Sun Kissed - Tumblr Posts
Inspired by @paperback-rascal ‘s prompt and glorious artwork where Crosshair, after being left on the landing platform on Kamino, suffers from sunstroke, I wrote this fic!
Sun-Kissed
Hot, sunny days were rare on Kamino. However, as the sun beat down and Crosshair began to feel faint, he stared up at the cloudless sky and realized that he had made a mistake. Perhaps the Empire wouldn’t come for him after all.
Read chapter 2 here!
Characters: Crosshair, Wrecker, Tech, Hunter, Echo
Wordcount: 3,303
Chapters: 1 of 3
Warnings: Blood, vomit, talk of death, descriptions of heat stroke, descriptions anxiety and feelings of betrayal.
Hours ago, (Days? Weeks? Years? The time seemed to slip through his fingers like sand) Crosshair had watched the Havoc Marauder become smaller and smaller until it was nothing more than a single point of reflected light, far, far away, and he’d been certain that the Empire would come to retrieve him. He was important, after all. He was a commander. They needed him. Didn’t they need him? Wasn’t he important? Did he matter at all? Or was he nothing more than a dark stain on a pinprick of light, so small and insignificant that nothing in the great vacuum of space could hear his tiny cries for help?
After hours and hours and hours, the skies remained silent.
Yet Crosshair, ever the good soldiers, persisted. He had used his com to alert the Empire of his escape from the ruined Tipoca City; he’d given them his coordinates and tipped his head towards the sky, certain that, at any moment, Rampart’s star destroyer would emerge from hyperspace and appear at the zenith to take him home.
The skies, however, remained silent, and Crosshair’s requests for rescue remained unanswered. Crosshair, however, was steadfast and waited patiently. He had been loyal to the Empire. Surely, they would come for him. He had earned that right—the right to be rescued, the right to be needed. He had proven himself worthy.
Did they know that he had disobeyed orders? That he had turned his gun on the TKs in order to protect his old squad? Did they understand the depth of his failure, as his brothers did?
Crosshair’s armor was thermo-regulated, designed to withstand any weather. He could spend hours in the sweltering heat, crouching on burning sand; he could endure sub-zero temperatures, buried in the snow and ice for as long and the mission required; he could brave hail the size of his fist and comfortably wait out torrential downpours, all without consequence—
But this black shell was not his armor.
As with every faulty simulacrum the Empire attempted to recreate in a more “perfect” form—like his squadron of conscripted soldiers; like the medical treatment he’d received after Bracca; perhaps even like Crosshair himself—Crosshair’s fancy new imperial armor was nothing more than a cheaper, poorly-designed, less functional recreation of something the Republic had done right.
As the hours ticked by, heat began creeping into his dark armor until his sweat-soaked blacks were plastered to his back. At some point, to wipe the sweat out of his eyes, he removed his helmet with trembling fingers, and it slipped from his weakening grasp, tumbling off of the platform and disappearing into the dark waters below. He cursed and dug the heels of his palms into his eyes to keep himself from screaming in frustration.
Where was the Empire? Weren’t they coming for him? Hadn’t he proved he was worth-while? He felt stupid and childish and jealous and afraid. What if the Empire never came for him? Would the Batch come to his rescue, if he cried out for help?
Tech and Echo and Wrecker had pointed their blasters at him. In the pods, when he had lifted his rifle to rescue the girl, they had pointed their blasters at him, as if they thought he had intended to slaughter Hunter or the child. Why would they think that? Hadn’t he proved, over and over and over again, that he was unwilling to kill them? Even under direct orders and the heavy influence of the chip, every shot he fired missed. In the end, he had picked his brothers over his sloppy TK squadron; he had murdered them to rescue his brothers. He had sided with them. His loyalty, as fierce as it was for the Empire, had always been to his brothers first. Hadn’t they seen that? Hadn’t he proven himself worthy of their trust?
They had turned their blasters on him.
Crosshair’s fingers dug into the side of his head, pain sparking across the length of scarred flesh. Their lack of trust was understandable, he supposed. Perhaps they hadn’t known about the inhibitor chip. Perhaps, when he shot Wrecker, they assumed he had done so of his own volition, and their trust in him had shattered in an instant. He hadn’t wanted to shoot Wrecker. He hadn’t wanted any of this. Did they know that? If he told them, would they believe him? Would they rescue him if the rains came and the violent waves threaten to swallow him whole? Had he earned that right?
The heat was becoming unbearable. The platform was small and there was not place to take shelter from the rare, sweltering sun. His legs hurt. His head began to swim. He began to pace to keep himself concentrated on his objective.
...what was his object, again?
Right. To be rescued.
So Crosshair waited. The Empire was coming for him. Somebody would come for him. Right?
Why would they? His traitors thoughts asked.
Crosshair’s chapped lips curled into a snarl. Because I am a commander. He answered. Because I am important.
You are expendable. His thoughts replied. You have always been expendable.
When he was a child, he had struggled in social situations. He lacked Wrecker’s sense of humor, compassion, and good nature; he lacked Tech’s inability to be effected by the cruelty of others; he lacked Hunter’s rationality and empathy. He didn’t consider himself an enjoyable person to be around and, for the most part, kept to himself for fear of further ostracization. Unfortunately, his lowered self-esteem began to effect his team-mates during training courses. It was easy to become so consumed by his fears that he was somehow a burden on his teammates, that he lost focus on his objective and his accuracy suffered. Like a self-fulfilling prophecy, his worst fears began to manifest: his team began to fail because he couldn’t keep up.
So he trained. He trained and he trained and he trained. He spent hours on the shooting range, forgoing sleep and food to refine his craft. He wasn’t created to be somebody’s brother or friend, he was created to be a sniper. It was in his DNA. It was, in his head, the only reason that people kept him around. During those long, sleepless night, as he set into the routine and his mind began to wander, anxiety festering like an abscess, it was easy to imagine his three older brother barring the door of their barracks and refusing to let him enter unless he proved his worth.
Hunter was an incredible leader, wise and dedicated, and his senses were incredibly sharp; Wrecker was strong and kind and gave good hugs; Tech was intelligent and witty and he could fix anything;
And Crosshair was angry and rude and he could shoot good.
A drone could do his job.
So he practiced. He practiced and practiced and practiced until he was better than everybody, and he was certain that he had proven his worth and secured a place in Clone Force 99-
And they abandoned him.
The taught the girl to shoot. They gave her his com. They replaced him.
They turned their blasters on him.
Crosshair’s face began to hurt. The skin that stretched across his cheeks and forehead began to burn, as if they had been pulled too tight. He knelt at the edge of the platform, hoping the spray of salty water would cool his sunburnt face, and his legs gave out from under him, nearly sending him plummeting into the water, where he would be swallowed up and forgotten.
“Expendable. Adjective. First definition: describing an object of little significance when compared to an overall purpose, and therefore able to be abandoned. Second definition: describing an object designed to be used only once, and then abandoned or destroyed,” Tech recited. His voice came rolling in on the waves, and Crosshair propelled himself to his feet, twisting around frantically in search of his brother, but nobody was there.
“That’s why we never came back for you!” Wrecker’s disembodied voice boomed over the nothingness. “Because you don’t matter at all!”
“Actually, we were pretty happy to get rid of your sorry ass. Things are better now that you’re gone,” Echo’s voice made Crosshair stamp his foot and clamp his hand over his ears.
His head was pounding. His heart was racing. Suddenly, he pitched forward and vomited into the ocean. With such desperation that his fingers dug into the sharp edges of plastoid and bled, he pried off his armor and stripped off the top half of his blacks, practically throwing it into water with the hope that the wet material would cool down his sweltering skin. But the water-logged cloth was too heavy for his heat-weakened grasp and was eventually tugged away by the current.
Crosshair laid there, on his stomach, for a long time. The sun kissed his back until it blistered. The skies remained silent. Nobody was coming for him. His lips cracked and oozed blood. His mouth hung open and his dry tongue felt too heavy and made swallowing painful. At some point, he stopped sweating, and his skin dried in the sun like leather.
He wanted to go home. He wanted his brothers. He didn’t care if they never trusted him again. And... of course they wouldn’t- they held him at blaster-point. They came back for Hunter, but not for him. Never for him.
They abandoned him.
He was expendable.
Crosshair laughed, almost hysterically. He wanted to cry, but there wasn’t enough liquid in his body to produce tears. Would they forgive him if he apologized? Would they rescue him if he begged them to come back?
Forcing himself up onto his hands and knees, he vomited again. There was nothing left in his stomach, so the convulsions brought up only bile until his stomach was empty of that substance as well. It was liquid he couldn’t afford to lose. Unfortunately, the spasm didn’t stop. He heaved and heaved until his sides ached and his throat burned. When, at last, the cramping stopped, he collapsed onto his side and gasped for air.
He was frightened. He was dying.
Moving as if on auto pilot, he retrieved his com and inputted the Marauder’s frequency—he knew it by heart.
He said something into the com, but he wasn’t sure what. He couldn’t hear himself speaking anymore. He felt like he was standing above himself, watching his body bake in the sun.
Slowly, slowly, he once again tried to push himself onto his hands and knees, but the effort proved to great, and he lost consciousness.
- - -
When Crosshair woke, he was laying on his bunk in the Marauder. He didn’t even need to open his eyes to know where he was—the smell was pungent and familiar. Slowly, he cracked his eyes open. The room was dim. Pain coursed through his head—he could feel his pulse pounding behind his eyes—but the bed beneath him was soft and cool, and he felt so relieved he wanted to cry.
“Hey there, Cross. How’re you feeling?” That was Hunter’s voice. Crosshair squeezed his eyes shut, afraid that, if he turned his head, nobody would be there.
“Cross?” Hunter asked again, voice gentle, and the sniper felt a firm hand rest on his chest.
Crosshair cracked his eyes open. There he was, right beside him. There they all were, playing a round of sabaac on the floor beside his bed. He wanted to cry, but no tears came. He couldn’t help but think of all those hours he’d spent alone, on the shooting range, and he was happy. They’d come back for him, hadn’t they? Had he proven his worth?
“There he is! We thought you were never gonna wake up!” Wrecker boomed with a grin. There was no greater sight in the galaxy.
“You look like shit,” Echo said with an equally warm smile, and Crosshair allowed the corners of his mouth to twitch upwards.
“I feel like shit,” he agreed, his voice hoarse.
Wanting to be with his brothers, Crosshair rose from the bed slowly. His body was numb and his head felt hazy, like he was hungover, or waking up from sedation. It was hard to think straight. His skin hurt. Once upright, he paused for a moment as a wave of nausea rolled over him. His mouth suddenly tasted tangy and Echo, scowling, passed him a rag.
“Here. You’re getting blood everywhere and I just cleaned the floor,” he grumbled.
Blood?
Crosshair knit his brows together as confusion welled up into his throat and his stomach twisted with worry. He pressed the cloth against his nose and his eyes widened in surprise when it came back coated in blood. His nose was bleeding. Why was his nose bleeding? Should he be worried? Should the others be worried?
There was a heavy, uncomfortable pressure that suddenly swelled in his abdomen, and he groaned, doubling over and pressed a hand to his hip. A sharp, hot pain spiked across his lower back and, for a moment, he thought, with some panic, that he was dying. However, after a moment of labored breathing, the pain subsided (or grew distant and numb) and his fear eased.
“Acute renal failure,” Tech surmised, pushing up his goggles with one finger. “Your body is too hot, and it’s lost too much fluid. Your brain is swelling and your kidneys are shutting down,”
Too hot? No, no, no, that wasn’t right at all. He was on the Marauder, wasn’t? They’d rescued him, they’d cooled him off. He was home, he was forgiven, he was safe. Right?
Crosshair grit his teeth as panic flashed through him. As usual, he attempted to stuff the more vulnerable emotion away, hiding it behind a thick layer of anger. His brothers were watching him, but nobody moved towards him. They didn’t seem to care. Why weren’t they doing anything?
“Help me!” he snarled, stepping towards his brothers, and Tech merely quirked a brow.
“Crosshair, we can’t help you,” he said, as if the fact was obvious. “This isn’t real. You betrayed us. Surely we wouldn’t give you this much autonomy if you were actually on board the ship with us. Don’t you remember? You commed us for help, and nobody answered,”
“You’re lying,” Crosshair’s voice was tight and practically dripping with vitriol.
“Why would I lie? How would that benefit me? Or you, rather, as I’m not really here. Thiis,” Tech said, gesturing to the room around them. “Is just your brain, processing what it feels like it needs to,”
“What?” Crosshair cried, sharp and indignant. Blood continued to stream down his face. He tried, with great irritation, to wipe it away, but it always came back and the flow only grew heavier.
“You probably just wanted to pretend like you weren’t going to be alone when you died!” Wrecker exclaimed with a hearty laugh.
The panic, in that instant, was blinding. Something tugged on his leg and, when he looked down, he immediately wished he hadn’t: the room was filling, ever so slowly, with tar. Crosshair grasped, nearly choking on the breath as it caught in his throat, and tried, desperately, to pry his legs out of the muck.
“There’s no use fighting it, you know,” Echo said gently, moving forward and resting a comforting hand on the sniper’s shoulder, just as the sniper had done for him when they’d rescued him on Skako Minor. “It’s going to be okay,”
Echo’s words of comfort sparked a wildfire of furious, blind anger in Crosshair, who violently shoved the ARC trooper backwards.
Crosshair twisted around, as if he could find somewhere else to escape. Behind him was a white, sterile hallway—like the ones in Tipoca City—so impossibly long that he couldn’t see the end of it. One by one, the lights began to switch off, and darkness began creeping up the hallway.
“A clever analogy,” Tech said, intrigued. “Your organs are shutting down,”
“Fuck off,” Crosshair spat and Tech merely shrugged.
“Hey! Leave ‘im alone! He’s only here ‘cause you want him here!” Wrecker bellowed. He was still sitting on the floor, unbothered as the tar swallowed up his legs and continued to climb.
Crosshair squeezed his eyes shut. “What’s going to happen to me?” he croaked, his voice hoarse from the dryness of his throat.
Hunter knit his brows together and put a heavy, comforting hand on Crosshair’s shoulder. “You’re going to die,”
“And when high-tide comes, you’re body will be swept away and eaten by the aquatic life. Eventually your armor and bones will sink to the bottom and falling sediment will collect on them until you’re buried. If you’re lucky, over millions of years, you might be fossilized,” Tech explained. “So, at least your life won’t be a total waste,”
The pressure in Crosshair’s abdomen was mounting. Behind him, the lights continued to flip off, one by one. “How pleasant,” he sneered. Then, suddenly, his shoulders slumped. “Will you remember me?” he asked his brothers.
Hunter smiled. “Of course we will,” he said.
Crosshair’s eyes narrowed and flickered over to Tech. “Will you really?”
Tech smiled. “Not likely,”
“What d’you want, Cross?” Wrecker asked.
The sniper’s eyes drifted shut and he swayed; one hand gripped his abdomen, and the other hand gripped his head. “I want... I want to go back home,” It was a horrible, frightening thing to admit, but he was so tired. He didn’t want to be angry anymore. He didn’t want to fight. He wanted to go home.
When he opened his eyes again, he was no longer on the Marauder. Instead, he was in their barracks on Tipoca City. His brothers were small and dressed in red and blue outfits they had worn as cadets.
Everything was so much easier back then.
Tech looked up from his workbench, his goggled a little too big for his head. Hunter, who sprawled out on his bunk reading a holo-novel on his datapad, sat up and grinned.
“Cross! You’re back! Where were you?” he asked.
Crosshair stepped closer on wobbly legs. “I... was at the shooting range,” he explained, and Tech frowned, sticking out his bottom lip.
“You spend too much time there. You’re not getting enough sleep,” he tutted.
“Yeah! And we miss you!” Wrecked exclaimed. His face was not marred by any blast scars. He had a full head of curly, dark hair and two big, brown eyes.
“You missed me?” Crosshair echoed, almost in disbelief.
“Of course we missed you. You’re our brother,” Echo protested. Echo... Echo wasn’t supposed to be there. He was small and healthy and whole, and Crosshair was glad he was there.
“What if I can’t shoot good enough?” Crosshair asked, and his bottom lip quivered.
“So what?” Hunter asked. “We don’t care how good you can shoot. We’re just happy you’re here,”
Crosshair took another wobbly step forward and rubbed his eyes. His vision was starting to blur around the edges. He looked to Tech, expecting the clever young clone to tell him not to fall asleep, but he merely smiled.
“It’s okay, Cross. We’ve got you,”
“Are you sleepy?” Wrecker asked. He wiped his sticky, jam-covered fingers on the bedspread and rose from his bunk. The gesture was disgusting and so, terribly familiar. Crosshair wanted to cry.
“Yes, Wrecker. I am extremely exhausted,” he croaked.
“Aww...! Come here!” His older brother exclaimed and outstretched his arms.
The sniper stumbled forward, desperate for the comfort and safety of his big brother’s embrace. He felt awful. Wrecker would make him feel better. Wrecker always knew how to make him feel better.
Crosshair collapsed, alone, on the landing platform in the middle of the Kaminoan oceans. Far above him, the skies came to life as the Havoc Marauder emerged from hyperspace and appeared at the zenith.
Sun-Kissed, Chapter 2
For as long as he lived, Tech would never forget the sound of Crosshair's broken voice as he rambled nonsense on the other end of the com.
Read chapter 1 here!
Characters: Tech, Echo, Crosshair
Chapters: 2 of 3
Words: 6000+
Warnings: mentions of blood, talk of death
@paperback-rascal @tzapora @shrikeser @f0rever15elf @karlyanalora @nova-de-sketch @wrecker-and-lula @photowizard17 @tazmbc1 @kimageddon @ourafanofeverything @namesmox @thesunwof @fangirl-goes-nova @mr-pym @thecoffeelorian @jaoddball @darkangel4121
Tech had always been fascinated by blood. Not in a macabre way—it began when he was a cadet.
Clones, as a species, had no place in the galaxy. They had no ecological niche. The carnivorous togruta had evolved as predators; the moss-eating twi’leks evolved to be crepuscular—rising at dawn and dusk to avoid natural predators; the Mandalorians developed a culture of warriors; the Jedi became a culture of peace-keepers. They were natural beings. Their belonging was intrinsic.
The clones, on the other hand, had been created to serve a singular purpose, and after that purpose had been fulfilled, their belonging dissolved. Their language was a patchwork of Basic, Kaminoan, and Mando’a. Their culture consisted of bastardized stories passed down from their archetype. They were alienated from the rest of the galaxy and Clone Force 99, thanks to their genetic mutations, was alienated from the rest of the Clones.
But they all bled just the same. That’s where the fascination began.
As a cadet, Tech used to spend his free time in Medical, watching the phlebotomists work, and asking all sorts of questions about the sticky red substance.
“How much blood can you lose before you die?”
“How do white blood cells work? What about red blood cells?”
“How does blood carry oxygen throughout the body? Why does the body need oxygen?”
One question lead to another and, what began as a fascination with the substance that defined his humanity, became a fascination with anatomy, with medicine, with healing. In addition to studying mathematics and engineering, crunching numbers and recording languages, the clever, bespectacled clone learned to set bones, drain abscesses, dress wounds, and transfuse blood. In addition to the team’s mechanic, Tech was proud to serve as his brothers’ medic.
Which is how he was able to diagnose Crosshair’s condition almost as soon as they answered his distress call.
It had been hours since the Havoc Marauder had departed from the sunken ruins of Kamino, leaving behind their brother once more—this time, seemingly, of his own volition.
From the moment Crosshair had announced that his chip had been removed, Tech had felt nothing but confusion and disgust towards his younger brother. He understood Crosshair’s behavior, he knew where that behavior stemmed from, but it still hurt. He had expected better from Crosshair.
The atmosphere was somber as they departed from Kamino and nobody, not even Wrecker, said a word for a long, long time. Omega went off to change into warm clothes, and buried herself in her bed, Hunter disappeared into the cargo bay to clean his kit, Echo sat wordlessly in the co-pilot seat, and Wrecker sat on the floor, sniffling.
His brothers were hurting because of Crosshair’s shitty behavior, and Tech resented him for it.
Why? Why did the sniper care more about the Empire than about them? He could understand Crosshair’s bitterness. He perceived himself as being abandoned, but that wasn’t the case. They had launched no less than six rescue missions, only to be thwarted by the Empire at every turn. There wasn’t a day that went by when the Batch hadn’t thought about their missing brother.
Did Crosshair truly believed they resented him so much that they would simply abandon him?
Tech blew out a sharp breath and removed his goggles. He rubbed his stinging eyes with the palms of his hand.
“It’s not your fault,” Echo said softly, and Tech knew the former ARC was attempting to comfort him, but he wasn’t having it.
“I would rather not discuss the subject at present,” Tech said gruffly and Echo scowled.
“I’m trying to be nice. Just because you feel like shit, doesn’t mean you get to take it out on me,” he said.
Tech ran a hand through his hair and sighed. He was letting his emotions get the better of him, a trait he wasn't usually known for. “I... apologize. I am behaving childishly,”
“No,” Echo began with a sigh of his own. He looked tired. Tech’s eyes ached sympathetically. “You’re not. I’m being an ass. I’m just...” With a shake of his head, he trailed off.
“Hurt?” Tech supplied, quirking a brow. He turned his attention back to the controls, and lowered his head. “The feeling is mutual,” he admitted softly. "I fear that I, perhaps, carry some responsibility for the outcome of today's mission," he admitted with a scowl and Echo blew out a sharp breath.
"How so?"
"Perhaps we weren't as clear as we should have been that we hadn't abandoned him. I believe his behavior was motivated by the belief that he was left behind. Part of me believes that if we had, perhaps, communicated more efficiently that our intentions had never been to leave him behind-"
"I doubt it would've made a difference," Echo cut in sharply. Wrecker, behind them, made a choked sound.
"I know. I believe you are correct. He has always been-"
"Severe and unyielding. You don't have to say it again," Echo's voice was softer, wearier.
The sudden shift in tone was unexpected, and Tech wasn't sure what it meant. Knitting his brows together, he asked, "I've offended you?"
"No! No. Not at all. It's just... Heh. My brothers used to say the same sort of things about me. I used to be sort of a stickler for the rules," he explained.
"Used to be?" Tech asked. "You don't consider yourself to be that way anymore? Because I feel like I should remind you that, with how frequently you complain about our so-called 'unorthodox' tactics-"
"Oh, fuck off," Echo huffed, rolling his eyes. Behind them, Wrecker made a sound that might have been a laugh, Tech wasn't sure.
Without their sniper, the Havoc Maurader felt far empty enough already. Without Wrecker making any sound, the emptiness was almost too much to bear. Tech was happy, therefore, that his comment had elicited some sort of sound out of Wrecker, even if he hadn't meant it as a joke. His chest puffed out, just a little, and he tipped his chin higher.
Behind them, something shuffled—hard boots fell softly against the metal flooring. From the footfalls alone, Tech was able to recognize the approach of their sergeant, even before he spoke.
"Wrecker, Omega told me to give this to you," Hunter said gruffly. Tech didn't bother turning around; Hunter was passing something—the tooka doll, perhaps—to the brawler.
"Lula," Wrecker whispered, and Tech heard him shift, reaching for the toy.
Tech and Crosshair had made it together, years and years ago, under Hunter's supervision. How old had they been? Four? Five?
Crosshair hadn't been so angry then. He hadn't been so bitter and unyielding-
"How is Omega?" he asked, hoping a conversation would drive away his wayward thoughts.
"Disappointed," Hunter said simply and Tech blew out a sharp breath.
Disappointed.
The word sparked a flash of anger in the engineer. 'Disappointed' wasn't strong enough word to describe the depth and complexity of his feelings about Crosshair's decision to remain with the Empire. Unfortunately, Tech had never been very good at feelings, so trying to find a word to more accurately describe his pain, proved fruitless.
The heavy, suffocating silence returned to the cockpit of the Maurader. When he was younger, such a thick, layered silence would've made him squirm; he would've been spouting off any useless fact that crossed his mind, if only to fill the silence with noise.
He wasn't so young anymore.
Tech jumped when the ship's com went off—somebody was contacting them.
"Who is it?" Hunter ask and Tech, startled back into awareness, ran his nimble fingers over the ship's console, tracking the origin of the signal, and the chain code of the sender.
The breath caught in his throat. His stomach twisted. He could feel his heart beating, throbbing against the inside of his burning ribs.
Kamino.
"It appears to be Crosshair's com," he said simply, though his voice felt strange in his throat. The tips of his fingers felt numb. The skin on his face prickled. He was angry.
"What does he want?" Wrecker asked. He sounded sad.
"Reject?" Tech asked. His nose, wrinkling in disdain, pressed against hard, plastic bridge of his goggles. He could feel Echo's eyes on him. The ARC Trooper was startled, perhaps, by the vehemence in Tech's voice; he was disappointed.
Hunter sighed, "Negative,"
Tech grit his teeth, but complied nonetheless.
For as long as he lived, Tech would never forget the sound of Crosshair's broken voice as he rambled nonsense on the other end of the com.
"I feel like shit-"
"Help me!"
"You're lying-"
"Fuck off..."
His voice was hardly above a whisper, the words punctuated by hacking coughs and gasps for air. He started gagging at some point, as if he was trying to force himself retch but nothing would come up. Nevertheless, he continued to speak, carrying a conversation, seemingly, with himself.
"What's wrong with him?!" Hunter demanded.
"Crosshair doesn't sound well..." Wrecker observed astutely.
Any resentment, any anger that had been boiling inside of Tech's blood, evaporated like water in the sweltering heat of a summer day. What the fuck was wrong with Crosshair? His brilliant, racing mind tallied up the symptoms, cross checking them against the situation they had left the sniper in and-
"Will you remember me?"
As understand sank in, Tech's eyes began to prickle. He felt like he was going to be sick.
"Is he being interrogated?" Wrecker asked, beginning to grow frantic as Crosshair's voice grew fainter and fainter, and his breathing grew more and more ragged.
"No, Wrecker," Tech began.
Their brother was dying.
"I'm afraid I misinterpreted the Empire's protocols," The blood in his veins grew thick with guilt, sticky and sludgy and vile.
"I want to go home,"
Tech had never heard their brother sound so frightened. He stopped speaking after that and the space between his labored breaths grew longer and longer until they, too, fell silent.
The Marauder jumped into hyperspace. If Tech's calculations were correct, Crosshair didn't have much time left.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Echo snapped, abruptly rising from his seat. "What the fuck is wrong with him?"
"It means the Empire isn't coming for him, Echo!" Tech snapped right back.
"And-?" Hunter asked, stepping in between the mechanic and the engineer.
"And we left him behind on a tiny landing platform, in the middle of the ocean, on a sunny day, with no shelter," Tech had no intention of sugarcoating anything. None of them deserved that mercy.
"Fuck..." Echo whispered and collapsed right back into his seat.
Out of the corner of his watering eyes, he could see that Hunter's expression was grim.
Tech's bottom lip wobbled and his throat felt tight. He moved his goggles to the top of his head and rubbed his watering eyes.
"So what's wrong with Crosshair?" Wrecker whimpered, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
"Theoretically, in a harsh environment, a human being can only survive three hours without shelter," The mechanic responded.
"But- but it was sunny when we left. Right? Sunny and warm? So he should be okay, right?" Wrecker's voice was starting to crack around the edges. "Tech? He's going to be okay, right? Because- because it was nice and warm? And Crosshair hates the cold. He always- he always complains about how cold it is on the ship. So he's got to be okay, right? Because it's warm? And he likes places that are warm? It's better than if it was raining, cause he hates the rain. So he's-"
"He's got heatstroke, doesn't he?" Omega asked, appearing in the doorway. It was startling enough that Tech finally twisted around. "I've seen it before. Sometimes cadets would overheat during training and-" his eyes flickered to Tech, as if she expected him to interrupt her, ever eager to regurgitate his wealth of knowledge. But Tech's throat was too tight to speak, so Omega's gaze fell to the floor.
"The humans sweat to reduce body temperature," Echo explained, likely having noticed Wrecker's lingering confusion and Omega's increasing distress. "When you get too hot for too long, you sweat too much, and become dehydrated. If your body loses too much moisture-"
"You die?" Wrecker whispered, and it was clear that he didnt really want to know the answer.
'Yes,' Tech wanted to say—should have said. But instead, Hunter beat him to it and lied,
"Crosshair isn't going to die,"
Wrecker rose to his feet and smashed his fists together, seemly reassured. "Don't worry Crosshair! We're coming for you!"
Tech slid his goggles back into their proper place and squeezed his eyes shut. It wasn't true, and Wrecker didn't deserve to be spared the truth—none of them did. They'd left their brother behind, after all. But his traitorous voice had abandoned him, so he said nothing. He merely stared out, dead ahead, watching despondently as the Marauder hurtled through hyperspace.
* * *
It was the blood that bothered Tech the most.
Crosshair’s eyes were half open, his lips parted, his head resting on a pillow of drying blood. Even from across the landing pad, Tech new he wasn’t breathing. For a moment, he couldn’t move. He felt like he was going to vomit. This was his fault. He should’ve insisted Crosshair let them give him a ride to somewhere safer, somewhere he could escape the elements. He should’ve anticipated the possibility that the Empire wouldn’t return for him. He should’ve known better, he should’ve known better!
“Tech-“ Hunter prompted, and the mechanic finally snapped into action and sprinted across the landing pad.
He knelt beside his brother, and felt his neck for a pulse. The sniper wasn’t breathing, as anticipated. He still had a pulse, but it was weak and growing fainter by the second.
“He’s alive!” Tech called out. His voice was rigid and without emotion. He should’ve felt worried, he knew, but he didn’t. He didn’t feel anything at all. It was like he was standing on the other side of the landing platform, watching his disembodied self move of its own accord. Even his voice sounded far away.
“Heatstroke, as I—and Omega—suspected,” he explained when Hunted knelt beside him. “We need to get him inside and cool him off immediately. However, I should warn you that his chances for survival are slim to none. I suspect he will pass within the hour,” He slid an arm beneath the slender sniper’s knees, and another arm behind his back, and hoisted him into the air.
Crosshair used to spend all day at the shooting range. He would come home long past curfew, when only Tech was awake, his palms covered in painful, open blisters. He would try to slink off to bed without acknowledging his brother, but Tech never wasted an opportunity to reprimand him, citing Kaminoan studies done on the importance of sleep and a healthy diet in aiding growth and development. Sometimes, his scolding would make Crosshair cry. He would attempt to hide it, twisting away and scrubbing aggressively at his face, with all the energy of a wolf stealing meat from the carcass of his brother's kill—a desperate attempt to appear invulnerable. Tech never understood the behavior; not what prompted the crying, nor why Crosshair refused to allow himself to appear vulnerable. As with the wolves, they were a pack; any kill they made was to be evenly distributed among their ranks, but Crosshair insisted on attempting to prove his worth. Tech would in,gore his brother's crying (Crosshair and didn't want his tears to be acknowledged, and Tech didn't know how to soothe them away) and insisted on bandaging his hands, while he wrangled with his own wayward emotions.
“Tech?” Hunter asked. Tech’s knees felt wobbly.
Sometimes, when they were much smaller, on particularly bad nights, he would offer to share a bed with Crosshair, and the young sniper would begrudgingly comply. Tech, who prided himself but yin his observational skills, concluded that, in spite of his outward behavior, Crosshair was afraid of being alone. Logically, it made sense: Crosshair's attitude had a penchant for landing him solitary confinement, sometimes for days at a time. Sometimes, on particularly bad nights, he would pet his brother’s grey hair, and (quietly) read aloud the text he was studying until his brother fell asleep.
“Tech,” Hunter said, a little more sternly, but the mechanic wasn’t listening anymore.
“I suspect his kidneys have already begun to fail. As other organs fail, the bacteria in his gastrointestinal tract will escape into his abdomen. If he survives the initial organ failure, I imagine he will die shortly thereafter of sepsis,”
“Fett’s balls, Tech! You’re going to drop him!” Hunter snapped, reaching out to stabilize his brother, just as Tech stumbled and pitched to the left.
"I'm fine," Tech assured quickly, breathlessly, but Wrecker had already stepped in and pulled Crosshair from his arms. The brawler looked utterly bereft.
The cargo bay, as per usual, served as their makeshift medical bay. Cooling Crosshair down was Tech's priority, however fruitless the endeavor seemed. Their meager medical supplies were hardly sufficient—An IV was inserted into his elbow to reintroduce fluids and electrolytes; a tube was pushed into his nose and down the trachea so a ventilator could force air in and out of his tobacco-battered lungs; a defibrillator forced his corroding heart to restart so many times, Tech couldn't help but wonder if it was cruel to force it to keep pumping blood—
He refused to check the chrono. He wouldn't know the time. Crosshair would die within the hour—the odds were nearly 100%. With the severity of his heatstroke...
Once the sniper was in a condition that could be called "stable" (meaning that nearly all of his vital organs functions were being run by machines), he fled to the cockpit and locked himself inside.
He didn't take his datapad.
He didn't take his helmet.
He didn't want to know the time.
Surely, if there was an emergency, somebody would come to get him. But nobody came, and Crosshair would be dead within the hour.
It was hard to wrap his mind around the idea of Crosshair, not only not being there with them, but being utterly uncontactable. Unreachable. Gone. Just gone.
Even when he was off fucking around with the Empire, he was still there. He still existed. But, within the hour, there would be no more Crosshair.
At some point, within the hour, he would cease to be a person and would, instead, become an object. A corpse. Not Crosshair, but a thing that used to be Crosshair.
That was hard to imagine. The sniper had always been a constant in Tech's life. They were pulled from the same tube—a single cell split in two. As is common with twins, they one of them had been smaller, had developed slower. So, Tech had been decanted first, and Crosshair remained in the tube to continue to develop. Later in their life, Tech would tease Crosshair about being left in the tube longer than everybody else.
'Little brother,' he used to call him, just to make him angry.
With a wet chuckle, he distantly considered returning the cargobay to tease the sniper. 'Haven't you slept long enough, vod'ika?' he'd ask, and maybe, Crosshair would get so angry, he'd wake up.
If he wasn't dead already.
* * *
It took a long time for Tech to work up the courage to return to the cargobay. He'd needed to carefully compartmentalize his feelings, to prepare himself for the great ordeal of preparing Crosshair's body for burial. Or cremation. Or- or whatever they would do with him. He didn't know what Crosshair would've wanted.
Tech was surprised, however, to discover that there was no need to prepare the corpse for disposal, as there was no corpse to dispose of. Hours had passed, and Crosshair had lived. Tech had not prepared for this outcome, and his carefully boxed emotions began to spill out of their compartments. He pressed his hand and laughed until tears were running down his face.
Well.
He wasn't really laughing anymore, by that point.
He remained there for hours and hours, covering his face, shoulders shaking, and all the while, Crosshair's heart beat steadfastly.
* * *
Returning to Ord Mantel was a welcome feeling. It was familiar, predictable.
Stepping off of the ship felt was relieving; it felt like escaping—it felt like running away.
"No, no, no! I told you already, no more of you clones in my cantina! The five of you are enough trouble as it is!" Cid protested, when Hunter requested access to another room.
Tech couldn't help but smile. Cid was predictable. Hunter was predictable. Even Omega, who explained the situation and practically begged Cid for access to the room, was predictable.
Cid, of course, begrudgingly accepted, because she always caved in to Omega's requests.
Crosshair, however, was not predictable. He should have died. Statistically, he was supposed to have died. And yet, he lived. As predicted, the collapse of his organs caused the bacteria in his gut to seep into his abdomen. He raged with fever. His blood was poisoned with infection. Sepsis ravaged him.
He woke up , occasionally. When his sharp eyes opened, they were red, glassy, and unfocused. They stared at nothing. Sometimes, he gagged and thrashed, choking on the tube in his throat, fighting against the machine that kept him breathing. Sometimes he remained utterly still, eyes open and empty. Once, when Tech was changing his IV, he turned towards his brother and his eyes seemed to focus. He blinked, and tears rolled down his cheek.
Tech thought nothing of it. Nothing more than dry eyes, he convinced himself.
At one point, his fever spiked and he began to seize.
He didn't wake up again, after that. Tech ruled him comatose, and Omega began to sob. He felt guilty for upsetting her.
Caring for Crosshair was a chore. Sheets needed to be changed. He needed to be turned regularly to prevent bedsores from forming. Physical therapy was required to prevent his muscles from atrophying. An IV delivered fluids and electrolytes to his body, and an NG tube delivered nutrients and calories. Urine was collected from a cather. He was given a sponge bath regularly. Wrecker insisted on keeping his face shaved and his hair trimmed, certain that Crosshair would appreciate the additional care.
Tech disagreed. It didn't matter if Crosshair was shaved or not. Nothing mattered. Crosshair wouldn't wake up, he was certain of it.
Especially after discovering that—either the heatstroke or the fever—had damaged his brain. His fine motor skills, eyesight, and physical strength would be effected. He might not have the strength to walk—sniping was out of the question.
Nevertheless, he survived. Though he remained comatose, the fever broke. The infection receded. Crosshair lived.
Tech wasn't sure how to feel about it.
They took turns watching over their youngest brothers. Tech did everything in his power to weasel out of his turns. It was too hard to look at his brother's still body. He made excuses; always working on repairs for the ship, or fixing up the cantina for Cid.
It wasnt as if he wasn't constantly checking on Crosshair anyways; though they all learned how to turn him, bathe him, and work his muscles, Tech was still the one with the most medical knowledge and, therefore, in charge of the more technical aspects of Crosshair's care—the IVs, the catheter, the NG tube, the ventilator.
It was exhausting, constantly wrestling with the warring feelings of grief and concern and betrayal and anger.
Compartmentalization soon became dissociation. He stopped remembering to eat, to drink, to rest. He lost interest in working, he stopped talking.
The others noticed, they worried.
It was Echo who finally intervened.
It was Echo's turn to watch Crosshair. Tech had just finished changing Crosshair's IV. Echo invited him to sit and Tech agreed. For a long time, they were silent. Then, Tech wrinkled his nose. Peaking up under the collar of Echo's shirt, was a tattoo that Tech had never seen before. It was rather simple: a domino with five dots—three black, one blue, one red—all outlines with clean, black lines.
"Are you going to tell me why you're staring at me? Or should I start making guesses?" Echo asked with a huff.
"You have a new tattoo," Tech replied simply, turning his gaze back to Crosshair.
Echo rolled his eyes. "It's not new,"
Tech furrowed his brows together. The ink was still clean and crisp—indicating that it was, in fact, newer—however, it lacked the redness and swelling that came with fresh tattoos. "Well I haven't seen it before," Tech said haughtily.
Echo, amused, breathed out a sharp laugh. "Yes, you have. You were with me when I got it. Then again, you were pretty wasted at the time, so it wouldn't surprised me if don't remember,"
Echo, that bastard, had the audacity to look smug about it, and Tech—who felt his cheeks begin to burn—scowled harder, tearing his gaze away from Crosshair. "I assure you, my memory is quite impressive and my alcohol tolerance is very high. It would surprise me if I had actually managed to drink enough to-"
"Tech, you were wasted! You were so fucking pissed, in fact, that when the artist asked if you were going to get anything done, you pulled down your pants and asked to get a tattoo on your shebs that said-"
"Alright!" Tech cut in loudly, mortified. "Alright! So maybe I had allowed myself to become somewhat-"
"-completely and utterly blackout pissed-"
"Yes-" Tech hissed. "That. I had allowed myself to become 'completely and utterly blackout pissed' but still-!" He froze, suddenly, when he noticed Echo's expression change. "What? Why are you staring at me like that?" He demanded.
"You're an awfully emotional drunk, you know that?" Echo asked suddenly, catching the engineer off guard.
"I- excuse me?"
"When you drink, you get- well, you get giggly. Sometimes, you get giggly, I mean. Sometimes, you get sad. You don't get angry, though. Even black-out drunk, you don't get angry. It's like-"
"It's like nothing. I would rather not discuss-"
"-youre bottling it all up. That's what you do, right? You bottle up all your anger?"
"There is no purpose in anger. Or any feelings, for that matter," Tech cut in sharply, trying to indicate that the conversation was over.
Unfortunately, Echo, that stubborn bastard, wouldn't let it go. "You can't honestly believe that," he said with a snort. His smug expression quickly withered away. "You're being serious?"
"Emotion merely clouds judgment. It gets in the way. Get too angry, or too sad, and you're bound to make mistakes. Echo, youve been with us for long enough—you should know that we don't make mistakes. And you, personally-" he waved his hand, gesturing to the ARC's prosthetics. "Ought to know just how devastating the consequences of such frivolous mistakes can be,"
It was a low blow and Tech knew it. He could feel the cool sting of guilt already pooling in his stomach. However, such a jab should, theoretically, offend Echo enough to drop the subject. Perhaps, he would leave the room. Tech winced at the thought: he didn't want to be left alone with Crosshair. With Crosshair's body.
"Did the longnecks beat that kind of thinking into you?" Echo asked, unperturbed.
Tech's skin prickled. He didn't want to answer the question, didn't want to look the other trooper in the eye, so, instead his gazed fixed on Crosshair.
The churning in his stomach returned. He was quick avert his eyes elsewhere.
"I get it. Really, I do," Echo said. The softness in his voice made Tech grit his teeth.
He didn't want to be pitied. He didn't want Echo peering into his soul, trying to pry him apart.
"I really don't think you do," he said gruffly.
A heavy silence blanketed the room. Tech, mistakenly, believed that Echo had finally let the conversation drop.
"They beat it into me too, you know," he said at last, and the breath caught in Tech's throat. "When I was a cadet, I... struggled to manage my emotions. I felt things intensely—I still feel them intensely—and I didn't know how to manage them. I felt so much, all the time, and it was overwhelming. I... struggled in my classes. I got too restless. Too much information made me too overwhelmed. I couldn't focus. And then I would fail tests, and it made me so angry, because I couldn't figure out what the kriff was wrong with me,"
Echo went silent for a moment, and Tech finally forced himself to look at him—he looked pained. His hands were gripping his knees, white knuckles, and his brows were knit together tightly.
"It was too much. I was too much. My batchers..." he heaved a sigh and closed his eyes. His hand skirted up towards the tattoo and Tech finally understood the significance of it. "They didn't know how to deal with it either. So I just learned to shut it off. Like a tap. Because I was scared all of my feelings were driving them away. And... I didn't want to lose them," His grip tightened on his shoulder.
Three black dots—Hevy, Cutup, and Droidbait; one blue dot—Fives; one red dot—Echo.
Domino squad.
"You don't talk about them much—your batchmates. Why is that?" Tech asked.
Echo's shoulders slumped, and his crack lips turned up in a weary smile. "I think you know why. Talking about them won't bring them back. It won't fix anything. It'll just make me sad. And in so fucking tired of feeling sad. I just want to move on. And the idea of talking about them all in the past tense, it-" Echo exhaled shakily.
Tech's lips wobbled. His eyes began to burn. His finger's tightened around cro.
"It's makes it feel too real,"
"Yeah," Echo whispered.
"I dont... think I'll talk about him, either... when he goes," Tech whispered, suddenly unable to take his eyes away from Crosshair's gaunt face.
Echo shook his head. "We can't be like this, you know. All bottled up,"
"I know,"
"It isn't healthy,"
"It isn't,"
Silence. Then, a whisper: "He might live, you know,"
Sharp, like a knife cutting through the tension, Tech barked out a laugh. "The likelihood of him ever waking up is slim to none," He wasn't sure if that statistic pleased him, or distressed him.
"He'll pull through. Severe and unyielding- remember?""
Tech's lips curled up over his teeth, flashing his canines like a wild animal. He didn't like that answer because it wasn't that simple.
As cadets, they had been best friends. Crosshair was the only one who understood; he wrestled with his emotions too.
Severe and unyielding and quick to anger.
He used cry himself to sleep, after long, painful training sessions, when the trainers and the regs were particularly cruel. He held it until he thought everybody was asleep, and then he'd cry, totally silent, shoulders shaking, face twisted up in agony.
And Tech would watch him, without saying a word, because he knew Crosshair didn't want to be caught crying. But after he fell asleep, Tech would crawl out of his bed and into Crosshair's. Because Crosshair was lonely. And Tech was lonely. He would grip the back of his brother's shirt, and grit his teeth as the tears rolled helplessly shown his face.
Once or twice, Crosshair would turn around and wraps his arms tight around him.
"Even so. I can't help but wonder if he'll even want to survive this ordeal, given the loss of his fine motor skill," Tech swallowed thickly.
Crosshair chose the Empire over them.
"You know," Echo began. "There's more to his life than just being a good sniper,"
"Oh?" Tech asked.
"There's us,"
They left Crosshair behind, and he roasted in the sun.
How was he supposed to feel about that?
Tech rose to his feet abruptly and turned away, stalking out of Crosshair's room without a word. There was a twinge of guilt in his stomach, as Echo called out for him, but it was swallowed up by anger.
No. Crosshair didn't have them. He didn't have anybody. He chose to be alone. He chose to be left behind and Tech was sick and tired of feeling guilty for honoring that choice. It wasn't his fault he was a miserable asshole who picked the Empire over his brothers.
There was a rough hand on his shoulder, spinning him around. "Force, Tech! Fucking spit it out! You can't keep doing this! You can't keep bottling up your feelings and running away from your problems!" Echo snapped.
Tech gave the ARC Trooper a hard shove backwards. "You're advice, Echo, is neither needed nor wanted," he snarled, his lips curled upwards into a sneer.
Echo blinked, stepped backwards, crossed his arms, and exhaled. "So that's how it's going to be, huh? You know, Tech, for as much as you seem to hate Crosshair, you sure do act an awful lot like him these days,"
It felt like the planet stopped turning, like the stars went dark. It was like being cut in half by a lightsaber; like the sky was falling.
He didn't hate Crosshair. Of course he didn't! How could Echo think that?
But he did hate Crosshair, didn't he? Just a little?
"Crosshair and I have nothing in common. I would never abandon my brothers," he stammered. His lip wobbled. He took off his goggles and whipped his eyes. He didn't put his goggles back on.
He didn't look at Crosshair, his brother, laying comatose in his bed.
"I would never abandon my brothers," he whispered.
Echo put his hand on Tech's shoulder, just as he pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. He didn't want to cry. He didn't. If he started to cry, he wouldn't stop, and that would be unacceptable.
"It's not your fault," Echo's hand tightened on his shoulder. Tech's breathing hitched.
"I abandoned him, Echo," he whispered.
"You didn't abandon him. This isn't your fault. You couldn't have known,"
"I should have known! That is all I have ever been good for, Echo! Knowing things, predicting things! That's what I was bred for! My life has one, singular purpose and I failed! I calculated incorrectly and abandoned my brother in the sun without shelter! And part of me believes that he deserved it!" He shouted, his whole body trembling.
He expected Echo to pull away, to reel backwards in disgust, but he did no such thing, rather, he pulled Tech closer. He wrapped his arms around him.
Tech didn't deserve that kind of kindness.
"Part of me believes he deserved it. Part of me is happy that he suffered," he whispered. "And part of feels wretched. I don't know how to feel. I don't know what to do. Echo... I don't- I don't know what is wrong with me,"
"Nothing," Echo assured firmly, gruffly, tightening his hold on the engineer. "Nothing is wrong with you,"
"Why?" Tech asked. Tears slipped down his cheeks. His goggles clattered to the ground. "He chose the empire over us. Why? What did we do wrong?"
"I don't know, Tech. But we can ask him when he wakes up," Echo offered up a little smile.
"He won't wake up, Echo. The probability-"
"Fuck the probability! Severe and unyielding, remember? He'll pull through," Echo said emphatically.
Tech sagged, breath hitching, and rested his head on Echo's shoulder. "I don't want him to die. Truly, I don't. In spite of everything... He's still my brother. I would never abandon my brothers,"
"I know you wouldn't," Echo whispered.
For a long time Tech didn't speak..his arms hung limp at his sides. Then, ever so slowly, timidly, he slowly wrapped his arms around Echo, and he began to cry.
"I don't know what to do...!" He cried, voice muffled by Echo's shoulder.
"You don't have to know," Echo assured him. "I think, maybe, we should wake up Wrecker to take over the rest of my shift. I'll make you something to eat and then, Tech, I think you need to go to bed. You're exhausted, you need rest. How does that sound?"
Tech stiffened, then nodded, hesitantly. He felt foolish for requiring assistance with such a menial task but... Echo was right. He was exhausted. He pulled away from his friend, retrieved his goggles from the floor, and wiped.his eyes.
"I... Apologize for my behavior. Thank you for being patient with me," he said softly.
Echo lead him away from Crosshair's bed and out into the cantina. "It's alright," he assured, and his hand, once again, skirted up to the tattoo on his shoulder. "I understand how hard it is. Believe me, I do,"
Tech cast one final glance at his brother and exhaled slowly. For the first time in weeks, he didn't feel angry anymore. He just felt sad. Sad that Crosshair had betrayed them. Sad that he had gotten so sick. Sad that he wasn't waking up.
"Don't worry," Echo said, drawing his attention away from his brother. "He'll wake up,"
"He'll wake up," Tech echoed.
And two days later, he did.
Stunning Look 🤩🥵🔥
❛❛sun kissed❞
햇빛이 내 영혼을 가득 채울 때, 당신을 향한 나의 빛나는 사랑이 넘쳐흐릅니다.
as sunlight fills my soul, my radiant love for you overflows.
.° ༘🕯️⋆🪐₊˚ෆ
synopsis: kinktober day #2 — sexual arousal from sunlight (actirasty)
pairing: felix x gn!reader
content: teen and up, viewer discretion advised, a tad bit fluffy, suggestive, second person view, no ‘y/n’ or pronouns used, gentle romance, slow burn
warnings: emotional intimacy, sexual undertones, mild romantic tensions, emotional affection, sensory description
word count: 0.2 (276)
note: so quite obviously this wasn’t upload last night as promised lol. guess who fell asleep trying to do their drama coursework at 1:00am and i’m on holidays rn🤦♀️ this is barely smut as well…
inspired by: NO ONE THIS TIME CUZ I’M AN INDEPENDENT WOMAN!! (i’m not.)
song reference: say yes to heaven by lana del rey
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actirasty — a term coined to describe sexual arousal or attraction experienced in response to sunlight.
felix — with his infectious laughter and radiant smile, he has always been a source of joy and warmth in your life.
the feeling that bubbles up in your heart when he’s around is more than just mere friendship or happiness. it’s a sensation as bright and invigorating as the sun itself, a mix of admiration and intrigue that makes your heart skip a beat. you can’t explain it, but being around him electrifies your senses and makes you crave more of his presence like a flower reaching for the sun.
weather and time are irrelevant when it comes to felix’s ability to uplift your spirits. even on the dreariest, cloudiest days, his mere presence can transform the darkest gloom into a ray of hope. his energy is like a virus, his personality an inescapable pull, and his very essence radiates a warmth that seems to melt away all traces of despair. like a personal sun shining in your life, felix has an uncanny ability to bring joy and positivity wherever he goes.
sometimes, you’ve pondered if this unique connection you feel to felix is solely your own experience or if others share the same feeling as you. perhaps it’s his authentic kindness, unwavering positivity, or his talent for making others feel significant and treasured. whatever the reason may be, you’re grateful for the influence he has on you, and you hold each moment spent with him in high regard. the way he affects you adds a special spark to your life, and you cherish every moment you spend in his company.
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©fallingforfelix, 2024 tag if inspired