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Freemor/Alpha-17 fluff whit alpha loving his jedi
The weight against his side is sun-warm, there are gentle breaths against his collarbone, and Alpha has his blaster resting on his knee, ready to shoot the first idiot who thinks about making a smart comment and waking his Jedi.
And if that doesn’t work, the fact that he’s spinning his favorite knife between his fingers should probably get the message across nicely.
Rex, who was never one of Alpha's trainees, apparently nevertheless has more brains than most, given the way he’s keeping his head down and very determinedly not looking anywhere even close to Alpha, even when Feemor shifts and stirs. Alpha doesn’t bother moving from the chair he claimed, even though it’s probably supposed to belong to the planet’s king; the old bastard can eat bantha shit for all Alpha cares, because it’s a huge, pretentious thing, and just about the only chair in existence that he’s ever found that’s big enough for both him and Feemor to share. And it’s nice, having Feemor curled against his side, legs hooked over one of Alpha's knees, fast asleep like at Alpha's side is the safest place to be in the universe.
Entirely pleased with himself, Alpha curls his arm a little more tightly over Feemor's shoulder, resettling him against his chest, and Feemor hums, drowsy and exhausted and content. It makes Alpha press a lingering kiss to his bright hair, then smooth a thumb over the edge of a sapphire-blue tattoo he can just see through a rip in the shoulder of Feemor's robes. He idly rolls the knife over the top of his hand, rests his cheek against the top of Feemor's head—
With a clatter of entirely unacceptable noise, the door slides open, and Alpha's least favorite trainee ever says loudly, “—get karked, Wolffe, we’re not staging a ground operation just to soothe your ego—”
Rex's head jerks up, horror flashing over his face as he signs abort abort abort with increasing desperation. Alpha knew he liked the little brat for a reason.
“It’s not about my ego, it’s about routing the damn Seps—” Alpha's other least favorite trainee says just as loudly—
Alpha's knife buries itself in the edge of the holotable, two precise centimeters from Cody's hand.
“Voices. Down.” Alpha bites out as Cody and Wolffe both freeze, their gazes snapping right to him. Mildly murderous, Alpha scowls at the pair of them, stroking Feemor's shoulder with soothing passes of his knuckles, and dares either brat to test him.
Much more quietly, Cody clears his throat, sidestepping carefully as he eyes the blaster resting on Alpha's knee. “Sorry, sir,” he says, barely audible, and Wolffe swallows, nods, and keeps his damned mouth shut, just the way it should be.
With a grunt of satisfaction, Alpha sinks back into the chair, and when Feemor stirs he immediately turns to resettling him. “Easy,” he says. “Just go back to sleep, you're going to get your idiot self killed one of these days if you keep not sleeping.”
Feemor huffs, but sinks back down, one of his hands skimming Alpha's chest in a clumsy brush that trickles his gratitude and love through Alpha's mind. “Be nice,” he mutters, but his breathing is already evening out again, and Alpha snorts softly, kissing his forehead. It’s only partially because Cody and Wolffe are both staring at him like they’ve never seen a bastard in love before.
“Never,” he says, and catches Feemor's hand in his own.
[On AO3]
Anakin: I have a plan!
Feemor: No, we're not going to explode anything.
Anakin: I don't have a plan.
Xanatos: Well, I do have one.
Feemor: No, we're not going to kill people.
Xanatos: Man, you have to consider it!
Obi-Wan: *raises his hand*
Feemor: Sure, tell us, dear. We're listening.
Anakin and Xanatos: Injustice!