Gnawing At The Bars Of My Enclosure 🥵

For What It's Worth - Part 7

Rex x Reader

Apologies for the long break! Life has been kicking my ass lately! Enjoy me putting Rex through another high-stakes situation!

Summary: Rex preps for the pro-clone rally, you would like him to stop treating you like an invalid already, the big day arrives, and all hell breaks loose

Warnings: Minors begone, The *plot* continues (I'm almost done teasing y'all, I promise), reader is afab, general violence, mobs gonna mob, I play fast and loose with CG protocol, Rex doesn't deserve this stress, mentions of sex, some attempts at sex were made, but Rex's will is made of steel, cliffhanger-y and I apologize, I didn't mean for the plot to plot this much

Tag List: @bambiswriting @jessyhazy @baddest-batchers @bimboshaggy @heylookitworked @eclec-tech @burningnerdchild @liopleurodean @littlemissbshine

If anyone would like to be added to the tag list, please comment below or message/ask directly.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

Rex was absolutely exhausted.

Fox wasn’t lying when he said the guard was understaffed. Every day the protest grew closer, and with that came new complications. Complications he usually didn’t have to deal with on the battlefield. 

Like civilians. Not insurgents. Not hostages. Not rebels against the separatists. Real and true civilians with not a drop of combat in their blood (not that they wanted it). And there were so many. The population of Coruscant was out of control, and he made a promise to himself to never, ever settle here. He needed sky. And trees. And occasional, honest silence. Not even his men could conjure such a racket. 

But coordinating route plans through the city, placement of troopers, and escorts for persons of importance weren’t his only concerns. Rex hadn’t been sleeping well. And it was all your fault.

Still not cleared to work by a professional, but almost entirely back to feeling like your former self, you laid around your apartment all day, every day bored. Bored and, well… impassioned.

And you weren’t keeping it to yourself. 

Rex could handle the thorough, suggestive kisses, no matter how hard the thought of your soft lips made him. He could deal with the increasingly short and revealing clothes - it’s hot in here, you’d said - even if he got the ungentlemanly urge to rip them off. He could even stay strong against the way you’d clamber into his lap and grind onto his cock while you watched your nightly shows. He would end every evening achingly erect, too stimulated to sleep, and kicking himself. 

His honor and concern for your health couldn’t be compromised, but the desire to give you exactly what you wanted, what you needed, was all-consuming. Rex wanted to provide for you in every way, and being unable to was eating him up inside. You deserved to be catered and attended  to. Adored. Worshiped. 

You deserved to be fucked. In whatever way you craved. In whatever way you would have him.

And by the force, if he didn’t deserve to get some sleep. It wasn’t just the temptation of you, yearning, delectable you keeping him up at night. He wasn’t sure if it was because of your attack or a result of planning for every eventuality with Fox, but Rex was feeling paranoid. Every morning, on duty, even in the evening with you in his lap, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end. It was like he was back in the field, sleeping in the open, full kit on and one hand curled around his blaster. No matter the trooper on watch or his knowledge of the enemy’s location, it was always impossible to relax. Because of the constant, insistent feeling he was being watched. 

That’s how he’d felt for five days now. Seen. Observed. Under fucking surveillance. 

He admitted it might have been all the cameras and protocols used by the CG. But Rex had been raised by military bases, had been born breathing the air of structure and order. And not once had he ever felt this creeping awareness on his home turf. 

He’d certainly never felt it on yours. And that was the part that really worried him. He’d learned to trust his gut a long time ago, and the fact that all of his alarm bells were going off while you were safe in his arms…while you slept, recovering from an assault on your body and mind…

He wanted to go home. He wanted to see with his own eyes and feel with his naked, ungloved hands that you were alright. 

Instead, he was sitting through another adjustment to the current crowd control plan for the pro-clone rally, and the anti-protest that was sure to follow. 

“Civilians are likely going to cluster in this sector,” Fox repeated for maybe a third time, gesturing to the holomap. “It’s a clear shot from a lot of domiciles and hot spots. Caf shops and casual shopping. Most of them won’t be protesters. They’ll be rubber-necks just looking to say they were there. There’s a clear sight path to the podium. I want as many troopers there as we can spare, ready to get people out if everything goes to complete shit. Thorn, you and your assignees are to hold the lines between the protesters, anti-protesters, and civilians. You boys are the grid by which we operate. If someone gets violent, you pack ‘em up and return to your post as quickly and cleanly as possible. They go to the drunk tanks to cool down.”

Rex nodded along. He’d had the plan memorized since the first briefing. He just wasn’t used to this level of prep time. Usually, he’d follow a certain Jedi’s first thought and just, well, make it work.  

Fox continued, “Hound, your unit is patrolling the perimeter of the event with the massifs. Do not appear in force. Spread out. Keep the massifs calm. Make no moves unless you hear from either myself or the other commanders.” Hound’s “yes sir” was almost entirely lost, because Fox, clearly exhausted by this point, kept going without pause.

“Thire, you’re to take your unit into the two buildings on either side of the protest site. Keep an eye out. We have very public, very divisive figures in attendance and the last thing I need on my hands is a downed senator. If you see signs of a sniper, if you see a hostile assailant rushing the stage, you sound the alarm and take the shot if you can manage it.” 

Rex then felt his brother’s attention on him, and sat up straighter. Fox’s visor met his own, and he inclined his head, “Captain Rex will be commanding the line between the podium and the crowd while I act as escort to the VIPs. That means that most of my rally unit will be assigned to a different commanding officer while I take a smaller squad to escort public figures to, through, and from the event. It also means that I will be absent for portions of the day, dealing with the struggles of our dear politicians. If any of you, any of you at all have a problem with taking orders from a decorated, battle-hardened commander who just happens not to be of CG origin, too fucking bad. You will follow Rex’s orders as if they come directly from me, understood?”

“Sir, yes sir!” rang through the hall. 

“Damn straight,” Fox growled. “One more thing. Captain Rex will be more noticeable than you lot. He’s a well-known poster boy for the war, thanks to Jedi Master Skywalker, and his armor is bound to attract attention. I’ve requested his help at great sacrifice to his General and the 501st. I’d like to return him in one piece. That means look out for him, Thire, your unit in particular. The anti-protesters will be gunning for a figure like him standing out in the open.”

There were a couple of snickers amongst some of Rex’s more well-known acquaintances, but by and large the sea of red and white helmets regarded him with a mixture of reverence and, dare he say it, protectiveness. He felt like a very well cared for massif. 

Fox dismissed the boys and sat down at the command table, taking off his helmet and rubbing his eyes. Somehow, the circles under them had gotten darker, “Sorry Rex, didn’t mean to make you sound like a damsel in distress.”

“You didn’t,” he chuckled. “I appreciate the manpower and the potential cover fire. You may have given them an overinflated view of my military record, though.”

“Please,” Fox rolled his eyes. “How many times have you been medalled?”

“Five out of seven times it was instigated by Amidala,” Rex snorted. “She gives me all the medals Skywalker isn’t allowed to accept.”

His brother let out a weak, but very genuine chuckle, then sobered up, staring glass-eyed down at the table, “This needs to be over.”

“Yeah,” Rex shook his head. “I’ve…had a bad feeling for most of the week. Like something’s wrong and I just don’t know what.”

Fox nodded, “Something is going to go wrong at the rally. I feel it. But there’s no way to prepare for every eventuality. All I can do is hope not too many people get hurt.”

Rex scanned his brother up and down, the tired eyes, the slumped shoulders, the gray streak in his hair, “You need a vacation.”

That prompted a single, hollow laugh in the back of Fox’s throat, “Sure, I’ll just submit my PTO request to the emperor. Shed the armor, turn off my comms. How’s Naboo this time of year?”

“I’ll have a word with Ularen’s secretary, she can join you.”

Fox sat up stick-straight, “That’s not funny, Rex.”

He shrugged, “I’m not laughing.”

“That’s…I can’t,” Fox shook his head, eyes wide and sad. “She’s not, we’re not-”

“How about this,” Rex leaned forward on his knees. “I promise, when I get back to the Resolute, I’ll get her to comm you.”

But his brother glared back at him, “She won’t do it. She’s…we’re not on the best of terms.”

“All the more reason,” Rex insisted. “She’s on a warship, Fox. You will never forgive yourself if she gets hurt and you didn’t get the chance to tell her whatever you need to tell her. Trust me.”

Fox looked away and stiffly put his helmet back on, coming back to his persona diligent control, “You’re a meddlesome idiot, brother.”

“Look who’s talking.”

*********************************

Your fingers were stroking his cock again. 

“Ah, cyare,” Rex mumbled into your hairline, blinking in the flare of morning light. He reached down and removed your hand from his shorts. “None of that.”

You groaned, leaned forward, and scraped your teeth on his bare chest, “C’mon, Rex. You know I’m well enough.” 

“Not till another, not-motivated-by-sex medic says so,” he gathered you up, pressing sweet kisses to your face, which was looking brighter and healthier by the day. “You’ve got your check-up tomorrow. Not too long now.”

“How do you have this much self-control?” you whined.

“A man can do anything with the right motivation,” he grinned down at you. Stars, you were beautiful. “I’m excited too.”

“Hmm, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he trailed his nose across your cheek, blowing warm air down to your ear. Your breath hitched. “Nothing I want to do more than sink into you, feel you wrapped around me again…except, maybe, lap at your pretty clit until you spill down my chin.”

You let out a tiny high pitched mewl, “That’s not fair, Rex. I’m so horny it hurts, and you’re leaving soon.”

Just like clockwork, his vambrace began beeping from across the room. 

Rex kissed your nose, “You haven’t exactly been making this easy on me either, cyarika.” He reached down to grab at your hips. “The kissing and the stroking and the grinding. But I’ve been very nice, I know how hard this is for both of us. Just be good for me a bit longer, and I’ll give you everything you want.”

You sighed, properly chastised, “Okay. But maybe I could still come to the rally-”

“Not even if you held a blaster to my head,” Rex interrupted firmly. “We’ve talked about this.”

He got up to go and check the message on his vambrace while you huffed, “I don’t like the idea of you out there, dangled like bait for the worst of the anti-clone movement.”

“Fox and I both agreed that it would be best to keep the protesters focused on a trooper instead of the politicians.” Speaking of his brother, Fox was calling him in for the final briefing before they moved out this afternoon. 

“But if I just waited at a caf shop a few blocks away-”

“I’d be out of my mind with worry the entire time,” he started pulling on his armor. “And I wouldn’t be able to do my job.”

You went quiet, which was surprising. The both of you had gone over this repeatedly last night. Rex could understand your anxiety, but he had his skills, he had his plastoid, and he had an entire branch of the GAR convinced that he needed to be protected at all costs. He suspected Fox felt guilty about using him for this, and was hyping up the troopers about his record, his legion, and maybe even the fact that he had someone to come home to. 

He chanced a glance back at you, and felt his heart seize. You were teary, jaw clenched and staring out the window. 

“Hey,” he strode over, breastplate hanging off him loosely. “Hey now, cyare.”

You threw your arms around him, pressing your body against the ridges of his armor, “Be careful, Rex. Please”

He held you, swaying slightly to the rhythm pounding in his chest, “I will, I promise. Give me ten hours. I’ll be home before you know it.”

“I’ll be watching you on the net,” you sniffed.

“I’ll wave if I see a camera.”

*********************************

That’s how he left you, curled up back under the covers and promising you’d take it easy. You were asleep again almost immediately. 

The briefing was quick, and loading into the transports went by even faster. Fox wanted everyone in position before the first of the protesters gathered. 

The troopers spread through the open space like they’d done it a thousand times. Rex only had to mind his own placement at the north corner of the stage and admire their precision. Fox had trained them well. 

Protesters with homemade accessories (like buttons), colorful signs, and makeshift masks to look like GAR helmets started filtering in. Most of them looked like the pro-clone crowd. 

An hour later, some anti-protesters arrived. The grounds became considerably louder, the air charged with electricity. Rex ordered a screaming man who approached the stage to be taken to the drunk tanks. 

News crews pulled their speeders up, unloading all of their expensive equipment. They looked considerably calmer than Rex felt. 

The space filled up faster than he could have anticipated. Every time he scanned the area, the burgeoning pile of bodies seemed to have multiplied. But the lines of troopers were holding well. 

Another hour passed before the speakers arrived. Fox sent a ping to each commanding officer, and a moment later Bail Organa, Padme Amidala, several representatives, a net star, a reclusive philanthropist, and - Rex’s eyebrows raised - Shor Ryesim filled onto the stage. He guessed Shor wasn’t lying when he said he was the organizer of the event.

Organa’s speech opened the rally. It was well-written, level, and reassuring. Rex never understood what special quality made someone a good public speaker, but he was sure he didn’t possess it. Bail apparently had it in spades. Even the anti-clone folks calmed down a little. 

The speakers began to blend together as Rex continued to scan the crowd. The representatives were supportive, if a little dull. He couldn’t blame them, how hard must it be to follow Organa? The net star came off vapid and brief, but at least he was using his position for something meaningful. The philanthropist looked almost embarrassed to be present. And Amidala…well, she was Amidala. Direct and spirited, passionate and definitive. She kept turning in his direction throughout the speech, and Rex fought the urge to give her the recognition she deserved. As far as the public knew, he was not familiar with her in the slightest. 

The crowd began to pick up on her energy. Loud clashes of voices rose up. Rex caught a few troopers keeping brawlers apart. The anti-crowd began hurling insults and, in one case, a rock in her direction. It missed by a hair.

“Don’t bother with the drunk tank for that one!” Rex commanded. Amidala and the other politicians were ushered off the stage. And of course this was all streamed across the net. Skywalker was going to kill him.

“Are they calling it?” He commed Fox. “The crowd is rising.” And he wasn’t exaggerating. The pros were clamoring for the anti’s arrest. Insults and accusations flew.

“Hold on,” came his brother’s answer. “No, the organizer wants to give his speech, finish up with what they came to do. I’m taking the others out of here.”

Rex felt a stab of annoyance. Fucking Shor…

“Hold steady, boys,” he said to his troopers. “We’ve got one more speaker, then they’re gonna send ‘em home.”

Ryesim took to the podium with very little ceremony. He shouted into the mics, trying to maintain the attention of his audience. 

“Friends! Friends!” he called. “If you’ll lend me just a bit of your patience! Remember, this event is for changing minds, not causing violence!”

Rex rolled his eyes and ordered two more brawlers led away. 

“However, we must be willing to fight to defend what is good and just!”

What the fuck is he doing? Rex called for his troopers to be on high alert. Shor was apparently abandoning the idea of de-escalation.

“Enough violence has been committed in the name of slowing progress!” Shor yelled, smacking the top of the podium. “We are here to demand the full rights of clones be recognized! We, as full citizens of this great Republic, have a responsibility to understand the plight of those less fortunate than us! To put ourselves in the way of those who would harm our clone compatriots, who are no less valuable, no less deserving than we are. Citizens of Coruscant, we are under threat! A war has started, much like the one clones heroically pursue across the galaxy! Too many clone supporters have been met with barbarity on the streets where they walk every day!”

The screen behind the podium alighted, showing the image of a young man, nose clearly broken, with glass sticking out of his cheek. 

“Take Kiran Serril!” Shor shouted, spit flying from his mouth. “Brutalized in his own home for a sticker on his door supporting clone citizenship!”

The mob screamed in unison. The lines of troopers between pro and anti groups were starting to break down. 

“Fox,” Rex growled. “We need to end this. Now.”

Fox’s response came immediately, “Copy. I’ll comm the others. I’ve just put the VIPs in their transports. I’m on my way back.”

Shor was still screaming, riling the throng up with yet another disturbing image, “Ellebet Diranae is an elderly retiree, but that did not stop thugs from following her home and giving her a concussion for daring to read a pro-clone pamphlet in her local caf joint!”

All Rex could see were angry faces, brutal intent. He was done waiting.

“Form a wall boys!” he yelled, and his troopers started pushing the protesters back from the stage without hesitation. The ones keeping the two factions apart began getting serious, and the line down the middle reformed. “Blasters at stun only! Order them to disperse! Hound, get in here now, start getting those on the fringes to go home! Leave the massifs in the transports, they’ll just incite panic!”

He was so busy he didn’t hear Shor’s next introduction, didn’t see the transition to another exploitive image. Only when the crowd began falling back did Rex begin to register words again.

“- worst of all, this heroic, kind woman is a medic! She saves lives for a living! She lives in Coruscant, like all of you, not too far from here! I’ve known her since childhood, and they demolished her for the crime of wearing pins on a backpack!”

Rex’s hot, racing blood suddenly turned to ice. Slowly, or maybe it only seemed that way in the chaos, he turned back to look at the new picture on the netscreen.

No.

*********************************

You were having trouble breathing.

Wheezing, you raised a hand to touch your netscreen, running a finger down the little stage made of data and pixels. You hovered over Rex, who had his back turned to the mile-high image behind the podium. He was frantically trying to get the crowd under control. 

Shor was shaking his fist, shouting like a lunatic. You wanted to squash him.

You caught the moment Rex turned and saw the screen behind him, could practically feel the moment he registered what had happened.

Shor had shown your face, battered as all hell. With multiple pictures, plastered on a surface taller than your building. From multiple angles, so the damage couldn’t be ignored. 

Shor had screamed your name to the entire city, the entire planet. With that, someone could find your address. Find your place of work. 

You’d be on the news in a matter of hours. You and those other poor souls Shor undoubtedly didn’t get permission to showcase. You sobbed. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

As you watched, Rex prowled towards the Twi’Lek, who didn’t even notice a murderous clone in his periphery. Fox appeared on the other side of the stage, and rushed to intercept. You weren’t sure he would make it in time. 

Rex ripped the microphone clear off its stand, the podium screeching in protest. That move gave Fox the time he needed to get in between the two and slam Shor to the surface of the podium. He put his other hand on Rex’s wrist, and even though it was hidden behind the rest of his body, you knew Fox was stopping your boyfriend from drawing his blaster. 

A moment while they stood, staring each other down through their visors. Finally, Rex stepped back, and Fox cuffed Shor. With his other hand, the commander looked to be talking into his comms. Your brutalized face disappeared from behind them. 

A moment later, your own netscreen went black.

can not believe i am a fully grown adult and many people my age have kids and degrees and serious careers. i can barely make dinner

I am no better than a man.

Lying in bed thinking about that old man. You know how it is.

Star Wars Cocktail Masterlist

Let's get kriffed up, mudscuffers.

Recipes below the cut.

Gin Erso

No-Moon Rise on Scarif

Pabu Colada

Screecher's Peach

Malastare Mule

This is the Wave

Hunter's Sarge-arita

Tibanna and Tonic

List will be updated regularly!

Sorry I'm late, I was reading fanfiction!

Hunter appreciation post. 💕

ch.3 - fences and cities - dbf! joel miller &f!reader

series masterlist

previous chapter

A/N: A lot has happened, I wrote this then it got lost and I thought maybe I wrote it in a dream, you know those kinds of dreams where you go about your day but I didn't give up, I was SURE I had written it. Anyways, save a horse ride a cowboy

warnings: sex jokes. cowgirl pose reference, if I am missing any warnings please let me know. there're some hints for the future 😉

Minors stay out or read at your own risk! I'm not responsible for your consumption!

Do not copy, translate or claim this story as your own. Thanks!

"Rise and shiiine!" Your dad flicked the light switch on and off repeatedly, making the room flash like a faulty strobe light. You jolted awake immediately.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" you groaned, yanking the sheets over your head. It was way too early for this.

Your dad chuckled as he walked over and ripped the blanket off. "Come on now, gotta make the most of the day."

"What time is it?" you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep.

"Almost 5 a.m.," he said, clapping his hands as he headed for the door. "Making some coffee downstairs before driving you to Joel."

Shit—right. You had to work with Joel today. The only thing motivating you to get out of bed… and simultaneously, the one thing making you want to stay buried under the covers. Because having a crush on your dad’s friend—the one you had to work with—was both exciting and painfully embarrassing.

You head downstairs, dressed in comfortable clothes for the ranch—practical, but with just enough effort to look cute and put-together. Not that you’d admit it was for Joel, but if it made him do a double take, well… that wouldn’t be the worst thing.

Something had been off about him last night. He wasn’t his usual self. And maybe—just maybe—you were a little too tempted to poke at whatever was bothering him, like pressing on a bruise just to see how much it hurts.

Your dad drives you to the ranch, and after a quick goodbye, you step out, making your way toward Joel.

Joel turns when he hears your voice—or maybe it’s the sound of your footsteps crunching against the packed dirt and gravel. Either way, he does, in fact do a doubletake.

He plays it off like he hadn’t thought about you last night after dinner. Like he hadn’t pictured your face, your lips locking with his in the dark, or the shape of you—your waist, the way you moved. Like he wasn’t just caught looking.

"I’m shocked you actually showed up," he says, his voice edged with something unreadable.

"Oh, come on," you tease, tilting your head. "Why the bad image of me? Thought you had a better impression."

Joel shakes his head with a smirk, wiping his hands on his jeans, but his eyes linger on you a second too long. “Uh-huh,” he mutters, clearly unconvinced by your teasing. His eyes linger on you a second too long before he turns away.

“C’mon, let’s get to work.”

He leads you toward the stables, where the horses are saddled up. You already know what’s coming.

“Nope,” you say, shaking your head. “Not happening.”

Joel lets out a low chuckle, resting his hands on his hips. “What, you scared?”

“I’m not scared,” you scoff, folding your arms. “I just—” You pause, glancing at the horse. “I don’t ride.”

Joel raises an eyebrow, voice edged with something unreadable. “You forgot how to?”

Your stomach tightens at the way he says it, slow and deliberate. You pretend not to react. He doesn’t need that kind of power.

“Well, I’m not about to relearn today,” you mutter.

Joel ignores you completely, adjusting the saddle straps before turning to you expectantly. “Put your foot in the stirrup.”

You don’t move.

He sighs, stepping behind you. “Here,” he says, voice lower now, hands settling firmly on your waist. Before you can protest, he lifts you effortlessly, guiding you up onto the horse.

It happens fast—one second you’re on the ground, the next you’re settling into the saddle, straddling the horse, legs spread over either side.

You struggle for a second, adjusting yourself in the saddle, shifting your weight, fingers fumbling with the reins. This is harder than it looks.

Joel stands nearby, arms crossed, watching as you awkwardly try to mount the horse. He’s ready to step in, but he’s clearly trying not to overstep.

Finally, after a few wobbly adjustments, you settle in. You exhale, trying to play it off like you’re totally in control.

“Well, I’m definitely not a professional cowgirl,” you mutter, still shifting slightly, “but I guess I’m figuring it out—kinda like when you’re learning a new position.”

You laugh awkwardly. And then it hits you.

Oh. Oh.

Joel freezes. Blinking at you like he just misheard. Then his expression changes—his lips twitch, his shoulders shake slightly, and suddenly he lets out a deep, unrestrained laugh.

“Did you just—” He snorts, shaking his head. “Did you really just make a cowgirl joke?”

Your eyes go wide. “Oh. My. God. Why would I say that?!”

He exhales sharply, grinning as he drags a hand down his face. “Christ. Now that’s stuck in my head.” His voice dips slightly, eyes trailing over you, slow and unreadable. “And I can’t decide if that’s a problem or not.”

And that’s when your brain fully malfunctions.

You freeze. Your whole body burns.

Joel smirks, clearly aware of what he just did to you.

Now you’re both in full-on awkward mode, avoiding eye contact like two people who just walked straight into something dangerous and are pretending it didn’t happen.

You focus very hard on getting comfortable in the saddle, adjusting your posture, gripping the reins, trying to seem like you have a clue what you’re doing. But every small shift you make, every slight adjustment in the saddle, feels too much, like you can practically feel Joel’s gaze flicking to you—watching, thinking, replaying.

Meanwhile, his brain is racing.

He’s staring straight ahead, jaw tight, but he’s not thinking about the horse, not thinking about work. No, his mind is looping one single thought over and over again—what you just said.

You clear your throat, desperate to move past this. "Okay. So. How do we—uh—start moving?"

Joel takes a second to respond. Maybe because he’s still forcing his brain to reboot.

He exhales, stepping beside the horse. "Just a light kick, let her know you’re ready."

You do as he says, and the horse starts to move at a slow, steady pace. Crisis averted.

Or… not.

Because as you walk alongside him, your hand accidentally brushes against his arm. A small touch, barely anything, but it’s like an electric shock.

You both flinch, just slightly.

Neither of you say a word, but you know. You both know.

You’re not thinking about the joke. Except you are. So is he.

You try to act normal, cool, indifferent—but the tension is palpable, crackling in the air between you.

One accidental glance at each other—just one—and everything feels like fire. And suddenly, you need out.

The second you get the chance, you slip away, finding a quiet room in the stable, shutting the door behind you.

You lean against the wall, pressing your hands to your face.

"Did I really say that? What is wrong with me?! What just happened?!"

The secondhand embarrassment is real.

You groan into your hands, replaying it all over again.

But then the overthinking starts creeping in.

"Did I just make it super weird?! Or did he? Was he actually flirting with me, or was he just messing with my head?"

You think about the way his eyes lingered on you. The way his voice dipped just slightly. The way he said he didn’t think he wanted to forget it.

You shake your head to yourself. No. No way. He was just teasing.

Right?

Meanwhile, outside, Joel is definitely not as unaffected as he’s trying to be.

He goes back to work, hands busy, mind not busy enough—because he keeps thinking about what you said.

He’s still smirking to himself, shaking his head every now and then like he can’t quite believe it. He should let it go. Should pretend like nothing happened.

But he’s aware of you now.

Every time you move, every time you speak—hell, even when you’re silent—he notices. Every small brush of your arm, every glance that lingers a second too long.

And then he realizes you’re gone.

He frowns, scanning the stable before heading toward the room where you probably went in hiding. He hesitates for a second before knocking lightly.

“Y’alright in there?”

You freeze.

Shit. Shit.

You take a second before responding, forcing your voice to sound normal. “Yeah! Just—uh—checking something!”

Joel’s voice is too casual when he replies. “Right. Well. You done checkin’ yet?”

You swear you can hear the smirk in his voice.

You swallow hard. Your heart is doing something ridiculous.

You open the door just enough to peek out, avoiding eye contact.

Joel is standing there, one hand resting on the frame, a steaming cup in his other hand. His eyes flick over you, watching the way you shift on your feet, the way you won't look at him directly.

He notices.

He doesn’t say anything about it. Doesn’t push.

But he doesn’t leave either.

And that’s when you realize—you can pretend all you want, but whatever this is… it's not going away.

"Don't hide from me next time."

Then he walks away.

_____________________

You spend the next couple of hours pretending that moment never happened. You avoid looking at him for too long, focusing on the horses, the work, anything but him.

Joel? He doesn’t say anything about it.

Not at first.

You think, Okay, maybe we’re just moving past this.

Then, mid-task, while you’re standing side by side, working in comfortable silence, he suddenly leans against the fence and says,

“So, I’ve been thinking about that cowgirl joke…”

You freeze.

Your heart does something stupid, and you turn to him way too fast.

Joel just watches you, waiting—expression unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something mischievous in his eyes. He’s baiting you.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

He smirks. "What?" he says, voice slow and knowing. "You don’t wanna talk about it?"

You flinch. "I—no, I just—Why are you—"

He leans in slightly, arms crossed over his chest.

“You know,” he drawls, way too amused, “I’m not sure I’ll ever look at a horse the same way again.”

Your jaw drops.

You gasp, whipping around to glare at him. "Joel!"

He laughs—low and entirely too pleased with himself.

You slap his arm. "Oh my God, you’re the worst."

He doesn’t even flinch. Just grins down at you, eyes still flickering with something unspoken.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face, but you’re laughing too.

And he just watches you, smirking, shaking his head like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. And he knows he shouldn’t.

But the thing is?

Joel doesn’t seem to care. Not right now.

Because for some reason, none of that matters. Not the age gap. Not the fact that your dad trusts him. Not that this is a bad, bad idea.

Because he likes this. Likes watching you get flustered, he likes the way you’re pretending you’re not thinking about him too.

The workday finally comes to an end and the tension is still hanging thick in the air.

Joel doesn’t say much when you get into the truck, just a quick glance your way before starting the engine.

The drive is quiet. Not awkward, not exactly. Just… charged. Like there’s something unspoken pressing against the space between you.

Joel parks his truck in your dad’s driveway. You could get out now. But you don’t.

You sit there, stealing glances at him, pretending you’re not hyper-aware of how close you are.

Joel keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gearshift. He looks calm and composed, but you notice his fingers twitch—like he’s thinking.

And then, he glances at you.

No, he's looking at your mouth.

For a full minute, his gaze lingers there. Slow. Deliberate.

You don’t move. You don’t even breathe.

Your pulse pounds, and suddenly, you can feel every inch of your skin.

Joel shifts in his seat. His grip on the wheel tightens.

He’s debating something. You can see it. Feel it.

And then—just as he makes his decision, just as he starts to lean in—

Your dad’s voice cuts through the air.

“Joel!”

You jerk back, the moment shattering instantly.

Your dad walks up to the truck, leaning against the open window, completely oblivious.

Joel exhales sharply and immediately leans away, one hand gripping the wheel like he needs to ground himself. His eyes snap forward, blank, unreadable.

Your pulse is thundering. You don’t look at him. You can’t.

“How was the workday?” he asks.

Joel inhales sharply, blinking like he just snapped out of something. He clears his throat.

"Good," he says, voice a little rough.

Your dad grins. "How was she?"

Joel’s eyes flick to you for just a fraction of a second before he answers—too smooth, too casual.

"She was a really good girl."

Your breath catches. That fucking sentence.

Your dad smiles, then playfully taps the roof of Joel’s truck, a familiar, warm gesture—one that feels easy, trusting. Like Joel is just some guy your dad’s comfortable sending you off with.

Like this is nothing.

“Guess I’ll be sending you off to work with Joel often then,” he says, still grinning.

Joel just nods, his smirk barely there—but his eyes?

They’re still on you. Burning.

And as you step out of the truck, heart pounding, you realize:

This isn’t over.

Not even close.

THAT LAST SENTENCE WHEN I TELL YOU I WAS SCREAMING GNAWING AT THE BARS OF MY ENCLOSURE!!!! UH UHUHU AAAH AH AH

Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Let me know what you think of this chapter and stay tuned for the next one!

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The clones in Star Wars absolutely astound me, especially in the clone wars like,

501st: Our general is a war criminal maniac with a teenager at his heel learning to do the same things by example. And we love them.

212th: Our general is in love with a Duchess and we’re actively in feud with a four armed lightsaber wielding cyborg with lung cancer. One time we fucking punched him and lived.

104th: I would give my entire right arm to see the General Plo never comes to harm or anything ever happens to him. Wolffe: I gave my eye but still, same sentiment.

327th: Our commander and general are fucking. Like. Legitimately. Bly: Yeah dude. Ayala Secura: Yeah dude.

The Bad Batch: This hologram thing keeps telling us that we should stop right now and follow protocol instead of commuting more war crimes. If anyone but Tech knows what war crimes are they simply do not care enough to stop.

Long live the fucking republic man. How the hell they won battles is a mystery.