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3. Threesome (heh) / NO CLONECEST, Alcohol use, smoking, recreational drug use, reader has a shitty friend, brotherly banter, multiple reader orgasms (to make up for last time), no proofread

 Absolute fucking bitch.

 What a blithering fucking idiot --!

 You were parked in the vacant lot of your apartment, tapping incessantly on the dash of the taxi door as your eyes scanned the haphazard message that had slipped onto the small interface of your holo-comm, bouncing your leg as you read it over and over again.

 "Hey !! sorry girl, i can't make it out with you tonight :(("

 "Suuuper last minute, i know, but some things came up at my flat :/"

 You heard your cab driver hiss.

 "I hope this didn't ruin your evening, babe, have a good night !<3"

 Yeah fucking right.

 Someone might send a few lame-ass texts like that over a missed date or a change in plans, but you knew exactly what this was about.

 It was the entire reason you tried getting her miserable ass out of her flat in the first place.

 This was about her ex from the Ninth ring of Hell, likely making his guest-star debut in your friend's sheets for some reconciliation. Gods, it made your blood boil. She could be so damn stupid, Maker love her, and that idiot hardly has an ass-hair's amount of decorum to his name.

 You had half the mind to turn the taxi around and reprimand her yourself. All the bantha-shit you went through to arrange this skrag, and she can't even cancel plans in person? You hardly even wanted to do something like this anyway!

 "Hey!" The Bith taxi driver barked, an arm propped up on his seat to look at you as your head shot up from your comm. "You're shaking the cab."

 "Sorry," you apologized lamely as you ceased your idle leg-dribbling, pursing your lips as you glanced back down to send your girl friend a slew of messages she likely wouldn't see until morning, anyway.

 "Just-- C'mon, miss, I got other routes. Where am I takin' ya?" The cab driver exasperated.

 Frustrated, -- beyond that now -- you look up to give the cab driver an agonizing blink before relenting with a sigh of your own. "Yeah, just... take me to that address."

 With an exaggerated roll of his large black eyes, the Bith faced forward once more, taking the steering into his large hands to navigate out of the dim, empty lot into the skylanes.

 You should've known she'd opt out. She wanted to forget her ex in the simplest way possible; Another man.

 Verbatim! Ver-ba-tim. 

 You could pull your hair out, stressing over how you were going to tell these two strangers about this. It would've been much simpler for you if she'd been looking to hook-up with two Coruscanti randoms pulled out of a hat, but no, she wanted to fuck a goddamn soldier.

 Oh, yeah, just those six-foot-tall, two-hundred-somethin' pound, genetically enhanced, built-like-a-brick-shithouse soldiers. There's a load of them, how hard can it be?

 Very fucking hard, unless you stood outside on the corners near Clone bars, hoping a fucking convoy of them passes you in a cab.

 There were a myriad of variables. Serviceman shore leave on Coruscant was always brief, this was especially the case for clones. Where a citizen might have allowances, the clones had a grain of it. They had curfews, protocol, check-ins, too, far more rigid than the typical standard, you assumed. They weren't seen as citizens, not even second-class -- military equipment -- and they had their limitations.

 And you worked with two of them to make sure this shit panned-out --

 -- For a friend that ditched you for some chump and his chapped pecker. Unreal.

 You weren't entirely off the hook, either, you were pretty enthusiastic about this during the week before tonight, egging yourself on to ease your nerves. The profound guilt was there, a ball of lead behind your sternum, yet fluttering with excitement any time you toyed with the notion of sleeping with a clone.

 You weren't blind; They were goddamn hot!

 It didn't matter if their duraplast was splattered with heinously clashing colors, or if their hair was dyed or trimmed oddly, the bastards must know they could get away with it. You'd gone to the clone bar, The 79's, only a few times with your friends, witnessed a few clones dressed-down out of their armor, sans-helmet, baring their tattoos, scars, implants, cybernetic eyes or whatever feature made them stand out from their 'standard issue' brethren, even if it was only for a handful of hours.

 For crude military equipment with strict limitations, the clones seem to let loose better than anyone you've ever met. Perhaps that was the paradox. The 79's is definitely a good place to people-watch.

 So you stupidly agreed to this "two-man" as she called it, and now you were en-route to the rendezvous, spending your credits on this shitty cab and this shitty room, for absolutely nothing. The ride to the motel was short, your driver's tense silence made it no less awkward for you.

 Honestly, you paid it no mind. There was far worse things to worry about, for instance, having to reject two servicemen at the last bleeding minute.

 It wasn't long until the cab pulled off the skylane, drifting out of the saturated luminescence that baptized every inch of Coruscant's night-life, blinking magenta and pulsing blues flickering across the dash and your lap. It faded away as the taxi pulled into a darker lane off the main route, down a skylane that was more seedy than a lower-level cantina.

 You were sure that numerous public officials had utilized the secrecy of backwater motels and hostels below Coruscant's surface level, maybe even that fat creep, Senator Free Taa. From what you understood, they had all a matter of lecherous perversions, one way or another.

 Might make for a good story over a drink if you spotted one, you mused as the taxi pulled to a stop. The Bith glanced at you through the rear-view expectantly, hardly bothering to turn around to receive his pay, let alone speak or wish you a safe night. No, just extended an open palm to accept his credits.

 Jerk-off.

 Without a word yourself, you dropped your credits into your sour-breathed chauffeur's waiting hand before promptly exiting the cab, feeling the taxi's repulsorlift sink and jostle as you stepped out onto the tarmac. The incessant twat pulled off before you could fully close the door -- what-the-kriff-ever.

 It dawned on you then, the next tooth to be pulled, as you reluctantly made your way across the open pavement, utterly vacant, save for a few speeders and shanty little crotch-rockets. You could admit to yourself you felt paranoid as all hell walking across the empty lot toward the rental room, the setting doing little to put you at ease. It might've been less nerve-wracking to have company with you, you thought bitterly, gnawing into your cheek as you withdrew your comm from your pocket to briefly check if anything had changed.

 No messages. Lucky bitch was probably riding that asshole into the horizon.

 More likely than not, the troopers were already there, punctual as ever, your palm were already damp as you mentally prepped yourself to let them down easy, preening yourself in the reflection of the transparisteel window as you walked along the array of rooms.

 Two-fifteen, two-fourteen, thirteen... There! Two-twelve.

 You let a sigh waft from your nose as you went to punch-in the code you'd been sent, only for the door swish open with a pneumatic whir, the threshold engulfed by a hulking silhouette a head taller than yourself.

 Well, you at least anticipated that.

 The pair of you stood there in silence for a moment, both parties unsure of what to say as you both gawked at each other. Clean-shaven, save for a handle-bar mustache, and a head of tight black curls kept tame with standard trim you saw on most clones. He was dressed-down from the waist up, a black GAR-issued body-glove fitted to his lean form as he leaned into the door frame.

 "You, uh... hiding your friend?" He asked roughly, his thick brows pulling together as he glanced around you, ducking out of the room to look up and down the walkway.

 What else were you supposed to say? As of right now, you felt like a Corellian hooker. 

 "So, I um..." you began, trailing off as your neck flushed, words failing you.

 The other suspect of the night poked his head out from around the corner of the refresher further in the hotel room past the two double-beds, dressed-down in a similar manner, save for his white and orange-swatched duraplast armor from the waist down.

 "Boil, what are ya doin'? Let 'er inside for spit's sake," the other trooper chuffed, seemingly annoyed with his comrade's protocol. "She bought the room, anyway," you heard him add under his breath from the other room. He seemed to have a shaven head, with just a soul-patch of hair under his full bottom lip. That was the most you could tell from a glance as you stepped into the hotel room, swallowing thickly as the door was shut and locked down behind you.

 The hotel room was rather plain, a mirror for the closet doors, two queen beds, and a bedside table between them. The HoloTV was mounted on the wall, and you didn't think there would be much use for it.

 The first trooper perched himself on the corner of the bed with a huff, the plates of his cuisses clacking together as he settled, looking at you expectantly.

 Maker, how do you even begin with this?

 "So... my friend canceled," you decided to just blurt out, shifting your weight between either leg as you swayed in the middle of the room, arms folded. The interjection brought the other trooper out of the bathroom, a perplexed look donning his features. His comrade echoed his expression.

 "The reason for it doesn't matter," you sighed, reaching up to idly scratch your scalp. "I just wanted to tell the pair of you in person..." it sounded stupid, saying that aloud now, "...I'm sure the pair of you went through some trouble to arrange this with us."

 The two troopers glanced at each other with an inscrutable expression, your eyes drifted to the plates of armor that were stacked in the armchair in the corner, their helmets that were set down with care beside it. One had a red tack painted over the brow, a crude symbol painted on the side. The other had tally marks and a broad orange stripe going over it.

 "Ah, well... It's alright ma'am," the second clone butted in, drying his damp hands off on the front of his body-glove, right over the dark gray cog. "Well -- shit, where are our manners -- I'm Waxer, and this pouting lump is Boil."

 "I ain't pouting," Boil retorted after you introduced yourself in turn, a frustrated growl gilding the clone's tone. "You know damn well how much trouble we went through just to get the credits for that spotchka. And that's not to mention, you weren't the one that had to make excuses to Commander Cody."

 Waxer rolled his eyes in a dramatic display, hooking his thumbs onto his utility belt as he shot Boil a look of dismay. Before either of them could continue in their verbal sparring match, you abruptly spoke up.

 "Look, you both can have the hotel room to yourselves, keep the alcohol," you paused briefly, fishing-out the dented tin in your bag to toss onto the bed. Boil plucked it up between three long fingers, thumbing it open as you continued, huffing to himself as he caught a whiff of the strong-smelling herbal cigarras in the tin. Gods, you were pissed, it would've been a damn good night.

 "W-Wait, wait, wait -- " Waxer began, waving his hands in a display of disagreement. "You bought this room, arranged this entire thing, came all this way --"

 "Dolled up like a holo-star, might I add," Boil interjected, leaned over to one side with an elbow perched on his knee, idly stroking his mustache.

 " -- just to go home and forfeit... this?" Waxer didn't seem to have a better word for it, his lips fumbling around the letter 'm' like he was about to say 'mission.' Cute.

 "It's nothing against you two, just seemed rude to cancel plans over the frequency," you shrugged, shifting your weight as Boil stood up to retrieve that aforementioned bottle of spotchka on the bathroom counter.

 "We don't take offense to that, ma'am, just seemed like a waste of your time," Waxer replied, fighting something like a smile off his face. "I think it was rather nice of you."

 What were you supposed to say to that?

 "So, your friend," Boil began once more, pouring out a shot's-worth of spotchka into one of the paper water cups that came with the room, looking at you through the mirror. "May I ask what she canceled for?"

 Your shoulders sagged about two inches as a ragged, exaggerated sigh raked itself out of your throat, "Don't get me started..." You figured you could spare the preliminary details, accepting the shot of spotchka from Boil as he strode over to hand it off. "I'm working off a hunch, but I'm sure she ditched to sleep with her ex," you remarked regrettably, tipping your head back as you knocked back the spirit with a deep breath. "She is the one that pitched all this..."

 Waxer blew a raspberry as he snickered to himself, Boil mirrored his grin as he poured you another shot casually, "Is he more handsome than us, or something?"

 "Boil --!" Waxer's amusement blanched, wary.

 You snorted yourself, looking up from your shot to shake your head. "Making a comparison to that wet skug would be an insult to the pair of you. She's missing out..."

 There was a pregnant beat of silence as you took the second shot, unable to see the thoughtful glance passing between the two batch-mates as you did, your expression soured by the lukewarm liquor on your tongue. Not that the bar was low, even if it was, these boys seemed pleasant on their own... save for Boil's wimpering.

 "In what sense?" Waxer prompted as you swallowed the taste of the spotchka from your tongue. You'd shrug, wetting your lips absentmindedly as Boil took the soggy paper cup from your fingers, nearly making a point to let his touch linger in the exchange.

 Before you could think of an honest answer aside from comparing the troopers to some common skeeve recieving charity work, Boil spoke up, interrupting Waxer's inquiry, "The night never had to end there, ma'am. You put all that effort in, you ought'a at least get something back."

 Granted it took you a moment to catch on to what was being said, watching Boil's fingers fold the damp cup into halves. That heat on the back of your neck returned, a sudden lurch in your loins as you realized you were alone in a pre-ordered back-alley motel room with two soldiers of the Grand fucking Army.

 To hell with her, and to hell with biting off more than you could chew. You were irritated, waist-deep in a dry-spell, and those two shots had somewhat loosened your inhibitions. Nothing like the watered-down skrag at the clone bars.

 "Kriff it," you chuffed, flattening your hair as you swept your hand back and shrugged. You were already here, gobbling up their precious spare-time.

 After passing a triumphant grin between each other, Waxer and Boil sat you down to get the bottle to its dregs.

                                                                                 ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

 The progress of the spotchka bottle had been a slow crawl between the three of you.

 Stories were swapped as you sat on the bed together, personal tales contested between the two brothers -- you learned that the clones truly did refer to each other as brothers. Seeing as most of their stories weren't public domain, you agreed to keep it all confidential, and thus learned about their unit, their commander, as well as a few battles while they removed the rest of their armor and toed off their boots.

 In exchange, you told them of the trivial things in your own world.

 Do you really have single-stall showers? You only need to get a physical once every six months? Do the civvies you know like us? Among other rather devastating inquiries, you decided things needed to shift as you breached the latter quarter of the bottle. Boil and Waxer decided -- not without a back-and-forth -- that they could both risk the herb cigarras after the bottle seemed to have a mild buzz-like affect on them; Your only assumption for that would be their ravenous metabolism. The cigarras seemed to do it for them anyway, bringing Waxer and Boil onto your level as you shrugged out of your sweater and kicked off your shoes. The smoke wafting thick in the room nearly gave you a mild second-hand.

 As you finished off the bottle, Waxer had occupied his fingers with the ridge of your spine through your shirt, strumming away with his two centermost digits. It was a thoughtless motion, you confirmed it as you snuck a peak at him through the mirror on the closet doors, zoned-out on your profile as Boil lazily gestured through a story with the roach pinched at the ends of his fingers.

 Blame the alcohol or the second-hand, or even the lingering coals of your ire toward your friend, but you were tremendously emboldened. Reaching back with a slight and imperceptible lean, you let your hand travel to the top of Waxer's thigh, feeling the corded muscle through his body-glove flinch upon contact as you flattened your palm.

 Your eyes shifted back to Boil, and it was easy to let your mind wander with his current position. Leaned back on one hand, the butt of the cigarra in his other, smoking from one side. His throat would bob under his light stubble when he swallowed, the heave of his chest through the black compression suit caught your eyes without fail, especially since they'd rid themselves of the remainder of their armor.

 You'd managed to keep your eyes from their groins for the most part, but once the codpieces had been forgone, you were sneaking numerous glances. Your hand had roved up Waxer's thigh absentmindedly as your mind kept rolling, cupping his bulge through the front of his 'blacks' as his legs subtly parted. Waxer's hand quietly found your forearm as he gently wrapped his fingers around your wrist, a silent plea for you to remain put.

 He must be insane.

 While Boil went on, your grip on Waxer would tighten until he twitched, hearing his audible gulp as his cock throbbed to life in your hand, the reaction caused your heart to skip as you rolled his clothed balls between your fingers.

 "Boil, could I show you something?" You hummed after a thoughtful moment, interjecting his story with a smirk flirting upon your lips, batting your lashes as you blinked slowly in your drunken buzz.

 You could see how Boil seemed to realize where he'd forgotten himself in his intoxication, his mahogany-brown eyes focusing on you once again with a nod as he shut his mouth. With pursed lips, you'd gesture to the roach in his hand until Boil brought it to your lips with callused fingers.

 He watched intently as you pulled it in with your mouth and tongue like you'd shown them, eyes flickering to meet you when you withdrew with fluttering cheeks, beckoning him with raised brows. Boil caught on with a throaty chortle, none-the-wiser of his brother being fondled to full hardness at your back as he ducked his head to your own, parting his lips expectantly.

 The thick smoke of the herbal mix wafted from your lips as you parted your jaw, pressing the muddy ball of smoke from your mouth into Boil's as he struggled to fully inhale the shotgun, a groan trapped itself in his throat, echoing Waxer's as you palmed at the end of his erection. Only then did Boil fully understand what you were doing, withdrawing as tendrils of smoke dissolved around his mouth, exhaling the most of it past his nostrils as he cocked his head to get a better look at the scene before him.

 You could feel Waxer rest the crown of his head against your shoulder, his hand having completely fallen away from your wrist as his breath puffed down your bare arm, only stopping to gulp against his parched throat.

 "Fuckin' sithspit, n' here I thought you were shy," Boil commented with a snort, blowing out the rest of the smoke as he stubbed out the cherry in the ash tray. He'd take the bottle from your other hand for a swig himself -- for confidence, perhaps -- before getting up on his knee, a foot planted on the ground to tower over you.

 Boil took your jaw in a firm pinch, pouring at least two-shots-worth of alcohol down your tongue, muttering, 'We're gonna need it, doll,' as you swallowed it down. At this point, you could hardly taste the sting of it.

 "Look alive, verd'ika," Boil ground out as he withdrew from you, patting Waxer's cheek until his head peeled back from your shoulder, opening his mouth and tipping back to let Boil pour the dregs of the bottle in. Once he'd finished, swallowing the liquor with a curled lip, he cursed Boil in that same odd language you couldn't pinpoint -- you only knew it was a curse with the way he'd spat it out defensively.

 "He might just be jealous of us, Waxer," you reasoned, a slur clinging to your voice as you attempted to placate him. Boil simply snorted, setting the bottle down as he joined the pair of you on the bed, steering you by a forefinger on your jaw to face him as he scoffed.

 "Like fuckin' hell," Boil declared, before sealing the seam of his mouth to your own, tracing your bottom lip with his tongue as you reciprocated him in kind, thumbing at Waxer's head through his body-glove as you tilted your head opposite of Boil's. When Waxer latched the wet heat of his open-mouthed kisses across your shoulder towards your throat, you could only imagine he'd felt as if he was missing out as well.

 As he did, his scarred hand found your own on his clothed cock, bringing you away from his throbbing erection, up to his waistband. With his aid, you managed to slip a hand into the garment, feeling the bed jostle slightly as Waxer rolled his blacks down his hips enough to give you easier access. As he sprang out of the confines of his compression suit, your guts lurched and roiled behind your womb, flushing you to the tips of your ears.

 Just as you began to regret agreeing to sleeping with not one, but fucking two immaculately endowed clones, Boil's tongue pressed past your teeth to stroke along your own, finally prying the moan he was foraging for from your throat wantonly. The noise had Boil on you in a moment, his hand enclosing around your throat, the corners of your jaw pressed between his thumb and forefinger, brows pinched together as he wrestled your tongue for dominance.

 Waxer had been more than content with his current arrangement, bucking into your hand as you rolled your damp palm over his shaft, sucking and biting mosaic hickeys into the crook of your shoulder, a gentle hand moving your hair aside. Remembering himself, he let his left hand drift between your legs, past your leather skirt as your thighs welcomed his path earnestly.

 When Waxer's fingers met the slick seam against the lace of your panties, he swore to the stars he could've keeled over there and then, allowing his debrief to roll from his tongue in the language Cody had passed on to them. Boil caught it with a growl, echoing his brother's comment in a tone dripping like candied fruit when he pulled back from your lips with a string of saliva, "You're fuckin' dripping for us, doll, s'that right?"

 Your response was a garbled moan as Waxer strummed the slick fabric of your panties aside with his middle finger, experimentally running that same digit up and down the seam of your folds with a mumbled praise as his cock jumped in your hand.

 "Answer us, sweetheart," Boil commanded gently, guiding your eyes back to him by your jaw as you swallowed hard.

 "Uh-huh," you confirmed, rolling your tongue over your swollen lips as Waxer dipped his middle finger into your dripping pussy, scraping his teeth against your shoulder as the grip of you passed his second knuckle.

 Your thighs parted on their own volition, the vice of your fingers tightening around Waxer's base as he squirmed beside you, nipping frames around the marks he'd left as he watched Boil lift your shirt through his lashes. No words needed to be said as Waxer pulled back from you, allowing Boil to pull your shirt over your head, the frigid chill of the old air conditioner erecting your bared nipples within seconds, remedied by the hot cradle of Boil's palms as his mouth recaptured your own.

 With your throat free, Waxer latched himself to your pulse, nipping and leeching a mark into your pulse as he added a finger into your cunt, thrusting his wrist into you with a slow, calculated rhythm as his blunt fingers searched deep within you.

 "She's s'fucking tight," Waxer ground out flattening his palm to the warmth of your mound as his mouth pulled back from your throat. Boil did the same, withdrawing from where he'd occupied himself with your mouth for a gulp of air, twisting both of your nipples between your fingers to draw out another strained noise from your drooling tongue.

 "Hng~ I can only imagine, vod," Boil mused aloud, running his tongue along his full lips as he observed you from above, the strain of his cock leaving a wet patch on his body-glove. One of his hands drifted from your breasts to skim over your hips, you were a bit too distracted by the rhythmic pair of fingers in your cunt to realize what exactly Boil was doing until he pulled your comm from your pocket with a triumphant snicker. Just as Waxer's thumb found the swollen bud of your clit.

 You could've fucking cried in relief.

 "I've been working off a hunch myself," Boil chortled to himself, earning a perplexed look from his brother as he thumped his way into your comm-link, his other hand still occupied at your teat. "What would your little friend think if she really knew what she missed out on, eh?"

 Your mind caught on to what Boil had been insinuating, even as Waxer scrambled your mind with the thorough, consuming pace of his longest fingers knuckle-deep within you, and his complementary thumb drawing tight circles around your clitoris. Just as Boil raised his arm over the three of you, ensuring all of you were in-frame, your free hand reached over to palm over the damp spot under the tent in his body-glove as the holo-still was taken.

 You would've thought Boil had been punched in the stomach by the way he blenched away from your touch, his eyes fleeting back to meet your own as his hand fled your waistband to flatten your palm to his clothed erection.

 "I'm not going anywhere, take my skirt off," you retorted, all while writhing your hips into Waxer's palm, desperate to feel anything more on your skin as it already burned like hellfyre.

 Boil audibly groaned as he folded to his knees onto the floor, obeying your breathy command instinctively as his legs gave out before he fully understood, removing your socks swiftly as Waxer withdrew from your cunt long enough to peel your skirt down your legs. His brother would pull it the rest of the way past your knees and down your calves to be lackadaisically tossed aside, allowing Boil to duck between your doughy thighs with a muted moan as his hands skimmed up your calves.

 Waxer would opt to peeling his shirt up from his abdomen and over his head to join the rest of your clothes, shedding his pants along with it as you grappled his thigh for purchase. "These walls are thin, hon', you gotta keep it down for us."

 Boil chuffed into your inner thigh as he nipped a deliberate path upwards to your sex, shooting his brother a stern look as he quirked a brow; "Shut her up then, vod."

 Waxer was slow to the realization, evidently tranquilzed by the entire situation as his eyes fell to you again. With a confirming nod, you laid back on the bed as Waxer shuffled up toward your head, running a hand down his face with a puff of air as your lips parted. Swollen, your waiting tongue and wide eyes, Waxer could've lost it right there while he spread your arousal over himself, biting his own tongue until he drew blood as he slowly guided his cock into your mouth.

 One of your hands found its way to his bare thigh as your lips closed around his tip, feeling his muscles shudder with an accompanying whimper as Waxer's hand went to your hair. Just as he thought he'd stabilized himself, even under the roll of your searing tongue, Boil abruptly licked a flat stripe up the seam of your pussy and ended it with a sealed suction around your clit. Overstimulated, nearly brought to the edge already, Waxer could only assume how agonized you were.

 When you began to hum and whine around the tender head of him, however, all sympathies dissolved within seconds as his hips bucked into your mouth on their own volition, the sensation of your throat repelling him with a gag damn-near had him.

 Boil was utterly lost himself, occasionally scraping his teeth against your swollen clit after pummeling you with his tongue until your legs quaked around his head. He pawed at you greedily, stealing glances at the way you'd attempt to swallow Waxer down, or try to breathe around his irregular thrusts. Fuck, it made him throb.

 So, as he buried his face into your puffy vulva, Boil fished himself out of his body-glove to pump himself slowly, drawing his pleasure out as he watched you writhe and shudder from under his lashes as he fucked his fist. All while multi-tasking, Boil brought that comm-link of yours out with an extended arm, snapping another few stills to document their progress before setting it aside to pet the tremors from your thighs.

 Waxer looked absolutely debauched from your point of view, eyes crested with tears as he tried to hold back, only your sustained eye-contact kept him at-ease as he thrusted against your tongue. That language of theirs was constant on their lips, passing between each other every so often before another change was made.

 Suddenly, Waxer withdrew himself from your mouth with a pained expression, his cock an angry shade as he shuffled back on the bed, gently taking you along. Boil joined you, clambering over you rather gracefully for such a large male, setting himself on his knees between your legs before muttering something else to Waxer. Like it was rehearsed, you were carefully flipped over onto your hands and knees, feeling the mattress dip and shift as they both adjusted you accordingly.

 You had absolutely no qualms with it, your throat tight as you tried to anticipate what they had in-store for you, and for a moment, you didn't think they even knew -- until you saw Boil through the mirror. Sat-up on his knees behind your presenting form, the hem of his shirt pulled up over his abdomen as he took his cock in hand.

 That was when you felt him rub himself over your ass, tapping at you experimentally like all men seemed to -- "Not tonight," you answered, when you caught Boil glancing at you inquisitively through the mirror. His chagrin was short-lived with the promise of another occasion, smirking to himself as he redirected to your dripping cunt.

 Boil spoke to Waxer in that language once again, a complicated, yet pretty tongue that made your breath seize as you tried to understand it. Waxer only nodded in confirmation before glancing down at you, taking your cheeks in the cradle of his palms as he lowered your top half into his lap.

 You were forming your lips to inquire what they were saying before Boil filled you in one bruising, yet slick rush, plunging into the depths of your walls with a shuddering moan as his hands found their vice on your hips. Boil took a moment, swirling himself into your cunt as you gaped for air in the musk of Waxer's bare groin, drunkenly squirming to meet the coarse hair at Boil's base before he set a ravenous pace. Slow and hard, his balls slapping against you each time he bottomed out.

 A gentle, yet engulfing hand on your nape guided your head toward Waxer's velvety cock, stiff against your cheek as you gawked from Boil's consuming pace. When Waxer managed to coax himself into your mouth, remaining shallow as you struggled to breathe around Boil's thrusts, you could hear that familiar, 'ch-klick!' of your comm's still sound effect going off as Boil snuck another picture.

 "Y'feel so fucking good, sweetheart," Boil moaned overhead, running his palm over your spine as his hips drove into you relentlessly, pushing you further up onto Waxer's cock as he graciously held your hair out of the way.

 Waxer cursed again with a low hiss, mumbling a string of phrases in their tongue as his head dropped back on his shoulders. "I could live in your fuckin' mouth, hon'," he huffed carding your hair back when his praise doubled your efforts, a hand managing its way to Waxer's balls.

 "You gotta try her from here, vod," Boil wheezed from behind you, pausing his rhythm momentarily to nudge your legs further apart, applying a small pressure to the small of your back before resuming, punching lewd cries from your lungs as Boil fucked up into you.

 "I fully intend on it," Waxer sighed, his shoulders shaking as you mewled around his cock. "Give it to her good, she fuckin' loves that..."

 Boil took Waxer's report with an affirming nod, his pace unrelenting, unchanging as he pounded into that tender spot within you, slightly to the left of your cervix. It was easy go angle himself there, brows knitted in focus as he honed in, Boil groaned as your walls sucked and repelled him with every insatiable thrust.

 When he was sure he had you right, he brought a hand around your hip to snake between your thighs, calculatedly drawing tight circles around your swollen, oversensitive clit until you quaked. Waxer echoed your muted moan with a response, and Boil joined the rally as you pulsed and clamped around him, breathing frantically as that violent hellfyre raged in your guts, damn-near cramping uncomfortably until you climaxed with an unforgiving snap.

 As you cried out around Waxer's tip, you felt yourself gush and run between your legs, catching on Boil's pubic hair as he kept himself seated for a moment to feel you. You could feel him fight the urge to keep moving until he withdrew with a haggard sigh, shifting away from you on the bed.

 "Iviin'yc, before she settles," Boil advised, giving your ass a few pats as his brother took his place. Inquisitive, Waxer drew two of his fingers through your slippery folds before bringing them to his mouth, treating himself as he watched Boil rearrange you onto your back.

 "Might be easier this way, hm?" Boil placated you, pushing you hair back on your head as Waxer lowered himself, cupping your ass to maneuver you onto his cock. Once notched, Waxer slowly, slowly sank into your fluttering clutch, slack-jawed and shell-shocked as his blown pupils drifted over your bare frame like a carved statue from Naboo.

 "Keep looking at me," Waxer whined, his abdomen visually clamping as he brought your legs over his arms, holding your lower half up as he sat up on his knees to thrust into you. As you watched Waxer bite into his lower lip, Boil entered your watery periphery with a hungry look, nodding to you pointedly as he lowered his cock to your mouth with a thumb.

 Going back on what he'd said, Boil might be right about that angle thing.

 Your only confirmation was a silent one, parting your lips to welcome Boil onto your tongue next, glancing between Waxer's flushed, intoxicated expression of desperation, and Boil's insatiable infatuation with how much you could take. You found out you could take quite a decent amount of him like this, letting Boil angle your head and cradle your neck as your weight distributed oddly with each of Waxer's thrusts when his pace quickened.

 Distracted by the taste of yourself on Boil's member, you hadn't been able to anticipate Waxer's abrupt bites and open-mouthed kisses on the insides of your knee, pulling your calves over his shoulders as he used your weight to pound into you, fighting to gather your attention away from his brother, even if Boil was halfway down your throat. Their banter might be your end.

 A few strokes over your clit, and you were done for once again, shaking and spasming around Waxer's pulsing cock as you choked around Boil's. Neither of them relented. Boil held your head tight, keeping you huffing for air at the base of his cock as Waxer chased his end, dripping pearls of sweat across your heaving ribs until he pumped himself into your walls, stream after devastating stream.

 As soon as he had, Boil yanked your mouth off his cock and flipped you back over, allowing you optimal air-flow as you coughed and gagged around thick saliva, swallowing it down as you gasped for air, feeling Boil pet your hair out of your eyes.

 "Did she come?" You heard him ask Waxer.

 In the silence, accompanied by Waxer's heaving breaths, you assumed he nodded his head.

 In the next moment, you were manhandled across Boil's lap, wide-open with your legs strewn over his thighs. Waxer was on his knees, watching as your cunt hypnotically swallowed every inch of his brother's member, fluttering and sucking at him. Your head fell back over Boil's shoulder when Waxer attached himself to your clitoral hood, encircling your engorged, abused clit precisely with the tip of his tongue as Boil slowly rocked into you.

 "One o' these days, we'll have to get you to take us both at the same time, sweetheart," Boil mumbled into your ear, nosing at the shell of it before lowering his mouth to buckle marks into the opposite side of tour neck, unoccupied until now. His hands remained busy, stroking up and down your body, twirling your erect nipples cruelly in tandem with his occasional nips.

 "Need this on a damn holo-reel," Waxer commented briefly, before returning to his task, despite your agonized cries of pleasure while you trembled.

 "Helmet's been on the whole time, vod," Boil added lowly with a snickers of his own, "Audio, at the least."

 Waxer huffed, gently pulling your clit between his teeth until you shouted and bucked, "Less incriminating than visual," he japed.

 "Shut up," Boil bit back, swatting his brother away so he could switch gears, pushing you forward in his lap as Waxer stood from the floor.

 As Boil pounded into you below, punching explicit and damning moans from your lungs with abandon, callused fingers finding your clit once more to finish you in tandem with himself. It would hardly be a feat, but it felt damn-near impossible as you thrashed in Boil's lap, wheezing for air until Waxer captured your frantic moans in his mouth, forcing you to breathe through your nostrils.

 All of their added ministrations in tandem vaulted you over the edge with a sharp sob, sinking your nails into Waxer's arms for purchase as Boil ground you down into his pelvis like he could mold himself to your insides -- evidently relishing in you, if that strange curse had anything to say -- until he allowed Waxer to pull you away and up the bed.

 You were utterly boneless, understandably, and the pair of them were obliged to take care of you at this point.

 Boil reluctantly rolled off the bed with a limp in his gait toward the refresher as Waxer preened you, fixing your hair and wiping away the sweat and fluids from your face until Boil returned with a hot, wrung-out rag to clean you up. Wiping at your face first, he worked his way down until he thoroughly cleaned your inner thighs and carefully navigated your sensitive sex.

 The pair of them still found amusement in the way you'd jump upon contact.

 Waxer figured it would be a better -- and cleaner -- idea to transfer you to the unsullied bed, touched from their sun without a single wrinkle in the fabric. With careful hands, he pulled your nude for into his arms with ease, carrying you over to tuck you into the other bed under clean sheets as Boil briefly took advantage of the hot water.

 Hardly anything else was said between the three of you, not even when Boil joined you two on the opposite side. You didn't mind it, wrapped up in their warm embrace, fucked-out of your mind... you drifted off under their spotchka-tainted breaths in minutes.

 Their warmth lingered in the early morning when you awoke to an empty bed. You paid no mind to the confused and backhanded messages from your friend manifesting in an array on your comm-link in response to your amateur photo-op last night.

 Hell no.

 Your sleep-swollen eyes smiled on that torn piece of flimsi with the frequency number scribbled down, signed by two haphazard winky faces and a, 'Get home safe, hon'. Reach us anytime,' written below it.

Footnotes : Tumblr was seriously trying my life with this one I POSTED ON AO3 A WHOLE HOUR AGOOO, the site crashed like four times when i tried to paste my work here i was abt to just go to bed LOL anyway, here yall go, i hope this one is better than yesterday's. Hunter's prompt may come later today too, but trust, i will prevail regardless

You pass the bright holographic signs flickering in the twilight, promising exotic vacations, droid companionship, and the finest Corellian ale this side of the Trade Spine. They paint the rain-slicked duracrete in shifting shades of blue and magenta, and you have to shield your eyes against the white light of a particularly obnoxious Zippozi energy drink ad. It seems to follow you down the street, its mascot, a grinning blue alien, winking and thrusting a can toward you with manic persistence. Behind it, the real skyline of Coruscant claws at the perpetual twilight, a thousand spires of light and steel piercing the smog.

Most days, the surface world of the ecumenopolis boasts shining buildings and sparkling sunlight, a perfect utopia for the perfect citizen. Its weather systems are carefully controlled and calibrated to the second. The city was a machine, and everything within it—from the traffic patterns to the atmospheric pressure—ran on a precisely tuned schedule. Rain was a rarity, a controlled event meant to clean the grime from the upper levels.

This was not that kind of rain.

It falls in fat, heavy drops, smelling of rust and metal, and the wind carries it on sharp, unpredictable gusts. A perfect punctuation mark to a dreary day spent pouring over the latest sentiment report on GAR troop morale—down three points from last quarter—and arguing with the procurement droid about the cost of new ink cartridges. You're trying to forget the whole mess.

A crackle of thunder rumbles overhead, so deep you feel it in your bones. The sky dumps a fresh torrent of water, and the crowd rushes for cover. There’s no point in following them. You’re already soaked through to the bone.

It's just one more thing to add to the growing list of grievances that constitute your life right now. Coruscant’s endless churn, the soul-crushing work of spinning words for the Republic, the messages gone unanswered on your datapad, the neighbors who think 3 AM is an excellent time to recalibrate their sonic scrubber, the creeping, gnawing certainty that you are a tiny, insignificant cog in a galaxy-spanning machine that is slowly, deliberately grinding itself into dust.

And to top it all off, you've just remembered that you forgot to buy caf-pods.

You finally reach the narrow steps that lead down to your sublevel apartment, and the sweet scent of damp soil and mildew replaces the exhaust of the upper levels. Your boots squeak on the stone as you descend, the ambient glow from the street above fading with each step, replaced by the dim, humming phosphorescence of the corridor lights. Three doors down, on the left, is yours. The lock is a fussy antique, a real tumbler mechanism that requires a heavy, ridged key, not a scan or a code. It jams, as it always does, and you have to jiggle it just so, muttering under your breath as you do.

The teeth finally catch just as you hear a muffled rustling from the other side. You freeze, key still in the lock, and hold your breath.

Then you hear it again. The sound of something—or someone—moving around inside. And it's not your neighbor's malfunctioning droid this time. You hear something metal, clinking against ceramic. The faint scrape of a chair against the floor. And then, a soft, almost inaudible cough.

Your hand drops from the lock. You are suddenly, painfully aware of your heartbeat, of the cold sweat prickling the back of your neck. You look back up the stairs, at the rain-slicked street. The distant wail of a siren is the only answer you get.

Every instinct screams at you to turn and run, to retreat up those steps and melt back into the anonymous flow of the city. But your legs are rooted to the spot, the damp chill of the corridor seeping through the thin fabric of your trousers. Your eyes dart left and right, but the hallway is empty, the only light the sickly yellow glow from the flickering lum-panel overhead.

You reach slowly, carefully, into your jacket pocket to close around the familiar, reassuring weight of your comlink. You could call the authorities. Coruscant Security. They’d send a couple of droids, maybe a trooper if you were really lucky. They’d sweep the apartment, file a report, and you’d be left to deal with the aftermath. The violation. The paperwork.

Your hand loosens its grip, drifting from your pocket to your bag, and finds the safety of the vibroblade Cody had given to you. ‘For emergencies only,’ he’d said, with the kind of serious look that made your stomach flip.

This feels like an emergency.

You take a deep breath, the musty air catching in your throat. You make your decision. 

The key turns with a final, grudging protest, and the door swings inward on silent hinges. You’re immediately hit with a wave of warmth and humidity, and the familiar, comforting scent of your own space—old books, burnt incense, and the lingering hint of the caf you'd brewed that morning. But beneath it all, there’s something else. Something new. The faint, metallic tang of blaster oil, and the clean, sterile scent of bacta.

The main room of your small apartment is exactly as you left it this morning: the holovid screen dark, the blanket you’d been using on the back of the sofa a rumpled heap, the half-empty mug of caf from yesterday sitting on the end table. Your small street-level windows are covered in raindrops, distorting the neon glow of the city outside into an abstract, watercolor painting.

But there’s something else. A small, compact travel bag, made of scuffed dark leather, sitting on the floor next to the sofa. It’s not yours.

And the sound of that soft, metallic clink—it’s coming from the kitchen.

You transition from the worn carpet of the living area to the cracked linoleum of the kitchenette. Each step is a calculated act of defiance against the instincts screaming at you to flee. Your boots, still wet from the rain, make soft, sucking sounds against the floor, and the vibroblade in your hand vibrates with a secret thrum against your palm that feels both dangerous and somehow comforting.

The kitchen is illuminated by the harsh, sterile glare of the overhead light. The chrome faucet, usually dull and spotted, gleams with a recent polish. The half-eaten protein bar you abandoned on the counter this morning sits there, looking even more desiccated than when you left it.

And then you see him. 

Leaning against your counter as if he has every right to be there, dressed in a pair of soft grey sweatpants and a black shirt that hugs his frame just a little too tightly. A datapad rests in one hand, while his other curls around your favorite mug. 

His eyes lift from the datapad, finding yours across the small kitchen.

He doesn't flinch. He doesn't startle. He simply takes a slow sip from your mug, his gaze unwavering over the rim.

"About time you got home," Cody says, his voice a low, familiar rumble that sends shivers down your spine. "The caf's getting cold."

The vibroblade slips from your nerveless fingers, clattering against the linoleum. The sound echoes in the sudden, overwhelming silence of your tiny apartment.

"Cody?" you breathe, the name barely a whisper on your lips.

He pushes himself off the counter, setting the mug down with a soft click. He looks… different. Tired. The edges are worn away. The crisp uniform of the GAR is gone, replaced by the soft, civilian clothes he keeps in your—his—dresser drawer. But it’s him. The same sharp, intelligent eyes, the same set of his jaw, the same way he stands, as if he’s carrying the weight of a galaxy on his shoulders. Maybe he is.

He takes a step toward you, then another, and you're frozen, a statue of disbelief and shock. He stops just short of you, the space between you crackling with a thousand unspoken questions. He reaches out, not to touch you, but to pick up the vibroblade from the floor. He weighs it in his hand for a moment, then deactivates and places it on the counter with a heavy, final thud.

“You actually remembered to carry it,” he says, a hint of something like pride in his voice. “Good.”

You close the distance in two strides, throwing your arms around his neck. Cody catches you easily, as he always does, one arm banding around your waist, the other coming up to cradle the back of your head. He smells of soap and clean laundry and something else, something metallic and sharp that you can’t quite place. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in, the damp wool of your coat pressing against him.

"You're here," you mumble into his skin, the words muffled and thick with unshed tears. "You're actually here."

“I’m here,” he confirms, his lips brushing against your hair. “I told you I’d come back.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands coming up to frame his face. His skin is warm to the touch, his hair damp and curling at his nape, and there's a new scar, thin and silver, that cuts through his left eyebrow. You trace it with your thumb, and he leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief, unguarded moment.

You pull back and slap his chest. Hard.

“You didn’t answer my messages,” you chide, though your heart’s not in it. You’re well aware of the cost of dating a clone soldier during a war by now. “You're a real piece of work, you know that? I was about to ask Admiral Kilian to forward my complaint straight to the Jedi Council.”

Cody doesn't flinch. He just takes the punch, his body swaying a little with the impact. His eyes are warm, crinkling a little at the corners, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. You're hit with the sudden, overwhelming urge to slap him again. To do something, anything, to break the spell of unreality that's settled over you.

He catches your wrist before you can land another blow, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss. 

“My comlink was fried in the last engagement,” he says, and he turns your hand over and traces the lines on your palm with his thumb. “Had to requisition a new one. By the time we got back to the Negotiator, they’d already rotated us out for shore leave.”

You feel a fresh wave of guilt wash over you. “Oh. I... are you okay? Was it…?”

He cuts you off with another kiss, this one to your forehead. 

“It's fine,” he says, and you know he's lying, but you also know you won't get any more out of him. For now. “We’re all fine. A little singed around the edges, but nothing to worry about. The important thing is, I’m here now. And—“ He presses another, more deliberate kiss to your lips. “—I’m on leave for the next two weeks. Two whole weeks.”

The anger, the guilt, the anxiety of the past few weeks—it all melts away, replaced by the warm, fuzzy feeling of hope. Two weeks. Two weeks of having him to yourself, of not having to wake up in the middle of the night with the cold dread that you'll never see him again. Two weeks of him.

"Are you serious?” You’re suddenly grinning like an idiot, the tears welling up in your eyes. “Two weeks? Here?”

“Here,” he confirms, and he’s smiling too, the expression transforming his face, making him look younger, less burdened. “Assuming you’ll have me.”

“Don't be an idiot,” you say, and you pull him in for another kiss, this one deeper and more desperate, your fingers tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck. He responds with equal fervor, his hands roaming down your back, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. 

The world outside your little apartment, with its rain and its grime and its endless, soul-crushing work, simply ceases to exist. You’re floating, adrift in the familiar, comforting warmth of him, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, you feel safe.

You’re the one to break the kiss, gasping for air. Cody makes a noise of protest, chasing your lips for another quick peck before letting you go. He looks you over, and his smile fades slightly as he takes in your soaked clothes, your messy hair, the dark circles under your eyes. His thumb comes up to brush away the moisture on your cheek, and you’re not sure if it’s rain or tears.

“C’mon, get out of those wet clothes,” he says, his tone shifting from lover to commander in an instant. He presses a kiss to your forehead and steps back, patting your hip. “I put your pajamas in the ‘fresher. They’re warm.”

You look down at yourself, at your soaked jacket and dripping trousers, the boots that have tracked mud all over your clean floor. You look back at him, at the perfect picture of domesticity he makes in your kitchen, and you can’t help but laugh. It’s a slightly hysterical, breathless sound, but it’s a laugh nonetheless.

“You broke into my apartment, made yourself some caf, and did my laundry?” you ask, shaking your head in disbelief. “Commander Cody, you’re turning into quite the househusband.”

He snorts, but you can see the hint of color creeping up the back of his neck. 

“I didn’t do your laundry,” he protests, and he crosses his arms over his chest, trying for stern and missing by about a parsec. “I just put your pajamas in the dryer to warm them up. And I didn’t ‘break in.’ You gave me a key.”

“A spare key,” you correct. “For emergencies.”

“This is an emergency,” he says, deadpan. “I haven't had a decent cup of caf in weeks.”

You roll your eyes and swat at his chest again, but your heart is singing. You head for the refresher, shrugging out of your wet jacket and letting it fall to the floor in a damp heap as you go.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” you warn over your shoulder. “I’m still mad at you. The list of grievances is long, and I plan to go over every single one of them in excruciating detail.”

“I look forward to it,” he calls after you, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll make some food. You must be starving.”

You are. You hadn't realized it until he said it, but you're ravenous. You shut the door to the refresher, leaning against it for a moment as the adrenaline of the last few minutes finally wears off, leaving you feeling weak and shaky. 

And once again, you’re met with the undeniable reality of Cody’s presence in your space. The leftover humidity from his shower fogging the mirror, the hum of the dryer unit, the neatly folded towels and your favorite pair of pajamas waiting for you. The scent of his soap lingering in the air. On the small shelf above the sink, next to your own messy collection of bottles and jars, sits his kit. You’d left space for it, just in case, and to see it finally back where it belongs fills you with an ache that is both painful and sweet.

You peel off the rest of your wet clothes, leaving them in a sodden pile on the floor. The warm spray of the shower is a welcome balm against your chilled skin, and you stand under it for a long moment, letting the water wash away the grime of the city and the lingering anxiety of the day. You close your eyes, focusing on the sound of the water, the feel of the heat on your skin, the faint sounds of Cody moving around in the other room. The clatter of pans, the hiss of the stove.

You try to remember the last time your apartment felt this much like home. You can’t.

When you finally emerge, wrapped in a thick towel, the smell of something wonderful hits you. Something spicy and savory, a world away from the bland, synthetic taste of the quick meals you make for yourself. You dry yourself quickly and dress yourself in your warm pajama shorts and oversized shirt, and you follow the scent out into the main room.

The holovid screen is on, but it’s muted, playing some mindless travelogue about the crystal beaches of Zeltron. The small table in your eating nook is set with two mismatched placemats, two forks, and two glasses of water. And Cody is standing at your stove, stirring the contents of a pot with the focus and intensity of a general planning a battle, a datapad in his hand.

You lean against the doorframe, content to just watch him for a moment. He’s so focused, so utterly absorbed in the simple domestic task of making dinner, that he doesn’t notice you at first. He moves with an economy of motion, every action precise and efficient. He’s donned your favorite apron, and the sight of him, this legendary commander of the GAR, with the words “Kiss the Cook” emblazoned across his chest, makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time.

“What are you doing?” you finally ask, your voice soft.

“Reading a recipe,” he answers without looking up from the datapad. “This kublag curry is surprisingly complicated.”

You cross the room and peer into the pot. The aroma is intoxicating, and your stomach rumbles in interest. "You’re cooking? From a recipe?”

He finally looks up, and his look of intense focus melts into something softer as his eyes sweep over you. He takes in your flushed cheeks, your damp hair, your ridiculous pajamas covered in little tooka-cats, and the corner of his mouth quirks up into that half-smile you love so much.

“I have a lot of free time on the ship,” he says. “And the mess hall gets… repetitive. I’ve been practicing.”

You step close, wrapping your arms around him from behind and resting your cheek against the solid warmth of his back. He’s tense, the muscles in his shoulders tight and knotted, and you can feel the faint, constant tremor of exhaustion that seems to vibrate through him.

“It smells amazing,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the spot between his shoulder blades.

“It’s not ready yet,” he says, but he’s leaning into your touch now, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. He sets the datapad down on the counter and places one of his hands over yours, lacing your fingers together. “Give it another five minutes.”

“Can I help?”

“No,” he says, and it’s not unkind, just… final. “You’ve had a long day. Go sit down. I’ve got this.”

You want to argue. You want to stay right here, to anchor him to this moment, this reality. But you know him. You know that this simple act of making you dinner is more than just dinner. It's a ritual. A way to recalibrate, to transition from the cold, brutal logic of war to the messy, uncertain warmth of peace. It’s his way of telling you he’s home.

So you do as he says. You let him go and retreat to the table, sitting down on the worn, cushioned bench. You wrap your hands around the cool glass of water, watching him as he moves around your kitchen, retrieving bowls and utensils with an ease that speaks of countless nights just like this one, even if they’ve all been in your imagination until now.

He works in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the soft clink of ceramics and the rhythmic scrape of the spoon against the pot. He moves with a quiet confidence that’s both reassuring and heartbreaking. This is what he does when he’s not fighting. This is what he becomes.

“General Kenobi’s been teaching me,” he says, breaking the silence.

You look up, surprised. “Teaching you what? To cook?”

“To appreciate it,” he corrects, and he turns away from the stove, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms. He looks tired, but it’s a good tired. A settled tired. “He says that in the midst of chaos, it’s the small, deliberate acts that keep us sane. The things we do with our hands. The things that nourish us. He’s right.”

You think about General Kenobi, the Jedi you know more from carefully curated holovids and propaganda reports than from any real interaction. You’ve always pictured him as a serene, almost untouchable figure, a bastion of calm in the storm of war. The idea of him in a kitchen, teaching one of his most trusted commanders how to make curry, is so absurdly normal it makes your head spin.

“I always thought Jedi just… absorbed nutrients from the Force,” you say, only half-joking.

A real, genuine smile breaks across Cody’s face, transforming him completely. It lights up his eyes, makes the new scar on his eyebrow fade into the background. He shakes his head, looking down at the floor for a moment before meeting your gaze again.

"Only when the rations are particularly bad," he jokes, and his smile widens as you laugh, “but he says it lacks… character.” He opens the oven, peering inside, and his next words are slightly muffled by the rush of hot air. “He also says that the ability to cook for another person is one of the most basic forms of love there is.”

The words linger in the air between you, heavy with meaning. Love. It’s not a word either of you uses lightly, or often. It’s too dangerous, too fragile in the face of your respective realities. But here, in the warm glow of your kitchen, with the smell of exotic spices filling the air, it feels true. It feels right.

“Does he…know about us?” you ask, the question barely audible.

Cody closes the oven and straightens up, wiping his hands on the apron. He doesn’t answer right away. He looks at you, and his gaze is so open, so vulnerable, it takes your breath away.

“He knows,” he says finally. “He’s known for a long time.”

Your mind races, trying to process this revelation. General Kenobi knows. And he’s okay with it. He’s teaching Cody how to cook. You suddenly feel like you’ve stepped into an alternate reality, one where the war is still raging, but the lines are blurrier, more human.

“He doesn’t mind?” you press, needing to be sure.

“He trusts my judgment,” Cody says simply. “And he likes you. He thinks you’re good for me.” He turns back to the stove, giving the curry one last stir before turning off the heat. “He thinks we’re good for each other.”

And just like that, the last of your reservations melt away. The fear, the secrecy, the constant, gnawing anxiety that your relationship with him is somehow wrong, or doomed—it all evaporates. You’re not just some clandestine affair, a brief distraction from the war. You’re… something else. Something real.

He ladles the curry into two bowls, topping it with a sprinkle of fresh green herbs you’re not sure you’ve ever seen in your pantry. He pulls a pan of flatbread from the oven, the crust golden and puffed. He arranges it all on a tray, along with two small glasses of a deep red wine you didn’t even know you had, and sets them down with quiet precision. The spread is so thoughtful, so perfect, it makes your heart ache.

Cody finally takes off the apron and hangs it on the hook by the door before sitting down opposite you. The small table suddenly feels impossibly intimate, the space between you charged with an unspoken current of emotion.

For a moment, you’re both silent, just looking at each other across the table. The muted holovid plays on, the light from the screen catching the planes of his face, the warmth in his eyes. You feel like you could sit here for the rest of your leave, just looking at him, memorizing every line, every detail.

"Eat," he commands gently, nudging one of the bowls toward you. "It’ll get cold."

You pick up your fork and take a hesitant bite. The flavors explode in your mouth—spicy and sweet and savory, all at once. It's so delicious, so perfect, you actually moan a little, your eyes fluttering shut as you chew.

“It's good,” you say, your eyes wide with surprise. “Really, really good.”

A genuine, unguarded smile lights up his face. You hadn’t realized how tense he still was until you see it fade, replaced by an expression of pure, simple pride. He looks younger like this, less burdened. More like the fresh-faced trooper you met on Kamino, before the war had carved its harsh reality into him. More like the man he might have been.

“Told you I’ve been practicing,” he says, and he finally takes a bite of his own. He eats with a quiet, focused intensity, clearly analyzing every mouthful.

You eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the scrape of forks against ceramic and the distant hum of the city. You can feel the tension in your own body finally starting to uncoil, the anxiety of the past few weeks replaced by the simple, comforting reality of the man sitting across from you.

“I was thinking,” he says, breaking the silence. “We could go away for a few days.”

You pause, your fork halfway to your mouth. “Go away? Where?”

“Anywhere,” he says, and he leans forward, his elbows on the table, his gaze earnest. “There’s a transport leaving tomorrow for Naboo. The Lake Country. We could get a small house, somewhere quiet. Just… be. For a little while.”

Naboo. The name conjures images of rolling green hills, cascading waterfalls, and serene, blue lakes. It's the kind of place you see on the holoboards at the metro terminal, the kind of place that feels like another galaxy entirely from the grimy, neon-drenched canyons of Coruscant. The kind of place that feels impossible.

“You want to go to Naboo?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper. “You and me?”

“Why not?” he asks, and he reaches across the table, taking your free hand in his. His thumb strokes your knuckles, the calloused skin sending shivers down your spine. “We have two weeks. We deserve it. You deserve it.”

You want to say yes. You want to shout it from the rooftops. But the practicalities, the realities of your lives, intrude. The cost, the logistics, the risk. “Cody, I can’t just… my job. I can’t just take off. I’d need to put in for leave, and I don’t know if they’d approve it on such short notice—”

“I already took care of it,” he interrupts, and his grip on your hand tightens. “I spoke to your supervisor this morning.”

Your fork clatters against your bowl, the sound echoing in the sudden, shocking silence. You stare at him, your mind struggling to process what he’s just said. “You… you spoke to Director Pello? My Director Pello?”

“I did,” he says, completely unfazed by your disbelief. “I may have… implied that it was a matter of Republic security. A request from the GAR for your… particular expertise. For an off-books consultation.”

A disbelieving laugh escapes your lips. You can just imagine it: your stuffy, by-the-book superior, with his perfectly pressed suit and his datapad full of tedious memos, getting a direct communiqué from Marshal Commander Cody himself. You picture him stammering, sweating through the collar of that perfect suit, trying to reconcile the mundane reality of your job in the Sub-Administrative Office of Public Affairs with the high-stakes world of Republic Intelligence.

“You didn’t,” you breathe.

“I did,” Cody confirms, and the corner of his mouth ticks up in that familiar, self-satisfied smirk. “He was very… accommodating. Said he’d process the paperwork immediately and wish you the best on your… assignment.”

You’re speechless. You’re also, you have to admit, deeply impressed. And more than a little turned on. The sheer audacity of it, the way he just… moved heaven and earth, rearranged your entire life with a few well-placed words. It would be concerning, if you didn’t trust him so implicitly. It would be terrifying, if you didn’t know that he did it for you.

“That’s quite the spin, Commander,” you manage to say, and you squeeze his hand, hard. “You were paying attention in my classes after all. All that fluff I write about strategic communication really is good for something.”

“You’re a brilliant writer,” he says, and the sincerity in his tone is so disarming it catches you off guard. “And a brilliant strategist. Don’t sell yourself short. You could be running that entire division if you wanted to.”

The compliment hangs in the air, warm and heavy. You’re still not used to this, to someone seeing so much potential in you. To someone seeing you. You’ve spent so long feeling invisible, like your words just disappear into the void, that having him look at you like this—like you matter, like you’re important—is almost too much to bear.

You look down at your plate, at the half-eaten curry, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. “Naboo,” you say, testing the word on your tongue. It feels foreign and wonderful. “What are we going to do in Naboo for two weeks?”

“Absolutely nothing,” he says, and the finality in his voice is music to your ears. “We’re going to sleep. We’re going to eat real food that doesn’t come in a silver packet. We’re going to walk by the lake. We’re going to sit on the grass and do nothing but breathe the clean air. No comlinks, no datapads, no GAR, no Republic. Just us.”

It sounds like heaven. It sounds like a dream you’ve had but never dared to speak aloud. A world without deadlines, without fear, without the constant, crushing weight of expectations.

“Okay,” you say, and you look up, meeting his gaze. You can feel the tears welling up again, and this time you don’t even try to stop them. “Yes. Let’s go to Naboo.”

The relief that washes over his face is palpable. It’s like watching a dam break, the years of built-up tension and exhaustion finally receding, leaving behind something raw and vulnerable and so incredibly beautiful it makes your heart ache.

He pushes back from the table and rounds the corner, pulling you up from your seat and into his arms. He holds you tightly, burying his face in your hair, and you can feel the unsteady rhythm of his heart against your cheek. He’s just as scared as you are. He’s just as hopeful. He’s just as desperate for this little pocket of peace.

You stay like that for a long moment, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world fading away. The holovid continues to play its silent, colorful story, the remnants of your dinner grow cold on the table, and the storm outside rages on, but in here, in this small circle of light and warmth, there is only the two of you. And the promise of two weeks.

He finally pulls back, but he doesn't let you go. His hands cup your face, his thumbs gently wiping away the tears you hadn't realized were falling.

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice thick with emotion. “No tears. We’re on leave.”

“I know,” you reply with a watery laugh, and you lean into his touch, closing your eyes for just a second. “I’m just… happy.”

“Good,” he says, and he kisses you, soft and deep. It's not the desperate, hurried kiss of two people about to be torn apart, but the slow, deliberate kiss of two people with all the time in the world.

When he finally breaks away, you're both breathless, your heart pounding in your chest.

“You're amazing, you know that?” you murmur, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “The things you do for me.”

“I do what I have to do,” he says, and there’s a shadow of the old commander in his tone, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. “Now, let’s clean up this mess and go to bed. I have two weeks of lost sleep to catch up on.”

You don't argue. You help him clear the table, the simple domesticity of the task feeling more intimate than anything else you’ve done all night. He insists on doing the washing up himself, shooing you away when you try to help. You watch him from the doorway of the small kitchenette, leaning against the frame, content to just soak in the sight of him. The way the muscles in his back shift under the thin fabric of his shirt as he scrubs the pans, the quiet hum of the sanitizer unit, the occasional splash of water. These are the sounds of home.

While he finishes up, you turn your attention to the rest of the apartment, seeing it through new eyes. You tidy up the stack of datapads on the end table, fluff the blanket on the sofa, and finally turn off the silent holovid. The sudden quiet is unnerving at first, but it’s quickly replaced by a profound sense of peace. 

You dim the lights until the room is bathed in the soft, ambient glow of the city beyond the window, and when you turn around, Cody is standing behind you.

“Ready?” he asks, and he holds out his hand.

You take it, lacing your fingers together, and he leads you toward the bedroom.

It’s the smallest room in the apartment, barely big enough for the bed and the two small dressers on either side. You’d spent your last salary credit on the mattress, splurging on the top-of-the-line model with memory foam and temperature regulation, and it’s the best investment you’ve ever made. You sink into it with a sigh, the familiar softness of the sheets a welcome relief.

Cody doesn't join you right away. He moves with purpose, retrieving the spare datapad from the top of his dresser and plugging it in on the nightstand. He checks the locks on the window, even though you both know they're flimsy at best. He turns off the main light, leaving only the small reading lamp on, casting the room in a warm, golden hue. He’s securing the perimeter, you realize. A final, ingrained habit from a life lived on the front lines.

“Do you want to check under the bed for monsters, too?” you tease as you settle back onto your hands, your feet dangling off the side of the bed.

He gives you a wry look, one eyebrow raised in that way you’ve come to know so well. You watch as he makes his way around to your side of the bed and drops on one knee, hand braced on the mattress next to you. He makes a show of looking under the bed, peering into the dusty darkness with a mock-serious expression, before looking back up at you.

“No monsters,” he confirms, his voice soft. He takes one of your dangling feet in his hand, his thumb gently rubbing the arch. “But I did find some dust bunnies that could probably stand to be dealt with.”

You laugh as you wiggle your toes against his palm, but the sound gets caught in your throat as he leans in, pressing a kiss to the inside of your ankle. Then to your calf. Then to the sensitive skin behind your knee. Each kiss is slow, deliberate, and so full of reverence it makes you shiver.

He continues his upward path, his hands tracing the curve of your legs as he goes. He pushes your shorts aside, his lips following the line of your hip. He’s not in a hurry. He’s mapping you, reacquainting himself with the geography of your body, and every touch is a confirmation that he's really here.

“Cody,” you breathe, your fingers tangling in the sheets.

“Shh,” he murmurs against your skin. “I’m on leave. I have two weeks to do this properly.”

“I hope you’re not planning to spend all two weeks doing this,” you reply, your voice hitching as he nips at your hipbone.

He looks up at you, and the look in his eyes is so full of love and desire it takes your breath away. “Maybe not all of it. But a significant portion. I made a list.”

“A list?” you manage. “You made a list of things to do on leave?”

“A very detailed list,” he confirms as he pushes himself up, his body hovering over yours, one arm braced on the bed beside your head. Slowly, deliberately, he lowers his hips to meet yours, the thin layers of your clothing suddenly feeling like nothing at all. “I have to be efficient with my time off.”

You laugh despite yourself and the heat building in your core. It’s so like him, to approach lovemaking with the same tactical precision he applies to everything else in his life. And you know from experience that he’s very, very good at making the most of his time.

“I expect nothing less than peak performance from my Commander Cody,” you say, running your fingers through his hair, the short, soft strands tickling your palm. “I’ve seen your evaluations. I have high expectations.”

His answering laugh is warm against your cheek. “You should lower them. I haven’t slept in three days.”

“Then maybe we should postpone the efficiency exercise,” you murmur, your fingers tracing the lines of his face, the new scar above his brow, the old one on his temple. “I’d hate to ruin your record.”

“I’m not that tired,” he replies immediately, and he shifts, pressing his thigh against the growing heat between your legs. “I have priorities.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t deny the flutter of anticipation that runs through you at his words. You can feel the tension in him, the way his muscles quiver with the effort of holding himself up, the way his breath catches when you run your fingers down the side of his neck.

“What’s on the agenda, Commander?” you ask, your voice barely above whisper. “What are your priorities?”

He doesn't answer. He just leans down, capturing your lips with his own. The kiss is slow, unhurried, as if he’s trying to imprint the moment on his memory. You can taste the faint, smoky flavor of the wine on his tongue, the lingering heat of the curry. His hand slides under your shirt, his fingers splayed possessively over your ribs, and you arch into his touch, your body craving the contact.

He breaks the kiss and lifts himself up just enough to pull his shirt over his head, tossing it aside with casual grace. The sight of him, half-naked and braced above you, sends your heart into overdrive, and you can’t help the way your hands immediately go to the hard planes of his chest, the lean, chiseled muscles of his abdomen. He’s still got the edge of that youthful, Kaminoan perfection, but the war has left its mark on him, too. The new scar, the faded one on his side, the faint lines of tension around his eyes. You trace each one with your fingers, mapping the story of his body as he mapped yours.

He lets you explore for long moments, his eyes closed, his breath coming in soft, measured gasps. You can feel the weight of his trust, his willingness to be vulnerable, and it fills you with an almost unbearable tenderness. He’s so strong, so powerful, and yet he’s given himself to you, completely and without reservation.

Finally, his hand catches yours, his fingers intertwining with yours. He brings your hand to his lips, kissing the palm before pinning it above your head, his eyes locked on yours.

“Now you,” he says, his voice low and rough with desire.

You comply willingly, lifting up just enough to help him remove your shirt. The cool air of the room pebbles your skin, and you shiver despite the heat of his body. But Cody is back on you before the chill can set in, wasting no time in wrapping his lips around one nipple while his thumb toys with the other. The sudden, sharp spike of pleasure has you gasping, your back arching up off the mattress, your fingers tangling in his hair. He’s not teasing, he’s not playing—he’s claiming, marking his territory again, and you’re only too happy to be claimed.

He lavishes attention on your breasts, alternating between gentle suction and soft, teasing licks. It’s enough to have your head spinning, your body already throbbing with need, but he’s not done. He moves down, trailing kisses along the sensitive underside of your breast, the curve of your waist. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your shorts, pausing to look up at you, as if asking for permission.

You nod, your breath coming in shallow gasps, and he pulls the shorts down your legs, taking your underwear with them. You’re completely bare before him now, but you’ve never felt more safe, more protected.

He places his hands on your knees, gently coaxing them apart, and you comply, opening yourself to him. The first touch of his lips against your inner thighs has you trembling, and when he finally makes contact with your clit, you nearly come off the bed.

He’s slow at first, his tongue exploring your folds with deliberate care. He teases your clit with soft, feather-light strokes, and when you whimper, he gives you more, his tongue circling and stroking in the patterns he’s spent the past year learning by trial and error. The patterns that can make you fall apart in minutes, if he so chooses.

Tonight, he does so choose. It’s been too long, and you’re both too keyed up to go slow. His tongue is relentless, his hands pinning your hips to the bed, keeping you from squirming away from the intense pleasure. You can feel the orgasm building inside you, the pressure of it, and when he adds two fingers, curling them just so inside you, you shatter. Your back arches, your hands scrabbling for purchase in the sheets, and Cody’s name on your lips.

Cody is still between your legs as you come down from your high, his lips and chin slick with your release, his eyes dark with desire. He presses one last, lingering kiss to your clit before sliding up your body, dropping soft, chaste kisses on your belly, your breasts, your collarbone. He hovers over you, his arms bracketing your head, and you can see the hunger in his gaze, the barely restrained need.

But he waits, giving you time to recover. He’s always been that way, always putting your pleasure before his own. And it only makes you want to give him more, to give him everything.

“I missed you so much,” you whisper, your hands framing his face. “I missed this.”

“Me too,” he says, his voice strained. “Every day, I—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I need to feel you. Please.”

You reach between you, your fingers tracing the length of his erection through the thin fabric of his sweatpants. He hisses, his hips jerking forward at the contact, and you feel the dampness where he's already leaking against the fabric. You can't resist the urge to press your thumb against the wet patch, feeling the heat of him through the cotton, the way he throbs under your touch.

“Tell me what you want,” you say, looking up at him through your lashes. You may have been the one to teach him the art of dirty talk, but he's become an expert practitioner in his own right. He knows just what to say, how to say it, to send shivers down your spine. To make you wet. To make you want. “Tell me what you want to do to me.”

His eyes flash at that, and you watch the struggle play out across his face, the battle between his natural reserve and his desire to tell you everything, all the filthy, desperate things he's imagined while you've been apart. He swallows hard, his throat bobbing, and you can't resist the urge to lean up and suck lightly on his pulse point, feeling the rapid beat of his heart under your tongue.

“I want to fuck you,” he says, and the raw hunger in his voice has your toes curling, your nails digging into the meat of his shoulders. “I want to fuck you until you forget your own name.”

“That’s not very specific,” you tease, but you can't keep the breathlessness out of your tone. You reach for the waistband of his pants, tugging them down just far enough to free his cock. You take him in your hand, stroking him slowly from root to tip, feeling the way he swells in your grip. “How are you going to fuck me, Commander?”

He groans, his eyes fluttering shut for just an instant. “Like this." His hips jerk forward, his cock pushing through the circle of your first to slide against your clit. You're both sensitive, and the sensation has you gasping, your hand stilling. “Just like this. Deep. Slow.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” you ask, your thumb sweeping over the slick head of his cock, smearing the fluid there. You know him too well, know that there’s something else he wants, something he’s holding back. “Are you sure that’s how you want to take me, Cody?”

The sound that rips from his chest is almost feral, and he suddenly pulls back, his hands grabbing your hips and flipping you over onto your stomach. You let out an indignant squeak, but it quickly turns to moan as he drapes himself over your back, the hot, hard length of him pressed against the cleft of your ass. He’s heavy, his solid weight pushing you down into the mattress, and you feel completely surrounded by him, consumed by him.

“This is what I want,” he growls in your ear, his hips rocking against yours. “This is how I want to take you. Hard. Deep. Until you’re begging me to stop.”

You moan again, your hands fisting in the sheets, and he takes that as his cue. He lifts himself up, his hand sliding between your bodies, and you feel the broad, flared head of him pressing against your entrance. He doesn't enter you right away, just teases you with shallow thrusts, pushing in just an inch or two before pulling back. You can feel yourself dripping, practically sobbing with need, and you try to push back, to take him inside you, but his hand on your hip holds you still.

“Cody,” you gasp, your voice muffled by the pillow. “I need you. Please."

"I intend to," he says, and he punctuates his words with another shallow thrust, and you feel the thick head of his cock breaching you. It's not enough, not nearly enough, but it's something, and your inner muscles clamp down on him greedily, trying to pull him in deeper. He groans, his hand flexing against your hip. "Fuck."

“Please," you beg again. “Cody, please.”

And finally, finally, he relents. With one sharp snap of his hips, he buries himself inside you, and the force of it jolts your whole body forward. The stretch of it, the fullness, it's almost too much, and for an instant, the line between pleasure and pain blurs. You gasp, your fingers scrabbling for purchase in the sheets as your body struggles to accommodate him.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice tight with strain. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, I’m good,” you reassure him. “I just… I forgot how big you are.”

He laughs, and you can feel the vibration of it in his chest. “You didn’t forget. You just like to complain.”

You huff in indignation as he pulls back, and his hands find your hips in the darkness, lifting your ass up and back towards him. He slides back in more gently this time, letting you feel every ridge, every vein, every inch of him. His hips press flush against your ass, and he grinds in deep, his cock nudging that spot inside you that has you keening against the pillow.

“Fuck," he grits out, his hands gripping your hips so tightly it’s almost painful. He holds you still, keeping you trapped on his cock as he grinds against that spot again, harder this time. The pleasure of it makes you clench, and he hisses, his hips jerking forward. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”

“I wonder why," you gasp as he grinds in again. “Maybe it’s because someone left me alone in this bed for weeks on end.” You manage to rock back against him, even with his firm grip. It's awkward, uncoordinated, but the friction is delicious. “Maybe it's because I missed you so much, and I—” Your words cut off in another moan as he gives you another sharp, short thrust.

“Don't talk like that," he growls, and you can hear the strain in his voice, the way he's struggling to hold back his own pleasure. “I can't think when you talk like that."

“Then don't think," you challenge. “Stop thinking and just fuck me, Cody. Stop being so damn gentle and just take me the way you said you would."

His fingers flex against your hips, and for an instant, he's motionless. You can practically hear the gears turning in his head as he wars with himself. He's always been so careful with you, so mindful of his strength, of the damage he could do if he lost control. He's never taken you like this before, never truly unleashed himself on you, and you're not sure he's willing to do it now.

But he is. With an animalistic growl, he pulls back, the flared head of him tugging on your entrance, before slamming back in. His hips slap against your ass, the force of his thrust jolting you forward, and you let out an involuntary yelp. He freezes, his cock pulsing inside you, and you can feel the tension in him, the fear that he's gone too far, that he's hurt you.

But the pain is fleeting, and in its wake is only pleasure. You reach back, your fingers finding his hip, and you pull him toward you, urging him to continue.

“Don't stop," you beg, and that's all the encouragement he needs. 

He withdraws again, only to thrust back in, harder this time. Your fingers scrabble for purchase in the sheets, your knees slipping on the soft mattress, but it doesn't matter. You're not going anywhere, not with Cody's hands on you, holding you still for his punishing pace. His hips slam against yours, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the walls, and the sound of it, the primal, animalistic rhythm, has your head spinning. He's not being gentle anymore, he's not holding back, and it's everything you've ever wanted from him. Everything you've ever needed.

“You feel so good," he groans, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass. He spreads you open, his thumbs pressing against either side of your stretched pussy as he fucks you, and the sensation has you sobbing into the pillow. “So fucking perfect. So tight for me."

You want to respond, to tell him how good he feels, how full, but you can't. You can't do anything but take it, to let him pound you into the mattress with wild, frantic thrusts. He's fucking you like he's trying to break you, like he's trying to split you in two, and it's exactly what you wanted, what you need.

Your climax catches you by surprise, slamming into you like the thrust of Cody's hips. It's sudden and intense, and you're not even sure what does it, what finally pushes you over the edge. All you know is that you're clenching around his cock, your entire body trembling, and he's still fucking you through it, his cock dragging against that spot inside you that has you sobbing into the pillow.

“Fuck, you're beautiful," he says, his voice low and ragged. “You're so beautiful like this.” 

He shifts, leaning down to press his chest against your back, his lips finding the nape of your neck. He sucks at the soft skin there, his tongue tracing the bumps of your spine, and the sensation is almost too much on top of the rest. You're sensitive, overstimulated, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. It's too much and not enough all at once.

“Cody, I can't," you gasp, even as you're pushing back against him, trying to take him deeper. “It's too much. I can't.”

“You can," he grunts, and his hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, pushing you down until your breasts are pressed against the sheets. The new angle has him hitting even deeper, the head of his cock nudging your cervix with each stroke. “I know you can. You were made for this. You were made for me.”

The words should infuriate you. They’re possessive, they’re presumptuous. They’re the words of someone who believes they own you, body and soul. But all you feel is heat, pulsing through your core, and the truth of them rings through you, undeniable.

So you take it. You take his cock, his words, his love. You let him pour himself into you, and you give yourself back to him, all of you, everything you are.

It doesn't take much longer. Cody's stamina is legendary, and he can keep going long after most men would have collapsed into an exhausted heap. It's one of the many, many benefits of being with an enhanced soldier of the GAR. But even Cody has his limits, and you've pushed him to the brink.

"One more," he grits out, his hand sliding down between your legs. He finds your clit, and the rough pad of his finger against your swollen, sensitive flesh has your hips jerking forward, trying to escape the intense sensation. “Just one more. Come on."

“I can't," you whimper, even as your inner muscles flutter around him. You're exhausted, spent. Your body feels like it's made of lead, heavy and boneless. But he's relentless, his fingers working you even as he slams his hips into yours. And against all odds, against all reason, you feel it building again. That familiar, insistent pressure. The tightening in your core.

“Cody, please," you beg, not even sure what you're asking for anymore. Release, mercy, relief from the overwhelming pleasure that's threatening to tear you apart at the seams. “Please."

“That's it," he coaxes, his fingers relentless. "That's my girl. You can do it. Just one more. Give me one more."

“Oh, fuck," you moan, burying your face in the pillow as your whole body tenses, as you hover on the edge of oblivion. “Fuck, Cody, please."

“Now," he demands, and there's no mistaking the order in his tone this time. It's the voice of Marshal Commander Cody, the man who's led armies, fought battles, won wars. And you obey, because you always obey. Because you're his.

Your orgasm hits like an avalanche, wiping out everything in its path. You're dimly aware of Cody cursing, of his hips stuttering, but all you can focus on is the way your body is spasming around him, the way your pleasure is pouring out of you, drenching his cock and the sheets beneath you. It's too much, too intense, and you're pretty sure you're going to pass out from sheer sensory overload.

But you don't, and Cody doesn't stop. He keeps going, pounding into you even as the last waves of your climax roll through you. His hips are erratic, his breathing harsh, and you can tell he's close. You can tell he's hanging on by the thinnest of threads.

So you give him what he needs, the same thing you've always given him. The thing he can't find anywhere else. The thing that's kept him coming back to you, time and time again.

You give him permission to let go.

“Do it," you urge, reaching back to grasp his forearm, digging your nails into the meat of him. “I want to feel you come in me. I want you to fill me up, Cody. Please."

And that's all it takes. With something that's half roar, half sob, he slams his hips forward one last time, and you can feel the hot, wet rush of his release deep inside you. His cock pulses, throbbing against your inner walls, and you can feel every twitch, every spasm. You're so full of him you feel like you might burst. Like he's marked you in the most primal, most basic of ways.

His climax seems to go on forever, and when he finally collapses on top of you, his weight pinning you to the bed, you can't stop the satisfied smile that curls your lips. This is what you've been craving, what you've been missing in the long weeks apart. And by the way he's still inside you, the way his cock is still pulsing weakly, you know he's missed it too. Missed you.

“Thank you," he whispers, his voice ragged and raw. “Thank you for that."

“I think I should be thanking you," you reply, shifting your hips, and he groans at the sensation. “I forgot how good it was. How much I needed this."

“I didn't," he says as his arms slide around you, pulling you close. He's still inside you, still half-hard, and you're pretty sure he has no intention of pulling out anytime soon. “I've been thinking about it nonstop."

You laugh, and the movement has him twitching inside you, his cock giving another weak pulse. “I could tell. Peak performance indeed, Commander. Very efficient."

He snorts at that, his breath fanning against the nape of your neck. “I have my moments.”

“You have more than moments," you assure him, running your fingers along his arm. You can feel the hard, corded muscle there, the strength that could snap you like kindling if he chose. But he never has, and he never would. He's always been so careful with you. So gentle. “You have everything I need."

He doesn't respond, but you feel him smile against your skin, his lips pressing against the curve of your shoulder. His arms wind around your waist, and he slowly turns on his side, bringing you with him. His cock slides out of you in the process, and you can't stop the little mewl of protest that escapes your lips.

“I'm sorry," he whispers, kissing the back of your head. “I didn't mean to hurt you."

“You didn't," you reassure him as you snuggle back against him. “I just… I wanted you to stay."

“I know," he says, and you can hear the regret in his voice. “But I have to get cleaned up, and I have to take care of you. I don't want you to be sore tomorrow. Not on our first day of leave."

You want to argue, to tell him you don't care if you're sore. That it's worth it for the pleasure he gives you, for the intimacy. But you know he's right, and you don't want to make his job any harder than it has to be. So you let him go, rolling onto your stomach and letting him climb over you, padding off to the bathroom to fetch his supplies.

While he's gone, you take the opportunity to stretch, your body feeling deliciously loose and pliant after the intense workout. You're sticky and wet between your thighs, and when you reach down to touch yourself, you can feel his seed leaking out of you. It's dirty, filthy even, but you can't deny the thrill of satisfaction that runs through you at the thought.

When Cody comes back, carrying his familiar white box, he stops short at the sight of you, your fingers lazily exploring your tender folds.

“You're killing me," he groans, setting the box on the nightstand before settling on the bed beside you. “I'm not sure I'm going to survive this."

“I think you'll manage," you reply, and you spread your legs wider, giving him better access. “Get to work, Commander."

He does, of course. He's nothing if not obedient. He opens his kit and takes out his supplies. Cleans his hands first, as he always does, before cleaning you, as gently as he can. You wince, your flesh still sensitive and swollen, and he murmurs apologies, pressing kisses to the back of your thigh. And when you're both cleaned up to his satisfaction, he covers the bruises on your hips from his frantic fingers with bacta and massages your tired muscles, working the knots and tension from them until you're practically boneless.

By the time he's done, you're almost asleep, your eyes heavy, your body limp. He covers you with the sheet, and you're dimly aware of him moving about the room, picking up the clothes strewn on the floor. You hear the sound of water running, and when he comes back, he's wearing nothing but his briefs, and his hair is damp.

“Come on, baby," he says, kneeling beside the bed and smoothing the hair back from your face. “You need to drink something. And I need to change the sheets."

“S'fine," you murmur, burrowing deeper into the pillow. “Don't need sheets. Just sleep."

“You'll be sorry in the morning," he says firmly, and he scoops you up in his arms, carrying you bridal-style out of the room. “You can sleep on the couch while I clean up."

You're too tired to argue, and the truth is, you don't want to let him go, not for one second. So you let him carry you, let him set you down on the couch, wrap you in your fluffy bathrobe, and press the bottle of water into your hands.

“Drink," he says, tapping the top of the bottle. “All of it. Doctor's orders."

You scowl at him, but you comply, taking small sips. You watch him move back toward the bedroom, and even in your exhausted state, you can't help but admire the view. The way the muscles in his back and shoulders flex as he strips the soiled sheets from the bed. The way his briefs cling to the tight curves of his ass, and the way the dimples just above them seem to be begging you to run your fingers over them.

He's gorgeous, there's no doubt about that. But it's more than his looks that draw you to him. It's his heart, his soul. It's the way he cares for you, the way he loves you. The way he sees you, not just as an object to be desired, but as someone to be cherished. To be protected. To be loved.

“I love you," you say suddenly, and the sliver you can see of him through the doorway freezes, the clean sheet clutched in his hands. “I really, really do."

“I love you, too," he calls back, and you can hear the smile in his voice. The wonder. The awe. “Now finish that water and get some rest. We have to get up early tomorrow if we're going to make our flight to Naboo. I'm not losing the deposit because you were too tired to get out of bed."

“Bossy,” you grumble, but you can't help but smile as you take another sip of water. This is the Cody you love. The Commander. The lover. The man who's already planning your vacation down to the last detail. The man who, for the next two weeks, is all yours.

“I have to be," he says as he appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “If I'm not, you'll sleep all day, and we'll miss our flight. And I've been looking forward to this for months. I’m not letting you sabotage it with your laziness."

“My laziness?” you protest, indignant. “You’re the one keeping me up all hours of the night. A girl needs her beauty sleep.”

Cody grunts. “You don’t need beauty sleep. You’re already perfect.”

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Commander,” you say with an eye roll, though you can feel the heat rise in your cheeks.

"I disagree," he replies with one of his rare, genuine smiles that still have the power to make your knees weak. He crosses to the sofa, crouching down in front of you, and takes the half-empty water bottle from your limp hands and sets it on the floor. He leans in, and you think he's going to kiss you, but instead he presses his forehead against yours. "It's gotten me here, hasn't it?"

He has you there. You close your eyes, soaking in the feel of him. The warmth of his skin, the gentle puff of his breath against your cheek, the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. You could stay like this forever, in this small, perfect bubble of peace. In this apartment on the grimy, lower levels of Coruscant that feels more like home than any place you've ever known because he's here with you.

“Yeah,” you whisper, tilting your chin to kiss him again. “It has.”