be silly. You’ll have me.”

“Until you get married and I get kicked out of my own apartment.”

Cody laughs and turns back to the sink, “You really don’t have to worry about that. After all, you’re the only person I’d be willing to marry.”

“...what?”

He glances at you over his shoulder, “Did you think I was kidding when I said I loved you?”

“No, of course not. But, like, as a friend.”

“Trust me, sunshine. I don’t think about my friends the way I think about you.” Cody grins, “Anyway, I thought we were already dating?”

“I...no?”

“No? We go out to dinner together. We watch movies together. We clean the apartment together and go grocery shopping together—”

“But—but—you never asked!”

He wipes his hands clean and then walks over to you to squish your cheeks together, “Well then, I’ll be a lot more transparent from now on. Would you like to have a stay-home date with me tonight. With greasy pizza and a bad spy movie that I’m going to hate but will tolerate because you like to swoon over the female lead.”

“...yeah, okay.” You pause, “You really don’t like the spy movies?”

“Eh,” He shrugs, though his grin doesn’t waver, “I like you, so it makes up for it.” Then Cody drops a kiss to your forehead, and releases your face, “You burned food onto my good skillet, which means you have to scrub it. I’ll make you pancakes while you work.”

“...yeah, okay.”

Cody drops one more kiss to your temple, and mumbles something against your skin, before he releases you and heads to the pantry. And you turn your attention to the skillet, thinking that today went a lot better than you feared.

Even if Cody was being annoying.

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Entries by @alor-ika

Or Should I Call You Scorch? - Existing Character(s) - Vau glanced down at the curly haired boy who was clearly trying not to sound too eager. He’d chosen RC-1262 to be Delta Squad’s demolitions expert because was smart, calm enough, and he’d shown some aptitude for the calculations required to mix the explosives properly.

Sev & the Wookiees - Existing Character(s) - Just a silly story about Sev finding and naming baby Wookies on Kashyyyk.

Boss' Dream - Reader's POV as Existing Character - Boss' recurring dream about Sev. Some locations and context for parts taken from the Republic Commando books & TCW.

Entries by @arliganzey

What Should We Drink To? - Existing Character(s) - Delta Squad's hunt for rogue Kaminoan scientist Ko Sai has led them to Tropix Resort, a fabricated luxury beach resort on the planet Dorumaa. General Bardan Jusik has tasked Delta with an important mission: eat dinner at the resort restaurant.

Sex Education - NSFW Scorch x OC - Sometime after the war, Scorch caves and asks Mereel and Kom'rk everything they know about dating and having sex. He finds a partner in Pella - but can he overcome his self-consciousness about his scarred body?

Light Kidnapping - Existing Character(s) - Delta Squad has assimilated into the Imperial army. Being commandos is the only thing they know, thanks to their training from Walon Vau. They know some commandos have deserted and are probably living it up with Skirata. But Delta isn't made for civilian life. Given the choice to leave, will they take it?

My Brother, My Brother, My Brother, and Me - Existing Character(s) - Three vignettes about Scorch and his brothers.

Entries by @blue-marbles

Delta Squad: Bonds - Existing Character(s) - About two years before Geonosis, Sev gets injured in a training exercise. He doesn't want anyone to know - not even his squad mates. But his brothers are way more perceptive than he believed them to be. And sometimes, accepting help is harder than any mission...

Never Forgotten - Existing Character(s) - One year after their fateful Mission on Kashyyyk, Scorch remembers Sev and decides to make a promise.

Demagolka - Existing Character(s) - It had been years since the war ended, years since Walon Vau had last seen most of the Commandos he trained. Yet, the memories of what he did to them still linger and haunt him more than any time spent on a battlefield ever could. Working through nightmares and memories, he has to ask himself how deep his guilt goes, how to live with the regret, and whether there can ever be redemption…

Delta Squad: Trapped - Existing Character(s) - On what should have been a routine reconnaissance mission to an abandoned mining outpost, Delta Squad finds itself trapped in a room full of tibanna gas tanks. The facility's power keeps flickering on and off for no apparent reason, and it seems like somebody locked the door behind them. When the Deltas try to work out what they are actually dealing with, Fixer has a crazy theory that makes his brothers wonder if he finally lost his mind…

Delta Squad: Vode An - Existing Character(s) - After a successful mission, Delta Squad is waiting for extraction. While his brothers are resting, Boss is on guard. He starts thinking about the lyrics of Vode An, and delves into memories about his brothers and the meaning of brotherhood. But then enemies approach, and Delta Squad has to prove once more that their strength lies in their bonds as brothers in arms.

Smoke and Stars - Existing Character(s) - Kashyyyk, 19 BBY. As the Clone Wars are slowly coming to an end, Sev finds himself separated from his squad, with his comm down, and under attack. He knows that if he wants to see his brothers again, he has to fight his way out of this situation, and take a massive risk.

Entries by @clonegirl99

Bet I Can Make You Smile - Sev x Reader - “I’m going to make you smile, Sev, and you’re going to like it.”

"You're Hurt" - Sev x Reader - You giggle again and squeeze Sev's hand. “I’ll go first. Tell me about this scar you have that the boys teased you about…”

Scars - Sev x Reader - “So he bacta’d me and glued my head back together – look, no scar,” You lean forward and Sev studies your forehead – A’den did do a good job, he has to admit. “And now, here I am.”

"I Dreamed About You" - Sev x Reader - Sev had been a wildcard. You’d known men like him before – taciturn, stoic, singularly focused – and they tended to fall into one of two categories: complete aversion to any kind of vulnerability or affection, or touch-starved snuggle monsters.

Entries by @ct7567329

Full Plates, Fuller Hearts - Sev x Reader - Your boyfriend, Sev, is back on Coruscant after a long mission, so you decide to treat him to a special home-cooked dinner.

Pieces We Mend - Scorch x Reader - Scorch rushes to his go-to weapons technician to repair his beloved blaster for the umpteenth time. When sharing stories of his deployment takes an unexpected turn, scars of your past are revealed.

When Dreams Slip (Pt. 1) - Fixer x Reader - A near-death mission brings Boss to the Jedi Temple for healing and you straight into Fixer’s head.

When Dreams Slip (Pt. 2) - Fixer x Reader - Delta Squad has returned from their mission! Scorch, Sev and Boss will NOT let Fixer forget about their 'unofficial' second mission.

Target Acquired - Boss x Reader - When Delta Squad comes to help train your Rebel village, you think you're prepared. You already know how to fight. What else would you need to be ready for? Definitely not feelings.

Here and Gone (Pt. 1) - Sev x Reader - One day while hiking, you accidentally stumble upon a Republic sniper post, a quite handsome Commando seated inside. Suddenly, your hikes start to coincide with his shifts, giving you a reason to return again and again. In the quiet moments you share, something unspoken grows between you.

Here and Gone (Pt. 2) - Sev x Reader - It's been over a year since Sev left, but it still feels like just yesterday he was here. You're unsure what hurts more: the fact he left you or the fact that you can't let him go.

Entries by @detroitbydark

Beyond the Clouds - Existing Character(s) - Featuring a reluctant sniper, an overly enthusiastic demolitions expert, and a sky full of possibilities.

What Dreams May Come - Existing Character(s) - His hands press into the soil anchoring him to the moment. Just for a second Scorch pretends he’s not alone. His brothers are at his side and the world is limitless.

Ba'vodu - Existing Character(s) - His heart thuds inside the cage of his chest. Around him, the kitchen has gone quiet. Laseema and Atin are the only others around to witness his lapse in training. Them- and Kad.

Tell Me That Your Soul Lies Now (Chapter 1) - Sev x OC x Scorch - A surprise acquisition leads to questions in Kyrimorut. Sev, Scorch, and Wal'buir are left to question the meaning of family, loyalty, and love.

Caf Bribe - Existing Character(s) - Talking about his feelings (YUCK) was not going to stop Sev from waking up panicked and wild from nightmares. It wasn’t going to make him eat more than half the food Scorch dutifully brought to his room every day. It wasn’t going to get him to talk.

Day of Planting - Existing Character(s) - Scorch celebrates his first holiday in Mandalore.

Entries by @fractiouskat

Terrible Parenting: A Biography - Existing Character(s) - Third-cycle cadet RC-1140 takes a tumble, and Vau is forced to vaguely attempt something resembling responsible parenting. It goes about as well as you'd expect.

Entries by @hellfiresky

Where the City Glows at Night - NSFW Sev x Reader - You hadn’t done a one-night stand with someone off a dating app in a while, but you let Sev, a Republic Commando, ruin you anyway. Well, the city was glowing and loneliness was one hell of a drug.

Delta Squad's Favorite Wingstop Seasoning - Headcanons

Thought This was a Simple Recce Mission - Boss x Reader - What started as a quiet recce mission with Boss quickly devolves into a skirmish through the Kashyyyk jungle.

Entries by @i-willstealyourtoes

Midnight Munchies Invitation - Scorch x Reader - Although your words might have come across as rhetorical, you truly were confused to get a call from Scorch. Especially since you you didn't know he even remembered your name.

Reminders of Failure - Existing Character(s) - Scars never really bothered Scorch. They were just a symbol of all the 'awesome' things he's done and survived, right?

I Had A Dream About You - Fixer x Reader - The others-especially Scorch-had already taken a liking to you by the time Fixer finally admitted his appreciation towards you.

Convenience Store Date - Scorch x Reader - Scorch then spent at least an hour just looking around every shelf, and another half hour picking and buying (technically, you were the one buying, but you didn't mind. It wasn't expensive anyway).

Left Behind - Existing Character(s) - Brothers. Not everyone has one, but Sev was lucky enough to have 3 of them close to his heart.

Show You Where The Fun Is - Existing Character(s) - It felt weird to comm someone for reasons other than work, but Addy reckoned the best person to ask about this would be Mr. Clown himself.

Infighting - Existing Character(s) - Now, it was like every moment they weren't fighting enemies, they were fighting each other. Or rather, Scorch was the one picking fights with him and Fixer. And the truth was, Boss couldn't even be mad at him for it.

Entries by @lonewolflupe

You're Hurt - Existing Character(s) - Watch the master at work; cadet Fixer is testing his slicing skills during a training exercise.

Baby Wookiees? - Existing Character(s) - Too cute; when Delta Squad is finally back on Kashyyyk for an evac, Scorch is in for a hairy surprise.

I Dreamed About You - Existing Character(s) - Boss, I’ve got a problem here; alone and forsaken on Kashyyyk, Sev remembers his brothers

Tell Fixer That - Existing Character(s) - Could you can the chatter; unfortunately, Scorch has little useful to say today.

We Have A Problem - Existing Character(s) - That was a lot more intense than the simulations; a squad of commando cadets find their way into a smelly situation.

Where's My Caf? - Existing Character(s) - Maybe it’s the heat; Boss tries keeping sane between all the squad’s bickering.

I Love You - Existing Character(s) - Delta, give me an explosive solution; Scorch is asking the real questions here.

Entries by @orangez3st

Pardon The Way That I Stare - Boss x Reader - Delta Squad's sergeant is having a silly little crush on a cafe stage performer.

Something More - Fixer x Reader - It was really stupid of Fixer to ignore your affection. You're the kindest person in the world—he doesn't deserve you. But he's willing to change how he thinks about you.

(Not the) Weirdest Group Photo - Existing Character(s) Drabble - Wrecker’s posing with his Deece next to Scorch who's doing the peace sign. “Oh yeah, look at us. The explosion scar duo.”

We Hate Kashyyyk - Scorch & Self-Insert - And it just had to be the Kashyyyk mission. The most dreaded of them all. Say what you want about Geonosis and Assault Ship… “God, I hate Kashyyyk so much.”

Torture Me To Sleep - Scorch x Reader - For a fleeting moment, there seems to be the tiniest glimpse of hope. Although, the future remains uncertain—with Scorch's constant and cold presence towering over you.

Glowing, Fairytale, Knowing - Scorch x Reader - Three years after denouncing your Jedi path, you were still waiting for your soulmate. One night, he came to you in a dream.

Coruscant Guard, the True Professionals - Existing Character(s) Drabble - Inside the briefing room, Stone gestures to Sev’s DC-17m. “That kinda Deece ever jammed in the middle of a firefight?”

Get Tooka-fied! - Existing Character(s) - Tooka-fied Delta Squad is doing the exact same thing they usually did when reporting back to command center like this; their posture straight and… and, well, just that. There's no bucket to be taken off when there's none, and there's no verbal communication when some sort of barrier now exists. Language barrier. Species barrier, whatever.

Pani Popo - Delta Squad x OC - Raye's first day at Vau's turns nostalgic real quick.

How Do You Explain Unsolved Murders by Plasma Bolt?! - Sev x Reader - You always get away from the mysterious deaths of the people who bully you, only because of this dead dude from another galaxy who names himself Sev acting as your avenging angel, if that even exists.

New Orders Just Came In - Boss x Reader - Boss loves to take care of you, especially when you're sick—even if you put up a fight.

Tortured Even When I'm Asleep - Existing Character(s) Drabble - Something inside him was broken to shards, in its place now reigned fear. It keeps him awake at night, even now.

How Delta Squad boys confess their feelings for you - References

Entries by @the-stars-are-warring

Sergeant - Existing Character(s) - The breath comes out of Vau in a rush and Three-Eight braces, the other man's broken arm still held against his ribs. He broke Walon Vau's arm.

Keep Your Bucket On - Existing Character(s) - Something explodes behind them and Scorch shuts up and goes to pull his helmet back on but then the floor bucks under him and Scorch grabs for the wall (floor? Ceiling?) with the image of Boss mid-stagger with Sev falling into him as the last thing he remembers seeing before he wraps his arms over his head and bounces off of something as they hit the ground.

Blow It All To Haran - Existing Character(s) - Fixer winces. "Command wants the data so we get the data." He should care about the data. He should care about doing what command wants and getting it right and slicing into separatist systems and he doesn't.

Surviving - Existing Character(s) - It takes him a moment of fighting to get his breath back, and Sev runs his tongue over his teeth and spits again. His right knee aches, bone deep and spiking sharper. He's in it up to his neck this time and there's no cheerful Omega sap to pull him up and pretend it's not shameful for a commando to fall.

Old Scars - Existing Character(s) - Sev has to be dead because Fixer couldn't find anything. He'd spent months looking for anything. Something he'd missed, interference. Some kind of evidence that whatever had happened hadn't taken Sev's kit offline.

Lovely Afternoon For A Firefight - Existing Character(s) - Sev sweeps his scope over the valley one more time and pauses, tracks back - They'd set up here expecting an early morning patrol, so the mid-afternoon sun glaring off the rocks is interfering with his rifle sight.

Entries by @viridaee

Find A Way - Existing Character(s) - Scorch survived the fall in Bad Batch season 3 finale and now he's going to find a way out of Mount Tantiss's planet.

Entries by @yarnspunmuse

Eat Or Be Eaten - Existing Character(s) - The Deltas are bored until Scorch's legendary animal magnetism strikes and things get interesting. Fixer is infodumping. Sev is going feral. Boss just wants to lay down please.

Chronic - Existing Character(s) - Sev's throat is bothering him. It's Fixer's job to help. Neither of them are excited about it.

Improvisation - Existing Character(s) - Sev and Scorch are unsupervised on an active battlefield. They pick up some strays, make up plans as they go, solve some problems and create a few others. All in all, a pretty good day.

Tooka Troubles - Existing Character(s) - Scorch thinks he's alone on the squad's shuttle, just using the quiet time to get some boring grunt work done. Unfortunately, he is incorrect.

Bleach Bonding - Existing Character(s) - Sometime before Geonosis, Scorch learns about the wonderful invention that is hair bleach. This is alarming to Fixer for a multitude of reasons, so he decides to step in. Thus, a new tradition is born.

Tracyn - Existing Character(s) - Delta Squad gets an accidental crash course in wildfire awareness. It doesn't go well.

Kar'taylir Darasuum - Existing Character(s) - Sev and Boss and a late night conversation on Kashyyyk.

In Monnk’s personal opinion, he’s the most pathetic man to ever exist.

For one, very simple, reason.

It’s because four years ago, he met a young woman at 79s, and he’s been stuck on her ever since. Every time he closes his eyes, her face swims into view. And when he’s dreaming at night he can hear her voice and feel her lips against his.

It’s, frankly, embarrassing.

He doesn’t even know her name.

And it’s been four years, and he never saw her again after that first meeting.

And yet, here he is. Retired from military work, yet still living on Coruscant just in case he runs into her at the store or at the park or something.

She tasted like cotton candy. Her kisses sugary sweet in a way that Monnk became addicted to over the course of a single night. If he had been a smarter man at the time, he would have gotten her name or number.

But he had been a dumbass kid, basically, and let his angel slip through his fingers.

At this point, his brothers are starting to give him a hard time about it, calling him pathetic for being stuck on someone who might not even exist. And when Monnk started pushing back, they decided the best way to handle the situation is to set him up on a series of, increasingly bad, blind dates.

Honestly, Monnk isn’t sure why he still goes on these dates. Other than he doesn’t want to deal with his brothers’ nagging him about standing up his date.

Which brings him to now.

He’s dressed casually, a button down shirt and some nice-ish trousers, as he sits at a table in a restaurant that he doesn’t really like, waiting to meet a date he’s pretty sure he’s going to hate.

The last three dates he’s been on have hated his hair—she said that men shouldn’t dye their hair blue or wear it long—and one said that if she was going to date him, he would have to get his tattoo removed, which is never going to happen.

He shifts in the chair and rests his chin on the palm of his hand with a sigh. Maybe if he just leaves, he can tell his brothers that he got stood up and they’ll stop with this ridiculous blind date thing.

Monnk is pulled from his thoughts when someone drops into the chair across from him, and he flickers his gaze across her face. She’s pretty, her hair pulled into a braid down her back, and her lips are painted in the same shade of pink that you see on bubblegum.

She’s not really looking at him, though. She’s messing with her purse, and talking in his direction. Something about work being a hassle and that this isn’t really her thing, but her friends insisted.

And then she looks at him, and Monnk is able to get a good look at her face, and he straightens in his seat. He’d recognize her face anywhere. Stars know he’s dreamed of it enough times.

“Oh! It’s you!” She sounds pleased when she looks at him, and a bright smile crosses her pink lips.

“Monnk,” He offers her his hand, which she takes as she offers her own name, “Maybe now we’ll be able to talk more than once every four years.” He offers with a small grin.

“Hopefully!” She doesn’t seem to want to pull her hand away from his, her soft fingers gliding against his wrist, “I went back to 79s the next night, looking for you.” she admits, sounding almost sheepish.

“I got deployed that morning,” Monnk explains, “And I was gone for six months.”

“Well, that’s alright. Because we’re here now, yeah?”

“Yeah,” His grin widens, “So, do you still wear that cotton candy lipstick?”

A bubbly laugh falls from her, and then she shifts her chair so she’s able to press her knee against his, “It is my favorite.”

“It’s my favorite too.” He turns in his chair, just enough that he’s facing her, and he brushes his fingers against the corner of her lips, “Is that what you’re wearing today?”

She shakes her head with a teasing grin, “I decided to wear something new today.”

“Flavored lipstick?”

“Of course.”

Monnk taps his thumb against her lower lip, “What flavor?”

Her grin widens, “Why don’t you tell me?”

His gaze flickers to her lips, and then he leans back, “You know, I haven’t ordered anything yet. You want to get out of here?”

She tilts her head, almost coyly, “Aren’t you hungry, Monnk?”

“Starved,” He replies immediately, “but there’s nothing here that will hit the spot.”

She averts her gaze for a moment, but then locks her gaze with his again, “Well, in that case, we should definitely leave.”

It takes less than five minutes for Monnk to get up, for him to help her up, to guide her out of the restaurant, and to tug her into an alley not far from the restaurant so he can crash his lips against hers.

She tastes like strawberries, and she’s so soft as she presses against his body, her arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer. It’s the kiss, and the body, he’s been dreaming about for years.

So, really, it’s not his fault when he pulls back so he’s able to trail his lips down her jaw to her throat. And it’s not his fault when he lightly nips on the soft skin of her neck.

And when she whimpers, and tangles her fingers in his hair and pulls on it, Monnk starts to plan his wedding with her.

Her soft fingers trail through his hair, and she breathes out his name like it’s a prayer, and Monnk has to remind himself to check his grip so he doesn’t hurt her. But his gaze meets hers, and there’s something soft and hot in her gaze, and he can’t help but grip her hips even tighter.

Her eyes flutter slightly, “Monnk,” she murmurs, “You should walk me home.”

It’s an innocent comment.

“Will you let me stay?” Monnk asks, he doesn’t want innocent.

Her fingers glide against his jaw, “Until you get tired of me.”

“So, never then?”

And she grins at him so brightly that her eyes crinkle at the corners.

The following morning, Monnk wakes up with his legs tangled in hers and his arms tight around her waist. He’s deliciously sore from the scratch marks on his back and the hickies covering his body.

His comm is chiming with multiple incoming messages, so he grabs his comm to check his messages, all while tracing the marks he left on her body with a careful finger.

She groans and buries her face in his chest as he opens the many messages from Cody, and then Monnk releases a laugh. She whines and pulls back to squint at him, “Monnk?”

“Looks like you weren’t my blind date last night, princess.”

She blinks slowly, her sleepy brain struggling to comprehend, “That’s okay. This is better.”

“Oh,” Monnk leans in and steals a heated kiss, “I absolutely agree.”

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You stare down at him from your position above him. His gaze is lowered, focused on the datapad in his hand. It’s resting on his stomach, focused on where you’re hovering over his cock, hand slowly jerking him. 

It’s risky, doing this on GAR issued technology, but you trust Cody. 

You line up his cock, slowly sinking down onto it. You let out a moan, more exaggerated than you usually would, but you’re doing this for him. You’re about to head off on what’s going to be a grueling campaign, and neither of you will have the time to sneak away and do this. It’s the least you can do to give him something to relax with, when he gets those rare moments. 

You gasp as you settle on his cock, thighs gripping his hips as you give yourself a moment to adjust. He keeps the datapad steady, focusing where your bodies meet. You lift yourself up slightly, holding there before you sink back down. He lets out a quiet groan, watching you through the screen as you use him, bouncing up and down on his cock. 

You play up your moans, reaching behind you to use his thighs for leverage. You’ll tire out long before you reach your orgasm in this position, but you’re far from done. You’ve got a lot to give Cody still, wanting to make sure he has enough to remember you for these next few weeks. 

Cody films you for a couple more minutes before he sets the datapad down to wrap his arms around you. He flips you over, rolling you onto your stomach on the bed. He straddles your thighs, picking up the datapad again to film the curve of your spine, the roundness of your ass. You lift your hips just slightly, giving it a shake for him. He smacks a hand onto one cheek in response, grabbing a handful and squeezing. 

He releases you, shifting to set the datapad on the side table, keeping it focused on the lower halves of your body. He drags the head of his cock along your slit before he presses into you, shifting his body until he’s leaning over you, hips pressed against your ass. He slowly starts to thrust his hips dragging his cock in and out of you. 

You press yourself back into him, squeezing around him as he grinds against you. He drops himself onto his elbows, pressing his chest into your back. His lips attach to your shoulder, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin. 

You curse quietly, moving your hips back against him as he works you closer and closer to an orgasm. He pushes himself back up to his hands as he snaps his hips against your ass, picking up the pace. The force of his thrusts drag your clit along the bed, your back arching as pleasure washes through you. 

You moan loudly as you cum, his thrusts slowing to a stop as you spasm around him. He won’t cum. Not yet. 

He lets you come down from your high for a moment before he’s wrapping his arms around you, turning you onto your back. He’s so gentle, smoothing his hands along your body as he stares down at you. You meet his gaze, biting your lip at the lust shining in them. 

He parts your thighs, pushing them up, your hands grabbing the backs of your knees as he grabs the datapad once more. He focuses it between your legs, running his fingers through your folds before he takes hold of his cock once more. He teases your slit, focusing the datapad on your pussy as he presses his cock into you. You moan loudly, sensitive from your first orgasm. He presses all the way into you, holding the datapad still as he begins to fuck into you again. 

You moan, walls clamping around him as the angle drags the head of his cock along that spot inside you with every thrust. He can see the shine of your slick on his cock in the video, your thighs and lips shining with your slick. He’d worked you up good before he  started filming, using his mouth and fingers in the way he knows you like. He has a way of driving you insane, making you wet with just a look. 

Your back arches, pressing against him as he fucks you. He holds the datapad with one hand, the other dropping to your waist. You groan at the feeling of his calloused skin against yours, his hand holding you possessively as he works you up to your second orgasm of the night. 

He shifts the datapad just high enough to film the way your tits bounce as he fucks you, his hand sliding up your side to grab a handful. He squeezes for a moment before releasing you, dropping the datapad back down to where you’re connected. 

He’s close, you can tell by the way he’s groaning, the sound mixing with your own moans. Your back arches as he circles your clit, thighs threatening to close around him as he pushes you to your second orgasm, pleasure nearly blinding you. He stills, moaning sweetly as he cums inside you. He fills you up with every last drop before pulling out of you, moving the datapad between your thighs. You hold yourself open, the spasming of your walls forcing his seed to leak out of you. He films it as it slides out of your pussy, a satisfied smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. 

He turns off the datapad, setting it on the table. He crawls his way up your body, your hands finally releasing your knees. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him against you. 

“So good for me.” He says, lips brushing yours. “Always such a good girl.” 

You shiver against him from the praise, his half-hard length pressing against your thigh. “Thank you, Commander.” You say, kissing him. 

He groans against your lips and you know you have him. He reaches between your legs, spreading his cum along your folds as he drags his cock along your slit. He slips back into you, easing his cock into you. He settles against you, still kissing your lips. This one’s just for you two, your last private moment before you have to sneak back to your barracks. 

***

You’re half asleep in the mess the next morning. Cody had kept you up late, and you hadn’t been able to settle after you returned to your own barracks. Your mind was racing, preparing itself for this campaign. You know you’re going to be working long hours, trying to keep as many troopers alive as you can. 

You had also found it hard to relax with Cody’s cum leaking into your panties. 

You need caf desperately.

You’re in line when you hear it. You think it’s just exhaustion, perhaps a little delirium. 

Until you hear it again. 

You know that sound. You scan the mess, finding table after table of troopers all grouped together, huddling over datapads. You frown, stepping out of line for the caf machine to approach Waxer and Boil where they’re bent over a datapad. 

“What are you doing?” You ask. 

Both clones look up at you mischievously. You can hear it louder now, a nervous sweat starting to form on your back. You know that sound. 

It’s you. 

“Someone uploaded a sex tape to the GAR server last night.” Waxer smirks. 

Panic begins to bubble in your throat, threatening to choke you. It could be anyone, right? You know many clones like to pick up dates while they’re on shore leave. You’ve passed fellow civilian workers slipping out of barracks in the early hours of the morning before too. 

You move to stand between them, looking over their shoulders at their datapad. Your stomach drops, palms sweating as you stare at the bodies writhing on screen. It’s not just anyone. It’s you and Cody. Last night. 

Kriff. Cody must have uploaded it to the wrong server. 

“The entire GAR has access to it.” Boil says. “Everyone thinks it’s someone in Command, by the looks of the room.” 

“We’re trying to figure out who it is.” Waxer says, staring hard at the screen. “It’s definitely a clone.”

“Probably some barrack bunny.” Boil says, whistling lowly. “Whoever it is, he’s one lucky guy.”

You look up as more figures enter the mess, your gaze meeting Cody’s. Judging by his demeanor, he has no idea. You give him a panicked look, trying to decide if you should strangle him right here in the mess, or drag him somewhere more private.

You’re so kriffing screwed.

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