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matchxd · 2 years

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EEE yay i was so excited for this!! ❤️❤️

Can’t wait to see where it goes

Christmas in Coconut Creek

Chapter One - Flight Club

Pairing: Frankie x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 6.4k

Summary: A mile high conversation with baseball-hat-inside guy

A/N: full disclosure, this is not my usual and I am shaking in my goddam crocs nervous about the reaction I might get. I understand this may not be fandom canon Frankie, but he’s Kriss canon Frankie, and what are we doing on this site if not writing indulgent delusion anyway?

My Masterlist

—

It was snowing in Portland in December. Go figure.

You dragged the wheels of your one hard shelled suitcase out of the pile of slush the Uber driver had dropped it in carelessly; right before he left you in a puff of exhaust to fend for yourself at the airline terminal. You wouldn’t miss this. No, for three weeks you were ice and shit-stained-snow free — you couldn’t hardly wait to trade the Sorel boots for strappy sandals. You’d even strategically layered your clothing for the climate change: t-shirt, zip up, baggy old Ducks sweatshirt that you’d acquired from an ex-boyfriend, a beanie that could be easily stuffed into the pocket of your carry on, your least thick pair of black leggings— all of it ready to be removed at the touch down on a tarmac.

This vacation was exactly what you needed. A reset and reinvigorate before the new year so that you could start 2022 off with a new outlook on life. God knew these last two years had been like ripping wax off a labia, (which you had done two days prior, by the way) and Christmas in Oregon just wasn’t the same as it used to be.

Your parents had been separated since you were a preteen. Your mom got pregnant young, then they married young, believing they were doing everything that was right for a newborn. Only for all that first-love-sparkle to silently taper into a mutual agreement years later that they weren’t right for each other— that when you were born they hadn’t even really grown up yet themselves. Now both your parents had been remarried for years with second families of their own, your mom and Josh in Hillsboro with their two kids and your dad and Amy in West Linn with your three other half-siblings. Holidays had gone from a loving reconciliation of separated parents with their daughter, to trying to figure out who got you for Christmas Eve/Day, and which Fred Meyer grocery store parking lot was the most convenient for the quick exchange of a child.

It’s not that you didn’t love your parents, you absolutely did, although maybe now you saw them more as the slightly older friends you grew up with— but you were in your twenties, with a real job and a real apartment and real friends in Florida that invited you to stay with them for extended periods of time— and there was no way in Hell you were sharing a Christmas ham at the kiddie table with kids fourteen years younger than you. You did enough of that at your teaching job. Now that you thought about it, you’d basically been a glorified babysitter for as long as you could remember.

It was busy in the main concourse of PDX, travelers coming and going for the holiday. Christmas was still two weeks away but it seemed like everyone had the same idea. Either getting the fuck out of the torrential brisk they’d grown sick of in their home state or flying directly into it to spend the weekend drunk off their asses skiing black diamond’s at Mount Hood.

Breezing through check-in and security unscathed, minus the “random pat-down” by TSA you were positive was just a way for the dude to cop a feel, by 10 a.m. you were gussied up at the Gate 24B bar with a grapefruit mimosa just in time for your 10:30 flight. You were always early, or on time technically, because you thought that anyone arriving at the time expected was only one spilled cup of coffee or old-lady-at-a-crosswalk short of being late.

You pulled your phone out of your sweatshirt pocket and discreetly snapped a photo with the flute glass to your lips.

You: Ready to get my sunshine on, mimosa number one!!

Attaching the selfie to your text, you sent it to your contact named “Mags babyyyy *tongue out winking emoji*” Jesus, you really needed to change that. It was so indicative of the times you spent in college with your roommate, and that silly wave of nostalgia every time her name came across your phone was something you couldn’t bear to part with.

Magdalena: Yes bitch! Starting early, love that for us.

You: Well, technically I’m just catching up because it’s actually three hours from now in Florida and time is precious.

Magdalena: Truer words have never been spoken.

You: I still have like, half an hour before my flight. Are you sure you don’t mind picking me up from FLL? I could grab an Uber no problem when I land.

Magdalena: Fuck that, I’ll be there at 5:30, we’re getting dinner and then going OUT. There’s a huge party tonight at Nectar, wait until you see the outfits I bought us.

You: I hate you and love you at the same time.

Magdalena: You’re really gonna hate to love me later *purple devil emoji*

You: Do I need to remind you that the holidays are a time for religious reflection and doing good deeds?

Magdalena: Bacardi is my religion and I WILL be reflecting on it later.

You: I haven’t even left Oregon and I’m already worried my soul will be lost somewhere on Pompano beach.

Magdalena: Hopefully your panties too.

You: Mkay!! Love you!! See you in five hours!!

Magdalena: *cocktail glass emoji* *kissy face emoji*

You sighed and rolled your eyes, unable to keep the smirk off your lips at how ridiculous your best friend was, and how excited you truly were for the next few weeks to come.

The gate had gotten busier since you first sat down, you nursed another sip of your mimosa and aimlessly scrolled through Facebook, all your friends from high school and college had started posting photos of their newborns and toddlers dressed in red and green. Their families visiting Great Value Santa Claus at the Portland Fire & Rescue, cutting down the perfect Douglas Fir, hiding that fucking Elf on the Shelf and contorting his body to look like he was shitting Hershey kisses on the kitchen counter. Festive.

As much as you could make fun of it by yourself and with your single co-workers, part of you couldn’t help but long for that type of fulfillment too. To be the one to make your son or daughter light up with joy on December 25th when they came crashing down the stairs in candy-cane print pajamas to find a brand new bike, or a Barbie Dream House. But, for that you would need to have a kid, which means you would need to be pregnant, which means you would need to have sex, and to have sex there would need to be a man in your life. One that was not only willing to have sex with you, which, by the way wasn’t the issue, but he would also have to be willing to have a child. That’s a hell of a lot of steps and commitment for the twenty-four hours of joy a year that was pretending to be a fat guy in a red coat.

You opened the dating app on your phone anyway.

There would be slim picking in an airport terminal, you had thought. But it turns out quite a few men within a one mile radius were looking to get their rocks off while they were in town for business meetings or heading to a ski-resort.

Swipe left, swipe left, porn 'stache, not the good kind, swipe left, broody looking, Carhartt beanie, hmm, swipe right, which one is he in this group picture? swipe left, handsome suit man, swipe right, fish photo, swipe left, fish photo, swipe left, Jesus fucking Christ, fish photo, swipe left. Was there really nothing more to the 30 to 45-year-old men in the Pacific Northwest? This one is kinda cute in a ‘wears-a-baseball-cap-inside’ kind of way, swipe right, you could forgive this one for being blonde because he’s holding a husky, swipe right.

You had a one photo rule with dating apps, to keep your standards high. If the man in question didn’t leave an impression in the first photo on his profile then he was a dud. You didn’t have time to teach a man how to present himself to the world, and that includes on Tinder.

You finished the dregs of your first mimosa at the same time the gate steward came over the speaker to announce that Flight 228, Portland International to Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport was beginning to board first class passengers and active military personnel, of which you were neither. Instead of hurrying across the passageway to stand in line with your suitcase you motioned to the bartender to bring you one more mimosa and your check before it was officially wheel’s up to Coconut Creek for three whole weeks.

The window seat wasn’t the most ideal place to be on an already crowded coach flight, but at least it wasn’t the middle. You would celebrate life’s little wins so long as the person inevitably sitting next to you didn’t request to keep the shade down the entire four and half hour trip. You could manage a few hours of headphone silence trapped inside two other people if you had a view, not so much if the view was a sticky beige wall and the left ear of the person in front of you.

Luckily though, the row was empty when you boarded and you didn’t have to press your whole fucking pelvis against the head of a person in the aisle seat while loading your carry-on into the overhead bin. You could shed the nineteen layers of sweater off as well and, fuck it, take advantage of the extra space to trade your snow boots for the flip-flops in your back pack.

Properly sweating by the time the last shoe was shoved into storage, you plopped down in a seat just as the ping of a notification sounded from the pocket of your zip-up. You expected a ridiculous Snapchat from Mags of the outfits she mentioned you would be wearing later tonight, or a “safe flight” text from your mom signed off “love mom & Josh” like she always did, but what you were shocked to see was a banner across your home screen claiming “It’s A Match!”

Hmm.

You swiped to unlock your phone and watched your own profile photo do a dance right alongside ‘baseball-hat-inside’ mans’ and a prompt to send a message. Timing was obviously impeccable here, you were currently in a metal tube, about to be 3,000 miles away for the next month and this guy probably just caught a ride-share out of the airport.

Frankie, 36

“Guaranteed admittance to the Mile High Club.”

Charming. You were also now exceedingly less likely to venture into any airplane bathroom without seeing it was properly sanitized by flight staff first.

You scrolled through the rest of his pictures— a candid shot taken on a beach somewhere, his hair in shaggy brown waves, eyes hidden behind a pair of Ray-Ban’s. The buttons of a Hawaiian half open down his chest with a peak of the tan skin underneath. The next one he was relaxed against a wooden trail-fence, backpack strapped around his waist and chest which pulled his shirt taut to his body, he had a soft smirk on his face but was looking off to the right like he was slightly embarrassed to be the subject of the camera. Reserved. Then a group shot of him and a bunch of guys, all arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders, beers in hand. Thank God he didn’t lead with that one, he wasn’t even at the center of the photo, and the red-eye made it look like someone had taken that shit on a Kodak disposable.

Actually…

You squinted a little and realized that was exactly what it was, an old glossy photo he must have taken a picture of with his phone camera and uploaded to his profile.

“Christ,” you giggled to yourself, barely hiding a smirk with the back of your hand. This guy was really showing his age here, which was something you strangely found endearing.

Scrolling to the last picture, you outwardly groaned and rolled your eyes. He was standing in front of a helicopter wearing a tactical vest with a gun belt slung across his waist, cargo pants and shirt in muted shades of gray and beige. The stoic hard-jawed look on his face would have admittedly been ridiculously attractive if he wasn’t—

“In the fucking military,” you scoffed under your breath.

You angled your thumbs on the photo and dragged them outward to zoom in on his face— bringing the screen comically close to your own eyes and squinting. A total shame, there was a lot of potential there. You could see the soft spatter of stubble, plush bottom lip. The tight sleeves of his shirt hugging all the right muscles in an arm. Even the cargo pants, (which you weren’t a fan of in any other circumstance besides job-related) were filled out exceedingly well. You shifted the focus until the zoom landed directly over the crotch of his pants and tilted your head.

Someone cleared their throat from above you.

“Shit,” you slammed your phone face-down in your lap and looked up at the person that undoubtedly just watched you analyze a dude’s bulge. Only, it was much, much worse than that. “Oh—fuck.”

“It’s better in person,” he smirked. A slanted, proud, lilt to his lips that subsequently put you at ease and sent a flare of embarrassed heat to your cheeks at the same time. Of course this man wasn’t catching a ride-share into Portland. Of course he was standing directly next to you, overhead carry-on tea-bagging you, on the same flight.

“I — am sure that it is, that’s…” you closed your eyes and squeezed them together hoping that when the television static that was the back of your eyelids subsided, you would open them and Frankie from fucking Tinder would be gone.

Very wishful thinking.

“And what’s the problem with the military?” He asked, opening the overhead and immediately dodging a Sorel snow boot cascading toward his head and into the aisle. “—the fuck?”

“Sorry,” you apologized for the boot and reached down to pick it up off the carpet. “How long were you standing there?”

“Long enough to be both insulted and then eye-fucked— so ten seconds.”

“I did not eye-fuck you,” you said, holding the lone boot out to him and nodding up toward the storage container. His eyebrows knitted together but he took it anyway, stuffing it back in the compartment and then shedding his own bag off his back and closing it inside as well.

“What exactly would you call it then?”

“I don’t know, the female fucking gaze.”

“Poetic.”

“Thank you.”

“You could just say you were looking at my dick.”

You rolled your eyes and pinched the bridge of your nose. Was there a way to retract inside one's own asshole?

“It’s fine,” he assured you. “I did it too.”

“You looked at my dick?”

Frankie coughed out a laugh and looked around, a man shimmied behind him and further down the aisle toward his own seat. “I’m more of an ass man, to be honest.”

“Poetic,” you mimicked.

“It must be my male gaze acting up again.”

You snorted, smiling down at your own hands in your lap.

The intercom crackled to life and a flight attendant introduced himself, asking everyone to be seated and buckled as the aircraft was making its way to the runway. Another woman squeezed her way behind Frankie and gave him a less than impressed side eye.

“So are you just gonna stand for the duration of the flight? Are you one of those rule-breaking flyers that get up and use the bathroom even when the seat belt signs are on?”

“Oh yeah it’s just, you’re sitting in my seat actually. So.”

You looked down and saw your ass was indeed in the middle chair of the row, and it clicked to you that he did, in fact, put all of his belongings in the overhead right above those seats.

“Well obviously it’s not like a third person is coming to sit in this row so— you don’t have to sit here. You can take the aisle.”

“Actually, as an avid rule-following flyer, I’ll have to stick with the assigned seat printed right here,” he pulled his ticket out of his back pocket and showed it to you, “on this ticket.”

He was pulling your fucking leg. Bastard. You tried to call his bluff by staying put, but he just raised an expectant eyebrow at you with a grin.

“Well played,” you humored him as you scooted across the divide back to the window seat. He slid in next to you, stretching his back against the leather and pushing his legs out as far as he could in front of him. Damn this guy was large. His left knee tipped across the invisible line between your two spaces because of how wide he was spread.

“I should let you know then, that I keep the reading light on the whole flight.”

“Perfect,” he nodded. “Because I play CandyCrush with the volume on. Helps keep me focused.”

Well fuck— this was gonna gonna be a long four and a half hours.

The cabin lights had gone down as the plane cruised at altitude and attendants were making their way slowly from front to back of the plane with refreshments. You weren’t sure how many passive aggressive elbow nudges over the shared armrest were too many before it was a lost cause, but either this man was enjoying getting under your skin a little too much or he was in fact completely numb from the bicep down. Just as you were about to surrender and stick your first earbud in, Frankie leaned over.

“You never answered my question.”

“Hm?”

“About the military. What’s wrong with it?”

You put your hand back down from where it was paused halfway to your ear and turned slightly more toward him. “No offense, but a guy in the military is kind of a walking red flag. Screams inability to commit.”

“Being on Tinder doesn’t do that itself?”

“You know, you’re making an amazing case for yourself,” you teased him.

He lifted his faded, black hat off his head and ran the fingers of his other hand through his hair. Thick and tousled, it curled in under his ears and flared out at the nape of his neck. “You had to have seen something you liked. You did swipe right.” He added with a smirk.

“I have a ‘one photo’ rule on dating apps, if I don’t like the first pic you get next-ed.”

“What is this MTV?” He snorted.

“How old were you when that aired? Forty?”

He stuck his tongue into his cheek, and looked up at the ceiling. “You’ve got a smart little mouth.”

Oh. Something about that pinched you where it shouldn’t have.

“Just saying,” you brought the subject back to Tinder, “if you led with the military photo, and that was the only one I saw….” you shrugged.

“No zoom job?”

You sighed and looked away from him, out the window. “I’ll never hear the end of that.”

“Nope.” He reached over and pulled your tray down and then his own. “And here I was, thinking women were looking for good humor and commitment,” he said the last word pointedly. “You just want me for my body.”

“Says the man who’s opening line is—” you unlocked your phone and made your way back to his dating profile to read it verbatim, “‘Guaranteed admittance to the Mile High Club’, I mean how much more forward could you be?”

“Okay two things,” he laughed and put both his palms up in surrender. “One, that was a hundred percent my roommate’s doing, he’s much more crass than I am, and under any other circumstance I would have vetoed it.”

“And you didn’t because….?” you hung the last syllables in the air.

“Because, two: I’m a pilot, and it’s actually pretty witty when I’m in any other place beside an airport.” He cringed. “Noted.”

Damn it, that actually was funny.

“If it were up to me it would have said something more along the lines of, “How do I tell my roommate’s girlfriend that he and I are common law married and she’s technically the other woman?”

“I don’t think they recognize common law marriage in Oregon,” you chuckled.

“Or Florida, but the military,” he nodded, “don’t ask, don’t tell.”

“Jesus,” you shook your head at him humorously. “So, let me get this straight, you’re a thirty-six-year-old pilot with commitment issues, who’s lived with his roommate so long you two could jointly file your taxes?”

“Babe, if I’m your dream guy just say it.” He juts his thumb toward the back of the plane. “I think the bathroom door says vacant, we could make this thing official right now.”

The flight attendant stopped next to your seats and leaned over the cart, “Hi folks, can I offer you any complimentary snacks or drinks?”

“How’s it going?” Frankie smiled at her. “I’ll do a coke and um—” he took a second to look at all his options, “the white cheddar popcorn. Please.” Before you could tell her your own choices Frankie spoke up again. “And the same for my fiancé.”

“Not his fiancé,” you quickly corrected and shot him a glare with a playful shove to the shoulder.

“Just proposed,” he added again. “Still waiting on an answer.”

Two could play in that game.

“I found out that I’m the other, other woman,” you explained to the confused and slightly horrified stewardess, retaining her professionalism beautifully. “He’s got me, and then a boyfriend back home, and then his boyfriend’s girlfriend — I don’t know if I can keep up.”

Frankie offered a fake laugh, and put his very large, tan hand over yours on the armrest in a loving gesture, you couldn’t even attempt to move your wrist, the weight of his palm kept you pinned underneath him.

“I love when you get territorial with me honey,” he turned his attention back to the attendant. “I always make sure she’s well satisfied.”

“I’ve never had an orgasm in my life,” you smiled at her, then mentally patted yourself on the back when you saw Frankie’s eyes shutter closed. “I’ll have a Coke too, and the barbecue chips, thanks.”

The stewardess borderline shoved the cart forward as Frankie cracked your Coke for you, pouring it into the tiny plastic cup of ice on your tray, and then moving on to his own.

“Thanks,” you hummed around a chip, entirely too proud of yourself.

“You’ve really never had an orgasm?”

This man was unbelievable. Persistent, overt— if he really was the tamer of the two, you didn’t even want to imagine the roommate. “I have,” you defended yourself. You weren’t about to have him think you’d never be in a sexual situation in your life. “No man’s ever gotten the job done though.”

Frankie shifted a bit in his seat, slouching lower, legs taking up more space in front of him if that was even possible. He shoveled a handful of popcorn into his mouth and stared ahead contemplatively, as if he was content to stew in the silence of that statement for the rest of the flight. Of all the comebacks this guy had for everything he chose that, to let linger in the shared space.

You cleared your throat when instead of answering you, he just tipped his head back and poured another handful of popcorn into his mouth, baring his neck and Adam's apple that you couldn’t help but watch bob up and down. “So, tell me about this throuple you’re in. I’ll need some more information about the company before I can make a decision.”

“I don’t share,” he said, matter-of-factly, finally finding your gaze again out of the corner of his eye. It would be much easier to pretend you didn’t feel something between your thighs at that statement if he wasn’t so easy to look at. “And they’re actually the reason I desperately need a girlfriend at this point. I don’t know how much longer I can pretend we don’t live in an echo chamber and the walls aren’t made of loose leaf paper.”

“Oof, that bad?”

Frankie sighed and ran a hand down his jaw. “Lena’s got this ghost-moan, like she’s stuck in the in-between when she’s getting fucked. I half think one night I’m gonna be dragged from my bed by the ankle to perform a séance.”

“Ghost-moan?” You laughed, “I can’t even imagine what that sounds like.”

“Well it’s kind of like,” Frankie started cooing softly next to you.

“Oh God no,” you gasped, giggling, and he continued, growing louder and more animated. “Frankie — stop.” He didn’t — adding an extra octave instead and groaning like a spirit experiencing coitus. “Frankie.” You whisper shouted, and slapped your hand over his lips. “You’re gonna get us ejected.”

He finally stopped, moans giving way to raucous laughter that you tried not to condone, but the way his eyes crinkled around the edges and his dimple stood out made you soften.

“Now you see why I don’t want to be alone anymore,” he joked. “This past week in Portland was my reprieve.”

“What was in Portland? Don’t tell me an exorcist.”

“I wish,” he chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. “A job actually. An interview. I’m retired from the Army, by the way.” He raised his eyebrows at you and you returned a playful eye roll. “I was an Aviation Warrant Officer and there’s a base in Portland looking for seasoned pilots to train their incoming classes of Redhawks. I know a guy who knows a guy.”

“Ah, I see. So this Tinder thing, you were just trying to get lucky, no strings attached, hopping on a flight home the next day.”

“Ugh, I know,” he groaned, “and my luck, she followed me right onto the plane.” You scrunched your nose and shoved him with your shoulder. “I don’t know,” he sighed. “Doesn’t everyone have that sort of, forbidden fantasy? You know, go out on a business trip and get swept up, fall in lust.”

You turned to face him better, eyebrows knitting together in the middle. “Um, hello? Are you the same dude that was moaning like Grudge two minutes ago?”

“I’m full of surprises.”

“I’ve noticed — and I’m a teacher in Clackamas, Oregon, so going away on business isn’t exactly a luxury I’m familiar with.”

“Ooh. So you have the whole teacher slash ‘bad student’, smack him around with a yardstick for not doing his homework fantasy.”

“I actually have the opposite of that because I’m pretty sure even thinking it could get me fired?”

“That’s true.” He subtly ran his eyes down your neck, right to the curve of your tank top’s neckline under your zip-up. “Well— now I have it, so thanks for that.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been ogled for just existing.”

“Do you hate it?”

“Not as much as I should,” you admitted, pressing your lips together and folding your half eaten chip bag. Frankie eyed the crinkling aluminum. “— do you want the rest?”

“Oh thank fuck you offered, I didn’t want to look like a dick.”

You snorted and handed the bag over, then sat in silence for a few minutes while he finished the crumbs. “So why not try to find a job closer to home?” you asked.

“The opportunity pretty much fell into my lap through a group of pilots I knew when I was in, and I figured why not? I’m not tied down to anything in Florida, a buddy of mine and his brother aren’t too far away in Reno, I could see them more often. And honestly? Maybe a change of scenery would be good for me. Like you so rudely pointed out, the AARP has started contacting me about my retirement savings.”

“And how does that look, out of curiosity?” you teased.

“Ah, there she is. It was never my body or a uniform you were after. The truth always comes out.”

You shrugged sarcastically.

“What about you? Running away from an ex?”

“Why do you say that?”

“You’re on a plane, flying three thousand miles away from home just in time for Christmas, there’s gotta be something chasing your tail. So what is it?”

“No ex,” you wave your finger side to side. “I’m visiting a friend from college for a few weeks, she lives in Coconut Creek.”

“No family?”

“Oh, I do. Yeah. My parents are more like my friends at this point. They were married for a while after I was born but now they’ve been divorced a long time and have these picture perfect second families. My closest half sibling is only fourteen, so I figured I would do something different this Christmas. Trade the pine trees for palm trees.”

“It’s good to do something for yourself every now and then.”

“I think so.”

You stacked your empty plastic cup and soda can inside one another and shut the tray, unbuckling your seat belt to stand up. “I’m gonna use the restroom now.”

“Yeah?” He raised his eyebrows and unbuckled his own belt. “Should I wait two or three minutes?”

“Alone, Frankie,” you patted his shoulder before squeezing through the tiny space between his squashed legs and the seat in front of him. “Nice try though.” Instead of shuffling carefully to the aisle, you decided to torture him a bit, turning your ass toward him as you climbed over.

“Tease,” he mumbled when you finally got your bearings in the aisle and you smiled to yourself all the way down the row and into the two by three bathroom.

The mirror wasn’t much to look at, and the fluorescent lighting in the stall was doing nothing for you either, but you still patted the underside of your eyes where you wanted to make sure your makeup wasn’t creasing and fluffed your dry-shampooed hair at the roots. You were borderline cat-fishing this guy, the glamored girl in your profile photos was not the same one staring back at you with barbecue chip dust on her chest. Fuck. To be fair though, if you were on an actual date, you would have dressed the part— this was the steady-relationship, comfortable-not-showering-for-three-days-in-his-presence girl, and Frankie got her right out of the gate.

You used the toilet, washed your hands thoroughly and then checked for anything in your teeth. Just as you were about to leave, someone knocked on the door.

“Just a minute!”

Another knock. Oh, no way. Did he actually think the two of you were gonna get each other off in the airplane bathroom? And why did that thought not disgust you as much now as it did an hour ago?

You pulled the lock and swung the door outward. “I’m not having sex with you!” Expecting to see Frankie, a bucket of cold water was thrown in your face when the same flight attendant from the cart was the one standing outside the stall.

“Are you okay, miss?” She asked skeptically, eyebrows pinching together.

“I’m so sorry, I’m fine. I thought —”

Before you could incriminate yourself further she pointed at the blinking red seat belt sign. “We’re about to hit some mild turbulence. If you could just return to your seat.”

“Of course.” You ducked around her and bee-lined back to your row, not even caring about the dramatic way you flung yourself over Frankie’s lap and into the shadow between his shoulder and the window.

He smirked. “You okay? You look a little flushed.”

“The flight attendant thinks I’m a vouyeristic, polyamorous whore.”

His lips parted and you could see the pink of his tongue, “You were gone for like two minutes, troublemaker.”

“You were supposed to be the one who knocked on the door.”

His dark brown eyes opened wide in surprise and he pointed at his own chest. “Me? I thought you said… You told me loud and clear.” He mimicked your voice, “Alone, Frankie.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time a guy didn’t take no for an answer,” you huffed.

He stared at you for a few seconds as the flush of your skin simmered from boiling. “So should I...” he started to unbuckle his seat belt again like he was going to head to the bathroom himself.

“Sit!” you grabbed him by the forearm, feeling every hard ridge of muscle underneath his worn white button down. “Please, sit. We can’t draw any more attention to ourselves, let’s just—” You tapped on the touch screen attached to the back of the seat in front of you and started scrolling, “watch a movie.”

“I don’t know,” he tisked. “With your track record how am I supposed to know you won’t try to fondle me under the airline blanket?”

“You know what? You’re not that funny anymore.”

“But you did think I was funny?”

“No I'll take it back, you were never funny.”

“Too late.” He pinched the back of your bicep playfully, and the second you lifted your elbow off the armrest his own arm took its place.

“Perfect,” you exclaimed, finding the same film title with your fingers on Frankie’s screen so you could hit play together. “Top Gun. Your favorite movie.”

“Fuck Tom Cruise,” he shook his head. “What an unattainable standard to have as a pilot. And introducing my bedroom to women as “my personal cockpit” has never gotten the reaction I hoped it would— by the way.”

He looked genuinely distraught and you had to tamper your giggle by biting down on your bottom lip.

“You’re laughing at a man’s pain.”

“Oh come on be my wing-man” you winked, slapping your palm down right above his knee and shaking it. “Watch Top Gun with me.”

He watched your hand from the second it touched the material of his jeans until you drew it back into your own lap to untangle your earbuds. “Fuck, fine,” he sighed. “The things I do for a date.”

You pumped your fist with a whispered yes! while Frankie pulled his own earphones from his pocket and plugged the auxiliary edge into the armrest.

“My favorite movie is Bridesmaids by the way,” he said before sticking the buds in his ears and shimmying comfortably into the cushion.

Weirdest first date ever.

By the time the movie was over and Frankie had his soap box to complain about the staggering inaccuracies of the film, there was little time left before you landed. You spent it allowing Frankie to tell you aviation jokes he had saved in the notes app on his phone to use at parties— Why did the airplane get sent to his room? Bad altitude— and laughing at every single one of them despite the humor just to put him in a better mood.

It was seventy-eight degrees and blindingly sunny when the plane landed in Fort Lauderdale. You watched Frankie fold the sleeves of his shirt up to the elbows and undo a few buttons over his chest to acclimate and suddenly it felt about ninety-five. Of course the baggage claim, like in any other airport, was no less than three miles from the gate, and you and Frankie walked along next to each other with your snow boots hanging by their laces from the handle of your backpack while he guided you.

He looked even better off the plane. Long legs, cute ass you kept sneaking looks at when his height carried him slightly further ahead of you. Up close on the flight he looked older, with the graying strands of his sparse beard and mustache, and fine lines starting to crease his forehead. But when you saw him in this light, walking happily beside you, pointing out the different tourist attractions you might want to see and which ones he’d been kicked out of in his formative years— he was youthful, still. Like a big kid in a very, very attractive older man’s body.

It still took another ten minutes of waiting around like a group of Sim’s for the carousel to spin everyone’s luggage through, and you took the time to check your phone and send a few “just landed!” texts to both your parents. Mags had texted you as soon as your flight landed.

Magdalena: You’re here!!!!! Waiting for you out in pick-up. I have to keep circling, this bitch at the door is giving me the side-eye every time I try to park in the fire lane.

You: Grabbing my bag now, I had the craziest fucking thing happen to me on my flight.

Magdalena: Tell me everything when you get in the car, hurry up!!!

You: Hurrying!!!

You shoved your phone in your pocket and watched the bags spin, spotting yours coming towards you. You reached out to grab it but another hand grabbed the handle and hauled it off the belt for you.

“Thanks,” you smirked up at Frankie who stood next you with his own suitcase now too. “Looks like the world’s most insane Tinder date has officially ended.”

“It’d be hard to top that, I agree.” He smirked back.

This was awkward. Up until then, the two of you had been in a forced proximity sort of situation, but now that the bubble had popped and you could call it an end, it seemed like neither of you wanted to be the one to initiate it.

“Well, my ride’s here— waiting outside, so I should probably not keep her?” you sounded like you were asking for approval to leave more than telling him you were.

“Okay,” he said with a soft smile, eyes roaming down your face like he was committing it to memory.

“Okay…” you said smiling, slowly backing away and toward the rotating glass doors. “You’ve got my, uh—” He had your dating profile, that seemed appropriate. “You know,” you finished sheepishly.

He nodded, twisting his bottom lip with his teeth and then pulling his hat off to rake his fingers through his brown locks. “And you’ve got mine.”

You spotted Mags in her car as soon as you stepped outside and the humid Floridian air hit you square in the chest. It smelled like sand and salt, the sun was just falling below the horizon and bathing the sky in deep purple and neon fire.

“The night awaits us!” She yelled, leaning over to push the passenger door open for you.

Christmas in Coconut Creek wasn’t looking too bad at all.

Thank you all for reading, let me know what you think!

Tags: @steeevienicks @remusstark @jettia @letsfuckshitup @mir-osik @1andthesame @rebel-fanfare @thirddeadlysin @gracie7209 @nicolethered @fantasticcopeaglepasta @pheonixhalliwell @darnitdraco @blub-senpai @lowlights @fauxcongenialite @icanbeyourjedi @sixshooter665 @dins-helmet @girlofchaos @my-blink-romance @prostitute-robot-from-the-future @maievdenoir @sadcrabgirl @putrainbowsprinklesonmycupcakes @wyn-n-tonic @blackberries45 @amneris21 @aquariussssslut @mandoblowmybackout @aliwritesfic @ecuadorlady @leslie-lyman

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matchxd · 2 years

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This fic… is SLAUGHTERING me bestie this was all I could think about today

No Strings Attached: Chapter 4

Bloody Mary

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✨ part of no strings attached ✨masterlist✨taglist✨

Pairing: Wolffe x Fem!Reader (she/her pronouns used) Word Count: 4.9k Series Rating: Explicit (18+ only) Chapter Summary: The issue of fights at 79's comes to a head, but not without some harsh words and even harsher truths. Chapter Warnings: alcohol, blood (bloody nose), canon-typical violence (bar fight), angst, hurt no comfort A/N: big thanks to @penguinkiwi for letting me borrow their OC Stun! look, you may think i have control over this story, but there is no stopping an angsty subplot once it takes root in your brain. my sincerest apologies -- we're getting there :)

After that terrible night, the galaxy has mercy on you.

79’s stops filling up every night, leaving more chairs empty and more room for everyone to breathe. It worried you at first — did things go too far? Did clones start telling each other not to come anymore? — but when the holonet started reporting on how the Republic was boosting the war effort, you settled down a bit. Since you got elbowed in the face two weeks ago, there haven’t been any fights, and you’ll gladly take that over having the place packed to the brim with customers.

When things were bad, your hand would hover over the comlink clipped to your hip, your fingers trembling a little at the thought of being forced to use it. In the past two weeks, the bar has been so quiet that you don’t even carry it around with you anymore.

Honestly, fights aside, it’s kind of nice having fewer people in the bar. Once or twice, it’s been slow enough for you to close up and actually make it to bed at a semi-decent hour. You don’t walk into work with sick anticipation in your chest anymore, just waiting for the tell-tale sounds of drunken shouts and broken glass. Maybe that was it — just too many people in one place. Maybe the problem just… solved itself.

As if the galaxy would be merciful for that long.

Tonight is calm, just like the nights before it. It had been a beautiful day on Coruscant, the air as clear as it could get, a hazy blue sky looking down on the planet. You’d even walked partway to work just so you could soak up some of the sun, and the warm feeling still follows you as you collect a tray of empty glasses.

You can actually hear the hum of people’s voices and laughter for once as you cross the floor. There are people dancing around you as you make your way to the bar, and the feeling is almost contagious. This is what you pictured when you imagined owning your own bar.

You’ve nearly made it behind the bar when you hear it — a clone’s voice, clear over the rest of the noise in the room. You can’t make out the words, but you don’t need to — the taunting lilt is all you need for you to drop everything you’re doing.

The empty glasses clink against each other as you slide the tray onto the back counter. It’s still hard to tell exactly where the argument is coming from, but you’ve learned not to look for it. Instead, you look at the faces of the other customers and find most of them turned towards one spot. Following their gazes, you look right along the length of the bar and see the commotion at the other end — a clone pushing another firmly in the chest, neither of them looking like they’re in the mood for teasing anymore.

You slide behind one of the droids at the bar and scramble down to the other end. You clear your throat, ready to shout at them in your most menacing tone — until you’re shoved backwards a few steps by a single arm outstretched in front of you. Just trying to keep your feet from slipping out beneath you, you grab onto the counter and watch as another clone steps in the middle of the fight. You have a funny feeling you know who it is.

You don’t see the punch happen — nor do you really hear it — but you can tell something big has happened by the shouts of the onlookers, some of them in excitement, some of them in… it almost sounds like caution.

When you finally get a good look at what’s going on, you have to stop yourself from cursing. The clone who has stepped in between the two men is, as you suspected, none other than Wolffe, his kama and neat armour paint instantly distinguishing him from the others. Everything you know about Wolffe, every interaction you’ve had with him, it all points to him being the one to throw that punch. But as you take in the scene, you’re sorely mistaken.

Blood gushes from Wolffe’s nose and drips all the way down to his armour. There’s a streak of red from where he’s touched his right eye, closed in what you can only imagine is pain. It looks brutally worse than when you got hit in the face, but it seems to have fazed him about as much as a mouse droid running over his foot.

You watch as the clone’s face changes from something haughty to something fearful as he takes in who exactly is standing in front of him. Eyes wide and hands up in an apologetic gesture, he tries to stammer something out — an apology, maybe, from the way he’s practically shaking in his plastoid — but Wolffe clearly does not have time for it. In one fluid movement, Wolffe grabs the clone by one of his wrists, spins him around, yanks his arm up behind his back, and pins him to the wall.

He may not have started this fight, but one thing’s for sure: he’s finishing it.

With his forearm and elbow pressed into the clone’s back, Wolffe’s other arm cages the trooper against the wall. He leans in to speak directly into the trooper’s ear, so close that there’s no way he’ll be ignored, but quietly enough that you can’t hear what he’s saying.

You’re supposed to be controlling this moment, breaking up the fight, but somehow all you can do is stand and watch. A single thought flows through your head on a loop: Wolffe is big.

It feels like an obvious observation — all clones are pretty big, especially strapped up in their unmistakable armour — but somehow this is different. Even though they’re the same height, Wolffe seems like he towers over the other clone, his shoulders somehow broader as he pins the man to the wall. You don’t know how, but everything about Wolffe just seems thicker, stronger than the average clone. Fuck, it doesn’t even look like it’s straining him, and he’s holding back an entire person. It doesn’t make much sense, but even the way his head is angled is intimidating, snarling into the trooper’s ear.

In the end, it doesn’t matter what he says to the guy. As soon as Wolffe pushes him away, the other clone scrambles towards the door, apologies falling from his lips like he’s flushing out venom from his system. Just like that, the show is over, and the onlookers go back to their drinks.

As Wolffe turns around to face the other clone who’d started the fight — in matching grey armour, and a terribly ugly double-striped haircut — you get another glimpse of his face. Blood trails down his nose, wets his lips, and drips down his chin onto what used to be a clean chest plate. His eye is swelling already, and it won’t be long before it’s puffed up so much that he can’t see.

Wolffe catches his friend by the arm and leans in close, probably grumbling something to him too. The friend looks like he’s trying to defend himself, but his mouth snaps shut when Wolffe jabs him in the chest. He just looks at Wolffe, lips pursed, jaw set, until he’s done talking. When he’s done, Wolffe walks past him and toward the refreshers, presumably to clean himself off. His friend slinks away like a dog with its tail between its legs, and you watch as he rejoins a table of clones also in grey armour.

In a flash, you jump into action.

You work quickly, not letting yourself think about what you’re doing. Besides, it won’t take Wolffe long to wipe the blood off, and you really don’t feel like walking up to him in a booth in front of all of his friends. It doesn’t take you long — a small plastic bag, a quick scoop into the ice bucket, and a simple knot. You grab a clean rag and go back to the other side of the bar, trying to look like you’re not waiting for Wolffe to come out.

It’s because he stopped a fight, you tell yourself. That’s the only reason.

It has nothing to do with what happened last week. Sure, the image of him leaving the counter spotless without so much as dabbing at the beer on himself may have popped up unbidden a few times in the past couple weeks, but that doesn’t mean anything. That’s probably not even what really happened! You were overworked, tired, emotional — you must have just thought you saw him wipe the counter for that long. Now that you think about it, he probably didn’t even have any beer dripping off of him, anyway.

Yeah, it’s not really convincing.

It doesn’t matter, though, because Wolffe steps out a moment later. You wouldn’t exactly say he’s clean, but he looks a hell of a lot better than he did a few minutes ago — although his eye is still swelling up.

Before you can second guess yourself, you step into his path. Wolffe almost stumbles to a stop, ready to move around the person in his way until he looks down and recognizes you. When he does, his expression seems to cloud more than it already was, which doesn’t seem like it should be possible.

You hold out the ice pack before he can push by you, forcing yourself to look him in the eyes.

“Thanks,” you say, because that’s all this is — a thank you for stopping a fight in your bar. It’s as simple as that.

Wolffe’s frown deepens, and his eyes flit down to the ice bag in your hand.

“For shutting that down,” you add on when he doesn’t say anything.

He meets your eyes again, his gaze so cold you swear you can feel it. “I didn’t do it for you,” he grunts. He shuffles on his feet, clearly wanting to move past you, but you don’t move yet.

“Take it,” you say, holding the ice pack out further. “For your face.”

Wolffe looks at it for a moment before he answers.

“I don’t fucking need this,” he snaps, and he pushes your hand away.

“What?”

“What I need is for you to stop running to the cops every time someone throws a punch!”

You know you must look ridiculous standing here like this, ice pack hanging limply at your side, eyes wide with confusion, but you don’t seem to have total control of your body right now.. “I—”

“You know, for someone who runs the clone bar, you sure don’t give a shit about us, do you?” Wolffe steps around you, making a point not to bump your shoulder, like he’s too disgusted to even touch you.

“That’s not true,” you protest, earning yourself a quick glare from over his shoulder.

“Yeah, you tell yourself that, sweetheart.”

You watch, open-mouthed, words still trying to form on your tongue, as Wolffe strides across the room. But instead of joining the rest of his team, he walks right past them and out the door, pace quick and footsteps heavy.

What did that mean? Why would he think you didn’t care about clones? You could understand him being frustrated or mad, but he seems downright furious. And even if he is mad, why turn down the ice?

And maybe that’s what it is — confusion mixed with uncertainty and even a little bit of hurt — that makes you follow him.

You burst out of the bar, scanning around through the scattered group of clones getting some air on the platform. Even under a dark sky, the Coruscanti lights make it easy to see, and you notice him walking away from the bar, moving with the same volatile energy as before.

“Hey!” you shout, running to catch up with him. “Wolffe!”

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t even look over his shoulder. There’s no hint that he’s even heard you until you catch up with him and cut him off. Wolffe looks like he could barrel right through you — and he definitely could — but he grinds to a halt.

“What do you want?” he practically growls at you. Grumble is too gentle a word for a voice laced with fury.

“I don’t understand why you’re upset.”

He’s like your perfect opposite. Your voice is softened from running, your chest and shoulders flowing with the rhythm of your breath. Wolffe is nothing but solid duracrete: arms firmly crossed over his chest, eyes looking over your head, standing perfectly still in front of you as he speaks.

“You call the cops on clones and you don’t understand why that makes me upset?”

“Only when the fights get out of control,” you protest. “What else am I supposed to do?”

“Anything,” he deadpans.

Your next breaths leaves your lips in a sigh, and you can hear the exasperation in your voice growing with each passing second. “I can’t have you kicked out, the Republic won’t let me—”

“But you can have us dragged out? Arrested? Reconditioned?”

“I don’t know!” you cry, one hand running over your forehead where you can definitely feel a headache coming on. “I’ve thought about other options, but—”

“Hire security.”

You let out a short, sarcastic laugh. “You think anyone who’s willing to work security at a clone bar will be a fan of you guys? There’s a lot of people who would love to have a chance to rough you up—”

“Yeah, I know,” Wolffe cuts in. “You don’t have to tell me how people want to know if we can feel pain and how eager they are to test it out. And what about security droids?”

“They cost money, which I have to earn.”

“Would you let that drop already?” he snaps, finally breaking his stony posture to look down at you.

“I didn’t say anything!” you reply, which is technically true, even if you had been thinking about the incident with the server droid. That’s not what you’re talking about, though, so you change gears. “I don’t even know why there are so many fights here — I’ve never worked at a place where it happens so often!”

Wolffe hums in mock consideration. “Hm, I don’t know, maybe because there’s a war going on? And guess what?” He steps closer to you, dark eyes piercing into yours with more intensity than you’ve ever seen. With a shock, you’re aware of how you haven’t stepped back. He’s closer than he’s ever been to you, so close that you can see small specks of blood dried onto the crease of his nose, the corner of his lips, the tip of his chin. For the second time tonight, you’re struck with the realization that Wolffe is big.

“The longer it goes on isn’t going to make it any easier, sweetheart.”

With that, he steps around you again, like it would physically pain him to touch you, or even be around you for a second longer.

“Don’t call me that!” you shout after him.

“Don’t call the cops!”

“I wouldn’t if I knew what else to do!” you cry.

As you walk back to the bar, you’re not sure if you were really shouting that last bit at Wolffe, or just at yourself.

——

To call that night’s sleep “fitful” would be an understatement. Honestly, by the time your alarm goes off, you’re unsure if you’ve even slept at all. You might have dreamt, or your mind might just have been racing, but it doesn’t matter — you still wake up filled to the brim with exhaustion and unease.

You can’t get Wolffe’s words out of your head. And not just his words, but the way he spat them at you, too, like they tasted so bad in his mouth that he couldn’t possibly keep them in. You’ve… exchanged words with him enough by now to know what he sounds like when he’s just plain grumpy — when you’re trading insults or when he’s trying to get under your skin — and this was nothing like that. No, this was intentional. He meant to hurt you.

And it worked.

You don’t know when you got to a point where Wolffe could hurt you — and that does nothing to quell the discomfort flowing through your veins.

The feeling doesn’t leave you, either — not after a truly atrocious amount of caf, not after opening 79’s, and not as you stare at a datapad advertising a list of security droids. Your office is supposed to allow you a moment of peace, but you feel anything but relaxed. The prices on the screen aren’t helping, either. Security droids aren’t like server droids — they’re way more complex, they have much more sophisticated processors, and not to mention that they need to be larger and stronger. Hell, even the server droids had put you back more than you would have liked, and all of them together cost less than one security droid. Still, you don’t exactly have any better ideas.

Just as you load up the fifth used droid retailer’s holosite, you hear something unusual — the door to the hallway opening. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, it just doesn’t happen very often. When the bar’s open, droids don’t usually have any reason to come back here, but sure enough, there’s a tinny rap on your door.

When it slides open, the server droid doesn’t even bother coming in.

“There is a customer in need of your assistance,” it says, its modulated voice crisp and curt.

You frown. The bar is open, sure, but there’s hardly anyone in here at this time, never mind someone who needs something a droid can’t provide.

“What do they need?” you ask.

“They would not say,” the droid answers. It cocks its head as though asking you: “well?”

With a sigh, you set down the datapad and follow the droid out of your office and back into the bar. Maybe it’s just a clone who doesn’t want to speak with droids — the server working tonight isn’t scheduled to come in for a few more hours.

There are a few customers scattered about the bar, but you immediately see the one who’s looking for you. He stands at the bar, spine straightening a bit when he sees you round the corner and step behind the counter. He still has helmet on, the deep scarlet markings on it matching those on the rest of his armour — part of the Coruscant Guard. You don’t see as many of them as you might expect, and you think back to a night when you remembered seeing one — he was sitting across the table from Wolffe. The thought that one of Wolffe’s friends is appearing in front of you the night after you well and truly pissed him off sends your heart plummeting into your stomach.

“What can I do for you?” you ask.

Finally, the trooper takes his helmet off, and you have to stop yourself from breathing out a sigh of relief. Instead of the tired, messy-haired trooper Wolffe had been sitting with that night, his curls are dyed bright green, and his bottom lip is decorated with a metal piercing. Even without those features, you would’ve been able to tell that this was a different person just by how much more relaxed he looks than Wolffe’s friend.

“I’m here to deliver something,” he says, so casually that someone might guess this happens every day.

“Um… okay.”

He doesn’t look like he’s carrying anything, and you’re not really sure why he’s settling down on one of the stools if this is just a simple drop-off. But he seems friendly — maybe friendly enough to help you out with something.

“Can I get you a drink?” you ask.

The man’s face brightens. “If you’re offering? Hell yeah.”

His easygoing tone relaxes you a little more, even drawing a smile to your face as you pour the beer. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Stun,” he says as he holds out a hand. You finish pouring the beer, slide it across to him, and shake his hand.

“Nice to meet you. So… are clone troopers delivery boys now?”

Stun grins just as he takes a sip of the beer — which then quickly sours. “Um, this is, uh—”

“I know, I know,” you sigh. “It’s not very strong. Sorry.”

“Eh, it’s fine,” he says, braving another sip. “Trust me, I’ve had worse.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

Stun takes a bigger gulp and then sets the beer down. “Anyway — no, this is just a one-time thing. It’s, uh, kind of off the record, which is why they sent me in person.”

The words “off the record” make you panic a little, but Stun looks completely relaxed as he pulls a commlink out of his belt and sets it on the counter.

“This is a direct line to the Coruscant Guard,” he explains. “It’s one-way, so it won’t ever ring, but this button will connect you to our dispatch.”

“Okay…” You take the unit in your hands and inspect it as if you’re going to find something special. You don’t.

Stun continues. “Specifically, you’re meant to call it if anyone gets in a fight. We usually have a team patrolling around this area anyway, so it shouldn’t ever take too long for us to show up.”

It sounds… too good to be true.

“Did the Republic tell you to do this?” you ask, even though you already know the answer.

Stun laughs a bit. “If the Republic set this up, it wouldn’t have to be off the books, would it?”

“Fair point. Then… who did?”

“We’ve gotten a few complaints from troopers about cops showing up at 79’s,” Stun replies without a beat. “Police droids have even started to hang around here, waiting for calls, which is no good. Plus, it’s usually easier for us clones to deal with our drunk siblings than it is for anyone else,” he says with a grin.

That makes enough sense. You feel guilty that clones have started complaining, but you suppose that’s fair enough. But there’s still something nagging at you — something that doesn’t quite add up.

“Well, thank you,” you say, and you mean it. “I really appreciate it. Uh… would you mind if I asked you something?”

“Shoot,” Stun says, taking another drink.

“What happens when a clone gets arrested? Not by the Guard, I mean.”

Stun pauses, but doesn’t show any sign that the question takes him by surprise.

“Like, by police droids?”

You nod.

He shrugs. “It depends on what they’re getting arrested for. But I mean, whatever happens, it’s not good.”

The sinking feeling in your chest comes back, and you put your hands on the counter in front of you in an attempt to ground yourself. “What about assault?”

Stun takes a longer drink before answering this time. “Hard to say. Depends on who they assaulted, and how bad it was.”

He’s dancing around something — he’s doing a great job of pretending like he’s not, but he is. You decide that being direct might be the best way forward.

“Could they get… reconditioned?”

You couldn’t get the word out of your head.

Wolffe had mentioned it once last night, and you were so caught up in the moment that you hadn’t thought about it until after — when you were playing the conversation over and over in your head. You’d looked it up on the holonet, thinking it might have been slang for something, but nothing came up. You’d started to think that you must have misheard Wolffe.

It’s a split-second of a blank expression on Stun’s face that tells you otherwise. Then, even though it feels wrong, he smiles — small and nowhere close to meeting his eyes. “What makes you say that?”

You shrug, trying to keep your voice indifferent. “I overheard someone mention it last night and… it didn’t sound good.”

Stun just nods and takes another drink, and you’re pretty sure he’s just hoping that’ll be the end of it. Unfortunately, you’re going to let him down.

“What does it mean?”

When he looks back at you, he’s got that strange smile on his face again. “I mean, it’s a bit of a touchy subject, y’know, not really something I can talk about.”

“But you can bring me this off-the-record?” you ask, holding up the comlink.

Stun’s expression turns cold. He presses his mouth into a straight line, the piercing sticking out a little more. His eyes shoot icy daggers at you, and it takes a second before you hear how you must sound to him — asking about something confidential, something dangerous, and then trying to coerce him by bringing up the unsanctioned thing he’s just done. He looks as though he’s about to get up to leave, but you cut in quickly.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” you plead. “I’m sorry. I just…” You look down at your hands, unsure if you can meet his eyes. “I don’t know what it is, but it sounds… bad. I just want to know… I want to know what the risk is. What’s at stake if the cops get called.”

Stun pauses. You can’t take his silence for that long, and you look up to see if he’s still angry. He meets your gaze and holds it, almost as though he’s trying to tell if you’re lying or not.

“With the new comlink,” he says in a low voice, “the cops shouldn’t ever get called.”

You know you probably shouldn’t push it — it’s obviously bad, and it’s obviously a secret — but something in the back of your mind urges you to press on.

“Please,” you say quietly, forcing yourself to keep looking at him. “I won’t tell anyone. It’s… you know the cops have been called here. I just want to know what would have happened.”

You don’t say, “I’ve called the cops here,” even though you both know it’s true. Whatever happened to those clones is your fault, and even if you can’t say that out loud… you need to know.

There’s a flicker of tightness around Stun’s eyes, but eventually he drops the iron-cold look in his eye. His shoulders deflate, and when he speaks, he just looks… sad.

“First of all, we don’t know for sure if they would have been reconditioned,” he starts. “Alright? We just know that there’s a chance. Reconditioning… they take you back to Kamino. Erase your memories. Start you over like a blank slate. When you wake up, you think you’re just a shiny leaving Kamino for the first time.”

The coldness in Stun’s eyes must have shifted over to you, because all you can do is stand there, frozen. A chill runs down your spine — a blank slate. Stun doesn’t say anything as you process his words — he just drinks his beer, taking bigger gulps than before.

When you finally find your voice, there’s no way you can look at him. You just stare at his beer glass and the thin rim of condensation it’s leaving on the counter.

“Just… just for hitting someone?”

You can see Stun nod out of the corner of your eye, and he takes another drink before he speaks again.

“The Kaminoans could see it as…. going rogue. I mean… if one of your server droids up and smacked a customer, what would you do?”

“I’d reset it,” you say in a small voice. “Or put in a new system.”

“Exactly.”

“But you guys aren’t droids.”

When Stun puts the glass down again, it’s empty. “In the eyes of the Republic, we might as well be.”

With that, he gets to his feet and slides his helmet back on, the seal hissing just before it clicks shut. You think you thank him before he leaves — you can’t really be sure. Your mind is somewhere else entirely as your feet take you back to your office.

Wolffe’s face pops into your head — the way it looked last night. Bloody, swollen, sore. At any other time you would have wished that you could have been the one to hit him like that, smack the smug look right off of his face. You know you probably never could have done it, but there’s a big part of you that just gets so twisted and frustrated with him that it feels like you could. Before, you might not have hesitated to call the cops on Wolffe if he started a fight. Hell, it probably would’ve felt good to get the bastard out of your hair for the night. But now…

You imagine his beat-up face and his too-nice armour being hauled away by police droids, how he almost positively wouldn’t go without a fighting back. You imagine him waking up alone in a white medical bed thousands of parsecs away from here. You see his face, no longer bruised and bloody, just… blank. You imagine Wolffe waking up and not knowing the brother that he took the punch for last night, not knowing how he tried to score his team free drinks, not even knowing the feeling of another person’s lips on his skin. You imagine him waking up and not being Wolffe.

You’ve called the cops on four people.

By some miracle, you’re able to make it to the couch in your office before your legs collapse underneath you and the tears finally fall from your eyes.

----

tagging: @kaianakenobi2941 @4rosydreams @hobiiwan @shit-spiced-chai-says @zinzinina @corrabell @saradika @jennrosefx @lackofhonor @kimageddon @kaitou2417 @ulchabhangorm @whore4rex @sugarpuffsstuff @imalovernotahater @thefact0rygirl @a-c-lee @darthmama1618 @masteracewindu @salaminus @megafrost4 @foxincoruscant @baba-fett @djarrex @mrs-ghuleh @frietiemeloen @lunabell02 @itsagrimm @maddybraps @deewithani @captainrexsfuturewife @crosshairxstars

#i love reader so much…#fic recs

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matchxd · 3 years

Text

Echo saying “you came back for me” to Rex implies that after the explosion, Echo was still alive and conscious. He would have been lying there, on the verge of death, waiting for his Captain to come and rescue him, only for the Techno Union to pick him up instead

#NO!!!

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matchxd · 3 years

Note

This was probably the most comforting thing I’ve ever read. Thank you for writing this

Any comfort hcs?, im in a very low place mentally

I gotchu, Anon.

(Also I assume you meant Bad Batch comfort hcs)

—

It takes certain members a bit longer to pick up on it than others.

You’ve always been too good at hiding it.

But when they find out that you aren’t doing well? In any capacity?

They will drop everything for you.

Each of their unique personalities bring something different to the table that can always provide you with what you need in some exponent—whether it be comfortable silence with Crosshair, getaways with Tech, amazing jokes with Wrecker, bold communication with Echo, or the sage and intimacy of Hunter.

Crosshair

With Crosshair it’s all about atmosphere, presentation. He can make any room astoundingly serene with just his presence and some blankets and candles that your brain gets a big Serotonin boost. Everything feels... warm, and safe around him.

Crosshair will sit with you and keep you company for however long needed so don’t bother telling him to leave you and all that.

I’ve touched on this before but Crosshair is an expert at subduing those nervous tics so don’t be surprised when he silently offers you a toothpick to gnaw on as distraction.

He’s the one you go to when words are exhausting and you just need to inwardly sort everything out.

Crosshair=Catharsis, don’t ask me why.

Sometimes the silence is too much and the voices in your head are too loud and maybe you start crying.

You hate it because it feels like defeat somehow.

You come to realize that you cry because Crosshair affords you that vulnerability, he provides this obscure sense of solace thus your brain identifies him as something of security, telling you it’s safe to let down your defenses.

Crosshair is reluctant to make physical contact with you when keeping you company but when the water works come he absolutely does not hesitate and pulls you into his lap, cradling the back of your head and whispering heartfelt encouragements in your ear.

You’ll be okay, he’s got you.

Wrecker

Wrecker’s idea of personal space is a bit muddled so he will hold you whether you want it or not.

(Hint: You do, even if you don’t yet realize it)

Wrecker will coddle you and it’s the most endearing thing because he is so genuine in a way you’ve never seen before.

His actions are about as innocuous as they come and he leaves such a rich warmth in your chest by his disposition alone.

Sometimes you need a little more than snuggles though.

And again Wrecker’s got you covered because he has an amazing sense of humor.

Space Vines and Space Memes are his favorite to share with you.

Between Wrecker’s goofy re-enactments making you laugh so hard your belly hurts and the way you’re curled up against him watching, you’re left in immensely better spirits.

Wrecker loves to top it off with your favorite sweets and treats :)

Wrecker also very much surprises you with his emotional insight; sometimes, when you can’t figure out the answer to one of life’s problems, Wrecker ~inadvertently~ puts things into perspective for you and you leave the conversation with more clarity than ever before.

Tech

Tech is actually a very thoughtful person so he’s not gonna fry your brain with copious amounts of trivia (even if he can hardly restrain himself).

Tech will steer you outside for a long walk, down a nice trail as he instead commences a heady conversation about your surroundings, just basic acknowledgments like the tall tree over there or the squirrel off to your right; the most minute of things.

You may not be initially invested in it; it might even be obnoxious at first depending on the severity of your mood.

But as you walk along the trail, the feel of your boots kicking up earth, the sound of thriving wildlife, and the mild breeze meeting your body gently you realize Tech is helping you recognize and remember all the small, beautiful things around you.

Tech picks up different flowers along the way, sticking one behind your ear when the little smile blooming on your face threatens to disappear.

Tech finds you both a nice spot by a sturdy shade tree, maybe he’s brought some snacks, and you both settle in, spread out, and let the warmth soak up all the hurt.

You both end up out there for hours, long after the sun has set and the stars have made their brilliant debut.

Tech can’t help himself then; he has to tell you about this particular array in the sky.

Tech will hold your hand and let you lie your head on his shoulder and by that time you’re so immersed with life and living that pain seems utterly powerless compared to the splendor of nature around you.

It’s safe to say Tech wakes up to a distinct sunburn on his face the next day but he would 10/10 do it all again, all for you.

In fact, you and Tech plan these little nature walks regularly.

Hunter

This may surprise you but Hunter’s way of comforting you is through touch.

Speaking from personal experience here, but I’ve found, as someone who is perpetually touch starved yet uncomfortable with even the smallest physical efforts, that the more my mental state declines the more I crave and actually enjoy touch. I’ve never enjoyed having my forehead stroked more than when I’m mattress-deep in depression. It’s so soothing.

That’s where Hunter comes in.

He’s a man who knows what you need before you even know it yourself.

He’s obviously sensitive to the overall parameters of physical comfort so he knows just the right strokes and pressure to apply, and when to refrain.

He gives you a knowing smile and guides you to his favorite quiet place; maybe his soundproof room.

You settle in his bed (after much hesitation because what if you leave too strong a scent behind?) and Hunter crawls in next to you after assuring you not to worry about a thing.

You’ll lie in silence; he gives you plenty of opportunity to air your grievances if you’d like but won’t force you if it’s beyond your capacity.

Occasionally he’ll speak generally, aloud; a positive reinforcer to bring you back when he can sense you’ve drifted far away.

He watches you intently. You find you don’t mind.

After some length of time monitoring your afflicted state that is telltale through your face, Hunter silences your inner storm with a tender hand to your cheek.

It’s so sudden and quelling and full of inexplicable understanding that your demons fall subservient to him, his compassion.

It starts with small movements, a gentle trace, pressure here and there.

He gets going and you gradually turn to putty underneath his touch. Hunter reminds you to breathe. Around him, you feel like you can again.

His thumb smooths away the lingering signs of distress between your brow. There’s a deep pout on your face that sends a pang though him so he boops your nose which makes your expression change then to one of surprise.

His cheeky grin encourages your lips upward in a smile; it’s infectious.

He runs his fingers through your hair, continuing to stroke your head and face; sleep hits you swiftly and your eyes start to flutter.

You manage to look up and see the most achingly soft smile on his face. He looks at you with so much reverence and you don’t understand why.

As you drift off he plants a kiss to your head and whispers how strong of a person you are, that he’s right beside you.

Echo

Echo is THE MAN to talk to.

You can literally talk to him about anything; he’s refreshingly approachable and conversation with him comes easy.

He is a very insightful person, you quickly come to learn.

Validation from Echo comes fervently because he understands.

He understands some things better than anyone. And if he doesn’t; he’ll try his hardest to.

Echo is the guy who tries on everyone shoes regardless of the fit.

It doesn’t matter what kind of mood you’re in around Echo; you can be screaming, crying, spouting profanities—Echo will be there through it all. He’s not easily deterred.

He just wants you to be yourself and sometimes the only way to do that is to be explicit in your emotions. He wants you to let it all out, he knows it’ll help you feel better.

He doesn’t ever expect you to hold things in, and you certainly aren’t “weak” for letting it out. You don’t ever have to worry about that with him. Echo knows a thing or two about repressing it all.

Echo has a sort of wry humor towards life that you can appreciate, that soothes away residual bitterness. He’s had his own morbid tango with death and despair yet he never makes it as if one’s problems are more important than another’s. Everyone deserves to be heard.

He treats everyone equally and with the same amount of care. Because we’re all human and we need someone to care.

Echo strives to make everyone—you—feel as human as possible. And sometimes being human hurts.

He never tries to mince words; he’s raw and real and having someone who won’t give you empty and manufactured spiels is such a breath of fresh air.

Echo’s encouragement is thoughtful and one that sticks with you.

You usually end up with a comfort stiff drink of some kind, in the aftermath, kicking back in chairs just shit talking philosophy and finding respite through your companionship.

To everyone: I’m here if you ever want to hit me up for a chat, sending lots of love your way.

#fic recs

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