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Scars Remind Us That the Past Is Real

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Her body is a map of scars, thin white cicatrices across her rough flesh like charts of the galaxies, old atop new atop newer. When they first come together, it's like planets colliding, hard, harsh, catastrophic. This is what they're used to, what they expect. Her back is against the wall, only naked because she's just come from the refresher in the hopes of washing off the little dirt that doesn't cling permanently. He has his jacket off, his pants down, quick, efficient, desperate.

This is what every encounter has been like for the both of them for as long as they can remember; Cassian by necessity, Jyn by choice. Usually, he craves the intimacy, no matter how quickly it's over with, and Jyn yearns for the time that it ends, when she can walk away.

And when it ends, it's messy. She feels the wetness spilling down the insides of her thighs, feels it inside of her, hot, sticky, hears her own breath in harsh pants, feels her fingertips curling in the roughspun of his shirt. And the world is out of focus for a moment, teetering on something so much larger. It's movement in a cosmic sense, emotion. He touches her face, and that's when she breaks, fragile, sweet.

Her mother would have said that it was the Force, flowing between them, connecting like a signal. She doesn't remember if she ever believed in the Force, in something bigger than... well, everything. But she knows that, no matter what she is used to feeling, and what she expected to feel, this sensation is so much greater, so much more intimidating than she could have imagined.

Her hair is down in his hands now, and they're lying on that thin, hard cot, facing one another. He looks at it in wonder, and she stares, because it is like auburn shimmersilk sifting through his callused fingers, and she's amazed that anything so beautiful can belong to her. That anyone could be touching it with such astounding care and reverence. She takes his hand in hers and studies it with as much care. Their scars meet, match, lines that connect, intersect.

The base on Yavin IV hardly affords comforts, so why does this seem like bliss? Maybe because it is the eye of the storm, and they both know it, a place that seems almost mythical to each. A place of harbor, and neither expecting to find the other tethered there.

Those rough fingers dip lower, into her, between her thighs and her soft, silky lower lips. Stroking. His skin may be coarse, but his caress is not. And this time she feels a slow build, an excited anticipation, his thumb against the button usually only she touches when she is in need of release, two digits working inside up to the knuckles. His mouth on her breasts, making each one ache with the warm, wet brush of his tongue, making the nipples flush a dark pink, peak so beautifully, so tenderly.

And then his mouth is in place of his fingers, and she's moaning wildly. She feels young, for just a moment, like this is a time of exploration of new pleasures. His tongue inside of her, sliding along those same walls he was filling with his fingers a moment ago, his lips curling around her clit. Fingers in his thick, soft hair, the pale flesh of her thighs chafed so gently, so deliciously, by the bristle of his beard, leaving a sort of burn behind that she relishes.

He sucks his own seed out of her, and in no time, she's finishing against his tongue, her hips bucking with wanton need. She even thinks she hears herself laugh, and a rare smile crosses his features, and makes him look five years younger. Takes those cares from his brow, from his shoulders.

She's on top this time, his cock inside so deeply she feels pierced by it. Both of them moving aggressively, taking pleasure, wresting it away from the other. His hands on her bouncing breasts, hair falling all around. When she comes again, she strangles his cock, and that sends him over the edge, groaning, rolling his hips as he erupts inside. Spilling again.

This is how it could have happened, she thinks as they stand on the beach together, as they embrace and their breath becomes one. She could have loved him more deeply than she could have ever dreamed of; from the way his hands clutch her, she understands it is the same for him. If she had been braver, perhaps, this is what could have happened.

But they've both been the bravest they could be, haven't they? And they have each other now. And he knows; she knows that he knows. No regrets.