A month ago, I had to attend a memorial service for-not-my-friend-and-not-my-family, which means spending the day being SRS and adult.
My brain woke me up with some astonishingly graphic smut.
For Padmé and Rex.
Yeah, I don’t know either.
So I had to write an entire scenario around that for it to make sense.
Then Flamethrower pointed out I really ought to rewrite a section (and she was totally right and it kicks some ass now instead of…just sitting there being awkward)
About 10.4k words later….
Description: Padmé survives Mustafar. She and Obi-Wan strike out on their own with
the twins, accumulating a far bigger family of clones, Jedi, and
assorted troublemakers. Even in the shadow of the Empire, they manage to forge
Padmé realizes she might be in a bit too deep when she wakes up
later. The cabin is dark, and she can’t see the chrono from where she
is, but she can feel Rex’s steady breathing from behind her. He’s been
clinging since they curled up underneath the blankets, and it’s not
quite what she expected from his perpetual, polite distance when they’re
in public. She doesn’t mind at all. It’s a nice feeling, and they fit
Since they’re that close, it must have been movement from him
that woke her. Trying to decipher that wakes her up more, so she can
just barely make out Rex whispering. His head is bowed, hair brushing
against hers as words puff faintly against her shoulderblade.
“Cyar’ika,” he says, and it’s clear it is not meant to be heard
by her. “Ner’cabur.” His voice goes gentler, and she can hear
determination coiling around the Mando’a. “N’kelir cabuor gar.”
SO WORTH IT, MUST READ.