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Cold hallways gave off an aura. Like someone was watching, evaluating, and around the corner, a dead end lurked behind closed doors. Relentlessly cold—that’s how Ordo remembered it.
Med centers always made him feel this way, like he was back on Kamino. His stomach sat uneasily; every passing droid and every swooshing door made his eyes jump for the split second it took to locate the source of the sound. He was en route to room 314, heart rate askip with every minute he had to spend in this sterile trap.
Ordo rounded a corner, left shoulder first—a swift shuffle from back foot to front, fatigues whispering—jerking his hand up from where he reached for the blaster he was not supposed to be carrying. An empty bacta tank emerged from room 317. The overhead lighting reflected mercilessly off its surface, and Ordo caught sight of his reflection. His full-grown size startled him, almost as much as the sound of the door closing behind the tank. He was, in fact, just past 1.83 meters and built like Sienar’s most pampered Stealth Corvette. Capable of kissing the life out of a target before they could identify the taste. Death on legs, not two years old with nothing on his mind except where the next lethal sound might come from. Ordo scowled at his reflection, smothering a sudden impulse to push the hovering tank into the wall, and its caretaker along with it.
So much pushing had never been done. So many necks he’d never taken the opportunity to wring.
The thought dug at him, but there had been no other way to proceed. Control was the only thing that had saved him, time and time again. The look on Kal’s face showed it, that first night when he’d stood between his vode and the kaminiisi. The tone in Mereel’s voice betrayed it, briefing after briefing, when he omitted details better left unsaid. That flatness was a dead giveaway.
Sometimes the other Nulls wouldn’t meet his eyes. But then again, he never told them just how much osik they escaped by being loved a tiny bit less. Only he held the honor of favorite son. And all he had left of the Kamino nightmare was Kal’buir. Sometimes the old man's hold on him rankled so much he imagined wringing his neck, too. He was a thick-necked old warrior though, so it would not be easy. Struggling with him would be gratifying—then watching the too-bright light finally dim in those heavy eyes.
You’re lucky to be alive, di’kut. You all are, that voice in his head told him.
He told himself he was alive, alright, like it or not, and that was unfortunate for anyone outside of his limited restraint. He’d never found any reason to extend so much as civility toward anyone beyond Kal’buir and his vode. But he’d started to think about things he didn’t want to think about, and that made him feel volatile, like UXO. A misstep, that’s all it would take, and Ordo parts would rain down over a 100 meter radius.
Then Kal’buir’s three-sided knife had appeared in his dreams, but it was in the wrong hand. After that he’d begun to feel like he’d gotten stuck in freefall, tangled in parachute cord, the way Darman must have felt when he’d fucked up that HALO jump. He’d rather be jumping out of a LAAT/i himself, than following this med center corridor.
He’d reached room 314. Fi would be just inside, likely emerging from a bacta tank. That meant without armor on.
This distracted leaping of his thoughts had to stop. The tangled parachute feeling, though; it loosened whenever he thought about Fi, which was every hour since last night. When he’d first heard Fi’s voice—“Thanks for the sympathy, Sarge, I’m fine,” something had been different. It was the same drawl he recognized in all his vode, but this one was lighter, and somehow sharper. It cut through him like the shrapnel from that shabla bomb ought to have. He’d stopped, then, fists on hips, scowling down at the di’kut in dented black katarn. Commandos. Smothering explosions—figuratively as much as literally—that was his job, emphasis on ‘his.’ And Ordo did not appreciate subversion. But he did appreciate gett’se, and Fi had enough to share—with the spaceport, if it came to that.
"Nice move,” was all he could bring himself to say.
“Nice skirt, ” Fi had replied, without missing a beat.
Rare that anyone, even spec ops, could get past the kama and the red-trimmed visor quickly enough to make an attempt at conversation, let alone humor. But Fi had managed to make him thoroughly self aware within two standard seconds.
“Really suits you. Handwashable?”
The jabs kept coming, and all he’d said in prickly defense was, “It’s a kama.”
Ordo, accustomed to full situational control, had not planned for impertinence. He’d told himself that was the reason the cheeky commando ought to hear the correct name for his accoutrement. That was the reason, when Atin had said, “Someday, Fi, someone’s going to belt you a new one, and it’s probably going to be Ordo—”
—that was the reason he’d suddenly thickened beneath the belt of his traitorous kama. It wasn’t because Fi’s unrestrained confidence turned him on. It was because he wanted to belt the living daylights out of him. But then, Fi had leaned on his DC-17 to get to his feet—had gotten to his feet, and Ordo had had to remind himself to disable the holocams.
Now he stopped for a minute again, outside the door of Fi’s bacta room. Unsure, for once—about how to enter. The wireless intercom on the wall presented the obvious choice, but the idea of announcing his presence bristled the hair on the back of his neck. He settled on contacting Fi directly. If he had timed his arrival, Fi would be bacta-free, and like a well disciplined squad guy, the first thing he slapped onto his body would be his wrist comm. Ordo tapped out a message. A moment later, his own comm vibrated with a reply.
Nice of you to drop by.
Sass—unsurprising. Still, it caught Ordo off guard, again, and his med center touchiness did not mix well with needling. He tapped out a reply, punching the device with his finger as if it had personally offended him.
Open the door.
The door wooshed open, and there stood Fi, skin aglow in the subdued bluish green lighting, towel wrapped around his waist. The room stunk sweetly of bacta—it was large enough to house the tank and not much else. Fi’s armor and bodysuit sat piled carefully on a shelf, below a holodisplay vitals monitor. An AZ series medical droid floated beside him, scanning his body and dictating quietly to itself. Ordo caught the words "behind armor blunt trauma” amidst the monologue. He stepped into the room, eyes drawn by the bruising that colored Fi’s ribcage, and the scar on his chest.
Ordo's fist clenched involuntarily. Everything about the situation irritated him—from the nauseatingly close quarters, to the murmuring droid. And Fi’s red-rimmed eyes, glassy from sleep deprivation. His heart rate blinked 83 on the screen, BP at 140/80. Too high. Could be from the bacta submersion, but stress didn’t help. “What is it with you and getting blown up?” He snapped, without a hint of a smile. The night before, he’d been focused on the mission at hand, but now his frustration seeped around the edges of his composure. He hadn’t had any breakfast. There was new intel to analyze, and Kal’buir would soon be waiting for him in Zey’s office.
“I guess I’m just lucky that way,” said Fi, wearily, adjusting his temperature monitoring earbud. Despite looking worse for the wear, good humor still peaked through his voice. He was towelling bacta scum from his bare torso, infuriatingly resilient, smiling like he’d just stepped out of a hot shower. Bacta was nothing like a shower though, even if a commando was more likely to be dunked in it. Ambori was viscous. It could be difficult to scrub off, and the droid proffered an arm to help Fi reach his back.
“Well, don’t do it again.” Ordo’s frown deepened. “Your quota’s filled, and I still want to hit somebody in the head.” He checked the time on his wrist comm: 0400. Omega Squad was slated to ship out in two hours to take out a CIS facility on Fest, and he’d given this distraction more than enough time.
“Sure... I’ll tell that to the next chakaar who tries to blow up the CSF,” said Fi, voice cracking a little under his attempt at humor. “Captain Ordo said I wasn’t allowed. The guy beside me, sure—blow him to the next star system. Not this commando.”
Fi was hoarse from hours in an oxygen mask. He snorted at his own joke, wheezing as his ribs contracted. Ordo watched his pecs heave. The musculature carved deep shadows into his flesh, and Ordo’s stomach flopped a little.
He was unsettled by their surroundings, that was all. The weird feeling had nothing to do with Fi, standing so close he could touch his bare shoulder if he wanted to.
He’d rarely batted an eye at the commando squads. Then Omega started causing trouble on Quiilura, and he’d become embroiled against his will, in the least savory kind of mess: civilian politics and rogue spies—competition—with a serving of guerrilla warfare to spice the meal.
But here he was in the Special Operations Brigade Medical Center—or SOBMED, in Fi’s bacta room, scrambling to cover for his inability to concentrate after the shenanigans at Galactic City Spaceport. He’d crashed through a roof. And Fi—
Kal’buir had asked Niner to go and collect Fi from the med center.
Yeah, that’s why he, Null ARC Captain, had opened his mouth and volunteered to go himself. That’s what he was doing in the medcenter, at 0400, trying to forget the surprised frown on Kal’s face. He had surprised himself, to be honest, and hindsight told him it would have been better to let Niner take care of his own man. He didn’t have the time nor the latitude to take frivolous trips. He didn’t need to see with his own eyes that Fi had emerged from the tank, relatively functional. And the way he looked now, hollowed out but steady. Banged up but still alive and kicking, grinning at the medical droid. Unconcerned that he was stuffed in a small room with a Null—it was attractive.
No, it was not. It was di’kutla, and he’d really like to knock Fi in the back of the head, drag him back to the barracks, and dump him in Niner’s lap where he belonged.
“Mmm good ol’ Katarn,” sighed Fi, oblivious. “Without the armor upgrade, you’d be picking up pieces of me and Kaim off that spaceport terminal. Stuff’s amazing. After I’m all suited up, meet me on the range—I’ll hold my codplate up in front of my face and let you empty your DC-17 into it.’
Fi kept on going, smiling broadly, rambling about Atin and his verp, but Ordo’s mind got stuck somewhere between my face and empty into it.
This wasn’t happening again. He did not want to see what Fi looked like with cock in his mouth. But his dick stood up in his fatigues anyway, and he scrambled for a way to hide it.
“Give me that.” He knocked the droid’s mechanical arm away, and the whole thing went spinning, barely avoiding a crash into the holodisplay. Ordo ignored it, towel in hand. The towel offered a suitable, if flimsy armament.
“Turn around.”
“What?” Said Fi, “Gonna bend me over?”
“Just do it,” Ordo said through clenched teeth. He clapped a hand roughly on Fi’s shoulder to turn him. It was firm and round, and still bacta-wet. The pungent smell tickled his nostrils. He applied force until Fi turned obediently to face the tank. Then there was nothing to do but palm the towel and dig it into the middle of Fi’s back. The di'kut kept wiggling though, and it wasn't helping matters. Ordo scrubbed, probably a bit harder than was necessary. Fi let out a deep breath, hanging his head.
“Feels good.”
His heart rate had dropped to 75. Ordo's face flushed as he stared at the back of Fi’s head: low fade with patterns buzzed into the edges. Mereel’s handiwork.
“Shut up.”
“—If I may interject, Captain—“ The medical droid whirred closer. “RC-8015 has sustained moderately severe injuries. Three broken ribs, a bruised retina, and a grade 3 concussion—“
“—A concussion? He’s going to need a stim shot.”
“—stim shots are not recommended during the recovery period. Increased arousal followed by a severe crash would be likely. This would make him a liability in the field.”
Ordo stopped scrubbing, turning sharply to face the droid. Liability—what a joke. “He didn’t sleep at all. He can’t ship out on zero hours of sleep, not with fresh injuries like that.”
“I hadn’t finished. He also suffered blunt cardiac injury and backface deformation damage to the torso. I don’t recommend he deploy for several more days.”
Fi tensed under Ordo’s hands, and his dick twitched again, painfully.
“I’m deploying. Don’t try and stop me.”
“You’ve earned a few days,” Ordo said, more focused on the sleight of hand needed to tuck his erection under his waistband than he was on the conversation. Once he began to deflate under the double grip of nanoprene and synthatex, he nudged Fi in the flank to turn him around. Lifted the towel and wiped bacta off his stomach. He knew he was staring—at the scar that had just missed Fi’s nipple, but where else was he supposed to look? Katarn or no, a blast at point blank range could mangle you. Some wounds left scars, and some did not, but everything about Fi was visible. His enthusiasm, his resilience—even his injuries.
He didn’t like it at all, feeling like he had cracks in his own armor—feeling like Fi could see through them. Fi smiled at him way too often. Maybe it was just because of the kama joke, the di’kut—but people didn't look at Null-11 and smile. They grimaced. Sometimes there was a nervous approximation. But not a genuine, open smile like that—like he was more than Kal’buir’s tightly-tethered favorite pet.
Ordo’s discomfort swelled from multiple locations. Time to end this. He turned Fi around again, none too gently, to finish wiping his shoulders. “I can contact Captain Maze and we can pull a replacement from another squad,” he said, tightly.
“You know there’s no-one to spare,” argued Fi. “Maze wouldn’t let you, anyway. I’m going.”
Ordo snorted. Maze could try to stop him, and see how it went. He cast a glance at the hovering Medical droid. “I’ll take it from here.”
“Sir.”
As soon as the droid had gone, Ordo turned back to Fi. “You're good to go, right? This isn’t some osikla scheme to off yourself? I saw what happened.”
“No, nothing like that. It’s just…I almost…almost, uh, shot—“
Fi stopped short.
“—Kal’buir.” Ordo supplied, when Fi showed no sign of continuing.
“Yeah,” suddenly he surged ahead, twisting under Ordo’s grip to see his face. “Can’t stop thinking about it. I have to get back out there. I have to—you know…”
“...Make it right. I know.” And he did; the knowledge bloomed into his consciousness like flares over Victory Lake. His life, it had all been about making things right, making up for the guilt of his own existence.
There had been no other choice, at the time, except what Kal’buir had given them. It had felt right, until it didn’t. “Kal sorta deserves what he gets. Not everyone would shed a tear if you had slipped. Or at least, it isn’t that simple.”
There. He’d said it—one of the cracks had widened, and before he could stop himself, the words had pushed their way out. Ordo’s pulse raced; he wanted to stuff the words back where they’d come from. But something about being near Fi had sparked this half-formed truth out of its ticking slumber. Now it loomed in the glow of the bacta tank, in his own voice, as if it had suddenly taken on a life of its own. Ordo would rather crash through a roof into a terrorist occupied building than deal with the thing floating in the air.
“Wait...you—I thought you’d tear my head off if I made it outta there alive,” said Fi.
Di’kut. He did want to tear his head off. Not for accidentally sighting up Kal’buir in the chaos of the firefight, but for being so disarming. For getting under the cracks and making him want to say things he ought to keep to himself. And then letting the implications fly right over his head.
“That would be funny… surviving a suicide bomber, only to get slotted by you,” Fi went on, apparently inspired by his own osik. “Oh, hells. If that’s how it ends, so be it. Go out knowing I made the most uptight shabuir who’s ever been decanted snap? Could be worse. Could be much worse. As long as you promise to wear your skirt when you do it.” A salacious grin bunched his cheek—the swell of it that Ordo could see, anyway.
“I can accommodate that for you if you don’t quit talking,” Ordo snapped. Fi was much too close, warm under his hands, the shadowy buzz of his hairline inches from his face. The bacta stink didn’t matter; the urge to pull him closer was rising quickly. He wanted to snap something—his dick was throbbing again, and it told him, very loudly, to snap the twisted roll of towel beneath Fi’s navel. But his reflexes said to secure him in a rear choke and not let go until he stopped twitching.
Fi’s chin moved; fierfek, he was about to say something else. That couldn’t happen—it was time for containment. Ordo cleared his throat, shoving Fi forward a bit. “You aren’t going to the range. If you insist on shipping out, I want your heart rate down.”
Fi opened his mouth, undoubtedly to protest, but Ordo cut him off brusquely. “Rest for the next couple of hours. Get yourself dressed, and make it quick. I’m hungry enough to eat an aiwha.” And he didn’t want to spend one more minute in this shabla med center.
Ordo wiped the last crumb of uj cake off his lip. Kal had ordered it delivered for after dinner, something of a Primeday tradition, and Ordo had found a reason to be in the conference room when the sweaty Turbo Eats driver arrived, setting down the box—and its spicy aroma—on the polished table. The delivery—this time from the Soft Heart Cantina—was prompt enough, but to Ordo’s taste, the cake was a little light on the fruit. Still, he wasn’t complaining, and worst came to worst, it went well with caf. The caf was stale and definitely subpar; jitters had already started in the pit of his stomach. Ordo pushed away from the table, leaving the empty uj cake box where it sat. A gift for Captain Maze, when he came in later to prepare his slides for tomorrow morning’s meeting.
Ordo had been informed early that morning that Omega Squad was due to return sometime in the afternoon. Hyperspace estimates would be more exact as they drew closer.
Their arrival from Fest was nothing special, or so Ordo kept telling himself. Just another commando squad, safely returned from a successful mission. A few days of chill down time at Arca Company Barracks before the next tasking came through, and they shipped out again. Squad guys still called it chill down—though Ordo himself had put a stop to the cryo-cycle chambers. No-one else could have ended that haran.
When he and his vode stormed Arca Barracks after the Battle of Geonosis, they clarified things the way only a blaster butt in the visor could: no more stasis for spec ops guys. Old habits die hard, though, and so does a Null's memory. That upstart reg officer with the aim-here red bucket had been a snag in the assault. Ordo, however, was adept at dealing with setbacks—tactfully and otherwise—and Commander Fox had been asking for every inch of retractable stock rammed into his visor.
‘Stand down,’ his perfect recall…Fox was fortunate he hadn’t lost more than a few hours to a bacta tank and a few hairs from his eyebrow. Ever since the incident, CG troopers avoided Ordo at all costs, and he couldn’t say he was upset about it.
All other ruminations aside, he hadn’t expected to hear Fi’s voice over comms earlier. Usually Niner contacted him with status updates. The jitters in his stomach might have started after the comm call, and maybe they hadn’t been the result of shitty roasting at all. It was now after 2100, and he’d spotted Darman, Niner, and Atin a few hours ago, all looking like they could use a sonic and a few greasy sliders, but no signs of Fi.
Ordo crossed HQ’s entryway in measured steps, scowling at the decorated plaques on the walls. He passed the GAR flag without pause.
“Sir?” The whitejob on duty didn’t appreciate his efficiency, or the fact that he had better uses for his arm. Ordo turned enough to glower at the trooper; there was a small coughing noise. Behind his bucket, the man must have reconsidered.
Ordo kept on going, through the door and into the heavy Coruscant air. Infrequent that the redolence of the city was so immediate, and he savored it on the quick five minute walk to Arca Barracks.
He may have stalled for a second when Fi had chirped in his ear that morning, but Ordo knew exactly what to say when Mereel pulled up outside the barracks in a borrowed speeder, slamming to a stop so abruptly, that he—and Fi—nearly cracked their foreheads on the dash.
“Check in was an hour ago.”
Mereel swung out of the speeder, and Fi jumped out after him. Both in civvies, and Ordo grimaced inside his own snug fatigues as they approached, twin smiles splitting their faces. Mereel had put something shiny in his hair, and he was wearing that green cutoff sleeveless he said brought out his eyes. The sun glinted off his shades, ARCgear,™ as he cocked his head at Ordo.
“Don’t get your panties in a wad, Ord’ika. I just took him for a drink.”
Ordo stiffened, but he wasn’t looking at Mereel, as difficult as that was. Fi wore a cutoff shirt, too—and it was pink. His sneakers rivalled the shirt’s flamboyance; he must have engaged in ‘strategic transfer,’ because they looked expensive for space junk. The shoes weren’t the only junk on display, either. Fi’s bottom half was still in his bodysuit.
Ordo had just coaxed his eyes into tracing the lines of Fi’s abdominals—instead of his crotch—when Mereel pushed past him. “You wouldn’t have taken the opportunity,” he mumbled.
Ordro’s fist shot out and caught him just below the ribcage. Mereel’s breath wheezed out; he doubled over Ordo’s fist. “Osik, Ordo, save it for the mats, will ya?” He managed, once he’d recovered his breath.
“Great idea, ner vod. How about now.”
“Not tonight, I have plans.”
“A black eye isn’t part of the plan?”
Mereel grinned. “You might be surprised what a black eye can do. You should get out more.”
Ordo’s scowl could have chased the smirk off anyone else’s face. He had been ticking uncomfortably, and Mereel had just tripped the switch. Fi nudged him, a warm hand in his flank. Ordo twitched, startled. The ticking kicked up a notch at Fi’s touch. Shab, Fi was smiling at him again. Ordo tensed. He shouldn’t have almost smiled back. He shouldn’t have been staring. Why was he suddenly so concerned with the outline of Fi’s bulge in his blacks? And about Mereel sitting too close to him in the club? They might have shared a drink, and he was probably teaching him to dance, too. Touching him. And judging by Fi’s smile, he probably liked it.
“I’ll roll with you, sir,” said Fi, dragging the ‘sir’ through his grin until it had holes in it. “I’m still stiff from the flight, though, so take it easy on me.”
“Fine, I’ll crank you one-handed.” He’d use that garish shirt to choke him out. High time somebody put the di’kut in his place. He’d benefit from a submission or two.
As much as Ordo wanted to discharge the aggression threatening to blow out his blouse—now—there was still the matter of unsecured weapons. “Meet me in ten.” He motioned to the blaster pistols strapped to his thighs. The polyweave rig fit too tight, even with adjustments. GAR spending never went to the right places; the gear was recycled from the line troopers, not made to fit ARCs, and it cut off his circulation. “These need to go back to the armory.” He took off at a brisk pace, without so much as a backward glance.
“You like verps, sir—?”
Fi had fallen into step beside him. Ordo ignored the question. “You left your ear protection in by mistake?”
“I’m hard of hearing. Effects of blast damage and all that.”
“The AZ unit never mentioned a perforated eardrum.”
“I paid him to keep quiet about it. Told him Atin could re-wire his fingers for heat capability. Those things are cold as a campout on Fest. Nice droid, actually. He doesn’t like shocking his patients. Me on the other hand, I like to—“
Ordo gave Fi a look, and he fell silent. They had arrived at the barracks armory. A trooper came to the window, face pasty and disgruntled between the durasteel bars. Even Fi knew better than to say anything else. Ordo handed over his pistols, one at a time, reciting their serial numbers while Fi breathed down the back of his neck. The way Fi kept saying sir was getting to him—it felt like an intentional provocation. Like Fi wanted more from him—more than just verbal jousting and the occasional punch up.
A vivid holo he’d come across—two shirtless commandos making out—flashed through his mind’s eye as he held up his wrist ID for the scanner. Sometimes, late night data dredging did become tedious, and one link led to another—he hadn’t known who they were; they had more than likely died on Geonosis. When he’d first seen the clip, he’d let it loop, entranced by the face grabbing, tongue darting urgency of a spied upon shower hookup. The unsettling gentleness had hit him below the belt and he’d spilled into his hand under the table—once, twice—and a third time the next morning.
Ordo shook the memory from his head and set about unclipping and removing the thigh rigs. Kal’buir still didn’t know what made him tick, and he had a strong feeling he wouldn’t understand if he found out. He had no intention of letting Kal’s sharp eyes into that part of his imagination. Or anyone else’s, for that matter.
At 2200, Arca Company training grounds lay quiet and undisturbed. A few commandos left the sparring mats just as Ordo and Fi entered, laughing and jostling each other when they passed. Ordo recognized them as Aurek squad—one had the letter tattooed on his neck—a perfect target—and someone else half-into his armor carried a helmet with the same Aurebesh symbol painted over the top. Ordo was unsurprised to see them at such a late hour; clones were devastating in unarmed combat, and SOB forces were expected to maintain and develop the strangling grip of modern Echani. Regular training was as much a part of their curriculum as weapons drills and field exercises. Commando squads in particular had to seize any available opportunity.
Ordo led Fi—through the bigger, high-ceilinged rooms in the general areas, all the way to the back of the complex. On the other side of the far wall lay SETA--Simulated Environments Training Areas, a multibillion credit investment that had paid itself off by producing the most lethal commando squads the GAR had ever seen.
Ordo stepped onto the patchworked 4-cm anti-microbial mats that lined the Nulls’ training room floor and unfastened his blouse. He removed it with a swift shrug. Mid-fold, hems to shoulders and fastenings done, movement caught the corner of his eye.
Fi had stopped, peering up at a door set into the ceiling. “You guys use tha—?”
Ordo dove, blouse tossed away as soon as Fi’s eyes tracked toward the ceiling. He tackled Fi before he could react, pinning his wrists above his head and stuffing his knees into his armpits. Boots dug into his ribcage with a vengeance. “Only to avoid Commandos—”
Fi struggled in his grip, twisting to gain purchase on the floor with his feet, but he had sneakers on, and streetwear wasn’t meant to grip grappling mats. Ordo grabbed a fistfull of his cutoff shirt.“—You know I could strangle you with this thing?”
“I knew you wanted to tear my head off, sir.”
That cheeky grin again. But now Fi was warm and solid between his thighs. His chest rose and fell, swelling against the tightened fabric of his shirt, and Ordo kept imagining straddling him without that di’kutla pink thing in the way. Without the blacks. That holovid hadn’t shown him much more than snogging; didn’t mean he hadn’t thought about what came next. His fisted hand twitched, and his dick perked up as he sat on Fi’s chest. There was no way Fi couldn’t see it, tenting his pants like he was fresh out of carbonite.
“Didn’t know it'd be this easy to make you snap.” He had seen. “Would've asked you to grapple sooner—“
A scuffle ensued, the kind created by knees and asses scooting across the mats; jerky, aborted movements, and long pauses when force held against force for the right moment to break. The moment came when Ordo glanced at Fi’s tongue—poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration—and Fi slid to the side just in time to wrench his hip out from under and catch Ordo in half guard. His other knee came up too, right into Ordo’s groin.
“Oof.”
“Shab, sorry.”
Balls still pulsing, Ordo stood up rapidly, taking Fi—who had achieved full guard, with him—legs locked around his waist. He slammed Fi back down, smacking his head into the mats. The shab’ika deserved it.
“Karking hells!” Fi yelled. “I had a concussion two weeks ago!”
“I didn't forget. You asked for this.”
Fi heaved himself up and flipped Ordo over. He scrambled into mount, moved in to secure a head choke—but Ordo bit at his exposed neck, grabbing the edge of the shirt again. Fi winced away, one arm came free, and then the shirt was half off. Ordo wrenched the fabric tight around his neck, jerking his head back. He froze—there was his scar, gnarly and puckered, twisting his left pec above the nipple.
Fi didn’t make any sense. He could dissociate and do what needed to be done. He could also yell about his injuries. He didn't care who heard him, no matter what osik came out of his mouth. He didn’t appear to have the same divide Ordo had—the one that cut him into discretely functioning halves, turning him into a shell more often than not.
Fi struggled, biting his lip, nostrils flaring. Ordo tore the shirt the rest of the way off—producing a muffled yelp—and flung it away, wrapping his arms around Fi’s bare torso. They lay crushed together, heaving. Fi squirmed on top of him.
“Quit biting your lip,” Ordo grunted. “You’re gonna get my elbow in your face and you’ll bite it right off. Keep your shabla mouth closed.”
“You wanna bite it, don’t you,” Fi said next to his ear, all cocky goading again. The sudden change stopped Ordo for a second. “Ye—shut up.”
He did want that, and he wanted it exactly the way Fi meant it. The realization finally emerged with all the urgency of a full bladder during high atmo infil. He could make the holovid happen, and he could make it happen now.
He grabbed Fi’s face in an unsubtle approximation, and shoved their lips together. As many times as he’d played that clip, it still didn’t prepare him for Fi’s mouth—wet, faintly alcoholic, and softer than it should have been. He forgot to breathe for a few seconds, stunned. Unsure what to put where. He caught Fi’s lower lip in his teeth, tightening his grip in his hair. Fi grunted, his weight settling—90 kilos of commando smothered Ordo on the training room floor. Or was it 95? Ordo was taller, but he wasn't sure if the extra weight Fi carried was the result of an RC specific genetic particularity, or just a fondness for hitting the gym. Either way, he couldn’t breathe and he didn’t really want to. Fi’s skin chafed against his, musty with exertion—and Ordo couldn’t get enough of the feeling that he’d finally caught hold of something he couldn’t bite off.
Ordo tried to be gentle, but his teeth kept catching. This wasn't playing out quite the way he had imagined it should. Fi seemed to like it though, his little grunts couldn't mean anything else. Ordo's heart rate kicked up again, and it didn’t matter that he didn’t know exactly what to do with his lips. Then Fi’s tongue slid between his teeth, and he may as well take punches in the gut. His limbs went slack, and he couldn’t think about anything with Fi on top of him like that. He had to touch him. He had to slide a hand over his back and along his flank, getting it stuck in the sweaty ridges of his spine. He had to drag his thumb over his nipple—brush the bumpy ridges of the scar. He couldn’t stop himself.
Fi groaned at his touch. “Grab m-my dick.”
It was exactly what he wanted to hear, but his emergency procedures for this moment lacked dimension. Flat figures in the holo were nothing like the reality of trying to breathe with Fi’s tongue in his mouth. Null-11 collapsed into Ord’ika, and the fusion shot heat from his stomach up into his face. He felt too full, like he might explode. He wanted to disappear, but Fi was grabbing his hand, shifting his hips up. As soon as he made contact with hot skin again, his dick swelled to its aching limit.
Ahh fuck, he couldn't resist anymore. He walked his hand under the waistband of Fi’s bodysuit, trapping it between sweaty skin and tight nanoprene. Splayed his fingers and searched around until he found it—a familiar weight that gravitated to his hand. He squeezed it and pulled on the foreskin—it was as smooth as his own, and it stretched and snapped under his thumb the same way. Procedures fell into place; he knew how to do this, and doing it for Fi couldn’t be that much different.
He hadn’t accounted for the noises Fi would make though, when he burrowed his trapped hand further and grabbed his balls; and then when he pushed his fingers into the firm spot behind them. It was too shabla much. Fi was all thick muscle and cracky vibrance—but he squeaked, bucking his hips, and Ordo let go like he’d burned himself. Fi’s waistband snapped as he withdrew his hand. “Sorry,” he breathed, pre-come bubbling up with his shame.
But Fi grabbed at his hand. “Do it again.”
It was ok? Shab. Face burning, Ordo pulled on the bodysuit again; it hugged Fi's hips, and sweat didn’t make it any easier to move. He tugged again, digging nails under the edge, and with a snap, Fi’s dick sprang free, right there in the open sparring mats—the discarded shirt spectating in a bright heap. All Ordo could think about then, was whether Mereel had seen it at full salute before—smooth and heavy, and pushing the size limit on standard commando. The pink shirt had to be a hand-me-down, and he’d taken him out for drinks—
Ordo’s face burned, his dick burned, everything burned. Having his mouth on Fi's wasn’t enough. He wanted the rest of him.
“I’ve never done this before.” The words came out in a rush; he hadn’t meant to say… that, exactly.
“What, sex?” Fi was grinning again.
Ordo nodded, trying not to look at him. Limited experience had never presented such a problem before. He relied on memory and skill in new environments. But this was different—it mattered what Fi thought, the way it mattered what Kal’buir thought when he was young.
Only, Fi looked at him with wide, agenda-less eyes, and his voice had dipped into gentleness. “Sorry…I…I thought—”
“Udesii. It's alright. I just…I want to…to get this right.”
Ordo paused. Fi’s body pressed into him, his own dick so stiff it poked into his belly. Warmth spread all over him. Fi seemed to overlook the fact that he was…well…him. A nearly psycho meat-bag who should have gone through the autoclave. An overwhelming desire to hide threatened to take over, but he reached for Fi anyway, like the last of the ration bars during an unplanned expedition.
“…I…I can’t get you outta my head.”
Fi’s face went serious—the first time Ordo had ever seen it that way, and up close. So close he could see his dilated pupils.
“I…haven’t done this before either," Fi murmered. An' I…I think you’re hot shit, so…Oya. Jerk me off. I want to come all over your arrogant Null tits."
“Shab.” The relief was too much. And Fi’s osik’la mouth. Ordo’s balls tightened and he came a little inside his pants. Hot and uncomfortable, and now he was wet—and Fi was sitting on him. He couldn’t lose control now. What would Fi think? He couldn’t even hold it together long enough to give him a hand.
But Fi was unfastening his fatigues. He shivered as air hit wet skin; his pants were being pulled down. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.
“Fi—“
But Fi’s lips were already around his cock; wet and clumsy, teeth dragging gently against his shaft. His shabla dick was in Fi’s mouth, and all he could do about it was whimper like a di’kutla ARC school washout. He reached, bumping the side of Fi's head, and latched into his hair. His hand rose and fell as Fi sucked, thumb massaging the fancy edgework. Shab, he was shivering, fighting to keep his eyes open. But no one had ever looked quite like Fi did then—lips stretching over his dick, eyes wide and fixed on his. He felt seen, and his grip on the situation slipped.
Then there was the way saliva was rolling off Fi's swollen lip. The way callouses caught as he wrapped his hand around the base of his cock, pulling the skin tight. There was nothing Ordo could do to stop the heat surging up from his balls, except to scoot into a half-seated position. The urge to thrust halfway down Fi’s throat was overwhelming.
“Uh…Fi…Fi’ika…osik!”
He was coming in Fi’s mouth. Trying to be quiet, but the release was too strong. Too warm, too immediate.
Fi pulled the last of it out with tight lips, and he couldn’t help the noises he was making. Couldn’t stop his shuddering. He couldn’t help any of it. His hand slid from Fi’s hair; he watched him swallow, drawing ragged breaths in through his nose.
A dizzy euphoria settled through Ordo, from eyeballs to sacrum, and he slumped backwards onto the mats. His dick was cold again, but he wasn't, and he couldn't be bothered to pull up his pants.
Fi wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, grinning like a di’kut. “Mother of Vau, Ordo, you didn’t have to save all that for me.”
Shab'ika. "I...leave Vau out of it.” But the reprimand lacked bite. He didn’t want to move. He’d never felt like this before—like he could just lose control and the only ramification would be a stupid grin. It felt too good to be true. He sat up again, still trembling. Fi shuffled a bit and pulled him close. Ordo nudged his face into his neck, hesitantly. Heavy arms settled over his back.
“Fi, you—I—“ he stuttered, muffled. Fi’s hand grasped the back of his neck; fingers slid through his hair. Something wet glazed his ear. Something else—wet and solid—poked into his flank. It was enough to make Ordo perk up again. Fi had gone quiet, holding onto him, rocking him back onto the mats. Prodding his dick into his hipbone. Sliding it between his thighs.
“Give me that.” guilt was rising, and Ordo smothered it in movement. He wrapped his hand around Fi’s dick, thick and warm. So shabla hard he had to push down to keep it from snapping back. He worked his fist up and down, watching as the foreskin pulled open over its pink head, then puckered closed again.
“Faster.”
“Fuck.”
“Grab my ass while you’re at it. It’s a nice ass, I promise.” Fi was whining. Ordo reached around to dig his fingers into his ass, thick and muscular, but relenting enough to squeeze. Being squad medic had its advantages, as far as extra rations went.
Ordo groaned. He was hard again; Fi’s fingers had closed around his cock. Shab. Fi had already—
but he thrust into Fi's grip anyway, his pace stuttering to a halt. Hands full, and the di'kut was still winding him up. He dragged blunt nails over the back of Fi's thigh. It was so broad that Ordo, who could one-hand an M5 and an extra mag, couldn’t get his hand around it.
Smack. The slap he landed on Fi’s ass was hard enough to topple him.
“Uhh. Pull on me, you dickhead.” Rough hands curled around his ears, tugging his lips into Fi's.
Ordo pulled.
“Harder. I’m gonna come.” Warm breath wafted his face. Fuck. He bit down on Fi’s lip. Tightened his grip, his hand a flurry.
“Mffuck, Ordo, 'm comingg. You’re mmaking me come an 'm—uhh—“
Fi lost his breath as Ordo pulled—on his cock, on his ass. The tight flesh of his cheek spread under his grip; if he pulled hard enough, maybe he could pull him apart at the seams.
“Ordo—“ Suddenly Fi jerked hard into his hand, making tight, whimpering noises next to his ear, and Ordo’s chest burned with the splatter of his jizz.
“Osik,” Ordo murmured, sliding his fingers through Fi’s hair. Hearing Fi moan was unexpectedly good. His stomach clenched a little, and he leaked a little more in Fi’s hand. Didn’t know he could make him sound like that.
“Fuckk, that was gooodd,” sighed Fi, somehow able to sit upright and speak. “What the shaabb. Should’ve done this sooner.” His eyes turned triumphant on Ordo beneath him. “You look kandosii with my jizz on your tits.” He leaned over and reached for Mereel’s shirt.
Ordo suddenly felt the urge to clock him in the side of the head. But he grabbed the di’kut around the neck and pulled him close instead.“Too bad you’re cleaning it up. Lick my chest.”
Snorts of laughter hardened Ordo’s nipples.“Too bad you’re not wearing your skirt…would’ve asked you to lift it for me.”
Ordo’s resolve not to hit him crumbled. He skewered Fi with a shot to the spleen; Fi curled up against him, groaning obscenely.
“Speaking of clothing,” said Ordo, over the melodrama, “You’re not giving that shirt back to Mereel.”
He yanked the thing out of Fi’s closed fist and wiped the congealing jizz off his chest, earning a retaliatory strike to the liver. Fi took advantage of the opening and pushed him over, slumping against him with his chin on his chest.
Ordo could have fallen asleep that way, with Fi slumped over him in the lights-out silence, head sideways on the black and white mats, congealed commando come prickling his nostrils—but his wrist comm kept flashing. Something had come up; Kal’buir needed him. He groaned and rolled against Fi. "Hand me my blouse, I have to head back to HQ."
"Fuckin' hells. At least take me out to breakfast next time,” said Fi, sounding small. He held back the blouse and plopped it over Ordo’s head as he got to his feet. "I heard The Kragget is good...lotsa roba options.”
How had Fi known that roba sausage was his favorite? The shab'ika had been hanging out with Mereel, that was how. Ordo pulled the blouse off his head and sat up. "Fi."
"Yeah?"
"I’ll get you the entire menu next time."
"You will?"
"Yeah. For now, just keep your shabla head on, and stay away from explosives."
Fi snorted. "If I'm lucky, the next one will take me out."
It wasn’t funny. The knowledge that he might not see Fi again dragged at Ordo's movements as he pulled up his pants, tucking himself in gingerly. Omega wouldn't be on base for long. Besides that, his stomach was rumbling. Kal’buir would have to understand.
“Fi, wait.” His blouse went on in record time; his fingers flew over the fastenings, and he gave it a final jerk to smooth out the wrinkles. Fi had stopped outside the room, rubbing the back of his neck and smiling.
”Is this place open all hours?”
”’Dunno…lemme ask Mereel.”
Mereel? No. “Kal will know. One second.”
It was. And Ordo already had credits in his pants pocket.
This story wasn’t written in a vacuum: This Art by Countessofbiscuit helped it along, and I owe CollisionTheory for the phrase “aim-here-red" (helmet). Mereel having a green shirt idea osmosed to me from "Just like a Cirus" by Kaasnot.