Pairing - Bodhi Rook x F!Reader
Rating - Explicit 18+
Word Count - 2.8k
A/N - Just an extremely short, super mopey and indulgent oneshot feat. Bodhi Rook who, honestly, is the most underappreciated man in Star Wars and that’s the hill I’m prepared to die on. Not tagging anybody because I am v. aware this one is... uh, kinda niche and probs not for everyone. x
CW: Smut, angst, descriptions of anxiety.
Smoke curls slowly over both your heads as you watch him sketch, fingers quick, black staining the creases at each joint and in a thin semicircle under his nails. Your uniforms are crumpled together in an undignified tangle on the floor, turned inside out, the underside of the embroidered Imperial sigils visible.
You draw in another deep pull, the marcan herb lightening your head and hazing the glowpanels above until the tiny cabin feels shrouded. Bodhi’s hair is messy, long pieces loosened from the knot at the back of his head and hanging into his face as he works. There’s still a faint line of indentation around his temples from his welding goggles; now looped over the edge of a shelf near the door. He distractedly flicks a black strand from his eyes, leaving a thin smudge of ink high on his cheekbone. He’d been so excited to show you the acquisition, demanding you feel the texture against your lips, adamant that fingertips alone would only miss the subtlety in the grain.
“It’s paper. Actual paper, not that reconstituted adesote shit.”
“It’s beautiful. Oh, Maker, it even smells good. Where did you…?”
“I had another big win. A tipoff from Celfos, he knows a guy.”
You’d had to bite your tongue. Betting on the odupiendo races has cost him more than it’s returned over the months you’ve known him, but he already knows how you feel about it. And tonight is precious. You don’t want to poison the time you have with an argument.
Now, watching him, you’re filled with a melancholic longing. The sheet is draped low around his lean hips, revealing the fine dark lines of his tattoos marked out like shadows on his ribs. He leans, back against the wall, head curved down. He has the loveliest eyelashes, you think. The kind any girl would kill for. His gaze darts up and he catches you watching him, a self-conscious smile lifting one side of his lips.
“Do you want to sit up here? I’ll show you what I’m working on.”
Shifting carefully so you don’t jostle him, you shift until you're pressed against his side. He reaches two inky fingers to snag what’s left of the smoking herb from your lips, pinching it between his teeth as you look on. The sketch is only rough, but you can already see the curves and valleys and deeper dusked lines of a walled city overlooking rolling hills. Something in the shape of the hills looks soft, and as you watch him outline the strange wind-lifted drag of a rise, you realise they’re dunes of sand.
“Is that Jedha City?”
He nods absently, hand curled into a loose fist as he points out a particular building with his smallest finger, other hand returning your cigarro to your lips.
“That’s the square - there, the marketplace. They’d have school there if it wasn’t too cold outside. This whole section was just temples. See the lines from the balcony? My mum would hang her washing there.”
His quarters are small and cluttered with sketches on every surface; most on yellow, crinkled archival plastic sheets or panels ripped out of insulation. You remember the day he’d suffered a crazed lapse of self control and pocketed several canisters of luxurious Quarren ink from an officer’s shipping chest. And like every one of his small acts of defiance, he’d spent the following week in a state of complete paranoid terror, waiting for a squad of troopers to kick his door down with an interrogator droid, edgy and defensive.
You turn your head to the side, resting your cheek against his chest and feeling the vibrations of his heart, so often quickened and alert, now slow and steady.
His hand stills, and he drags his gaze from the drawing to you, blinking several times as he emerges from the depths of memory.
“How much is left?” you murmur, tilting your chin toward the landscape in his hands.
He shakes his head, easing his arm from between your bodies to rest on the other side of your waist, tucking you close.
“Some. I don’t get to see much when I’m picking up the shipments. Don’t want to, to be honest.”
You consider this, stretching down to stub the butt in your hand out on the sleeve of your coveralls.
“Are you fucking kidding?” he startles, arm reached out to stop you.
“Are burns not regulation anymore?” you grin, teasing him. “It’s fine. They have thousands of these things in storage. I’ll just grab a new one. You’re too careful.”
“Ha. You’re not careful enough,” enunciating the second syllable, teeth cutting the “uff” into his lip.
You roll your eyes, carefully lifting the stylus and paper from his fingers, laying them beside the bed. “What are they going to do, send me back to reconditioning? Again? I’ll leave. I’ll go to Gorse, find a job with the mining guild. I get along just fine with Ugnaughts anyway.”
His answer is laced with sarcasm. “Oh, yeah? I forgot we had that option, just free to go whenever we feel like it.”
It’s just a little bit too tender to joke about, considering your current positions.
“There’s more than one type of freedom,” you remind him, and you watch the muscles in his temples flex as he clenches his narrow jaw, eyes dropping back down to his hands.
You slip out from under the sheets, sliding off the side of the bed and padding over to the scratched little plastoid table beside the fresher door. Taking a tepid sip of water from the carafe there, you can feel his gaze on your legs as you stand in your underwear. It’d become habitual when you came to Bodhi’s cabin after work to both strip out of your hot, oil-stained uniforms and crawl under the covers together, not necessarily doing anything right away. Just getting comfortable, shedding your filthy Imperial skins, breathing each other in. Wholly unobserved by anyone but each other, it feels like you cease to exist for the rest of the galaxy.
He’s looking at you now with that face, the one that first made you unable to walk away from him, eyes impossibly huge and soft, shadowed by the long, straight blade of his nose, and you just about melt. You take a steadying breath.
“I have to tell you something.”
Some line of tensity in your voice makes his curled hand twitch where it rests on his knee, and you’re already regretting what you have to do.
“They’re moving me. Tomorrow. They’re starting to shift the whole division in stages, junior engineers first. Half of us are getting send to Eadu, the others… They want us onsite for the start of the array testing. It’s getting close. Maybe another standard year at the most. Word is, the higher-ups are getting impatient. They’re already over budget.”
He’s looking at you like he’s waiting for the punchline, full brows slightly raised, lips parted as he blinks.
“But - but you were due for leave. They’d already approved it.”
You hate yourself for the lie, even as you work to form it. “I… I tried so hard to get out of it. But… you know. I’m just not important enough to get to make any decisions.”
The quiet chime of the facility’s cycle change is distantly audible as you fold your arms, a hand pressed to your own neck.
He finally manages to speak, still that protective edge of acerbic bitterness in his tone, the one you recognise from whenever he’s trying not to appear nervous.
“You’re more important than me. A droid could do my job.”
“No. You’re a better pilot than any fucking droid. The only reason you’re hauling cargo instead of dying out there in a TIE is because you can think for yourself. That’s not an attribute they look for in their coffin jockeys.”
He hasn’t moved a muscle, quick dark eyes still scanning your face. You creep closer, raised up on your knees tentatively, facing him on the bed. There’s a tight little twist to his lips, and his gaze darts away, considering his own hands, unfreezing and touching his blackened fingers one by one to his thumbs. The gesture is one you’ve seen before, when he’s had a bad shift; the time purrgils nearly wiped out his entire shipment outside of the Hydian jump point, or whenever his smart mouth got him into trouble, poorly-stifled comments attracting disciplinary visits from a site overseer. Whenever the anxious tics became too much, his restless hands needed to be busy. Drawing, working, smoking, anything. Now, you lay your own smaller fingers over his.
“Look at me.”
He does, and you nearly wish you hadn’t asked. You’re betraying him. You’re leaving him here, alone, surrounded by these people, when he was just starting to get it under control.
His eyes are brimming, wild as his gaze darts between your eyes. “What am I gonna do, if you’re not here…? If I can’t calm down, if I can’t get a hold of it.”
You hold his face hard between your hands, your fingers careful as you whisper to him.
“You can. You’re so fucking brave, Bo. A trillion times braver than me. I know you are. And… they probably won’t let any comms out of the construction zone. But you won’t be alone. Find Galen, he’s the head of my department. Talk to him when I’m gone. He’s… not like the rest of them. He’s a good person. He’ll help you. I promise.”
You draw yourself up, pressing your lips to his, feeling the scruff of his pointed chin against your skin. He squeezes his eyes shut, breathing slowly, matching your rhythm as you break your contact and hold still. You run your fingers up the back of his neck, feeling the velvet of the close-shorn underside of his hair. Trying to guide him with each of your own inhalations, your sadness settles low as a stone.
It takes a long time before his eyes open again, and in them, that resolve.
Bodhi always called himself a coward, resentful and ashamed of his body’s disobedience, when his own breathing would choke him with its intensity, chest seized with clawing wrongness in the most mundane of settings. He’d cover it with irritability, the kind that people misinterpreted, but which you'd recognised as self-preserving. Something he could never see, would never recognise about himself; his ability to somehow figure out what the right thing was, despite his fear, made him the toughest person you knew. It’s the only thing you can cling to now: the hope that one day he’ll work out why you needed to do this.
“Once it’s finished, you can transfer back out,” he tells you, and it pierces deep. You can’t tell him. He isn’t ready to know. Not yet.
“Sure,” you respond, all you can think to say, and his hands are on your lower back, drawing you closer.
He curls his fingers, stroking the clean back of his first knuckle gently along the line of your jaw, following the curve of your neck down to your shoulder. You shiver at the lightness of the touch, barely a breeze on the fine down of your cheek.
You let yourself settle down into a kneel, straddling his thighs as you sit on your own feet. Your hands are light on his prominent collarbones, tracing the dark lines underneath the skin. Watching you, he raises his chin, catching your lips with his own.
There’s an uncharacteristic intensity in his kiss, and as he drags your bottom lip into his mouth you hum, curving over him, pressing yourself down onto his lap.
You let your fingers drift over the lean, rangy expanse of his body, knowing even with your eyes shut where each river of ink lies to follow. Memorised already, the hair dusted below his navel, the flat planes of his abdomen. He exhales into your lips, the herby bitterness of lingering marcan passing between you as you roll yourself down, feeling him hardening as he arches his neck up, deepening his hold on your lips.
You thread the fingers of your right hand through his, clasping yourselves together as you flex your thigh muscles to raise and lower yourself, slow and intentional. Ink forgotten, he drags his calloused, elegant fingers up your side, searching, marking your skin.
You pull back, breaking the kiss only long enough to free your legs, your lips swollen. He helps you drag your underwear off in a graceless fumble, throwing aside the standard-issue base sheets, already amess with dark smudges.
He drags his face from yours and, bending, presses his lips to the gap between your breasts, hands cupping your ribcage, thumbs rough on your nipples. You brace yourself on his shoulders, the fine dip of each muscle shadowed shallowly under your hands as you ease his cock from the waistband of his pants, trying not to be too rough with your dry, demanding fingers. He rolls up into your hold, unconcerned and encouraging as he leans up, trying to ease you backwards.
Too restless to wait, you stretch up and dip a finger inside yourself, spreading your arousal over the head of his cock before you position yourself over him.
A knee on either side of his waist, you take him inside slowly, your lack of preparation necessitating a pause, and your thighs tauten from the effort of your control. Breaths hitching in tandem, you let your head roll down, savouring the ache in your rending.
You bottom out and shudder, clutching at every part of him you can reach, scratching accidentally at his cheek, a line across the pale gold of his skin reddening. You try and fail to control your own pace as lift and sink back onto him heavily, the sharpness of your movement making his grip on your waist tighten.
A twitch in your thighs betrays how messily conflicted you are; vacillating between wanting to sanctify every moment of this and needing to move. He recognises your frustration and brushes his blackened thumb from the edge of your lip to your cheek, holding you still, shifting his other hand under your thigh and encouraging your movements to slow. He catches your gaze and holds it, soft eyes creasing at the edges, the palest sheen on his brow as he traces the edge of your jaw. Lips quirked sadly, he breathes against you, shaking his head.
“We’ve got time.”
It’s enough to make you weaken. Knowing, as he doesn’t, that it just isn’t true. Seated with him inside you, you pause, peppering kisses on the dark arches under each eye. His exhaustion is made sharp by the fine structure of his face, the ashen pallor beneath the warm tone of his skin. It’s been far too long that you’ve both been away from any source of natural light.
Trying to fall into some semblance of coordination, he meets each arch of your hips, liquid dark eyes fluttering closed as he tips his head against the wall, the tied knot of his hair pressed back. And there it is, pieces slotting together as you let your body take over from your scattered, grief-spiked thoughts.
Rolling against him in perfect rhythm, waves meeting and withdrawing from the shore of each breath.
Your fingers hold tight to the back of his neck as you kiss him hard, clumsy as your teeth hit his, trying to imprint a copy of yourself here so you can stay with him long after tonight. His tongue slides messy against yours as he lifts your thighs, bruising black fingerprints into the flesh and angling up into you.
Your eyes fly open, your gasp stuttered into his mouth as he meets each of your urgent thrusts, his brow creased, circling higher together.
A hard warm twinge claws up the insides of your thighs and it feels so good, but you don’t want to let go. You aren’t ready yet, despite the desperation to grind down deeper. You want this to stretch on, and on, like you could delay everything else just by denying yourself this release. But as you shudder around him you realise it’s already too late, your body rebelling as he encourages you. Helpless, your fingers find your clit, wrenching yourself higher as you ride his cock.
I’m sorry, you think with all your might, watching the fine veins of his closed eyelids as he gasps, both your bodies beginning to seize. Forgive me, chests pressed so close it’s impossible to tell whose heartbeat is being led by whose.
Your climax ropes down his own, and as your cunt pulses around him, gathering him deep, you feel his answering release rip through him. Your kiss devolves into an artless, parted-mouthed press of wet breaths.
Muffled, there’s the sound of an announcement from the command deck, the voice tinny through the layers of wall and pinned art. It’s still and close in the dim space. You stay in the same position long after he softens inside you, slowly pressing your lips to his neck, his eyebrow, his ears; anywhere you can reach.
Two black shapes fitted together, edges bleeding away until you’re indistinguishable from the rest of the shadows in the little room.
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