Azoor

● Star Wars

○ OnePiece

● Call Of Duty

○ Monsters

● DC

○ Marvel

● WalkingDead

(More coming soon~)

You woke to the dim light filtering through the blast shutters in Tech's bunk. The space beside you was empty, the mattress still warm where he'd been. You could hear the shower running in the adjacent refresher, the familiar hiss of water through the pipes.

Your body ached in places you hadn't expected. A pleasant soreness that made you shift against the sheets, remembering the weight of him, the careful way he'd touched you. The way he'd looked at you like you were a problem he needed to solve, and he'd solved you thoroughly.

You pulled the blanket up to your chin, staring at the ceiling. The metal panels were scratched in places, probably from Wrecker bumping equipment into them. A small crack ran from the ventilation grate to the corner light fixture. You focused on that crack instead of thinking about what happened next. What happened now. What the protocol was for the morning after sleeping with your squadmate.

The shower stopped. You heard him moving around, the clatter of a drawer opening and closing. Then the door slid open, and he stepped out, already dressed in his standard blacks, his hair still damp.

He paused when he saw you awake.

"You are up earlier than I anticipated," he said.

"I'm always up early. You know that."

"Yes, but I assumed you would rest longer given the physical exertion from last night."

Your cheeks heated. Of course he would phrase it that way. Of course he would categorize what happened as physical exertion, the same way he'd categorize a training exercise or a long march.

He walked to the bunk and sat on the edge, close enough that you could smell the soap on his skin. Clean and sharp, something industrial that the Batch used because it was practical. He turned to look at you, his goggles catching the light.

"Omega will likely ask questions," he said. "I suggest we coordinate our responses to maintain operational consistency."

"You want to coordinate our responses."

"It would be prudent."

You sat up, clutching the blanket to your chest. "Tech, I don't think we need to…"

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your cheek.

It was quick. Barely a brush of his lips against your skin before he pulled back. A gesture so casual it made your heart stutter in your chest. He stood, smoothing down his shirt.

"I need to check the thermal regulator before we depart," he said. "The replacement part arrived last night."

He left. The door slid shut behind him, and you sat there, frozen, your hand rising to touch the spot where his mouth had been. And you had no idea what any of it meant.

You found your clothes scattered across the floor of his bunk. Your shirt near the door where he'd pulled it off you. Your pants crumpled by the foot of the bed. You dressed slowly, your mind spinning through possibilities that all ended in the same place: uncertainty.

The kiss on your cheek could mean anything. It could be a simple greeting, a gesture of familiarity, the kind of thing you did for someone you'd been intimate with. Or it could mean nothing at all. A reflex. A habit he'd picked up from watching holodramas. An experiment to see how you'd react.

You didn't know.

That was the worst part. You had spent months learning to read Tech, learning the subtle shifts in his tone and posture that signaled engagement or dismissal. But this was new territory. There was no data on what happened after your squadmate took you apart in his bunk and then kissed your cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The galley was empty when you reached it. Someone had left a ration bar on the counter, the wrapper half-open. You poured yourself a cup of caf and sat at the table, wrapping your hands around the warmth.

The ship hummed around you, the familiar sounds of the Marauder coming to life. You heard footsteps in the corridor, heavy ones that could only be Wrecker. He passed by without stopping, his voice carrying as he called out to Hunter about something.

You were alone with your thoughts, and your thoughts were not helpful.

Was it a one-time thing?

The question sat in your chest like a stone. You turned it over, examined it from every angle. If it was just one night, could you live with that? Could you go back to being squadmates, to sitting across from him at briefings and pretending you hadn't felt him inside you?

Maybe. You'd done harder things. You'd survived battles and blaster wounds and the crushing loneliness of being the only normal in a squad of enhanced soldiers. You could survive this.

But you didn't want to.

The thought surfaced before you could stop it. You didn't want it to be one time. You wanted it to be a beginning, not an end. You wanted him to kiss you again, properly, not just a peck on the cheek before he went to calibrate a thermal regulator.

The door hissed open, and Omega walked in. She stopped when she saw you, her expression shifting into something you couldn't quite name.

"Good morning," she said.

"Morning."

She moved to the counter, grabbing a ration bar and examining it with unnecessary focus. "Tech said we're leaving in two hours. Hunter wants to run systems checks before we depart."

"Okay."

She turned to face you, her head tilted. "You look tired."

"I'm fine."

"You're lying."

You set down your caf. "Omega, I appreciate your concern, but I really don't want to…"

"Did something happen?"

The question hung in the air between you. You could hear the curiosity in her voice, the barely contained excitement of someone who thought she'd orchestrated something. And maybe she had. Maybe without her meddling, you'd still be sitting in the gunner's seat, staring at nothing, too afraid to speak.

"Something happened," you said slowly. "But I don't know what it means yet."

Omega considered this, her brow furrowing. Then she nodded, as if she'd reached some conclusion she didn't need to share.

"Tech is not good with emotions," she said. "You know that. If you want something from him, you have to be direct. He doesn't understand hints."

"I know."

"Does he know what you want?"

You opened your mouth to answer, then closed it. Because the truth was, you didn't know what you wanted either. You wanted him, yes. But what did that mean in practical terms? A relationship? The word felt too big, too complicated for the cramped quarters of a gunship and the constant threat of death.

"I'm working on it," you said.

Omega smiled, small and knowing. "Good."

The cockpit was empty when you found him. Tech sat in the pilot's seat, his hands moving across the control panel as he ran through the pre-flight checklist. The datapad beside him displayed schematic readouts, lines and numbers that blurred together if you looked at them too long.

You leaned against the doorframe, watching him work. His fingers moved with precision, tapping switches and toggles without looking, the motions so practiced they seemed automatic. He hadn't noticed you yet. Or he had, and he was choosing not to acknowledge you.

"Tech."

He paused, his hand hovering over a switch. Then he turned, his goggles finding you in the dim light.

"I thought you would be eating breakfast," he said.

"I'm not hungry."

"Your caloric intake is important for optimal performance, especially after…

"You kissed my cheek."

He stopped. His hand lowered to his lap, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then he adjusted his goggles, a gesture you'd learned meant he was processing.

"Yes. I did."

"Why?"

He considered the question with the same gravity he'd give a tactical problem. "I wanted to. Is that not sufficient reason?"

"It's not an answer."

"It is the only answer I have." He turned back to the controls, but his movements were slower now, less certain. "I am not accustomed to explaining my motivations for interpersonal gestures. They are usually spontaneous."

"Spontaneous."

"Yes. I saw you, and I wanted to kiss your cheek. So I did. I did not analyze it further."

You stepped into the cockpit, letting the door close behind you. The space was small, intimate in a way that made your pulse quicken. The two seats faced the viewport, a narrow gap between them. You moved to the co-pilot's seat and sat down, swiveling to face him.

"Last night," you said. "What was that?"

He looked at you, his expression unreadable. "You know what it was."

"I know the mechanics. I don't know what it meant."

"It meant I wanted to be with you."

"But does it mean anything now? Today? Tomorrow?"

He was quiet for a long moment. You could hear the hum of the ship's systems around you, the distant sound of Wrecker laughing somewhere in the cargo hold. The galaxy kept moving while you sat here, waiting for an answer he didn't seem able to give.

"I do not know what you want me to say," he finally said.

"I want you to tell me if this is something or nothing."

"It is something. I would not have done it if it were nothing."

"Then what? Because I can't..." You stopped, pressing your palms against your thighs. "I can't go back to pretending I don't care about you. I can't sit across from you at briefings and act as nothing happened. If this was just one night, I need to know. I need to prepare myself."

Tech turned fully in his seat, his knees brushing yours. The proximity made your breath catch.

"You are asking me to define something I have not yet analyzed," he said. "I do not have sufficient data to determine long-term outcomes."

You let out a breath, frustration coiling in your chest. Of course he couldn't give you a straight answer. Of course he needed data and analysis and time to process something you had already decided in your heart.

You looked at his hands. Long fingers resting on his thighs, the same hands that had touched you last night, mapping your body with careful precision. You remembered how they felt against your skin, the way they'd curled around your hip, the way they'd gripped your shoulder when he came.

"I want to try something," you said.

"What?"

You reached out and placed your hand on his knee. He tensed, then relaxed, his eyes fixed on where you touched him. You traced a slow circle on his thigh, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric of his blacks.

"This," you said.

You leaned closer, close enough that you could smell the soap on his skin again, the familiar scent that had been in his bunk the night before. You pressed your mouth against the curve of his jaw, just below his ear, and let your breath ghost across his skin.

He shivered. You felt it, a full-body tremor that he couldn't hide.

"You are doing this deliberately," he said, his voice lower than before.

"Yes."

You dragged your lips down his neck, tasting salt and warmth. Your hand moved higher on his thigh, pressing into the muscle, feeling the tension building. He didn't stop you. He didn't move at all, just sat there, letting you explore.

You made a small sound against his throat. A hum of satisfaction that vibrated through your lips into his skin. His hand came up, fingers curling around your wrist, not pushing you away but holding you steady.

"This is not productive," he said.

"Feels productive to me."

"We have systems checks to complete."

"They can wait."

You shifted, sliding from your seat to kneel between his legs. His breath caught, a sharp intake of air that made you smile. You looked up at him, your hand moving to the fastening of his pants.

"Tell me to stop," you said.

He didn't. He watched you with that analytical gaze, cataloging every movement, every breath. But his hands stayed at his sides, letting you work.

You freed him, already hard, already ready. You wrapped your fingers around him and leaned forward, letting your mouth hover just above the tip. You breathed against him, warm and deliberate, and he made a sound that was almost a groan.

"Was that spontaneous?" you asked.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't talk. Just…"

You took him into your mouth.

The sound he made was worth every second of uncertainty. A low, guttural noise that seemed torn from somewhere deep in his chest. His hand found your hair, fingers threading through the strands, not pulling but holding. Anchoring himself.

You moved slowly, learning the rhythm that made his hips twitch, the pressure that made his breath stutter. You used your tongue, your lips, your hand at the base, working him with the same methodical attention he'd given you the night before.

He was vocal in a way you hadn't expected. Small sounds escaped him, half-formed words and breathless exhalations that spoke louder than any analysis could. His grip on your hair tightened, and you knew he was close.

He pulled you off before you could finish him.

His chest was heaving, his goggles slightly askew. He looked at you with an expression you couldn't read, something raw and hungry and desperate.

"Stand up," he said.

You did.

He stood too, his hands finding your waist and spinning you around, pressing you against the cockpit controls. The switches and toggles dug into your back, a sharp reminder of where you were. Of how exposed you were, pressed against the pilot's console with the viewport showing nothing but stars.

"Bend over."

You complied, gripping the edge of the control panel as you leaned forward. The metal was cool against your palms. You heard him behind you, the rustle of fabric, the click of his belt.

His hand came down on your ass. Hard. The slap echoed in the small space, sharp and unexpected. You gasped, your fingers tightening on the edge of the panel.

"You wanted to know if this was something," he said, his voice rough. "I am showing you."

His hand pressed between your shoulder blades, pushing you down until your chest touched the panel. He kicked your feet apart, widening your stance, and you felt him against you, hot and hard.

He entered you in one smooth motion.

The sound you made was embarrassingly loud, a cry that bounced off the cockpit walls. He set a rhythm immediately, fast and hard, the way he'd moved last night after he'd lost control. His hand found your ass again, another slap that made you clench around him.

"You feel that?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Remember it."

He drove into you, each thrust pushing you against the controls, making the switches rattle. You could taste metal on your tongue, could feel the tension building in your core, coiling tighter with every stroke.

His hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise. "I have been thinking about this all morning. Since I woke up. Since I saw you asleep in my bunk."

"Then why did you leave?"

"Because I needed to think."

"About what?"

"About why I wanted to kiss you. About why I could not stop thinking about you. About why…" He thrust deeper, harder, and his words dissolved into a groan.

You pushed back against him, meeting his rhythm, letting him know you wanted this. Wanted him. However he could give himself to you.

His hand moved from your hip to your hair, gathering it in his fist and pulling gently. Your head tilted back, your spine arching, and he took advantage of the angle, driving into you from a new position that made stars burst behind your eyes.

"Look at the viewport," he said.

You did. The stars blurred past as the Marauder hummed beneath you, and you saw your reflection in the transparisteel. Hair messy, lips parted, eyes glazed. Tech behind you, his face set in concentration, his body working yours with mechanical precision.

"See yourself," he said. "See what you do to me."

He pulled out, and before you could protest, he grabbed your arm and pulled you down to the floor. The deck was cold against your knees, but you didn't care. He guided you back to him, lowering himself to sit against the panel, and you understood.

You took him in your mouth again, and he watched you with that analytical gaze, his hand stroking your hair. You worked him slowly, deliberately, letting him see the way you moved, the way you wanted him.

His breathing grew ragged. His grip tightened. And when he came, it was with a sound that was almost a word, almost your name, lost in the hum of the ship around you.

The marauder's engines were still cooling when Omega found you. The familiar hum of the ship settling after a jump, the distant clatter of equipment being stowed by the others—you heard all of it dimly from the gunner's seat, staring at nothing through the viewport.

"Can I sit here?"

You turned. Omega stood in the narrow corridor, her posture expectant, like she'd already rehearsed this conversation.

"Sure."

She climbed into the seat across from you, tucking her legs beneath her in that practiced way she had. For a moment she said nothing. Just watched you with those sharp, knowing eyes that saw far too much for someone her age.

"I know about your crush on Tech."

The words landed like a blaster bolt to the chest. Your mouth opened automatically, setting up defenses. "I don't—that's not—Omega, what are you talking about?"

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small holodisk. A moment later a blue-tinted image flickered to life between you. The briefing room. You, sitting at the edge of the table while Hunter went over the mission parameters. And Tech, standing at the holotable, his goggles catching the light as he explained something about the terrain.

The recording showed you staring at him. Not the casual glance of a squadmate checking in. The long, lingering look of someone who'd forgotten to look away.

"I found it in the ship's archives," Omega said. "Wrecker was trying to figure out how the recording function worked and left it running."

Your throat thickened. "That's—I was just listening to the briefing—"

"You weren't looking at Hunter."

"The holotable was there—"

"You were looking at Tech. Specifically at his face. For approximately forty-seven seconds before he turned toward you, and then you looked down at your datapad." She tilted her head, her expression clinical. "That's a long time to stare at someone during a briefing."

You pressed your palms against your thighs, steadying yourself. "Omega, this isn't—"

"I'm not going to say anything."

The words stopped you cold. "What?"

"I said I'm not going to say anything." She pocketed the holodisk, adjusting her seat. "But I think you should tell him. He'd be receptive, probably."

"He would not be 'receptive.' He would be confused and uncomfortable and then he'd analyze my behavior for the next three weeks until he figured out exactly what was happening and then he'd give me a clinical explanation about why he couldn't reciprocate."

Omega smiled. It was a small, dangerous smile. "If you say so."

She climbed out of the seat before you could respond. Disappeared down the corridor with the satisfied air of someone who'd accomplished exactly what she set out to do.

You sat there for a long time, staring at the empty viewport, replaying every word she'd said.

By the time you made it to the shared living space, your stomach was growling loudly enough to rival Wrecker's. The kitchen module was compact—a small heating unit, a few ration packs stacked in the storage compartment, and a counter that doubled as a table when someone bothered to pull out the folding chairs.

Tech sat at that counter now, a datapad propped up beside his meal, his brow furrowed in concentration. He'd already eaten half his ration bar, but the other half sat abandoned while he tapped through what looked like schematic readouts.

He didn't look up when you entered. That was normal. Tech often got lost in his work, disappearing into whatever problem occupied his mind.

You retrieved a ration pack from the storage compartment—some kind of protein stew that tasted like cardboard no matter how long you heated it—and sat down at the far end of the counter. Far enough to give him space. Close enough that you'd feel guilty if you didn't at least acknowledge his presence.

"The thermal regulator on the auxiliary compressor is degrading," he said without looking up. "Approximately twelve percent efficiency loss over the last four cycles."

"I... huh. That doesn't sound good."

"It is not. I will need to replace it before our next extended mission."

You nodded, even though he wasn't looking. That was how conversations with Tech worked. He'd offer observations, and you'd respond, and somehow that was enough.

The door slid open again. Omega walked in, her expression bright and purposeful. She scanned the room—you, Tech, the empty chairs where the others should have been—and her smile widened.

"Tech," she said, settling onto the stool beside him, "I have a question."

He looked up from his datapad, his brows lifting slightly. "What is it?"

"What's it like to have a crush?"

Your hand jerked. The spoon clattered against the side of the bowl, sending a splatter of stew across the counter. You grabbed a cloth, muttering something about clumsy fingers, your face heating in a way you couldn't control.

Tech, to his credit, considered the question with the same seriousness he gave everything. "A crush is typically defined as an intense but short-lived infatuation with another person. From a biological perspective, it involves elevated levels of dopamine and norepinephrine, which create feelings of excitement and reward when the object of affection is present or thought about."

"Okay, but have you ever had one?"

He adjusted his goggles. "I do not have the time or inclination for such distractions. Romantic attachments require emotional investment that detracts from operational efficiency."

Omega tapped her chin. "But what if the person was really smart? And funny? And the only person you actually enjoyed talking to?"

"That seems unlikely—"

"Because you always talk to her longer than anyone else." Omega gestured at you with a grin. "And she's super pretty, obviously."

You inhaled sharply, exactly as a piece of stew lodged itself in your throat. The coughing fit that followed was violent and ungraceful, your face turning red as you pounded your chest.

"Omega—" you managed, your voice strangled.

"I mean, it's obvious, right?" She was looking at Tech now, her expression sweet and innocent. "You two get along so well, and she's clearly interested, so I thought maybe—"

"Omega." You stood up, your chair scraping against the floor. "That's enough."

She slipped off her stool before you could reach her, already backing toward the door. "I'm just making conversation!"

"Making conversation is not—"

"You can thank me later!" She darted through the door, her laughter echoing down the corridor.

The door slid shut behind her.

Silence settled over the room like a blanket, thick and suffocating. You stood there, frozen, your hands gripping the edge of the counter. The stew sat forgotten. The datapad still glowed with Tech's schematics. And Tech himself sat motionless, his gaze fixed on the closed door, his expression unreadable.

When he turned to look at you, you felt your stomach drop.

"You do not need to act strange because of what Omega said," he said, his voice measured. "She is a child prone to imaginative speculation. Her theories are often incorrect."

You nodded, gripping the counter a little tighter. "Right. Yeah. She's just... she's got a vivid imagination."

"I do, however, find you very easy to be with."

The words stopped you short. "What?"

He set down his datapad, giving you his full attention. "I find conversations with you less taxing than with others. You rarely ask unnecessary questions. You understand when I need silence. You do not take offense when I correct you." A pause. "It is... pleasant."

Your heart was pounding now, a steady rhythm against your ribs. "I... thanks. That's... I feel the same way."

Silence again. Longer this time.

Tech studied you, his goggles catching the overhead light. "You are acting strangely, however. Despite what I said."

"Am I?"

"You are standing. Your grip on the counter suggests you intend to flee. And your face is flushed, which indicates elevated blood pressure." He tilted his head, that clinical curiosity flickering behind his eyes. "You are nervous. Why?"

You stared at him. At the way he watched you without blinking, cataloging every detail. The man who analyzed everything, who turned every interaction into data, who would only believe something if he could measure it with certainty.

What if I'm the one with a crush?

The thought surfaced before you could stop it. Before you could remind yourself that this was reckless, unprofessional, dangerous. That you'd spent months building walls he'd never even seen, much less tried to climb.

"What if Omega's right?" The words came out before you could stop them. "What if I'm the one with a crush?"

Tech's fingers stilled on the datapad. He looked at you—really looked, not the distracted glance he gave his schematics, but a focused attention that made you feel pinned in place.

"If that is the case," he said slowly, "then we should discuss this somewhere private."

He stood, pocketing his datapad, and gestured toward the corridor that led to the bunks.

Later, pressed against the narrow mattress of his bunk, you understood exactly what that private discussion had been.

His mouth was on your neck, warm and determined. His hands found the hem of your shirt and pushed it upward, fingers brushing against your skin. You raised your arms to help him pull it over your head, and he paused to look at you. His gaze traveled from your face down your torso, and you saw something flicker in his eyes. Then he leaned in, pressing his lips to your collarbone while his hands worked at your belt with the same measured precision he'd used to unlock the door. You hooked your thumbs into his waistband, tugging at his trousers, and he let out a quiet breath against your skin. You'd barely registered the shift from conversation to touch—the way his voice had dropped an octave when you'd said yes, the way he'd closed and locked the door without looking away from you.

"Tell me if I do something wrong," he said against your skin.

"You won't."

"That is not a guarantee. I have never done this before."

You laughed, breathless. "Doesn't matter. Just... keep doing that."

He obliged, his mouth trailing down your chest. His hands moved with deliberation—one sliding around your back to unclasp your bra, the other bracing himself above you. When he pulled back to look at you again, you reached up and touched his face, running your thumb along his jaw. He turned his head just enough to press a kiss to your palm.

It did matter, though, in the way he learned you. He traced a line down your sternum with his fingers, watching your reactions. When you gasped as his fingertips passed over your stomach, he paused, then repeated the motion. He found the sensitive spot behind your knee while sliding your leggings off. He discovered that you liked it when he bit your bottom lip—gently, experimentally. He cataloged every sound you made, every involuntary shiver. His hands were never still, mapping your body with the same systematic attention he gave a ship's engine, finding what made you gasp, what made you arch, what made you dig your fingers into his shoulders and pull him closer.

He moved over you, positioning himself. When he pushed inside you, you felt it everywhere. A stretch, a fullness, a pressure. You gripped his shoulders and let out a long breath. He paused, his forehead pressed against yours, giving you time. "Okay?" he asked, his voice low. You nodded, and he began to move—slow, deliberate strokes that made you dig your nails into his skin. The pressure built and built until you couldn't think anymore.

"Look at you," he murmured. "Taking me so well."

You pressed your forehead against his shoulder, your breath coming in ragged gasps. "Keep talking."

He shifted his angle slightly, and you let out a sharp cry. "You're tightening around me," he said, his voice strained. "I can feel you. Every time I push deeper—" He punctuated the words with a thrust. "—you respond." He pulled back almost all the way, then drove in again. "I could watch you forever like this."

"I like how you feel." He thrust deeper, slower. "I like how you respond when I touch you. I have thought about this, actually. More than I care to admit."

"You have?"

"I have. I wanted to know what you sounded like." He shifted his angle, and your vision blurred. "Now I know. And I want to hear more." He reached down between your bodies, his fingers finding you exactly where you needed them. "Let go. I've got you."

The rhythm built, steady and relentless. He sped up, his movements losing their careful precision. His words came faster, less measured, the clinical unraveling into something raw and hungry.

"You are so beautiful like this. Coming apart for me." His hips drove harder, his breath hot against your ear. "I feel you—I need—" His voice broke. He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closed. "You feel so good—"

Your release hit you like a wave, pulling you under. You cried out, your body arching into him. He followed moments later, burying himself deep, a low groan escaping his throat as he shuddered against you. His hand found yours on the mattress, fingers interlacing as he rode out the aftershocks.

He stayed there, breathing hard, his weight pressing you into the mattress. You wrapped your arms around him, running your fingers through his hair. He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then another to your lips. Soft. Lingering.

"I want to do that again," he murmured against your mouth. "But I need a moment to recover."

You laughed, breathless. "Take all the time you need."

Later, he would pull out, and he would clean you both with efficient, careful movements. He would return with a glass of water, and he would lie beside you, his arm around your waist, pulling you close. You would talk—about nothing and everything—until your voices grew slow and your eyes grew heavy.

But for now, you just held each other.

Your muscles still ached when you left your quarters. The familiar ache, deep and pleasant, settled in your thighs and lower back. Wrecker's shirt lay folded under your pillow, a quiet secret you carried with you.

The shared space hummed with low voices. Hunter and Tech sat at the table, a holographic display flickering between them. Blue light cast shadows across their faces, illuminating the concentration etched into their features.

Hunter looked up when you entered. His eyes swept over you, quick and assessing, before he returned to the display.

"Good timing," he said. "We're working out the approach."

You crossed the room, the floor cool against your bare feet. Tech glanced at you once, then back at the display, his fingers tapping at a datapad.

"Join us," Hunter said. It wasn't a question. He gestured to the seat beside him.

You settled into the chair, the worn padding conforming to your shape. The hologram showed a three-dimensional map of the research station and its surroundings. A dark planet, mostly ice and rock, with the station marked in red.

"We're deciding who does what," Hunter said. "Tech's been analyzing the structural data."

Tech looked up, his goggles catching the light. "The station is primarily underground. Three levels, with the main laboratory on the lowest floor. The upper levels contain living quarters and storage."

"So we need to clear each level," you said.

"Precisely." Tech tapped his datapad. "The corporation that owned the station provided minimal schematics. I've filled in the gaps using satellite imagery."

Hunter leaned back, his arm brushing against yours. The contact was light, casual, but you felt it travel through your shoulder.

"We need a plan for entry and extraction," he said. "Standard search pattern, but we can't split up too much. If something's in there, we need to be able to support each other."

You nodded, following the logic. "Who goes in first?"

"Crosshair and I will take point," Hunter said. "Wrecker covers the rear. Tech and Omega stay in the middle, handling doors and systems.

"And me?"

Hunter paused. His hand moved, finding your thigh under the table. His palm was warm, settling just above your knee.

"You're with Echo at the entrance," he said. "Cover the exits, make sure nothing gets out. Or in."

His thumb traced a slow circle on your inner thigh. The gesture was absent, almost unconscious, but it sent a current through you. You tried to focus on the conversation, but his touch demanded attention.

Tech's gaze flickered down. To Hunter's hand. To where it rested on your leg.

Your face heated. You looked away, pretending to study the hologram.

"We should land at least a kilometer out," Hunter continued, his voice steady. "Approach on foot. Less chance of alerting whatever's inside."

Tech's eyes lingered a moment longer, then returned to his datapad. "The terrain is treacherous. Ice formations and unstable ground. A closer landing would reduce exposure time."

"But increase the risk of detection," Hunter said.

"Marginally." Tech pulled up a weather report. "The planet experiences frequent storms. They would mask our approach regardless of landing distance."

Hunter's hand slid higher up your thigh. His thumb pressed deeper, massaging the muscle through your pants.

"What about the marshes?" you asked, the words coming out before you could stop them.

Both men looked at you.

"The eastern sector," you continued. "If the schematics show marshes near the station, we could hide the ship there. Natural cover from above, and the ground would be stable enough for landing."

Tech tilted his head, considering. "The marshlands are extensive. They would provide adequate concealment, but we would need to confirm the ground's load-bearing capacity."

"Tech can analyze that during approach," Hunter said. His hand finally stilled, though it remained on your thigh. "Good suggestion."

He removed his hand and turned to Tech. "Where should we set down? Far enough to stay hidden, or close enough for quick extraction?"

Tech's fingers flew across his datapad. "The marshlands offer the best compromise. We can land within half a kilometer of the station without being visible from the main approach. The terrain is soft but stable enough for the Marauder's landing gear."

"Then that's the plan." Hunter stood, stretching his arms above his head. His shirt rode up, exposing a strip of skin at his waist. "We'll go over equipment in an hour. Everyone needs to be ready."

He walked toward the galley, leaving you alone with Tech.

The silence stretched. Tech kept his eyes on his datapad, but you could feel the weight of his attention.

"Hunter mentioned you were paired with Echo for this mission," he said, not looking up.

"I heard."

"I decided that." He finally met your gaze. "I'd rather have an uninjured medic available in case one of us gets hurt. Stationing you at the entrance keeps you safe and ensures you can respond quickly."

It made sense. Logical. Practical.

"You're not getting much action this time," he added. "I apologize if that disappoints you."

"I'm fine with it," you said. "Someone needs to watch the exits."

Tech nodded, a flicker of approval crossing his face. "You'll be connected to the comms at all times. If anything happens, you'll know immediately."

"Good. That makes me feel better."

He held your gaze a moment longer, then returned to his datapad. "You adapt well. Better than most civilians I've worked with."

It felt almost like a compliment.

The door to the sleeping quarters slid open. Wrecker emerged, his hair mussed, his shirt wrinkled. He blinked against the light, then his eyes found yours.

Your stomach tightened.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," you answered.

He held your gaze for a long moment. Then he walked past the table, his footsteps heavy on the metal floor. He dropped into a chair at the far end, reaching for a ration bar from the bin.

"There's nothing to eat," he muttered, tearing the wrapper with his teeth. "I'm starving."

You watched him chew, the familiar motion easing some of your worry. He seemed the same. The same grumbling, the same casual presence. No awkwardness, no tension.

He caught you looking and grinned, a flash of teeth around the ration bar. Then he turned to Hunter, who had returned with a cup of caf.

"So what's the plan?" Wrecker asked. "I missed the meeting."

Hunter summarized it quickly. Wrecker nodded along, asking a few questions about the marshlands and the creature they might find inside. The conversation flowed naturally, the squad falling into its usual rhythm.

You excused yourself to prepare your gear. In your quarters, you checked your medkit, restocked the supplies you'd used on Crosshair. The motions were familiar, grounding.

A knock at your door.

You opened it to find Omega, a hologram clutched to her chest.

"Hunter said we have an hour," she said. "Do you want to play?"

You glanced at your medkit, then back at her hopeful face.

"Sure," you said. "Set it up in the common area."

She grinned and disappeared down the corridor. You followed, after finishing your task at hand.

The game was simple. A grid of lights that you had to match in sequence. Omega was faster than you, her fingers flying across the controls. You lost three rounds before she took pity on you and switched to a slower setting.

"You have to anticipate the pattern," she said, demonstrating. "Not just react."

"Easy for you to say. You've been playing this since you were born."

She laughed. "I was born in a lab, actually. No hologames."

You paused. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"

"It's fine." She shrugged. "I know what I am. I don't mind."

You looked at her, this small girl who had seen more than most adults. "You're not just a lab creation, Omega. You're a person. You're part of this squad."

She smiled, soft and genuine. "I know."

The hour passed quickly. Too quickly. Soon Hunter's voice echoed through the ship, calling everyone to the cargo bay.

You strapped on your gear. Blaster at your hip, medkit on your back. A small pack with emergency supplies.

The Marauder lifted off, the engines humming beneath your feet. The journey to the planet took less than an hour. Through the viewport, you watched the world grow larger, a gray-blue sphere wrapped in clouds.

Tech guided them through the atmosphere, the ship jolting as it hit turbulence. Then the clouds parted, revealing a landscape of ice and rock. The marshlands stretched beneath them, dark and endless.

Tech set the Marauder down with practiced precision. The landing gear sank slightly into the soft ground, but held firm.

"Everyone ready?" Hunter asked.

Nods around the cargo bay.

"Let's move."

The ramp lowered, and cold air rushed in. It bit at your exposed skin, stealing your breath. You pulled your jacket tighter and followed Echo down the ramp.

The sky was dark, heavy with clouds that blocked the stars. The only light came from the ship's exterior lamps and the distant glow of the station.

Echo walked beside you, his cybernetic arm whirring softly. He moved with a quiet confidence, his steps sure on the uneven ground.

The station loomed ahead. A squat structure of gray metal, half-buried in the frozen ground. Its lights flickered weakly, casting shadows across the ice.

"This is the back entrance," Echo said, stopping at a reinforced door. "We open this, and the others can enter through the main area."

You nodded, your breath fogging in the cold.

The comm unit crackled in your ear. Hunter's voice came through, clear and steady. "Echo, we're approaching the main entrance. Status?"

"At the back door," Echo replied. "Waiting for your signal."

"Copy. We're moving in."

You heard the others' footsteps through the comms, muffled and distant. Wrecker's heavy boots, Crosshair's lighter tread. Omega's voice, low and excited.

"The walls have stains on them," she said. "Like blood."

"Probably a wild animal got in," Hunter said.

"Or a vengeful ghost," Wrecker added.

Crosshair's voice cut through. "You're not helping."

"Just keeping morale high."

You smiled despite yourself. Through the tension, they found moments of humor.

"Tech," Hunter said, "we need this door open."

"One moment." The sound of a panel being pried open. "The locking mechanism is standard. I just need to bypass the security protocols."

Your hands felt cold. You clenched and unclenched your fingers, trying to keep the blood flowing.

Echo noticed. His valid hand found your forearm, squeezing gently.

"They always come back," he said. "This mission is nothing different. You don't need to worry."

You let out a breath. "I know. But I can't help it."

"First time on a mission like this?"

"Is it that obvious?"

He smiled. "A little. But you're handling it well."

You leaned into his touch, drawing comfort from his presence. "How did you end up with them?"

Echo's expression flickered. "It's a long story."

"We have time."

He considered it, then nodded. "I was an ARC trooper. Part of the original clone army. I served under General Skywalker during the war."

Your eyes widened. An ARC trooper. The elite of the elite.

"During a mission, I was captured. Held for months. The Separatists... they experimented on me. Cut me open. Replaced parts of me with machinery."

He gestured to his cybernetic limbs. "I was supposed to be a prototype. A test for something bigger."

"How did you escape?"

"Rex. My captain. He came for me with the Bad Batch. They broke me out, brought me to the ship, patched me up." He paused. "I owe them everything."

You didn't push. The hurt in his voice was clear enough.

You were about to respond when Hunter's voice cut through the comms.

"We're approaching the main laboratory. Something's here. I can hear it."

Your heart rate spiked. Echo's hand tightened on your arm.

"It's probably the creature," Hunter continued. "We're going to flush it out. Medic, Echo, stand by to open the main doors."

"Copy," Echo said.

The minutes stretched. Every sound felt amplified. The wind scraping against the metal. The distant groan of ice shifting. Your own breathing.

Then Omega's voice, barely a whisper. "There's a big creature in here, looking angry. The scientists are probably dead, and it got stuck and panicked."

"We need to get it out," Hunter said. "You two, open the main doors. We'll drive it through."

Echo moved, his cybernetic arm extending toward the control panel. He inserted his scomp link, and the door mechanism whirred to life.

"How does it feel?" you asked.

He glanced at you. "What?"

"Your arm. The cybernetic. How does it feel?"

He considered the question. "I'd rather have my original arm back. But it's useful. It doesn't feel strange anymore."

He paused, a small smile playing at his lips. "Besides, women love it."

You blinked, caught off guard. The comment was unexpected, almost playful.

"Really?" you said. "I didn't think you were the type."

"What type?"

"The type to brag."

He laughed. A low, warm sound. "I'm full of surprises."

The door groaned open, the panels retracting into the walls. Cold air rushed out, carrying the smell of metal and blood.

Less than three seconds later, a creature burst through the opening. Six legs, a massive horn, eyes wild with panic. It charged, its bulk filling the doorway.

Wrecker's voice yelled through the comms. "Get out of the way!"

Echo grabbed you, pulling you against him. His arm wrapped around your waist, pressing you to his chest as the creature thundered past. Its horn missed you by inches, the wind of its passage ruffling your hair.

Then it was gone, disappearing into the darkness of the marsh.

Echo released you. You stood close, his arm still around your waist. The warmth of his body seeped through your clothes.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah. Thanks."

He smiled again, then stepped back, the distance between you widening.

Wrecker emerged from the doorway, sweating and grinning. "That was close. Good reflexes, you two."

Hunter followed, Omega at his side. Then Crosshair, his rifle still raised. Finally Tech, dusting off his gloves.

"The creature entered through a damaged ventilation shaft," Tech said. "It became trapped and panicked. The scientists likely tried to contain it and failed."

"Any survivors?" you asked.

Hunter shook his head. "No. We found their remains in the laboratory."

The weight of his words settled over you. Twelve scientists, dead because of a trapped animal.

"We should check the station for useful data," Tech said. "Then we can leave."

The group dispersed, each to their assigned tasks. You stood at the entrance, watching the marsh stretch into the darkness.

Echo moved beside you. "You did well."

"I didn't do anything."

"You were here. That counts."

You looked at him. The cold air had brought color to his cheeks, and his eyes held a warmth that cut through the chill.

"Thanks," you said.

He nodded, then turned to survey the marsh. The silence settled between you, comfortable and easy.

The others returned within the hour. Tech carried a datapad loaded with research data. Wrecker hauled a crate of supplies. Omega walked between Crosshair and Hunter, her face tired but satisfied.

"All clear," Hunter said. "Let's go home."

The walk back to the Marauder was quiet. The ship's lights guided them through the darkness, a beacon in the cold.

You climbed the ramp, the warmth of the interior washing over you. The familiar hum of the engines, the smell of recycled air. Home.

The others headed for the showers, their bodies coated in sweat and grime. You stood in the shared living space, your clothes clean, your skin untouched by the mission.

Echo joined you, equally clean. He dropped onto the couch, letting out a long breath.

"Not bad for a first mission," he said. "Not bad at all."

He stretched his arms above his head, his joints popping. "I'm going to enjoy the quiet while it lasts."

You sat beside him, the cushions sinking under your weight. The ship hummed around you, settling into its cruising rhythm.

From the corridor, you heard the muffled sounds of the others showering. Water running, voices echoing off metal walls.

You leaned back, letting the tension drain from your shoulders. The fear from earlier had faded, replaced by a quiet satisfaction. You had done your part. You had been useful.

Echo's hand found yours, his fingers brushing against your knuckles. A light touch, questioning.

You turned your hand over, palm up.

He took it, his fingers interlacing with yours. The gesture was simple, grounding.

You sat together, hands intertwined, listening to the sounds of the ship and the distant voices of your squadmates. The warmth of his hand seeped into yours, and for the first time since leaving the planet, you felt something close to peace.

Echo's hand was warm in yours, his thumb tracing slow circles across your knuckles. The ship hummed around you, steady and familiar. You could hear the distant clatter of dishes from the galley, the low murmur of voices.

A soft beep broke the quiet.

Echo shifted, glancing at his cybernetic arm. A small red light pulsed near the joint where metal met flesh. He sighed, squeezing your hand once before letting go.

"Sorry," he said. "I need to recharge."

"How often?"

"Once a rotation. Takes a few hours." He stood, rolling his shoulder. "Doesn't seem like much until you forget, and then you're stuck in the middle of a mission with a dead arm."

You nodded. "Go. I'll keep the seat warm."

He smiled, something soft and genuine, before disappearing down the corridor.

You turned back to the common area. The holoprojector sat against the wall, dark and silent. You reached for the remote, cycling through the available programs until you found something light. A comedy series, the kind with obvious jokes and canned laughter.

Wrecker emerged from the showers first, his hair still damp, a loose shirt hanging off his broad frame. He spotted you on the couch and crossed the room in three long strides, dropping onto the cushion beside you. His arm found its way around your shoulders, pulling you against his side.

The holoshow played on. A character slipped on a banana peel. Wrecker's laugh rumbled through his chest, loud and unrestrained.

The joke wasn't even that funny. But the way he threw his head back, the way his whole body shook with amusement, made you smile. You found yourself watching him instead of the screen, studying the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the way his grin stretched wide across his face.

He felt your stare. Turned.

His eyes met yours, questioning at first. Then he glanced down the corridor, toward the other rooms, and back at you.

"Wanna have sex?" he asked.

Your face burned. You looked past him, toward the corridor where the others would emerge any minute.

"Everyone's going to come out soon," you whispered. "Including Omega."

He considered that, his brow furrowing. Then he nodded, a thoughtful hum escaping his throat. He turned back to the holoshow, his arm still draped around you.

"Last night was fun," he said, his voice lower now. "You're always welcome in my room."

Heat spread through your chest. "Thanks."

You settled against him, letting your head rest against his bicep. The muscle was warm and solid beneath your cheek. The holoshow flickered on, a new scene unfolding.

Crosshair came out of the corridor next, his hair still damp, a fresh tank top clinging to his lean frame. He stopped at the edge of the common area, taking in the sight of you curled against Wrecker. His eyes narrowed, a faint roll of his eyes before he turned toward his rifle, propped against the wall. He settled into a chair and began disassembling the weapon, his movements precise and methodical.

Tech followed shortly after, datapad in hand. He glanced at you and Wrecker, made no comment, and took a seat at the table.

Hunter emerged last, running a hand through his still-damp hair. His eyes found you immediately, lingering for a moment before he moved to the galley.

Omega bounded in, her energy filling the room. "Is dinner ready yet?"

"Almost," Wrecker said, easing himself off the couch. "Come help me."

She followed him into the galley, and soon the sounds of clattering pots and her cheerful chatter drifted through the ship.

The meal came together quickly. A hearty stew, the kind that filled the ship with warmth and the smell of spices. Everyone gathered around the table, the usual configuration settling into place.

You took your seat, glancing at the empty chair beside you. Echo's spot.

The conversation flowed around you. Hunter recounted the entry, praising Tech's quick work on the door. Crosshair mentioned the creature's speed, how it had nearly clipped Wrecker on its way out. Wrecker laughed it off, flexing his arm and claiming he could have taken it in a fight.

They discussed the data Tech had recovered. Research logs, environmental samples, nothing particularly valuable. The corporation would probably scrap the station now.

You ate, but your mind kept drifting to the closed door down the corridor. Echo, alone in his room, wires attached to his body, while everyone else shared a meal.

You excused yourself, taking a clean plate and filling it with stew. The others barely noticed, deep in their conversation.

The corridor was quiet. You stopped at Echo's door and knocked.

"It's open."

You stepped inside. His room was small, barely larger than a closet. A narrow bunk, a small locker, a datapad on the shelf. Echo lay on the bed, his torso bare, wires running from ports in his cybernetic arm and leg to a small charging unit on the floor. The red light pulsed steadily.

He smiled when he saw the plate. "I guess it's Wrecker and Omega's special secret bomb mix meal?"

You laughed, closing the door behind you. "You know it."

He shifted, making room on the narrow bed. He patted the space beside him.

You sat, careful not to jostle the wires. He propped himself up, taking the plate with his valid hand. The smell of the stew filled the small space.

"Did I miss anything?" he asked, scooping a spoonful.

"The holoshow ended. The protagonist finally got the promotion."

"Figured. That plot was predictable." He chewed, swallowing. "But satisfying."

You let your eyes wander. The red light on his arm blinked steadily, marking the charging cycle. The metal gleamed under the soft light, intricate and foreign.

"So this is the womanizer?" you asked.

He raised an eyebrow. "The what?"

"Womanizer. A…" You felt heat creep up your neck. "A toy. For women. It's slang."

His expression shifted. Understanding. Then a smirk spread across his face.

"Ah." He set the plate aside, flexing his cybernetic fingers. "I did say women love it."

He detached the charging cable, the red light switching off. The arm hummed, fully powered. He rotated it at the wrist, then faster, the joint whirring smoothly. He added a vibration, the metal buzzing against the air.

"If I were a woman," he said, his voice dropping into a mock-serious tone, "the things I'd do with it."

You laughed, the sound surprising you. "I'd have killed for an arm like that on my old planet. Alone, no company. Would have saved me some trouble."

Echo's smirk softened into something else. Something considering.

He held your gaze. "You want to try it?"

The question hung in the air. Your heart stuttered, heat pooling low in your belly, sudden and insistent. Your breath caught.

You stared at each other. The room felt smaller, warmer.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

You kissed him. Without giving yourself time to think about it.

Soft at first, then his mouth moved against yours, warm and responsive. You felt his grin against your lips before his valid hand found your waist, pulling you closer. He guided you down, his back meeting the mattress, and you followed, your body settling over his.

The kiss deepened. His tongue brushed against your lower lip, and you parted for him. His hand slid up your back, pressing you against him.

He pulled back, his breath warm against your mouth.

"Take off your shirt."

You sat up, pulling the fabric over your head. His eyes traced down your body, hunger flickering in them.

He moved you up, shifting your position until his face was level with your chest. His mouth found your breast, lips closing around the nipple. He sucked, tongue circling the sensitive peak, and a moan escaped your throat.

Your hands wandered behind you, finding the outline of his cock through his pants. Hard already, pulsing against your palm. He groaned against your skin, his teeth grazing lightly before he sucked harder, leaving a small mark.

He pulled back, examining your body. His eyes traced the faint hickeys still visible on your skin, the marks Crosshair and Wrecker had left.

"So I'm not the first one, huh?"

You shook your head, heat flooding your cheeks. "Sorry."

He laughed, low and warm. "I don't care. Nothing wrong with it."

His hand moved to your waistband. "Take these off."

You obeyed, shimmying out of your pants. You straddled him in just your underwear, the fabric damp against your skin.

"Your turn," you said, reaching for his waistband.

He caught your wrist, gentle but firm. "No. Tonight is only about your pleasure. You'll have to come back if you want to see me."

Before you could argue, his cybernetic hand pressed against your panties. The metal was cool, smooth against the soaked fabric. He slid it along your folds, deliberate and teasing, and you gasped at the sensation.

He laughed. "You haven't even gotten to the best part yet."

The arm began to vibrate.

You came almost immediately. A sharp, sudden orgasm that tore through you, your thighs clenching around his hand. You looked down at him, breathless, and found a satisfied smirk on his face.

He didn't stop. His hand kept moving, the vibration steady against your core. He rocked it against you, drawing out the aftershocks.

"Can I get past these?" he asked, hooking a finger under the edge of your panties.

You nodded, breathless.

He pushed the fabric aside. You rose on your knees, positioning yourself above him. The tip of his arm pressed against your entrance, rotating slowly.

He waited. Let you set the pace.

You didn't need time. You needed him inside you.

You sank down in one motion, a loud moan escaping your lips as he filled you.

His arm continued moving inside you, the vibration traveling through your core, up your spine, settling behind your eyes. You rode him, your hips finding a rhythm, your hands braced against his chest for support.

He watched you. His eyes traced the curve of your breasts as they bounced, the flush spreading across your chest, the way your mouth hung open as you gasped for air. Then his gaze dropped lower, to where his arm disappeared inside you, the metal slick and glistening.

A low sound escaped his throat. Something between a groan and a laugh.

"Look at you," he said. "Taking it so well."

You couldn't form words. The vibration built, pressure coiling tight in your belly, and you chased it, grinding down against his hand. His valid hand found your hip, guiding you, helping you maintain the rhythm.

The orgasm hit harder than the first. Your vision blurred, your body convulsing around his arm. A cry tore from your throat, his name or something like it, and you collapsed forward, your forehead pressing against his chest.

He let you ride it out. His arm stilled, the vibration fading, but he remained inside you, letting you feel every pulse and clench.

When your breathing steadied, he withdrew slowly. The sensation made you shiver, empty and full at the same time. His hand came to rest on your lower back, smoothing over your skin.

He lifted his head, catching your gaze. "Come here."

You leaned down, meeting his lips. The kiss was soft, unhurried. His valid hand cradled your jaw, his thumb tracing your cheekbone.

He pulled back, his eyes searching yours. "Can I taste you?"

The question sent a fresh wave of heat through you. You nodded, but he waited, his gaze steady.

"Words," he said.

"Yes," you breathed. "Please."

He smiled, then rolled you beneath him. Your back met the mattress, the thin padding doing little to cushion the fall. He crept down your body, his lips trailing across your stomach, your hip, the inside of your thigh.

A shiver ran through you as his breath ghosted over your core, warm and teasing. He looked up, meeting your eyes, his face inches from where you needed him most.

You whined his name. A plea. A surrender.

He sank down.

His mouth found your folds, warm and insistent. His tongue traced along them, slow and deliberate, tasting you. He kissed your pussy lips like they deserved attention, like he had all the time in the world.

Then his cybernetic arm hummed to life again.

He pressed it against your clit, the vibration direct and sharp. Your back arched, a cry escaping your lips. He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core.

His tongue worked you, lapping at your entrance, circling your clit. The combination of heat and vibration pushed you higher, faster. Your hands found his hair, gripping tight, your thighs closing around his head.

He didn't pull away. He pressed closer, his tongue delving deeper, his arm vibrating harder.

The third orgasm crested like a wave, pulling you under. Your thighs clamped around his head, holding him in place as you pulsed against his mouth. He kept licking, drinking everything you gave him, his groans muffled against your skin.

When the shaking finally stopped, you released him. He lifted his head slowly, his chin glistening, his smirk wide and satisfied.

"Really was worth skipping Wrecker and Omega's meal," he said.

You laughed, breathless, your chest still heaving. "That's your takeaway?"

He crawled up your body, bracing himself on his elbows. "Best decision I made all day."

He kissed you again, and you tasted yourself on his lips. Sweet and sharp. His valid hand traced down your side, settling at your hip.

"Stay," he said.

You nodded, too tired to argue.

He pulled the blanket over both of you, his arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you against his chest. His breath warmed the back of your neck.

The ship hummed around you, steady and familiar.

Dawn crept through the cracks in the bunker door. Thin slivers of pale light cut across the floor, illuminating the dust motes suspended in the air. You blinked against the brightness, disoriented for a moment, then remembered everything at once.

Crosshair's arm was still draped across your waist. His breath came slow and even against your shoulder, his face slack in sleep. The bandage on his side looked clean enough, no fresh blood seeping through.

You lay there for a long moment, feeling the weight of him against you. The warmth. The quiet. It felt strange, almost domestic, and that thought made you uneasy.

You shifted, careful not to wake him, but his arm tightened almost immediately.

"Running away already?" His voice was rough with sleep, barely more than a murmur.

"No. Just checking your bandage."

He made a sound that might have been amusement. Then he let his arm fall away, rolling onto his back with a grunt. His hand went to his side, pressing against the bandage.

You sat up, reaching for your clothes. The motion was mechanical, practical. You pulled your pants up, fastened your belt, and grabbed your shirt from where it had landed near the cot. Crosshair watched you dress, his eyes half-lidded, his expression unreadable.

"You're quiet," he said.

"I'm thinking."

"About?"

You pulled the shirt over your head and turned to face him. "About how this changes things. If it changes anything."

He sat up slowly, wincing as he put weight on his injured side. He reached for his own clothes, pulling the black undersuit over his head with practiced efficiency.

"It doesn't change anything," he said. "I still think you need training. I still think you're a liability in a firefight. But I also think you're worth keeping around." He paused, his hands working on the armor clasps. "That's all."

You nodded, not sure if you believed him. But you didn't push.

The trek back to the meeting point took less time than the journey out. The forest felt different in the morning light. Less threatening. The shadows had retreated, and the canopy let through enough brightness to make the path clearer.

The Marauder sat in the clearing, its hull gleaming with dew. The ramp was down, and you could see movement inside.

Hunter stood at the top of the ramp, his arms crossed. His eyes found you immediately, then moved to Crosshair, then back to you. He didn't say anything, but you saw his jaw tighten.

Crosshair walked past you, up the ramp, brushing past Hunter without a word. He disappeared into the ship's interior.

You climbed the ramp slowly, meeting Hunter's gaze. The silence between you felt heavy, charged with something you couldn't name.

"Everything go okay?" he asked. His voice was even, controlled.

"Yeah. We found the caches. Got a good haul."

"I saw." He nodded toward the speeder bike, still laden with supplies. "Good work."

You waited for him to say something else. He didn't. He just turned and walked inside, leaving you standing on the ramp with your heart hammering in your chest.

The ship hummed to life as you made your way inside. The familiar sounds of the Marauder, the hum of the engines, the clatter of equipment, the distant murmur of voices… felt almost comforting after the silence of the forest.

You went straight to the refresher, needing a moment to collect yourself. The door slid shut behind you, and you leaned against it, letting out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding.

The mirror showed you everything. Your hair was a mess, tangled and damp. Your clothes were dirty, stained with sweat and forest grime. And your neck…

You stopped.

A mark, dark and distinct, sat just below your jaw. A hickey. Large enough that there was no hiding it.

Your face went hot. You pressed your fingers against it, as if you could somehow erase it. Of all the things Crosshair could have left you with.

The door chimed. Then slid open.

Hunter stood in the doorway, filling the frame with his presence. His eyes found yours in the mirror, then dropped to your neck. You watched his expression shift, a flicker of recognition.

"Hunter, I…"

He stepped inside, letting the door slide shut behind him. The space felt smaller with him in it, the distance between you shrinking. He didn't look angry. That much you could see.

His hand came up, fingers brushing against your chin, tilting your head slightly to expose the mark better. His thumb traced the edge of it, featherlight.

"Crosshair?" he asked.

You couldn't read his tone. "Yes."

He held your gaze for a moment longer, then stepped back. His hand fell away.

"I'm sorry," you said. "I didn't plan for it to happen. It just…"

"Stop." His voice was calm. "I'm not mad."

You blinked, confused.

"I told you what we are. What I want this to be. You agreed." He crossed his arms, his posture relaxed. "It's not an exclusive arrangement. I don't expect you to only be with me."

"But…"

"And I've always shared everything with my brothers." He shrugged, a small gesture that carried more weight than it should. "We grew up together. We fought together. We never had much that was just ours. So sharing came naturally."

You stared at him, trying to process his words.

"If you want both of us," he said, "that's fine with me."

Your face burned. You opened your mouth to respond, but the words got stuck. You shook your head, raising a hand to cut him off.

"I can't…" You started. "I don't know…"

He laughed. A soft, genuine sound that eased the tension in the room.

"Take your time," he said. "I'm not pushing." He turned toward the door, pausing with his hand on the panel. "But you should know. Crosshair doesn't let many people close. The fact that he did says something."

He left before you could respond.

You stood there, staring at the closed door, your reflection staring back at you from the mirror. The hickey seemed to pulse on your neck, a reminder of what had happened.

You cleaned yourself up. Washed your face. Changed into a fresh shirt from the locker. Tried to make yourself presentable.

By the time you stepped out of the refresher, the ship had settled into its usual rhythm. You made your way to the shared living space, where the smell of cooking food drifted through the corridor.

Omega was the first to see you. She launched herself off the sofa, small feet padding across the floor, and jumped into your arms. You caught her on instinct, the impact knocking the breath out of you.

"Crosshair said you're staying!" Her voice was bright, almost ecstatic. "He said you're staying for real this time!"

You looked up, scanning the room. Crosshair sat at the table, a cup of caf in his hand, his expression unreadable. He met your eyes and gave a small nod. A confirmation.

"Looks like it," you said, setting Omega down.

She hugged you again, quick and fierce, then bounced back to her seat. Wrecker grinned at you from across the room, giving you a thumbs up. Echo was sorting through supplies near the wall, but he glanced up and offered a small smile.

Tech sat at the table, a datapad in hand, already looking at something that required his full attention.

You took a seat next to him, the empty chair feeling inviting. The table was spread with food. Ration bars, some kind of porridge, a bowl of fruit that looked surprisingly fresh.

"Good morning," Tech said, not looking up from his datapad. "Did you sleep well?"

"Better than expected, actually." You reached for a ration bar, peeling the wrapper. "The forest floor isn't the most comfortable, but it could have been worse."

"I imagine the bunker provided adequate shelter. The climate on that planet is moderate, but the humidity can be problematic for prolonged exposure."

You nodded, chewing on the ration bar. "The caches were well-stocked. A lot of old war supplies. Some of it might still be useful."

Tech finally looked up, his eyes meeting yours. "I would be interested to see the full inventory. It's possible some of the components could be repurposed for ship repairs."

"I noticed some wiring and circuit boards. Crosshair said you and Echo would want those."

A flicker of something crossed Tech's face. Interest, maybe. Approval. "You recognized them?"

"I've done some mechanic work before. Nothing advanced, but I know enough to identify basic components."

Tech set down his datapad, turning his full attention to you. "What kind of mechanic work?"

"Mostly on civilian ships. Freighters, mostly. I learned from an old mechanic on Corellia. Nothing formal, but he taught me the basics."

"Fascinating. Corellian engineering tends to prioritize efficiency over durability. Did you find that to be accurate?"

You thought about it. "Yeah, actually. The ships I worked on were fast but fragile. They could outrun most things, but they couldn't take a hit."

Tech nodded, a hint of enthusiasm creeping into his voice. "That aligns with my own observations. The Corellian design philosophy emphasizes speed and maneuverability, often at the expense of structural integrity. It's a trade-off that has its merits, particularly in smuggling operations."

You found yourself relaxing, the conversation flowing naturally. Tech asked more questions about specific ship models, about repair techniques, about your experience with different engine types. You answered as best you could, surprised by how much you remembered.

"Hey, Tech!" Wrecker's voice cut through the conversation like a vibroblade. "Stop flirting with her and pass me the fruit juice!"

You froze, your fork halfway to your mouth. Flirting? Was that what was happening?

You glanced at Tech. His expression remained unchanged, betraying nothing. He reached for the juice container and slid it across the table toward Wrecker without comment.

"Thank you," Wrecker said, pouring himself a generous glass. "Now you two can go back to your machine talk."

You looked at Tech, searching for any sign that Wrecker's comment had affected him. He had already picked up his datapad again, his attention back on the screen.

"Ignore him," Tech said, his voice flat.

"Sure." You took another bite of your ration bar, trying to shake the awkwardness.

Omega shifted in her seat, her eyes bright with curiosity. "So what's our next mission? Are we going somewhere exciting?"

Hunter set down his cup of caf. "We need to restock first. Tech will stay on the ship to handle some repairs. Crosshair's in charge of the munitions resupply. Omega and Echo will handle the food supplies."

"What about us?" Wrecker asked, gesturing between himself, you, and Hunter.

"You, the medic, and I are in charge of negotiating the terms for our next mission."

You frowned, turning to face him. "Negotiating?"

He met your gaze. "We're not exactly rolling in credits. To buy supplies, we need to find work. And to find work, we need to negotiate the price for each job."

"Who are we negotiating with?"

"A contact on the planet we're heading to. Someone who vets potential clients and connects us with the people who need our services."

You nodded, processing the information. It made sense, in a way. The Bad Batch operated outside the standard structures. They couldn't just walk into a cantina and pick up a job posting.

"Any advice?" you asked.

"Don't let them see you're desperate," Wrecker said, grinning. "Even if we are."

Hunter shot him a look, but there was no heat in it. "We'll handle it. Just follow my lead and don't volunteer information."

The table fell into a comfortable silence as everyone finished eating. Crosshair stood first, setting his cup in the sink. He walked past you, and as he did, his hand brushed against the small of your back. A brief touch. Light. But full of meaning.

You watched him walk away, your skin tingling where he'd touched.

The landing was smooth. The planet below was nothing special. A mid-rim hub with a decent spaceport and the kind of population that attracted traders, mercenaries, and people who preferred not to be asked too many questions.

You followed the others down the ramp, the air hitting you with a mix of exhaust fumes and something that smelled like fried street food. The spaceport was busy, crowded with ships and people moving in every direction.

Tech stopped at the bottom of the ramp, turning to face you. He offered his hand, and you took it, letting him help you down the last step. His grip was firm, his palm warm against yours.

"Be careful," he said. "The locals can be opportunistic."

"I'll keep that in mind."

He nodded, then turned and walked back up the ramp. The others had already started moving, splitting into their assigned groups.

Omega and Echo headed toward the market district, Omega's small form sticking close to Echo's side. Crosshair disappeared into a side street, his rifle slung across his back.

That left you with Hunter and Wrecker.

Hunter glanced at you, his expression unreadable. Then he turned and started walking, gesturing for you to follow.

"We have a meeting in the lower levels," he said. "Stay close and keep your eyes open."

You fell into step beside him, Wrecker's heavy footsteps echoing behind you. The streets narrowed as they descended, the buildings growing older and more worn. The signs were faded, the lighting dimmer.

You passed a group of people clustered around a street vendor, their conversations a low murmur. A few of them looked your way, their eyes scanning you and your companions.

You kept your gaze forward, matching Hunter's pace.

The meeting was in a small office above a repair shop. The walls were lined with shelves filled with spare parts and old tools. A woman sat behind a desk, her face lined with age and experience. She looked at you when you walked in, her eyes lingering a moment longer than necessary.

"Hunter," she said. "I was wondering when you'd show up."

"Oba." He nodded, taking a seat across from her. "We need work."

"You always do." She leaned back, her chair creaking. "I've got a few options. Some better than others."

Hunter didn't respond. He waited.

"First one," she said, "there's a cargo run to the outer rim. Pays well, but the route goes through pirate territory."

"We've handled pirates before."

"Second one. A protection job for a local merchant. Low pay, low risk. Probably boring."

"Third?"

She smiled, a thin expression. "Third one's interesting. A research station near Hoth went dark. The scientists stopped responding. Someone wants to know what happened. Pays triple the standard rate."

Hunter considered it. "And the catch?"

"The station belongs to a private corporation. They're not saying what the research was about. Could be anything from medical experiments to weapons development."

"Could be a waste of time."

"Could be." She shrugged. "But if there's something valuable there, you get first pick of whatever's left."

Hunter turned to look at you, his eyes searching yours.

"What do you think?" he asked.

You blinked, surprised he was asking. "I think it depends on how much we need the credits. And how much risk we're willing to take."

He held your gaze for a moment longer, then turned back to Oba. "We'll take the third option."

She nodded, pulling out a datapad. "I'll send you the coordinates. You leave when you're ready."

The meeting ended. You followed Hunter and Wrecker back through the streets, the weight of the decision settling over you.

Wrecker stopped abruptly, his eyes locking onto something ahead. A crowd had gathered around a small booth near the market edge. A sign read "Irongrip Challenge: 50 credits to enter, 200 to the winner."

"Oh, I gotta try that!" Wrecker grabbed your arm before you could react, pulling you through the crowd. "Come on, you gotta watch this!"

Hunter rolled his eyes but followed. By the time you reached the front, Wrecker was already handing over credits and stepping up to the grip machine. He flexed his biceps, showing off the massive muscles for the crowd. You couldn't help but stare. The way the veins traced across his skin, the sheer size of his arms. He gripped the handles and squeezed. The machine groaned. The needle shot past the previous high score. The crowd cheered.

Wrecker released the handles with a triumphant laugh, turning to you with a grin. He flexed his arm again, the muscle bunching hard. "Go on," he said. "Touch it. Feel how strong I am."

Your hand moved before you thought about it. Your fingers pressed against the warm, solid curve of his bicep. The skin was hot, the muscle like durasteel beneath your palm. A warmth pooled low in your belly, unexpected and insistent.

Wrecker's grin widened. He held the pose for another second, then dropped his arm and clapped you on the shoulder. "Told you."

You pulled your hand back, your face warm. The crowd was already dispersing. Hunter was watching you, his expression unreadable.

You reached the spaceport just as the others were returning. Omega carried a bag of supplies, her face flushed with excitement. Echo followed behind her, his arms full of boxes.

Crosshair was already on the ship, his gear stowed. He gave you a look as you walked up the ramp, his eyes tracking your movement.

Hunter stopped in the cargo bay, turning to face the group.

"We have a mission," he said. "Research station near Hoth. We leave in an hour."

The others dispersed to prepare. You stood in the middle of the cargo bay, watching them move around you.

Hunter approached, his voice low. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Just processing."

He nodded, then reached out and touched your arm. A brief gesture. Grounding.

"We'll talk later," he said. "When things settle down."

He walked away, leaving you alone in the cargo bay with the hum of the ship around you.

You stood in the cargo bay for a moment longer, letting the hum of the ship settle around you. Then you turned and headed deeper into the Marauder, toward the sleeping quarters. Your legs still ached from the forest trek, and the thought of a clean bunk sounded better than it had any right to.

The corridor stretched ahead, empty and dim. The ship's lighting had shifted to the low-power setting, casting long shadows across the floor. You walked slowly, your fingers trailing along the wall.

A hand closed around your waist.

You gasped, spinning, but Crosshair's face emerged from the shadows. His eyes glinted, sharp and amused. He didn't say anything. He just pushed you against the wall, his body pressing against yours, and his hand slid down to grab your ass.

Firm. Full-palmed. He squeezed, his fingers digging into the flesh through your pants.

"Crosshair…"

His mouth found your neck. His lips pressed against the spot just below your ear, then moved lower, trailing along your pulse point. You felt the heat of his breath, the scrape of his teeth against your skin.

His hand moved. Slipped under the waistband of your pants, under the elastic of your underwear, and found you wet and ready. His fingers slid through your folds, finding your clit, circling slowly.

A sound escaped your throat. High and breathy. You bit your lip, trying to stifle it, but he pressed harder, and another one slipped out.

He chuckled against your neck. Low and satisfied.

"Already so worked up," he murmured. "I barely touched you."

You couldn't answer. His fingers kept moving, circling, pressing, until your knees felt weak and your breath came in short gasps.

Then he stopped.

He pulled his hand out, slow, deliberately. You saw the glisten on his fingers before he licked them clean.

He stepped back, leaving you pressed against the wall, aching and confused.

"You should go see Hunter," he said, his voice flat. "He'll take care of that."

He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. He didn't look back.

You stood there, your heart pounding, your body humming with unmet need. The space where his hand had been felt cold. Empty.

You pushed off the wall, your legs unsteady, and continued down the corridor. Hunter's bunk was further ahead. You could find him. You could…

You rounded the corner and stopped.

Wrecker stood in the doorway of his room, his massive frame filling the doorway. His arms were crossed, his expression unreadable. He looked at you, then at the direction Crosshair had gone, then back at you.

"I heard that," he said. "The sounds you made."

Your face went crimson. You opened your mouth to explain, but nothing came out.

He stepped forward, blocking your path. "Are you and Crosshair a thing?"

"I…" You swallowed. "It's complicated."

"Complicated." He repeated the word like it tasted strange. "And why did he tell you to go see Hunter?"

You looked down at your feet. The floor plating was scuffed, marked with years of use. "Because Hunter and I... we have an arrangement. And Crosshair knows about it."

Wrecker's brow furrowed. "What kind of arrangement?"

"Physical. Sexual. Nothing romantic." You forced the words out, each one burning. "We agreed it wouldn't be exclusive. Crosshair and I... something happened in the bunker. And Hunter said he's fine with it."

Wrecker stared at you. Then his expression shifted, a pout forming on his lips. It looked almost comical on his broad face.

"So if my brothers can have you like this," he said, "I should be able to, too."

You blinked. "What?"

He stepped closer, his height making you feel small. "Do you want me?"

The question hung in the air. You didn't know how to answer. Your mind was still catching up, still processing the last few minutes.

He smirked. The kind of smirk that said he already knew the answer.

"I'm by far the biggest of them all," he said. "Just so you know."

You swallowed. Your throat felt dry. Your pulse hammered in your ears.

He reached out, his hand cupping your chin, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. "Come on. I won't bite. Unless you want me to."

You didn't say no.

He took your hand and pulled you into his room. The door slid shut behind you, the lock clicking into place.

He released your hand and reached for the hem of his shirt. He pulled it over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. The fabric hit the floor with a soft thud.

You stared.

His chest was massive. Broad shoulders, a wide torso, muscles stacked on muscles. His arms were thick, his pecs defined, his stomach ridged with hard lines. He looked like he'd been carved from stone.

"Go on," he said. "Touch."

Your hand rose before you could think. Your fingers pressed against his chest, tracing the curve of his pectoral. The skin was hot, smooth over iron. He didn't move, letting you explore. Your palm slid down, over his ribs, across his stomach. The muscles tensed under your touch.

He grunted, low and deep. Then he bent down, scooped his arms under your knees and back, and lifted you off the floor like you weighed nothing.

You gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders. He held you easily, his arms cradling you, your face level with his.

He kissed you.

His mouth was warm, insistent. His tongue pushed past your lips, and you let him in, tasting him. He tasted like salt and something sweet. His hand moved, supporting your weight with one arm while the other worked at the fastenings of your pants.

You broke the kiss, breathless. "You're… You're still holding me."

"I know." He tugged your pants down, exposing your hips. "I'm strong."

He didn't put you down. He managed to pull your pants off completely, tossing them aside, then hooked his fingers into your underwear and stripped those off too. All while holding you, his arms never wavering.

Your mind spun. The casual strength of it, the ease. He made it look effortless.

He shifted you, one hand gripping your thigh, and turned you. Suddenly your head was lower than your hips, your legs draped over his shoulders, your face level with his waist. You realized what he was doing just as his mouth found your core.

His tongue pressed against you, broad and hot. You gasped, your hands grabbing at his waistband for purchase. He licked you slowly, deliberately, his tongue circling your clit in wide strokes. It was huge, impossibly large, and the sensation made your toes curl.

You needed something to ground yourself. Your hands fumbled with his pants, pulling at the fastenings, and he helped you, lowering them just enough. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, and you wrapped your fingers around the base. He groaned against your cunt, and you felt the vibration travel through you.

You took him in your mouth, as much as you could. The tip was wide, stretching your lips, and you had to focus to breathe through your nose. He grunted, his tongue pressing harder against your clit, and you felt the sound resonate in your core.

He worked you with that massive tongue, lapping and circling, and you felt the pressure building. Your hips bucked against his mouth, and he held you steady, his grip firm on your thighs. You came with a cry that was muffled by his cock, your body shuddering against him.

He pulled away, licking his lips. The sight of it, the satisfied gleam in his eyes, made your stomach flip.

He lowered you onto the mattress, gently, like you were something precious. Then he climbed on top of you, his body blocking out the light. You looked down. His cock lay heavy against his stomach, thick and long, and the sight made your breath catch.

"You're so big," you whispered.

"I know." He leaned down, kissing your forehead. "I'll be gentle."

He positioned himself at your entrance. The tip pressed against you, and you felt the stretch even before he pushed. He eased forward, just the head, and you felt impossibly full. A moan escaped your lips, low and trembling.

He grunted, his jaw tight. "Kriff, you're tight."

He pushed a little more, and you came again. The orgasm crashed over you, sudden and intense, and your walls clenched around him. He groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder.

"Sorry," you breathed.

"Don't be." He kissed your neck, soft and warm. "You feel incredible."

He moved, slow, shallow thrusts. Each one pushed a little deeper, but he never forced it. His hips rocked against yours, and you felt every inch, every ridge. The fullness was overwhelming, perfect.

He whispered against your ear. "You're taking me so well. Look at you, stretched around my cock."

You couldn't answer. You could only moan, your nails digging into his back.

His pace quickened, his breath coming faster. His movements grew sloppier, less controlled. He pulled out and stroked himself, his length sliding against your stomach, your breasts. A guttural sound escaped his throat as he came, hot and thick, painting your skin in stripes.

You looked down at yourself. The mess covered your stomach, dripping down your sides. It was obscene. Beautiful.

He kissed you, deep and slow. Then he scooped you up again, carrying you to his refresher. He set you on the counter, grabbed a cloth, and cleaned you carefully, his hands gentle. He cleaned himself too, then wrapped a towel around his waist.

He handed you a shirt. One of his. It was enormous, falling past your thighs like a dress.

He lifted you again, carrying you to his bunk, and laid you down. He climbed in beside you, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you against his chest.

"Stay," he murmured.

You didn't argue.

The nap came quickly, heavy and warm. When you woke, the light had shifted. Wrecker was still asleep, his breathing deep and even.

You slipped out of his arms carefully, wincing as your feet touched the floor. Your legs wobbled, the ache settling deep in your muscles. You padded to your own quarters, found clean clothes, and pulled them on.

But you kept his shirt. It smelled like him. You folded it and tucked it under your pillow.

Alien

● Alien x Mechanic Reader

Part 1/ Part 2/ Part 3

● Tentacles Alien x Astonaut Reader (coming soon)

Vampire & Werewolf

● Vampire x Bartender Reader

● Werewolf x In heat Reader (coming soon)

Orcs & Gobelins

● Orc x Bartender Reader

Ghouls & Zombies

● Roomate Ghoul x Reader (coming soon)

The last stool had been empty for twenty minutes already. You were wiping down the counter, the rag moving in slow circles across the polished wood, when the bell above the door chimed.

You looked up. Of course.

He always came at closing time. Never early enough to bother the other customers, never late enough to find the door locked. Just at that precise moment when you were alone and tired and ready to go home.

The man was tall, dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than your monthly rent. His hair was dark, combed back neatly, and his skin had that particular pallor that some people mistook for anemia or too many hours in an office. You knew better now. You'd known for about three months, ever since he first walked in and ordered something you didn't serve.

"Mister...," you said, setting the rag aside. "We're closing."

"I'm aware." He walked toward the bar, his steps measured and deliberate. "I won't keep you long."

He settled onto the stool, adjusting his cuffs with practiced precision. You already knew what was coming. The same conversation every few weeks, always at this hour, always when you were alone.

"I need a drink," he said.

"We have whiskey. Vodka. Some wine too"

"Not that kind of drink."

You leaned against the counter, crossing your arms. "Mister, you know I can't serve what you're asking for."

Three months of this. Three months of him coming in, ordering something you couldn't provide, and leaving with that same polite smile when you refused. He never pushed. He never argued. He just showed up, asked, and accepted your answer like a gentleman accepting bad weather.

But tonight felt different. Maybe because you were tired. Maybe because the bar was empty and the city outside was quiet, and there was something about the way the streetlight caught his face that made him look almost lonely.

"Mister." You gulped, not sure anymore. "I still can't serve what you're asking."

"I know." He tilted his head, studying you. "But I also know you have a storage room in the back. And I know you close in five minutes."

Your heart did something complicated in your chest. A skip, then a flutter, then a steady thump that felt too loud in the quiet room.

"That's not something I do."

"I'm not asking you to make it a habit."

"Why me?" you asked. "Surely you have other options."

He considered the question carefully, which you appreciated. Most people just said whatever came to mind first. This man, or whatever he was, seemed like the type who weighed every word before releasing it.

"You're clean," he said finally. "I can tell. You take care of yourself. You don't smoke, you drink moderately, and I've never seen you touch anything harder than coffee during your shifts." He paused. "Also, you're kind. You let the homeless man off the street use your bathroom last winter when every other business on this block turned him away. I saw that."

You remembered that night. The man had been shivering, covered in snow, and you'd let him warm up in the back for an hour before the police came to take him to a shelter. You hadn't thought anyone noticed.

"Three months," you said slowly. "You've been watching me for three months?"

"I'm a patient man." He smiled again, and this time it reached his eyes. Just barely. "I had to be sure."

The bar was empty. The clock on the wall ticked past closing time, and outside, the city hummed its usual nighttime melody.

You made a decision.

"Follow me."

The storage room was small, cramped with boxes of liquor and stacked chairs and a mop bucket that never seemed to dry properly. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting everything in a yellow glow that made the space feel smaller than it was.

He followed you inside, closing the door behind him. The click of the lock echoed in the tight space.

You rolled up your sleeve, exposing the pale skin of your forearm. The veins were visible underneath, blue lines traced against flesh in the dim light. You'd thought about this moment before, in the abstract way people think about unlikely scenarios. Never seriously. Never expecting it to actually happen.

He stepped closer, his movements slow and careful. He reached out and took your wrist, his fingers cool against your skin.

"Thank you," he said, and he sounded genuine. "This is not something I take lightly."

"Just do it."

He brought your arm to his lips, and for a moment, nothing happened. Just his breath against your skin, cool and steady. Then his mouth opened, and you felt the sharp pinch of teeth breaking through.

The pain was immediate but brief. A sting, then a warmth that spread outward from the wound. You watched, half-fascinated and half-horrified, as his mouth pressed against your arm. He didn't suck, not aggressively. Instead, he seemed to let the blood flow naturally, taking slow and deliberate draws that made your head spin.

The world narrowed to the sensation of his mouth on your skin. The warmth of your own blood leaving your body. The strange intimacy of standing in a storage room with a man you barely knew, giving him something that felt almost sacred.

He drank slowly, as though savoring it. Minutes passed, or maybe seconds. Time lost its shape in that small yellow room.

When he finally pulled away, you expected him to stop there. To wipe his mouth and thank you and leave. But he didn't.

He leaned in again, and his lips pressed against the wound. Not to drink this time. To kiss it.

The gesture was so tender, so unexpected, that your breath caught in your throat. His lips lingered on your skin, soft and cool, and when he pulled back, the wound had stopped bleeding. He'd sealed it somehow, with his saliva or his tongue or something you didn't understand.

"There," he said quietly. "That should heal quickly."

He released your wrist and stepped back, giving you space. His eyes were darker now, the pupils dilated, but his expression remained calm and composed.

"Thank you," he said. "That was... more than I expected."

You lowered your sleeve, feeling lightheaded. "You're welcome."

He reached into his jacket. His hand emerged with a handkerchief, crisp and white, which he offered to you.

"For your arm. In case it stains."

You took it, not knowing what else to do. The fabric was soft, expensive, monogrammed with what probably were his initials.

"Is there anything I can offer you in return?" he asked. "A tip, perhaps, for the service?"

The question hung in the air between you. You should have said no. Should have thanked him and sent him on his way. That would have been the smart thing, the safe thing.

But you didn't.

"I'm open to suggestions," you heard yourself say.

Something shifted in his expression. A flicker of interest, of hunger, though not the same hunger he'd walked in with. This was something else entirely.

"I could show you," he said, his voice dropping lower, "what it feels like to be wanted. To be taken care of." He stepped closer again, his hand reaching up to cup your face. His palm was cool against your cheek. "If you'd let me."

Your heart hammered in your chest. The storage room felt smaller, warmer, charged with an energy that made your skin prickle.

"Yes," you said.

He kissed you then, slow and deliberate, the way he'd drunk from you. His mouth was cool but not cold, tasting faintly of copper. Your blood, still on his lips. The thought should have disgusted you. Instead, it sent a thrill through your body that settled somewhere deep in your stomach.

His hands found your waist, guiding you backward until your back hit the wall. Boxes rattled somewhere behind him, a bottle clinking against another bottle. The sound was distant, unimportant.

His hands moved to the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly, exposing your skin to the cool air. His fingers traced along your waist, your ribs, mapping the contours of your body with an attention that made you shiver.

"Beautiful," he murmured. "I knew you would be."

His mouth found your neck, pressing kisses along the curve where your shoulder met your throat. His teeth grazed your skin, not breaking it, just teasing. A reminder of what he was, what he could do.

Your hands gripped his shoulders, feeling the expensive fabric of his jacket beneath your fingers. He was solid, real, even if the rest of this felt like a dream.

He turned you around, pressing your palms flat against the wall. The storage room door stared back at you, locked, a flimsy barrier between this moment and the rest of the world.

His hands worked at his belt, the sound of metal sliding against leather sharp in the quiet room. Then his fingers found the waistband of your pants, sliding them down with your underwear.

"You have no idea," he said, his voice rough but still polite, still controlled, "how long I've wanted this."

His hands gripped your hips, steadying you. You felt the pressure of him against you, the cool touch of his skin, and then he pushed inside.

The sound you made was not a word. It was something deeper, more primal, torn from your throat without permission. He filled you, stretching you in a way that made your knees weak.

"Shh," he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. "I know. Take a moment."

He stayed still, letting you adjust, his hands warm on your hips even through the coolness of his skin. Patient. Always patient.

When you moved against him, a small shift of your hips, he took it as permission. He began to move, slow at first, each thrust measured and deliberate. His breath was cool against your neck, his body pressed against your back, hemming you in against the wall.

"You feel incredible," he said, the words almost a whisper. "I knew you would. I could tell, just by looking at you."

Your hands scraped against the wall, searching for purchase. The pleasure built slowly, a wave rising from somewhere deep inside you.

"Tell me what you need," he said, his voice still that same polite murmur. "I want to give you what you need."

Faster. Deeper. The words wouldn't form properly on your lips, so you pushed back against him instead, showing him through movement what you couldn't say.

He understood. His thrusts grew harder, faster, the rhythm of his body driving you toward the edge. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you steady, keeping you close.

"That's it," he said. "Let go. I've got you."

And you did. The wave crested and broke, pleasure flooding through you in hot waves that made your vision blur. You cried out, the sound muffled by your own hand, by the wall, by the sheer intensity of the moment.

He followed moments later, his body tensing against yours, a low groan escaping his lips. He stayed inside you, breathing hard, his forehead pressed against the back of your neck.

The silence that followed was heavy. Intimate. The kind of silence that felt more honest than words.

He pulled out slowly, carefully, and you felt the sudden emptiness like a loss. Your legs gave out, and you slid down the wall, sitting on the cold floor of the storage room.

He knelt beside you, adjusting his clothes with practiced efficiency. Then he turned to you, his expression soft in a way you hadn't seen before.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

You couldn't answer. Your body was still trembling, your mind still catching up to what had just happened. Tears had gathered in your eyes, the kind that came after intense pleasure, and they spilled over before you could stop them.

He saw the tears. Something in his face shifted — concern, maybe, or tenderness. He reached out and brushed the tears away with his thumb, his touch impossibly gentle.

"It's alright," he said quietly. "That happens sometimes. It's just your body processing everything."

He leaned in and kissed your cheek, a soft press of lips against your skin. Then he pulled back and smiled, a real smile this time, one that made him look almost human.

"Thank you," he said. "For everything."

You wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand. "You're welcome."

He stood and straightened his jacket, smoothing out the wrinkles with practiced ease. At the door, he paused, looking back at you.

"I'll come more often," he said.

Then he unlocked the door and slipped out, leaving you alone in the yellow light of the storage room, your body still humming with the memory of his touch.

Hope you enjoyed

The Bad Batch

● Batch Batch x Medic Reader

Part 1/ Part 2/ Part 3/ Part 4/ Part 5

● Tech x Stripper Reader (coming soon)

● Tech x Reader (huge crush)

Part 1/ Part 2

The 501's

● Rex x Mechanic Reader

Part 1/ Part 2/ Part 3

● Fives x Soldier Reader

Part 1/ Part 2

● Jesse x drunk reader (coming soon)

● Rex x Reader x Fives (coming soon)

Plo's Bros

● Wolffe x Plo's Padawan Reader

Part 1/ Part 2 (coming soon)

Howzer & Gregor

● Howzer x chubby reader

● Howzer x Reader (senator assistant)

Btw, my commissions are open, both for art and fanfics (for free ofc)

The cargo bay on the lower deck smelled like oil and recycled air. Crosshair stood near the center, a blaster rifle cradled in his arms, his posture slack but his eyes sharp.

He didn't greet you. Just pointed to a pile of equipment near the wall.

"Target practice first. Then we see if you're worth the effort."

The training began with the basics. How to hold the weapon. How to align the sights. Crosshair's instructions came clipped and precise, each one followed by a demonstration that seemed effortless in his hands. He made it look easy. Natural. Like the blaster was an extension of his body.

Then he handed it to you.

The weight was wrong. The grip sat awkwardly in your palm, and the barrel kept dipping toward the floor. You adjusted your stance the way he'd shown, but your arms already ached from holding the thing up.

"You're thinking too much," Crosshair said. "A blaster doesn't care about your thoughts. Just pull the trigger."

You lined up the sight with the first target. A simple circle painted on a durasteel sheet. You fired.

The shot went wide. Hit the wall three feet to the left.

"Again."

You fired again. Closer this time, but still missing.

"Again."

The cycle continued. Reload. Aim. Fire. Miss. Crosshair corrected your grip. Adjusted your stance. Made you do it over and over until your shoulders screamed and your fingers felt numb.

After what felt like hours, you landed a shot on the edge of the target. Not center. Not even close to center. But it hit the circle.

Crosshair grunted. Said nothing.

Then he activated the moving targets.

Small disks that zipped across the bay on wires, unpredictable and fast. You missed the first fifteen. Then twenty. Your frustration built with each failed shot, a hot knot in your chest that made your hands shake.

"Breathe," Crosshair said. "You're choking the trigger."

You exhaled. Slowed down. Waited for the next disk.

It shot across the bay, and you tracked it with the barrel. You squeezed the trigger, smooth and steady.

The disk exploded into sparks.

Crosshair's expression didn't change. But he nodded once. A tiny motion. Almost imperceptible.

"Better."

You lowered the blaster, your arms trembling. Sweat soaked through your shirt. Your lungs burned from holding your breath.

From the doorway, someone clapped slowly.

Hunter leaned against the frame, his arms crossed. He'd been watching. You hadn't noticed when he arrived.

He didn't say anything. Just held your gaze for a moment, something warm flickering behind his eyes. Then he turned and walked away.

You made it to your bunk on autopilot.

Your legs gave out halfway through the door. You collapsed onto the mattress, face-first, not bothering to remove your boots. Every muscle in your body had turned to something between jelly and stone. Your trigger finger throbbed. Your shoulder felt like someone had driven a spike through it.

A soft knock.

"Come in."

The door slid open, and Hunter stepped inside. He sat on the edge of the bunk, the mattress dipping under his weight. For a long moment, he just looked at you.

"You did good," he said.

You groaned into the pillow. "I missed twenty shots."

"You hit the last one. The moving one. That's what matters."

You rolled onto your side to look at him. The light from the corridor caught the lines of his face, softening them.

"Crosshair is hard on everyone," Hunter said. "He's been like that since we were cadets. It's not personal."

"It feels personal."

"It might be. A little." He shrugged. "But that's his way of testing you. If he didn't think you could handle it, he wouldn't waste his time."

You let that settle. It didn't make the soreness go away, but it helped. A little.

Hunter shifted closer. "He's my brother. I share everything with him, without hesitation. If he thinks this training method is the best, I won't stop him."

"I know."

"But..." He paused. "I can still massage your soreness. If you want."

You couldn't help it. You smiled, pushing playfully at his elbow. "You're ridiculous."

He caught your hand, his fingers warm around yours. "I'm offering a legitimate medical service."

"Very legitimate."

He leaned down and kissed you. Soft at first, then deeper. His lips moved against yours with a familiarity that made your chest ache. You remembered everything. His weight on top of you. His breath in your ear. The way he'd said your name like it meant something.

The kiss ended too soon.

He pulled back, his eyes dark, his thumb tracing your jaw. "Get some rest. You'll need it tomorrow."

He stood and walked to the door. It slid open, and he stepped through.

The door closed.

You lay there, your lips still tingling, your heart still hammering. You pressed your fingers to your mouth and smiled. Then the door slid open again.

Crosshair walked in without knocking.

You sat up, startled. "A knock would be welcome."

"I don't do that." He crossed to the foot of your bunk and dropped a rifle on the mattress. It was smaller than the one he'd given you earlier. Sleeker. A carbine of some kind. Then he tossed a single ration bar next to it.

"Tonight, both of us are going on a mission."

You stared at the rifle. Then at him. "What kind of mission?"

"You'll find out when we get there."

"That's not helpful."

"It's not meant to be." He turned toward the door, then paused. "Might want to say goodbye to Hunter's bed tonight. You won't be in it."

Your face went red. Blazing, blistering red. You could feel the heat spread from your cheeks down your neck.

Crosshair's expression stayed flat. But something shifted at the corner of his mouth. The barest hint of a grin. Almost hidden.

He left without another word, and you sat there, your heart pounding, your face on fire. The grin. You'd seen it. Just for a second. And it made you feel warmer than you expected.

The shared living space hummed with the sound of a holoprogram. Wrecker sat on the sofa, his massive frame taking up two-thirds of it. Omega was curled beside him, her head resting on his bicep.

On the screen, a sitcom played. Two characters argued about something involving a misplaced shipment of cleaning supplies. The dialogue was cheesy. The laugh track was canned.

You settled onto the empty cushion next to Wrecker, keeping a respectable distance.

Wrecker's laugh boomed through the room when one of the characters slipped on a wet floor. The sofa trembled under you. Omega giggled, her small shoulders shaking.

The show continued. The character tried to explain what happened to his boss, his excuses growing more absurd with each line. You found yourself grinning despite the exhaustion pulling at your bones.

Omega shifted, curling closer to Wrecker. Her eyes drooped.

Then Wrecker's arm came around you.

It was casual. Natural. He pulled you against his side, his hand resting on your far hip, tucking you into the space beside him. His body was solid. Hard muscle under soft fabric. He radiated heat like a furnace.

You tensed for a moment, unsure. But he didn't seem to notice. He just kept watching the show, laughing when the joke landed, his arm heavy and warm around you.

You tried not to think about it. About the way his bicep pressed against your shoulder. About how easily he'd pulled you close. About how comfortable you were, pressed between him and Omega.

The show ended. Another one started. Something about a family trying to run a diner in the Outer Rim.

You blinked. Your eyelids felt heavy. The warmth of Wrecker's body, the steady rhythm of Omega's breathing, the low hum of the ship… It all blended.

You let your eyes close.

You woke to a soft laugh.

"Told you she was tired."

Wrecker's voice, low and rumbling. You blinked, disoriented, and realized you were still pressed against him. Your cheek was flush against his chest. His arm was still around you.

You looked up. He was grinning down at you, his face split with amusement.

"Didn't mean to fall asleep," you mumbled.

"Nothing to worry about." He shifted, letting you sit up. "Glad such a pretty girl was so close during all this time."

Your face warmed. But it was a good warmth. A flattered one.

You smiled back at him. "Thanks."

You looked at the chrono on the wall. One hour until Crosshair's surprise mission. Time enough.

You stood, stretched, and walked toward the cockpit.

Hunter sat alone in the pilot's seat.

The stars stretched ahead of them, endless and quiet. His hand rested on the console, his eyes fixed forward.

You dropped into the empty seat beside him.

"Hey."

"Hey." His lips curved into a smile.

Silence. Comfortable. The kind that didn't need to be filled.

Then Hunter turned to face you. His expression shifted. More serious.

"What are we?"

The question caught you off guard. You blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..." He ran a hand through his hair. "I enjoy your company. Last night was amazing. I want you to stay. But that doesn't mean I want the classic life. Dating. An animal. Two kids. None of that."

He leaned forward, his eyes holding yours.

"The Bad Batch is my only priority. If you become part of it, I'll be ready to die for you. But I can't prioritize you over any of them. That's why I don't want anything more than what we're sharing right now."

You absorbed his words. Let them settle.

Then you nodded.

"That's okay," you said. "I like how things are right now."

Something in his shoulders relaxed. He reached out, his hand cupping your cheek.

He kissed you.

His tongue brushed against your lips, and you parted them, letting him deepen the kiss. The heat rose fast. His hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer. His other hand traced your hip, your ribs, your side. He groaned softly against your mouth.

A throat cleared.

You broke apart.

Crosshair stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. His toothpick shifted from one side of his mouth to the other.

"If you hear me approaching," he said, "and you do, given your hyperaware senses, you could have the decency to stop before I arrive."

Your face burned. You couldn't look at him. Hunter chuckled softly.

Crosshair turned to you. "Ready?"

You nodded, rising from the seat. You followed him out of the cockpit, down the corridor, down the ladder to the lower deck.

A holomap glowed on the table.

You stepped closer to look.

It showed a forest, dense and dark, with markers scattered across the terrain. Dozens of them. Small crosses that dotted the landscape like spots on a fever chart.

Crosshair tapped the map.

"Your mission is simple. We go to each of these points and check if supplies are still there. They're strategic resupply points from the war. Clones used them during active campaigns."

You studied the map. The forest looked thick. Impassable in some sections.

"The forest is known to be very dangerous," Crosshair said. "Wild animals. Venomous plants. No trails."

He looked at you.

"Ready?"

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Crosshair turned without another word and walked toward the equipment lockers. You followed, your legs still sore from training, your mind spinning with what you'd just agreed to.

He pulled off his armor piece by piece, setting each segment into a storage compartment. You watched, trying not to stare, but it was impossible. The blacks underneath clung to his frame like a second skin. Long and lean, every muscle defined without the bulk of his brothers. Where Wrecker was a mountain of mass and Hunter had that tapered V-shape with shoulders that seemed too wide for any door, Crosshair was all wiry tension. Rope-like cords running along his arms. A narrow waist that somehow still looked strong. He moved with a precision that made you think of a serpent coiling before a strike.

You realized you'd been staring when he spoke without turning around.

"Could you stop checking on me? I know I'm far better than my brother, but I still'd rather have you concentrated."

Heat flooded your cheeks. You looked away, fixing your gaze on a crack in the floor plating. "I wasn't…"

"Save it." He pulled a carbine from the locker and handed it to you. Same one from earlier. "You're going to need both hands for this."

You took the weapon, grateful for something to focus on. Your fingers found the grip, the familiar weight settling into your palms. You checked the charge pack the way he'd shown you during training, then slung it across your back.

Crosshair finished gearing up, pulling on his armor with practiced efficiency. His helmet tucked under his arm, his main rifle already in hand. He grabbed a small backpack and tossed it to you.

"Supplies. Water, rations, extra power cells. Don't lose it."

"I won't."

He didn't look convinced. But he turned and climbed the ladder to the upper deck without waiting.

The Marauder hummed around you as you followed. The transition to hyperspace had already smoothed out, the stars becoming streaks of light beyond the viewport. You found your way to the cargo bay, where Crosshair was already running a systems check on a small speeder bike strapped to the floor.

You helped him secure a few cargo nets to the bike's rear rack, then stood back as he finished the check.

The descent took less than an hour. Through the cockpit window, you watched the forest planet grow from a green marble to a carpet of tangled canopy. Hunter brought the ship down through a break in the trees, setting it on a clearing barely large enough for the landing struts.

"Keep your comms open," he said as you passed through the cockpit. "Anything goes wrong, you call."

Crosshair grunted something that might have been acknowledgment. He dropped the ramp, and the forest air flooded in… Thick with humidity and the smell of damp earth. Something rotting. Something alive.

You stepped off the ramp, your boots sinking slightly into the mossy ground. The trees stretched high above, their branches interlaced so tightly that the sky was barely visible. Patches of light dappled the floor between shadows that seemed to move when you weren't looking.

Crosshair touched his earpiece. "We're heading northeast. First cache about three klicks."

"Copy," Hunter's voice crackled back.

You started walking.

The forest was quiet in a way that felt wrong. No birds. No insects. Just the rustle of leaves when the wind pushed through, and the occasional snap of a twig under your feet. You kept close to Crosshair, matching his pace, trying to read the terrain the way you'd seen him scan a room.

He stopped abruptly.

You didn't have time to react. Your chest collided with his back, your hands instinctively bracing against his shoulders. He was solid, unyielding, and you felt the muscle beneath his armor tense.

"Watch it," he said, his voice flat.

"Sorry. Why did you…"

He raised a hand, cutting you off. His eyes were fixed on something ahead. You followed his gaze but saw nothing. Just more trees. More shadows. He waited a beat, then continued walking without explanation.

You fell back into step, giving him more space this time.

It happened again. He stopped so suddenly you nearly tripped over your own feet. This time you caught yourself before impacting, but you still ended up close enough to smell the oil on his armor.

He turned his head, his jaw tight.

"All right. You're going in front."

"What? I don't know where we're going."

He pulled a small holomap from his belt and shoved it into your hands. "You have the coordinates. Lead."

You stared at the glowing blue map, the markers scattered across the terrain. The first one was about two klicks northeast. You looked up, trying to orient yourself. The trees all looked the same.

"I can't…"

"Figure it out." He gestured with his rifle. "I'm tired of you running into me."

You swallowed your protest and stepped past him, taking the lead. The holomap showed a faint path, though it was barely visible on the ground. You picked your way through the undergrowth, checking the device every few steps.

Crosshair followed in silence. You could feel his gaze on your back, measuring, waiting for you to make a mistake. The pressure made your palms sweat.

But you found the first marker. A small clearing with a rusted supply crate half-buried in moss. You stopped, and Crosshair moved past you, kneeling to inspect it.

"Not bad," he said, his voice carrying a note of surprise.

You felt a small thrill. "Are you impressed?"

He looked up at you, and for a fraction of a second, the corner of his mouth twitched. "Not yet."

But there was something in his eyes. A glint. Playful, almost. It made your chest warm in a way you didn't expect.

He pried open the crate, revealing a cache of old ration bars, a few lighters, and some small boxes of ammunition. He handed you the ammo and told you to take anything electronic you found.

The next four caches followed the same pattern. You navigated, Crosshair opened, and you loaded the supplies onto the speeder bike. The work was tedious, but the rhythm of it settled something in your bones. By the time you reached the fifth cache, the sky had begun to darken, the canopy turning the forest into a cavern of shadows.

The fifth cache was different. A larger bunker built into a hillside, hidden by a slab of durasteel covered in moss. Crosshair found the latch and pried it open with the butt of his rifle. The door swung outward with a groan, revealing a dark staircase leading down.

He descended first. You followed, your boots echoing against metal steps.

The space below was cramped, filled with shelves and stacked crates. Dust hung in the air. Crosshair clicked on a lamp, revealing rows of supplies… More than the previous caches combined. Rations, medical kits, power cells, even a few crates of components that looked like they belonged on a ship.

You worked in silence, sorting through the inventory. Crosshair pointed to a stack of wiring and circuit boards. "Echo and Tech will want that."

You loaded it onto the speeder, which was now parked at the top of the stairs. The bike groaned under the weight, but it held.

After ten more minutes of searching the cramped bunker for anything useful, you finally climbed out into the open air. A deep, guttural roar stopped you cold.

A massive creature with four glowing eyes lunged from the shadows. Before you could react, Crosshair stepped in front of you, his rifle already raised and firing. The creature swiped at him, claws raking across his waist, but his shot found its mark. The beast crumpled to the ground, dead.

You rushed to his side, dropping to your knees. Blood seeped through his black undersuit. You pulled the fabric aside, relief flooding you when you saw the wound was shallow. "It's not too deep," you said. "I need to bandage it."

He nodded, a sharp motion.

"Thank you," you said. "For protecting me."

He looked at you, a faint smirk. "You wouldn't have done the same."

You laughed softly, surprising yourself. "Probably not. But still."

You convinced him to let you bandage him properly. Finding a relatively clean spot on the bunker floor, you helped him peel off his armor piece by piece. The black undersuit came next, and you helped him pull it over his head, revealing the lean, chiseled lines of his torso. You couldn't help but let your eyes linger.

He noticed. "So," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice, "better or worse than Hunter?"

Heat bloomed across your face. You looked away, fumbling with the medical kit. "You're both very different. That's for the best."

He smirked, watching you as you took out the bandages. His stare sent a chill down your spine.

You cleaned the wound carefully. He hissed, a low groan escaping his lips, and his hand shot out to grip your thigh for grounding. The pressure of his fingers sent a jolt through you, but you forced yourself to focus on the wound.

You bandaged him gently, your fingertips brushing against the hard planes of his muscles. When you grazed his ribs, goosebumps rose on his skin.

When you finished, he was still watching you. You stood and offered him a hand. He took it, pulling himself up. Then he reached for his armor.

"I can help," you offered.

"No." He began fitting the pieces back on himself. "I've got it."

You watched him finish, then said, "We should stay here tonight. Call the others."

He grunted in agreement.

You called Hunter, who confirmed they'd arrive at first light. The bunker's door sealed, and you settled in for the night. Crosshair on the cot, you on the floor. The aches in your body were deeper now, but you felt a quiet satisfaction. You closed your eyes, the adrenaline fading into a warm exhaustion.

The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy like the humidity still clinging to your clothes. You lay on the floor, staring at the dark ceiling, your body aching in places you didn't know could ache.

"So," Crosshair said, his voice cutting through the quiet, "are Hunter and you... a thing?"

You blinked at the ceiling. The question hung there, unexpected. You thought about it, really thought about it, letting the words settle.

"No," you said. "It's probably just about being attracted physically and sexually to each other. It'll probably always stay this way. Just some sort of... sexfriends."

You heard him shift on the cot. A creak of old springs.

He nodded, though you couldn't see it. You felt it in the pause that followed. "I'm honestly happy you two aren't official or anything."

"Yeah, I know." You let out a breath. "You're not a big fan of me. You want me leaving. You don't want your brother to grow attached."

"No." His voice cut sharper now. "Not only that."

You turned your head, looking at him in the dim light. He was propped on one elbow, his silhouette dark against the grey of the bunker wall. His eyes found yours.

"Me and my brothers," he said, "we share everything. If you stay here, I'm happy to know I'll get the pleasure to make you blush without getting Hunter jealous."

Heat flooded your cheeks. You felt it spread from your neck to your ears, and you cursed yourself for being so transparent. He saw it. Of course he saw it. The smirk that pulled at his lips was just visible in the low light.

You stared at him, not knowing what to say. The silence stretched.

He tried to shift on the cot, adjusting his position, and a wince escaped through his teeth. His hand went to his bandaged side.

"Careful there," you said, pushing yourself up to sit. "You'll reopen the wound."

He gritted his teeth, waiting for the pain to pass.

You couldn't help yourself. "You want a magic kiss to help ease the pain?" you asked, your voice carrying a teasing edge. The kind of thing you'd say to a toddler scraping their knee.

He looked at you. "Yes."

The word landed like a stone in still water.

You searched his face. No hesitation. No mockery. Just that flat stare, steady and waiting.

Your heart picked up its pace. You rose from the floor, your joints protesting, and crossed the small space to the cot. You lowered yourself beside him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. His eyes stayed on you, tracking your movement.

You leaned in. Slow. Your breath mingled with his. Your lips brushed against his, quick and light, a peck that lasted less than a second.

You pulled back.

He chuckled, low and rough. "You usually have to kiss the damaged area."

"You're not the doc," you said, matching his tone. "I am. And I know what I'm doing."

He murmured, his voice dropping, "I have to admit... I'm not totally opposed to you staying with the Bad Batch anymore."

You watched each other. The space between you felt charged, humming with something unspoken. His eyes moved to your lips, and you felt the pull, undeniable.

You leaned in again.

This time, the kiss was slower. Your lips met his, and you let them linger, letting the pressure build. His mouth was warm, surprisingly soft against yours. He made a sound, a soft grunt that vibrated against your lips, and his hand came up to grab the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.

He kissed you back.

Your hands found his chest, fingers splaying across the hard planes. You were careful, avoiding the bandaged side, letting your palms trace the lines of his muscles. Heat pooled low in your stomach, spreading through your limbs like warm syrup.

He broke the kiss just long enough to rise, shifting to sit upright on the cot. His hands found your hips, and he pulled you onto his lap without ceremony. You straddled him, your knees bracketing his thighs, and he kissed you again, deeper now.

His hands moved down. Cupped each of your ass cheeks, squeezing hard, and forced a rocking motion against his lap. His tongue invaded your mouth, and you let him, your own hands tangling in his hair.

You felt him growing hard beneath you. Each rock of your hips drew a soft grunt from him, the sound rough in your ear. His grip on your ass tightened, guiding your movements, and each back-and-forth sent sparks straight to your core.

You were drenched. You could feel it, the wetness pooling between your legs, soaking through your underwear.

He broke the kiss, both of you breathless. A smirk spread across his face.

"Now *this*," he said, his voice a low rasp, "is a magic kiss."

You swallowed, your pulse hammering.

"I'd like to see if your other lips are also magical."

Your face burned, but you nodded. You climbed off his lap, your legs unsteady, and reached for the waistband of your pants. You pushed them down, along with your underwear, stepping out of them in one motion. The air was cool against your bare skin.

Crosshair unbuckled his belt. He pushed his pants and undersuit down, and his cock sprang free, hard and ready. You took a moment to look at him. Long. Thick. The sight made your mouth water.

You climbed back onto his lap, positioning yourself over him. The head of his cock pressed against your entrance, teasing.

He looked at you. "Ready?"

You nodded.

He raised his hips, meeting yours, and pushed inside you.

A moan escaped your throat, low and trembling. He filled you, stretching you in a way that made your vision blur. You started to move, riding him, finding a rhythm that made both of you gasp.

His head fell back, his eyes closed, his lips parted. You watched his face shift through pleasure, the hard lines softening just a fraction.

He grabbed your ass cheeks, guiding your movements, pushing you faster. His cock pressed deep, bullying against your cervix, finding a spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.

A loud slap echoed through the bunker.

You heard it before you felt it. The sting bloomed across your right cheek, sharp and bright. He was still moving inside you, and the mix of pleasure and pain sent a jolt through your system.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in. Sweat and blood and something sharp that was just *him*. Tears pricked at your eyes, overwhelmed, and you felt his chest rumble with his own pleasure against your cheek.

Another slap. Left cheek this time. Your eyes flew open, wide and startled.

He chuckled, his hand massaging the sting away, fingers kneading the flesh.

"You feel so good," he murmured against your ear, his voice ragged. "Your pussy clenches every time I slap your ass. You like it, don't you?"

You couldn't answer. You could only moan, your nails digging into his shoulders.

He came inside you with a violence that shook his whole body. You felt him pulse, felt the warmth spread, and you collapsed against him, spent and trembling.

You stayed there, pressed against his chest, your breath evening out. A warmth spread across your belly, warm and wet, and you looked down.

His bandage had shifted. Blood seeped through, a slow trickle that ran down his side.

"It's not bad," you said, your voice hoarse. "But I need to redo it."

He laughed, a breathless sound. "Can't even have a moment of peace."

You climbed off his lap, your legs wobbling beneath you. He watched you, his eyes tracking every movement, a filthy grin spreading across his face.

You grabbed fresh bandages and cleaning supplies from the kit. This time, you sat on his lap as you worked, completely naked, completely exposed to his gaze. He didn't look away. He watched your hands, your face, the way your breasts moved as you leaned forward.

You finished the bandage, pressing it firmly into place.

He pulled you against him, positioning you on his side so you wouldn't press against the wound. He didn't kiss you. There was nothing romantic in the gesture. But you felt it anyway. A shift. A certain respect that hadn't been there before.

"I'm not having sex with you because I want you to like me," you said, the words leaving your mouth before you could stop them.

"That changes nothing," he said, his voice low and steady. "You still desperately need training. You're a talented medic, I admit. An even more talented pussy. But you suck with a blaster. You'll still have to prove yourself with that."

He paused, his hand resting on your hip.

"But if you want to stay and get special training more often..." His fingers traced a lazy circle on your skin. "Well. I'm more than okay with that."

You nodded against him, grateful.

The bunker was quiet. The supplies sat stacked near the door. The speeder bike waited above, laden with everything you'd found. And here, in the dark, pressed against a man who'd wanted you gone just hours ago, you felt something settle.

You closed your eyes.

Sleep came quickly, pulling you both down into its depths, tangled together and completely spent.

Hope you enjoyed

Hunter remembered the fear as if it were still curling in his chest.

He remembered standing in the doorway of that cramped med clinic on Ord Mantell, watching Omega shiver under a thin blanket. Her skin had taken on a grey color that made him think of things he didn't want to think about. Things like empty cradles and soldiers who never came home.

The local medic had already told him there was nothing more they could do. Something about the fever being too advanced, the infection too deep for their limited supplies.

Hunter had looked at Crosshair first. Then at Wrecker. Echo had been pacing near the door, his mechanical hand clenching and unclenching in a rhythm that matched Hunter's own heartbeat.

"I'm not leaving her here," he'd said.

Nobody argued.

The frantic search happened through back alleys and shadow markets, through the kind of places where people didn't ask questions but charged triple for answers. Hunter remembered the stench of burning oil and rotting fruit. The way his feet had ached from hours of walking. The desperation that made his enhanced senses sharper than they'd been in months.

That was how he found you.

You weren't advertising yourself as a doctor. Just a woman with steady hands who knew how to handle a fever that wouldn't break. Someone who'd lost your practice to Imperial requisitions and now worked out of a storage room with a cot and a battery-powered sterilizer.

Hunter remembered watching you work. The way your fingers found Omega's pulse without hesitation. How you mixed compounds by eye, never measuring, always precise. Your voice when you spoke to Omega, low and calm, like you'd done this a thousand times before.

Something in Hunter's chest had loosened then. Just a little.

The fever broke six hours later. Omega opened her eyes, confused and thirsty, and Hunter had to turn away so nobody would see his face.

Now, a week later, he stood in the doorway of the Marauder's tiny galley, watching you eat a ration bar. The ship hummed around you both, that familiar vibration that had become his home for more years than he cared to count.

"You don't have to keep thanking me," you said, catching his gaze.

He hadn't realized he was staring.

"I know." He stepped into the galley, the space suddenly feeling smaller. "But I'm going to anyway."

You set the ration bar down. It crumbled on the wrapper.

Hunter's voice dropped, the way it always did when he meant something. "I thought she was going to die. That night. Before I found you."

The words hung in the air between you. He didn't usually talk about things like this. Feelings. Fears. The kind of softness that got people killed.

But something about you made him want to.

"I'm glad I was there," you said.

He nodded and sat across from you. The table was barely wide enough for two plates. He could smell your soap, something floral and cheap, and underneath it, the faint scent of antiseptic that clung to your clothes.

"So what's your story?" he asked. "How does a medic end up on Ord Mantell with no patients and no way off?"

You shrugged, but he caught the way your shoulders tensed. "Bad luck. Bad timing. The Empire doesn't like independent practitioners."

"They don't like anyone who isn't them."

"That too."

He let the silence settle before asking about something lighter. "What made you choose medicine?"

You thought about it, chewing slowly. "I like fixing things. People mostly. They're more complicated than machines, but the satisfaction is better when they walk out on their own."

Hunter smiled, a rare thing that felt strange on his face. "Omega's walking now."

"She is."

He leaned back, studying you. The way you held yourself, careful and contained. The way your eyes scanned a room before you relaxed. A habit you shared with him, he realized.

"What about your tattoo?" you asked, nodding toward his skull face.

He glanced down at it, then back at you. "Nothing mysterious. I just thought it looked cool."

"You're telling me the leader of Clone Force 99 picked a tattoo based on aesthetics?"

"Sometimes that's all there is to it."

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical. Hunter felt the corner of his mouth twitch.

"It goes further, actually," he said, gesturing vaguely toward his torso. "Covers most of my chest. Stops somewhere around my hip."

Your gaze flickered down, then back up. A flush crept across your cheeks.

"You could see it sometime," he said, letting his voice dip lower. "Find out exactly where it stops. Private like."

Your breath caught. He heard it, that tiny hitch, and felt a warmth spread through his chest. Your heart was beating faster now. His senses told him everything he needed to know.

"I…" You cleared your throat. "That's forward."

Hunter shrugged, still smiling. "Even if it's not a reg, I'm still a clone. We don't do subtle."

He stood, leaving you there with your half-eaten ration bar and your crimson cheeks. At the door, he turned back.

"Think about it."

Two hours later, you were sitting at Omega's bedside, watching her sleep.

The girl had been doing better. Her color had returned, her appetite was slowly coming back. She'd spent most of the morning trailing after Wrecker, asking questions about everything he was doing.

But now she was awake, blinking at you with tired eyes.

"Who are you?"

You leaned forward. "I'm a medic. Your brothers brought me on board because they were worried about you."

Omega processed this slowly. "You're the one who helped me?"

"Yes."

She smiled, a small thing, but genuine. "Good. I'm glad you're here. It's nice to have another girl on the crew."

Something in your chest tightened. "Thank you."

Omega sat up, rubbing her eyes. "Is Hunter worried about me?"

"He was. He still is, probably. That's what brothers do."

She nodded, then swung her legs over the side of the bed. "I should go see the others."

You helped her stand, steadying her when she wobbled. She walked toward the main cabin, her steps growing surer with every stride.

Through the open door, you watched her find Wrecker. He scooped her up like she weighed nothing, spinning her around while she laughed. Echo joined them, his usual reserve cracking as he ruffled her hair.

They looked like a family. A broken, scarred, beautiful family.

You stepped back, wanting to give them space, and walked straight into something solid.

Strong hands caught your shoulders before you could stumble.

"Careful there."

Hunter's voice, low and amused, right behind you. His chest was warm against your back. His breath stirred the hair near your ear.

You spun around, heart hammering. "Sorry. I wasn't looking."

"Clearly." He didn't let go. His hands stayed on your shoulders, thumbs brushing against the fabric of your shirt. "You alright?"

"Fine. Great. Perfect."

The words came out too fast. His eyes crinkled at the corners.

"Come talk to me," he said. "In my bunk."

Every nerve in your body fired at once. "Your bunk?"

"My room. For talking." He paused. "Unless you want it to be something else."

You didn't answer. Couldn't. Your throat had closed up.

He released your shoulders slowly, like he was savoring the moment, then turned and walked down the corridor without waiting for your reply. And of course you followed.

His room was smaller than you'd expected. A bunk, a locker, a shelf bolted to the wall. On that shelf sat a collection of objects that seemed out of place in a soldier's quarters: a crumpled drawing of what looked like a loth-cat, a bracelet made of woven string, a small carved bantha that had seen better days.

Omega's work, you guessed.

Hunter noticed your gaze. "She makes things. Gives them to all of us."

"That's sweet."

"It is." He gestured to the bunk. "Sit."

You sat. The mattress dipped under your weight, and he settled beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him.

"I wanted to talk about something," he said.

Your stomach dropped. "Is everything okay?"

"Fine. Better than fine." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Look, I'm grateful for what you did for Omega. We all are. But I need to be honest with you."

"About what?"

He met your eyes, and his gaze was steady. Serious. "We're enemies of the Empire. All five of us. Every job we take puts us deeper on their radar. I don't want to push too far with your generosity. I don't want to put you in danger."

You held his gaze. "I know what I signed up for."

"Do you?" He leaned closer. "In two days, we're stopping on a civilized planet. If you want, in four days, I can have you back on Ord Mantell. Back where we found you."

Your heart clenched. "What if I don't want to go back?"

"Then you stay. But I need you to choose. Consciously. Not because you feel obligated."

You thought about the empty med clinic. The patients who'd stopped coming. The Empire agents who'd knocked on your door twice already, asking questions you'd deflected.

"I'll stay," you said. "For now."

"Good." He exhaled. "I don't want you to feel trapped."

"I don't."

He shifted closer, and his hand landed on your thigh. Warm. Heavy. Deliberate.

"You're welcome to stay as long as you want," he said. "Whatever you need, we'll figure it out."

Your skin tingled where he touched you. Heat spread up your leg, into your stomach, your chest.

"You're blushing," he said. "Your heart is racing."

His thumb traced a circle on your thigh. "I can hear it. Smell it. I know exactly what I do to you."

Mortification and arousal tangled in your gut. "That's... you're..."

"It would be a shame if you left so soon." His voice dropped, rough and warm. "I haven't had nearly enough time to get more reactions out of you."

You forced yourself to hold his gaze. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, fixed on you like you were the only thing in the room.

He lifted his hand from your thigh and cupped your chin. His thumb traced your lower lip, feather-soft.

And then he kissed you.

It started gently, almost questioning. His lips moved against yours, testing, tasting. You parted your mouth without thinking, and he took the invitation, pressing his tongue against yours.

Heat flooded through you. Your hands found his hair, threading through the strands, and he groaned, a sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours.

He deepened the kiss, pulling you closer, and you let him guide you back onto the mattress. His weight settled over you, straddling your hips, his hands roaming your sides.

"You have no idea," he murmured against your lips, "how long I've wanted…"

A knock.

Both of you froze.

"Hunter?" Omega's voice filtered through the door. "Have you seen the medic? I can't find her anywhere."

You looked at Hunter. He looked at you.

Your breath came fast. His hair was tousled, his lips swollen. He looked completely undone, and somehow that made everything worse.

He pressed his forehead to yours, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

"Give me a second, Omega," he called, his voice steady despite the chaos. "She's probably in the refresher. I'll be right out."

"Okay!"

Her footsteps retreated. Hunter stayed where he was, still laughing, his breath warm against your skin.

"That was close," you whispered.

"Too close." He kissed your forehead, lingering. "We're not done."

He rolled off you, stood, and straightened his shirt. At the door, he looked back, his gaze burning.

"Later," he promised.

And then he was gone.

You took a moment to collect yourself after the door slid shut.

Your heart was still pounding. Your lips tingled from the kiss. The taste of him lingered, mixed with the stale air of his quarters. You pressed a hand to your chest, feeling the rapid thump under your ribs, and took a slow breath. Then another. Then you stood, smoothed your shirt, and walked out into the corridor.

Crosshair was waiting.

He stood against the wall, arms crossed, his toothpick shifting from one side of his mouth to the other. The lighting in the corridor caught the sharp angles of his face, making him look even more gaunt than usual. He didn't say anything at first. Just watched you with those narrow eyes that seemed to see straight through walls.

You stopped. "Crosshair."

He pushed off the wall, falling into step beside you as you started walking. His presence was cold, deliberate. You could feel the tension radiating off him like heat from a broken engine.

"You should leave," he said.

The words landed flat. No preamble. No softening. You kept walking. "Excuse me?"

"At the next stop. Get off the ship and don't look back." He matched your pace easily, his boots silent where yours scuffed the deck plates. "It's better for you. We're all criminals. The Empire has us on every watch list in the galaxy."

"I know what I signed up for."

He stopped walking. You stopped too, turning to face him. His expression hadn't changed, but something in his jaw tightened.

"No," he said, "you don't. You're a civilian. You have no training, no augmentation. If we get pinned down, you'll be dead weight. A liability." He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "And Hunter doesn't need a weakness that obvious. None of us do."

The words stung. You felt them settle somewhere deep, like a splinter you couldn't dig out.

"I'm a medic," you said. "I can help."

"You can get yourself killed. And then he'll blame himself forever." Crosshair's eyes flicked down the corridor, toward the shared space where laughter echoed. "You think he can afford that? Any of us can afford that?"

You didn't answer.

He held your gaze for a long moment, then turned and walked away without another word. His silhouette disappeared around a corner, leaving you alone in the humming corridor.

You stood there, breathing. Then you walked toward the sound of voices.

The shared space was warm, cluttered with people and equipment. Wrecker sat on the floor, legs crossed, while Omega perched on a crate beside him. She was showing him something on a datapad, her small fingers tracing the screen. Tech and Echo were hunched over an open panel near the cockpit, wires spilling out like colorful entrails. Tech muttered something about voltage regulators, and Echo handed him a tool without looking.

You settled onto a bench near the edge of the room, keeping your distance.

Omega noticed you almost immediately. Her face lit up.

"Medic!" She hopped off the crate and padded over, her bare feet slapping against the metal floor. "Want to see what I found? It's a picture of a loth-cat. I think it's a baby one."

She thrust the datapad into your hands. The image showed a blurry holo of a small, fluffy creature with oversized ears. It was chewing on a cable.

"Cute," you said.

"Right? I want to get one someday. Hunter said maybe, when we have a place that stays still."

Wrecker lumbered over, grinning. "A loth-cat? Those things shed everywhere. I knew a guy on Corellia who had one. Got hair in his food for three years."

"Three years?" Omega's eyes went wide.

"At least."

She giggled, and something in your chest loosened. Crosshair's words still echoed, but this… This was easier. Soft. You let yourself sink into it.

Dinner came in the form of ration packs and reconstituted protein. Wrecker heated everything in the galley's tiny oven, humming something off-key. Tech and Echo joined them briefly, but Tech was still muttering about the power coupling issue, and Echo followed after him with a resigned shrug.

Omega sat next to you, her knee brushing yours as she ate.

"How old are you?" she asked between bites.

"Old enough to have been working for a while," you said.

"What kind of medicine do you like best? Emergency stuff, or the slow kind?"

"I like fixing things. People mostly. Emergency stuff gives you a rush, but the steady work feels better."

She nodded seriously. "I think I'd like the steady kind. But maybe emergency sometimes."

"That's a good balance." She chewed thoughtfully, then asked, "Are you single?"

The question caught you off guard. You felt heat rise to your cheeks before you could stop it.

"Yes," you said.

And you couldn't help it. Your gaze drifted across the room, searching, and found Hunter leaning against the doorframe of the galley. His arms were crossed, but his eyes were warm, and the corner of his mouth curved into that knowing smirk. He'd heard everything. Of course he had.

Then your eyes moved past him, into the shadowed corner near the storage lockers.

Crosshair sat there, cleaning his rifle with slow, deliberate strokes. His face was a mask, but his movements were too precise, too controlled. He looked pissed. The kind of pissed that simmered under the surface, ready to boil.

You looked away quickly.

Omega was still watching you, her head tilted. "Why are you blushing?"

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are. Wrecker, look, she's blushing."

Wrecker squinted at you. "Yeah, you're pretty red. You feeling okay? Need some water?"

"I'm fine." You stood, gathering your tray. "Just tired. Long day."

Omega set down her fork. "Can you put me to bed? Hunter usually does it, but he's busy."

You glanced at Hunter. He was watching you, his smirk still in place. He gave a slight nod, almost imperceptible.

"Sure," you said. "Lead the way."

Omega took your hand and pulled you down the corridor, past the bunks, past the refresher, to a small door near the end. Her room was tidy, a single bunk with a faded blanket and a shelf of trinkets. She climbed in, and you tucked the blanket around her.

"Will you stay for a bit?" she asked, her voice already softening.

"Just until you fall asleep."

She smiled and closed her eyes. Within minutes, her breathing evened out.

You sat there for a while, watching her face relax. Then you stood, careful not to make noise, and stepped back into the corridor.

Hunter was waiting.

He leaned against the wall opposite the door, his arms crossed, his eyes dark in the dim light. He didn't say anything. Just pushed off the wall and stepped close, close enough that his breath stirred your hair.

"I'd love to have you get me to bed too," he whispered, his voice low and rough.

Your face burned. Your mouth opened, but no words came out.

He smiled, slow and satisfied, then turned and walked away. You watched his back disappear into the shadows of the corridor, your heart hammering, your legs barely steady.

You made it to the refresher on autopilot. Closed the door. Leaned against the sink, staring at your reflection. Your cheeks were flushed, your eyes too bright. You looked like someone who'd just been kissed within an inch of her life. You splashed cold water on your face, took a breath, then another.

When you stepped out, the corridor was empty. You passed the shared living space on the way to Hunter's room, and through the open door, you caught a glimpse of Crosshair. He was still sitting in the corner, his rifle reassembled, his eyes fixed on you.

You held his gaze for a second. Then you looked away and kept walking.

The door to Hunter's quarters was ahead. You stopped in front of it, your hand hovering over the panel. You could hear his heartbeat through the metal, steady and patient.

You knocked softly.

The door slid open.

He stood there, shirtless, his tattoo curling across his chest and down his hip. The light from the corridor caught the lines of his body, the scars, the muscle.

He looked at you, and his eyes darkened.

"Come in."

You stepped inside, and the door closed behind you.

He didn't move. He just studied you, his gaze traveling from your face to your hands to the way you were holding yourself. His lips curved into a smirk.

"Your heart's racing," he said. "Loud enough to wake the whole ship."

"Shut up."

He laughed, low and warm, and stepped closer. His hand came up, cupping your cheek. His thumb traced your jaw, feather-light.

"You're so beautiful when you blush."

And he kissed you.

Soft at first, then deeper. His tongue brushed your lower lip, and you parted your mouth, letting him in. His other hand found your hip, pulling you against him. You felt the heat of his skin through your clothes, the hard planes of his body.

Your hands found his chest. The tattoo was smooth under your fingertips, warm even. He sighed into your mouth, a sound that made your knees weak.

He pulled back just far enough to whisper, "I really want to take off your shirt."

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

He did it slowly, fingers brushing your sides as he lifted the fabric over your head. It fell somewhere on the floor. He stepped back, just enough to look at you, and his breath caught.

"Stars," he murmured.

Then he pushed you gently onto the mattress. You landed on your back, looking up at him as he climbed over you, his weight settling on your hips. He lowered his head, his mouth finding your right breast. His tongue circled your nipple, then he took it into his mouth, sucking gently.

You gasped, your back arching. His hand moved to your left breast, fingers finding your other nipple, rolling it between thumb and forefinger. He alternated between the two, licking, sucking, pinching until you were moaning, your hands fisting in the sheets.

He groaned against your skin, the vibration sending sparks through you.

You felt him rock his hips against yours. The pressure was unmistakable. He was hard, and he was big. The thought made heat pool low in your stomach.

He lifted his head, and you reached out, tracing the tattoo. Black lines curled over his collarbone, down his sternum, across his ribs. You followed them with your fingers, watching his muscles twitch under your touch.

He unfastened his pants and pushed them down. Then yours. Then he settled over you again, skin to skin, and the sensation was overwhelming.

He entered you slowly.

You both moaned. He filled you, stretching you, and you felt every inch. He paused, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours.

"You feel incredible," he breathed.

"So do you."

He started to move. Slow at first, deep strokes that made your vision blur. Each thrust hit a spot that sent pleasure rippling through your body. You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders.

He covered your mouth with his hand, his eyes glinting.

"Quiet," he whispered. "You'll wake Omega."

You nodded, muffling your sounds against his palm. He kissed you then, swallowing your moans, his tongue moving in time with his hips.

The rhythm built. He turned you onto your belly, pulling your hips up, and entered you from behind. This angle was different, deeper. He found a spot that made you cry out, and he pressed his arm around your head, his bicep against your throat.

"Bite if you need to," he murmured.

You did. You sank your teeth into his forearm, muffling the sounds that wanted to tear out of you. He moved faster, harder, his breath ragged in your ear.

His thrusts grew sloppy. He buried himself inside you, and you felt him pulse, felt the warmth spread. He collapsed over you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his heart hammering against your back.

After a moment, he rolled off you. You lay side by side, both breathing hard, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sex.

He reached over and pulled you close, spooning you from behind. His arm wrapped around your belly, drawing you against him. His lips pressed to the back of your head.

"Stay," he whispered.

You didn't answer. You just closed your eyes and let the warmth of him pull you down into sleep.

You woke to the sound of Omega's laughter, distant and bright. It filtered through the metal walls like sunlight through blinds.

For a moment, you didn't move. Your body was heavy, weighed down by sleep and the warmth of a bed that wasn't yours. The sheets smelled like Hunter. Like sweat and soap and something deeper, something you couldn't name.

Then you shifted, and the ache settled into your muscles.

Everything came back in a rush. His hands. His mouth. The way he'd pressed you into the mattress like you were something precious. Heat crawled up your neck as you pushed yourself upright.

The bunk was empty beside you. The sheets were cool where he'd lain.

You looked around, and your gaze caught on a folded pile of fabric near the edge of the bed. Clean clothes. A soft grey shirt and dark pants. You reached for them, and as you unfolded the shirt, you noticed the collar. It rose high, almost to your chin.

You slipped the clothes on. They fit well, maybe a little loose in the shoulders. The collar sat snug against your throat.

You caught your reflection in the small mirror bolted to the wall. The shirt covered everything. Every mark. Every bruise. You turned your head and saw the edge of a dark spot peeking out near your jaw, just below your ear. You adjusted the collar. Covered.

You left the room.

The corridor hummed with the ship's usual vibrations. The lights were dim, set to whatever cycle Tech had programmed for the day cycle. You followed the sound of voices to the shared space.

Wrecker spotted you first. His face split into a grin.

"Look who finally woke up," he said, his voice booming. "Thought you were gonna sleep through the whole rotation. Even I don't sleep that long."

Heat flooded your cheeks. "I was tired."

"Tired." He laughed, slapping his knee. "Sure you were. Come sit. Omega's been asking about you."

Omega appeared from behind Wrecker, her eyes bright. "Do you want to play a game? I found one about constellations. You have to match the stars to the right names."

You opened your mouth to answer.

"She doesn't have time for games."

Crosshair's voice cut through the warmth. He stood in the doorway leading to the cockpit, his arms crossed, his toothpick in place. His eyes were fixed on you.

"She has to get ready. We're dropping her off at the next planet."

Omega's face fell. "What? No. She's not leaving."

"She is."

"I'm not…" you started.

"You have a lot to do," Crosshair said, talking over you. "Your things need to be packed. Better start now."

Omega grabbed your hand. "You can't go. You just got here. And you're still tired. You should rest."

Wrecker nodded, his grin gone. "Yeah, she's right. You look like you need a break. Stay."

Echo leaned against the bulkhead, his mechanical hand still. "She has a point. No reason to rush things."

Tech glanced up from his datapad. "Statistically, a rest period of at least twelve hours after recovery from significant illness is recommended. Omega's assessment is medically sound."

You looked around the room. They were all watching you. All waiting for your answer. All except Hunter, who was nowhere to be seen.

"I still have to think about it," you said.

Crosshair grunted. He held your gaze for a long moment, his jaw tight. Then he turned and walked out of the space without another word.

You excused yourself.

The room they'd given you was small, tucked near the rear of the ship. A bunk, a locker, a small desk. Your bag sat on the floor, half-unpacked. You closed the door behind you and leaned against it.

Your throat tightened. Your eyes burned.

You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyelids and breathed. Once. Twice. Three times.

A soft knock.

You dropped your hands. "Who is it?"

"It's Hunter."

His voice, low and familiar. You crossed the room in three steps and opened the door.

He stood in the corridor, his hair slightly disheveled, his eyes scanning your face. He took in your reddened eyes, the way you were holding yourself, and something in his expression softened.

"Crosshair?" he asked.

You nodded.

He stepped inside. The door slid shut behind him. He sat on the edge of the bunk, looking up at you.

"He's acting like this because he cares," Hunter said. "About his family. About the squad. He doesn't want anyone getting hurt. When he asks you to leave, he's trying to protect everyone. You included."

"It doesn't feel like he's trying to protect me," you said. "It feels like he's trying to protect them. I'm just collateral."

Hunter's mouth quirked. "That's his particular way of expressing concern. It's not pretty. But it's honest."

You sat beside him, the mattress dipping under your weight.

"If you decide to stay," he said, "you should get ready. He won't make it easy."

"I know."

He passed an arm around you, pulling you into a side hug. His hand rested on your shoulder, warm and solid. You leaned into him, letting yourself feel the steadiness of his presence. His thumb traced a slow circle on your arm.

You stayed like that for a while, breathing in sync.

Then you pushed yourself to your feet. "I'm going to talk to him."

Hunter looked up at you, something like pride flickering in his eyes. He stood, and before he left, he tapped your shoulder once. A small gesture. Enough.

"Good luck," he said.

He stepped out and turned toward the cockpit, where Tech's voice was already muttering about power converters.

You walked back to the shared space.

Crosshair had moved. He sat near the storage lockers, a holomap projected in front of him. Planets and routes rotated in blue light, tracing paths through the galaxy.

You stopped a few feet away. "Can we talk?"

He didn't look up. "I'm busy."

"Just for a minute."

A pause. He deactivated the holomap and turned his head. His eyes were flat. "Fine."

He followed you to a quiet corner near the galley. You leaned against the counter. He stood with his arms crossed, his weight on one foot.

"I want to stay," you said.

He didn't react.

"And I want you to give me a chance." You took a breath. "Would you still be this set on me leaving if I proved myself? If I learned how to fight?"

He rolled his shoulders, a slow, deliberate motion. "It could change my judgment. Maybe."

"Then teach me."

He stared at you. A beat of silence.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it's a waste of time. You're a medic. You don't need to know how to hold a blaster."

"I'm staying for at least a month," you said. "If you train me, it's a win for both of us. I'd be less of a liability. And you'd have time to decide if I'm worth keeping around."

His eyes narrowed.

"You said yourself that your judgment could change," you pressed. "So give me a month. If at the end of it you still think I'm not worth staying, I'll leave. No arguments."

He studied you. The toothpick moved from one side of his mouth to the other.

"Fine," he said. "One month."

Relief flooded through you, tempered by the edge in his voice.

"But I'm not a gentle instructor," he said. "I don't have patience for failure. If you can't keep up, don't expect me to slow down for you."

You nodded. "Understood."

He turned and walked away, his boots silent on the deck plates.

You watched him go, your heart still hammering, but your feet planted firmly.

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The bar was winding down. Last call had come and gone, and only a few regulars lingered at the counter, nursing their final drinks.

The bar sat on a monster residential street, tucked between a troll-run pawnshop and a harpy's laundry.

Most nights it was packed with creatures from every corner of the district, but now only the diehards remained: a minotaur nursing dregs at the far end, a goblin accountant muttering over receipts, and the orc who'd claimed his usual spot three seats down.

You wiped down the oak surface, watching the amber liquid catch the dim light as it swirled in a half-empty glass.

The orc sat at his usual spot, three seats down from the end. He'd been there since eight, working through a pitcher of something dark and strong that you'd mixed special for him.

He was just the one who made your heart stutter every time he walked through the door.

"You're staring," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards.

You looked away, heat crawling up your neck. "I'm checking if you need a refill."

"I need a lot of things." He grinned, revealing those tusks that somehow made him look even more handsome. "But another drink isn't one of them."

Your coworker Mira passed behind you, catching your eye with a knowing smirk. She'd witnessed enough of these exchanges over the past year to write a book about them. You ignored her, focusing on the glass in your hand.

The bar had a way of making everyone look good after midnight. But that orc looked good at any hour. Broad shoulders that seemed to take up half the room. Arms that strained against his sleeves when he moved. Green skin marked with scars that told stories you wanted to hear. And those eyes. Dark, intense, always watching you like you were something interesting.

"I should close up," you said, though you made no move to do so.

"Let Mira handle it." He gestured toward your coworker, who was already gathering glasses from the far end of the bar. "You've been working all night. Come sit with me."

It wasn't a question. Orcs didn't ask, you'd learned. They suggested, they implied, and somehow you always ended up doing what they wanted anyway.

You glanced at Mira. She waved you off with a flick of her wrist. "Go. I've got this. You've been moping behind this counter all week anyway."

"I haven't been moping."

"You've been moping." She pointed at the orc customer. "Take her somewhere. She needs to relax."

Your face burned. You wanted to protest, to explain that you weren't moping, you were just tired. But Mira had already turned away, busying herself with the register.

The green guy pushed himself off the stool with a grunt that sounded almost like satisfaction. He was taller than you remembered, or maybe you just forgot how much space he occupied. He rounded the bar, his presence overwhelming in the narrow space behind it.

"We should talk," he said, placing a hand on the counter beside you. "About something."

"About what?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he gestured toward the back door. "Walk with me."

The alley behind the bar was narrow, lined with trash bins and the occasional stray cat. The night air was cool, carrying the damp scent of rain that hadn't fallen yet. You stood with your back against the brick wall, watching him lean against the opposite side.

"I've been thinking," he started, "about what you said last week."

"I said a lot of things last week."

"About your ex. The human one."

You groaned. "Why would you bring that up?"

"Because you said he was boring." The orc's eyes gleamed in the dim light. "You said he never made you feel wanted."

"I was drunk when I said that."

"You were drinking water that night."

The lie died on your tongue. He was right. You'd been sober, pouring your heart out to a regular because he'd asked, and you'd been too tired to make something up.

"I don't want to talk about my ex," you said.

"Good. Because I don't want to hear about him either." He pushed off the wall, closing the distance between you. "I want to talk about what you deserve."

"And what's that?"

He stopped inches away, close enough that you could smell the liquor on his breath, mixed with something earthier. Masculine. "Someone who knows what they want. Someone who takes it."

You swallowed. "That sounds aggressive."

"It's honest." He tilted his head, studying you. "Orcs don't play games. We see something we want, we go after it. No hesitation. No pretending."

"And what do you want?"

The question hung between you, heavy and charged. He didn't answer with words. Instead, his hand came up, fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your face toward his. The touch was gentle, surprising given his size.

"I want you to understand what it feels like to be claimed," he said. "Properly. The orc way."

Your heart hammered. "That's a big thing to say."

"It's a big thing to offer." He leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear. "Think about it. When's the last time someone made you feel like you mattered? Like they wanted you so badly they couldn't breathe?"

The truth sat heavy in your chest. It had been too long. Years, maybe. You'd been going through the motions, dating people who were nice but forgettable, settling for scraps of affection because it was easier than being alone.

"I don't know," you whispered.

"I do." His hand slid to the back of your neck, firm but not forceful. "That's why I'm offering."

"Because you feel bad for me?"

"Because I want you." His voice dropped lower. "I've wanted you since the first night I walked into this bar. Watching you pour drinks, laugh at bad jokes, blush when some ghoul calls you pretty. You think I haven't noticed how you look at me?"

You had no answer for that.

"I noticed everything." He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. "The way your breath catches when I flex. The way you glance at my arms when you think I'm not looking. The way you lean in when I talk to you."

Heat flooded your cheeks. "That's…"

"Natural." He smiled, and it softened his features. "It's natural to want what feels right. And I feel right. Don't I?"

He did. That was the problem. He felt more right than anyone you'd met in years.

"You're drunk," you said weakly.

"Tipsy. There's a difference." His thumb traced your jawline. "And I'm sober enough to know exactly what I'm saying. Are you?"

Yes. No. You didn't know. Your head was spinning, caught between desire and the voice that told you this was insane.

"I've never been with an orc," you admitted.

"I know." He sounded pleased, like that was exactly what he wanted to hear. "And I'll be your first. Your only, after tonight."

"You sound sure of yourself."

"I am." He kissed your forehead, a gesture so tender it made your chest ache. "Because once you've been claimed properly, you won't want anyone else."

The words sent a shiver down your spine. Not from fear. From anticipation.

"What would it involve?" you asked. "This claiming?"

He chuckled, a low sound that vibrated through his chest. "That's for me to show you. But I can tell you this much." He leaned in, lips brushing against your ear. "By the time I'm done, you won't remember your own name. You'll only remember mine."

Your knees felt weak. You grabbed his arm to steady yourself, and the muscle beneath your fingers was solid, unyielding.

"Is that a yes?" he asked.

You should have said no. You should have gone back inside, helped Mira close up, and gone home to your empty apartment. But the thought of that cold bed, the silence, the loneliness. It was unbearable.

"Yes," you heard yourself say.

His smile was wide, triumphant. "Good girl."

He took your hand, leading you back inside. Mira was at the register, counting the till. She looked up as you entered.

"I'm leaving early," you said.

Mira's gaze flicked to the orc, then back to you. She raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." She didn't look convinced, but she didn't argue. "Text me if you need anything."

His apartment was three blocks away, above a bakery that sold the most amazing pastries in the district. You'd walked past it a hundred times, never imagining you'd end up here.

The stairs creaked under his weight. He had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling. The hallway was narrow, lined with doors that all looked the same. He stopped at the third one, pulling out a key.

"I should warn you," he said, unlocking the door, "it's not much. Orcs don't care much about decoration."

He wasn't wrong. The apartment was spartan. A couch. A low table. Shelves lined with books and what looked like weapons. The bedroom was visible through a doorway, dominated by a bed that looked custom-made for someone his size.

"Come in." He gestured, and you stepped inside.

The door clicked shut behind you, and suddenly the space felt much smaller. He was behind you, his presence blocking any thoughts of escape. Not that you wanted to escape.

"Are you nervous?" he asked.

"A little."

"That's normal." His hands settled on your shoulders, warm through the fabric of your shirt. "But you don't need to be. I'm going to take care of you."

His fingers worked at the buttons of your shirt, slow and deliberate. Each button coming undone felt like a step closer to something inevitable. You stood still, letting him undress you, your breath coming in shallow gasps.

The shirt fell to the floor. His hands moved to the waistband of your pants, pushing them down. You stepped out of them, now standing in only your underwear.

"Beautiful," he murmured, his lips brushing your shoulder. "Absolutely beautiful."

He turned you around, and the look in his eyes made your stomach flutter. Raw desire, barely contained. He cupped your face, tilting it up, and kissed you.

It wasn't gentle. It was possessive, demanding, his tongue sliding into your mouth as he owned it. You gasped against him, and he swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss until you couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but hold onto him.

His hands roamed your body, rough palms skimming over your curves. He broke the kiss to mouth at your neck, teeth grazing your skin in a way that sent sparks down your spine.

"You have no idea," he rasped against your throat, "how long I've wanted this. How many nights I've jerked off thinking about you."

The confession was dirty and honest, and it made you wet. He seemed to sense it, because his hand slid between your legs, pressing against the damp fabric of your underwear.

"So wet already." His voice was thick with satisfaction. "You've been thinking about it too, haven't you?"

You nodded, unable to form words.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, pulling them down. They pooled at your ankles, and you stepped out of them, completely naked now under his gaze.

"On the bed," he said.

You went, because no part of you wanted to refuse. The mattress was firm, the sheets cool against your heated skin. He followed, his weight dipping the bed as he positioned himself over you.

He didn't kiss you again. Instead, he looked at you, his eyes tracing every inch of your body. "You're perfect," he said. "I knew you would be."

His hand came down between your legs, one thick finger sliding through your folds. You gasped, arching into his touch. He found your clit, circled it slowly, deliberately.

"That's it," he said. "Let me feel you."

He pushed a finger inside you, then two. His hand was so large that you felt full, stretched. He pumped them slowly at first, then faster, curling them in a way that made stars burst behind your eyes.

"Come for me," he said.

You did. The orgasm crashed over you, sudden and overwhelming. You cried out, gripping the sheets as waves of pleasure rolled through you. He kept fingering you through it, drawing out every last tremor until you were left gasping.

"Good." He pulled his hand away, licking his fingers clean. "Taste as good as you look."

Before you could catch your breath, he was settling between your legs, his shoulders pushing them apart. He looked up at you, a wicked grin on his face.

"I'm not done with you," he said.

He lowered his head, and his tongue touched you. It was rough and broad, unlike anything human. He licked from your entrance to your clit in one long stroke, and you moaned, your hands flying to his hair.

He worked you with his mouth, his tongue delving inside you, fucking you in a way that felt impossible. You were panting, grinding against his face, lost in the sensation. When he sucked your clit into his mouth, you came again, shuddering against him.

He didn't stop until you were whimpering, oversensitive. Then he pulled away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Sit up," he said.

You obeyed, weak and trembling. He stood, pulling off his shirt to reveal a chest that was all muscle and scars. Then his hands went to his pants, pushing them down.

His cock sprang free, and you forgot how to breathe.

It was huge. Thick and long and veined, standing proud against his stomach. You had no idea how that was supposed to fit inside you.

He caught your expression and laughed, a rumbling sound. "Don't worry. I'll make it fit."

"Are you sure?"

"Trust me." He climbed onto the bed, positioning himself in front of you. "But first, I want to feel that mouth."

He pressed the tip against your lips, and you opened for him. He slid inside, and you did your best to take him, but he was too big. You could only fit half of him before your throat protested.

"That's enough," he said, his hand cupping the back of your head. "Just like that."

You worked what you could, licking and sucking, your hands gripping his thighs. He groaned above you, his hips rocking gently, pushing deeper into your throat.

"Fuck," he breathed. "I'm going to come."

He did, hot and thick, filling your mouth. You swallowed, and he pulled out, breathing heavily.

But he didn't stop. He pressed you down onto the bed, his body covering yours. "That was just the beginning."

He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against you. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you in a way that bordered on pain.

"Breathe," he said. "Let me in."

You tried to relax, focusing on the feeling of him filling you. It hurt, but it was good. Overwhelming. By the time he was fully sheathed inside you, you felt like you couldn't tell where he ended, and you began.

He gave you a moment to adjust, then he began to move. Slow at first, then faster. The bed creaked beneath you, rhythmically, the sound mixing with your moans and his grunts.

He slapped your ass, and the sting made you gasp. He did it again, harder, and you moaned.

"You like that," he said, not a question.

"Yes."

He leaned down, kissing you roughly. His hips never stopped moving, driving into you at a punishing pace. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, wanting all of him.

"Come again," he said against your lips.

You couldn't refuse. Your third orgasm built quickly, crashing over you as he thrust into you. He followed moments later, his body tensing as he spilled inside you.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight a comforting pressure. You lay there, panting, your body humming with satisfaction.

He pulled out, rolling to his side, pulling you with him. His arm wrapped around you, holding you close. You nestled into his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart.

For a moment, there was peace. Softness. You savored it, the warmth of his skin, the security of his arms.

Then you felt it. His cock, hard again, pressing against your thigh.

He chuckled, a low sound in his chest. "Are you ready for another round?"

You looked up at him, at his dark eyes filled with hunger. He was going to ruin you. And you didn't care.

You kissed him, deep and slow, letting him know your answer.

This was going to be the best night of your life. You could already feel the addiction settling in.

The apartment door hissed open with that familiar mechanical sigh, and you heard the heavy tread of boots against the floor—slower than usual, weighted. A clatter of something metal hitting the entry table. A long exhalation that carried more exhaustion than relief.

You kept your eyes on the datapad in your lap, or tried to. The words had been blurring for the last hour anyway, some novel about desert planets and forbidden romance that couldn't hold your attention. Not when you knew he was due back. Not when the chrono on the wall kept ticking past the time he'd promised.

Howzer always said not to wait up. You always waited anyway.

The footsteps stopped somewhere behind the sofa. You heard the soft hiss of his helmet being removed, the thud of it settling on the floor. Then nothing. Just breathing, slow and measured.

You turned your head, the datapad forgotten on your lap.

He stood there in full armor, the blue and white plating scuffed and scratched in ways that made your stomach tighten. Dark circles beneath his eyes. A cut along his jaw that had been cleaned but not bandaged. His whole posture sagged inward, like the weight of that armor pressed down harder than usual.

But when he saw you looking, something shifted.

The corners of his mouth twitched upward, fighting through whatever had been weighing on him. The tension in his shoulders eased, just slightly. He took a step forward, then another, until his boots stopped at the edge of the sofa.

"You're up late," he said. His voice was rougher than normal, scraped raw from shouting over comms or from something worse.

"I could say the same about you." You set the datapad aside and shifted to face him properly. "You look terrible."

A short laugh escaped him, more breath than sound. "Missed you too."

He didn't wait for a response. One hand reached down, fingers brushing against your shoulder, then curling inward to grip the fabric of your shirt. He pulled you gently toward him, and you let yourself be pulled, standing up from the sofa to meet him halfway.

He smelled like blaster residue and recycled ship air, with that faint metallic tang of the inside of a helmet. Not pleasant, but familiar. So familiar it ached.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest plate, cold and unyielding. But his face buried itself in your hair, and for a moment he just breathed. In. Out. Like you were the first clean air he'd encountered in days.

"You done?" you murmured into his shoulder, where the fabric of his blacks showed beneath the gap in his armor.

"No. They want me back on rotation tomorrow afternoon." He said it flatly, like he was reading a report rather than announcing another departure.

Your arms tightened around him. Tomorrow afternoon. That gave you maybe eighteen hours. Less, if he needed sleep.

But you didn't say anything about that. Not yet. Instead you pulled back, just enough to look at his face, and you let your hand travel up to trace the cut on his jaw. "What happened here?"

"Nothing. A graze." He caught your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm. "It's fine."

You didn't believe him. But you also knew when to push and when to let things settle.

He kissed your palm again, then turned your hand over and kissed your wrist, then your forearm, working his way up slowly like he had all the time in the world. The gesture was almost reverent, each kiss landing with a warmth that contrasted the chill of his armor.

Then he stepped back, letting his hands fall from yours, and moved around the sofa. He sank onto the cushion behind you—the spot you'd just vacated—and pulled you down beside him. Or tried to. You landed awkwardly half on his lap, half on the cushion, and he adjusted you with a grunt that might have been amusement.

"Come here." His voice was softer now. He tugged at your shoulder, turning you around until your back rested against his chest. Then his hands settled on your shoulders, fingers pressing into the tight muscles there.

You groaned before you could stop yourself. The pressure was firm and precise, working out knots you hadn't even realized were there. His thumbs traced along your shoulder blades, then down your spine, finding tension spots with an expertise that came from years of muscle memory.

"How was it?" you asked, closing your eyes.

"Long." His breath was warm against your ear. "A lot of dead ends. Lot of waiting. You'd think the Outer Rim would be more exciting, but mostly it's just space and bad rations."

"You sound thrilled."

"Thrilled would be an upgrade from how I actually feel." He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. "But I'm here now."

His hands slid from your shoulders down your arms, then back up, tracing the curve of your neck. He kissed the spot behind your ear, where you were always sensitive, and you felt a shiver run through you.

"You're tense too," he murmured.

"That's what happens when I spend three days worrying about you."

He made a sound that could have been an apology or an acknowledgment. Then his hands moved lower, skimming over your collarbone, dipping beneath the neckline of your shirt. His palms settled over your breasts, cupping them through the thin fabric, and he squeezed gently.

You sucked in a breath.

"Howzer."

"I missed you." He said it against your skin, his lips brushing your shoulder. His fingers found your nipples through the fabric, rubbing in slow circles that made you arch into his touch. "Missed touching you. Missed hearing you."

His hands worked with a practiced tenderness, kneading and stroking until your head fell back against his shoulder. A soft moan escaped you, unbidden, and you felt him smile against your neck.

"That's what I wanted to hear."

His mouth traveled down your shoulder, biting gently at the curve where your neck met your collarbone. One hand left your breast and slid down your stomach, tracing the edge of your waistband. The other kept working, rolling your nipple between thumb and forefinger until you squirmed.

"You're so responsive," he breathed. "Always have been. It drives me insane."

You turned your head to find his lips, and he met you halfway, kissing you with a hunger that surprised you. His tongue swept across your lower lip, then deeper, tasting of caf and something minty. The kiss lasted until you were breathless, pulling away only when your lungs demanded it.

He didn't let you go far. He shifted, moving out from behind you, and knelt in front of the sofa instead. His hands found your knees, spreading them apart as he settled between your legs.

"Just watch," he said.

His fingers went to the fastenings of his chest plate, working the release mechanisms with the efficiency of someone who'd done it a thousand times. The armor clicked and hissed, sections separating until he could pull the whole piece over his head and drop it to the floor with a heavy thud.

Then the shoulder guards. The vambraces. The leg plates. Each piece fell away, revealing the black undersuit beneath that clung to his body like a second skin. You watched the process, watched his muscles shift beneath the fabric as he worked, and you felt a familiar heat coil low in your belly.

He didn't rush.

When he was down to just his blacks, he stood up and held his arms out slightly, letting you look your fill. The undersuit was form-fitting, showing every line of his body—the broad shoulders, the narrow waist, the powerful thighs. There was a patch of dried blood on his left bicep, and you frowned.

"You said it was a graze."

"It is." He glanced at the spot, unconcerned. "Already sealed. Don't worry about it."

He stepped forward, bending down, and before you knew it, his arms were under your knees and around your back. He lifted you off the sofa like you weighed nothing.

"Wait—I'm too heavy for that." The protest came automatically, a reflex born of years of insecurity.

He silenced you with a kiss, quick and firm. Then he adjusted his grip, shifting you higher against his chest, and started walking toward the bedroom.

"You're not heavy," he said against your lips. "You're perfect."

He carried you through the doorway and over to the bed, where he lowered you onto the mattress with surprising gentleness. The springs groaned softly under your weight. He straightened up, looking down at you, and his eyes traveled the length of your body with undisguised appreciation.

Then his hands went to your waistband, hooking into the fabric of your leggings and pulling them down. You lifted your hips to help him, and he peeled them off your legs, tossing them somewhere behind him without looking.

The cool air hit your skin, raising goosebumps across your thighs. You were left in just your panties and the loose shirt you'd been wearing.

Howzer's gaze settled on the damp spot already forming on the cotton between your legs. He smiled—a slow, satisfied curve of his lips.

"Already ready for me."

You felt heat rush to your cheeks, but you didn't look away.

He dropped to his knees at the foot of the bed, his hands sliding up your calves, over your knees, coming to rest on your thighs. He pressed a kiss to your right thigh, just above the knee, then another higher up.

"These," he murmured between kisses, "are beautiful. Do you know that?"

"No... You don't have to—"

He bit you. Not hard, but enough to make you gasp. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and he soothed the spot with his tongue.

"I don't have to do anything," he said, pulling back to meet your eyes. "I'm telling you how I feel. Your thighs are beautiful. They're soft and warm, and I love them." He kissed the spot he'd bitten. "I love this curve here." His hand traced the line of your hip, then settled on the gentle swell of your lower belly. "And these." He palmed the softness at your waist, his thumbs stroking the skin. "All of you. Perfect."

Your throat tightened. You wanted to argue, to point out everything you didn't like about yourself, but the sincerity in his voice made the words stick. Instead, you just watched him, watched his head lower, watched his lips travel down your stomach in a trail of soft kisses.

When he reached the edge of your panties, he nuzzled against the damp fabric. You felt his breath, hot and uneven, through the cotton. His fingers hooked into the waistband, but instead of pulling them down, he pressed his mouth directly over the spot where you needed him most.

The sensation was muffled but electric. You gasped, your hips bucking involuntarily.

"Impatient?" He lifted his head, smirking.

"You're taking too long."

He laughed, the sound low and warm. "Patience, sweetheart."

He dipped his head again, this time pushing the fabric aside with his nose, exposing you to the air. His first lick was slow, deliberate, dragging from bottom to top with the flat of his tongue.

You moaned, your hands flying to his hair, fingers tangling in the short strands. He worked with a rhythm that bordered on obsessive, licking and sucking like he was starving for the taste of you. His tongue circled your clit, pressed flat, flicked against it until you were trembling.

"That's it," he murmured against you, the vibration making you gasp. "Let me hear you."

You couldn't help it. The sounds that escaped you were raw and desperate, filling the room along with the wet noises of his mouth working between your legs. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open, and his tongue never stopped moving.

When you came, it hit you like a wave, sudden and overwhelming. You cried out, your back arching off the mattress as the pleasure pulsed through you. He didn't stop, riding it out with you, licking through every tremor until you collapsed back against the sheets, breathless.

He lifted his head, his chin slick and glistening. He smiled—that smug, satisfied grin he always wore when he'd made you fall apart—and licked his lips slowly.

"Beautiful," he said again.

Then he crawled up the bed, his body covering yours, and began pressing kisses to your stomach, your ribs, the valley between your breasts. Each kiss landed with a soft murmur of "I love you" against your skin.

He kissed your neck, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. When he reached your lips, he kissed you properly, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his expression softening into something raw and unguarded.

"I love you," he said again, the words quiet and certain.

The paperwork stretched across your desk like a battlefield. Senator Orn Free Taa had a talent for generating documents, a skill that apparently required no actual presence to maintain. You'd been at it for three hours already, your wrist cramping from the endless forms and requisitions and diplomatic correspondence that needed his signature before the end of the week.

He'd left you with a stack of datapads and a vague promise to return within the hour. That was four hours ago.

You didn't bother wondering where he'd gone. The senator had a habit of disappearing into the lower levels of the compound, usually emerging with a grin on his face and some new scheme in his head that would inevitably require your cleanup. You'd learned to stop asking questions. The answers were never worth the frustration.

The door to your office slid open without a knock. Howzer stood there, his chest plate slightly askew, a sheen of sweat across his brow. His eyes were wide, scanning the room before they landed on you.

"He's gone."

You set down your stylus. "Gone where?"

"I don't know." He stepped inside, running a hand through his dark hair. "I turned my back for maybe two minutes. He said he needed to use the refresher. When I checked on him, he wasn't there. The window was open."

You blinked. "The window. On the third floor."

"That's what I said." Howzer's jaw tightened. "I searched the immediate area. The maintenance tunnels. Nothing. I've been looking for nearly an hour before I came here."

An hour. That was worse than you'd thought. The compound was large, full of corridors and storage rooms and empty offices that the senator could wander into. But this wasn't the first time he'd pulled a vanishing act, and you'd developed a sense for where he tended to end up.

You stood, grabbing your personal comm from the desk. "Did you check the eastern wing?"

"The one with the diplomatic quarters?"

"That's where the visiting delegates are staying this week." You walked past him into the hallway. "He's been complaining about the lack of entertainment options. The delegates brought their own staff."

Howzer fell into step beside you. His boots echoed against the stone floor while your own steps made barely a whisper. "You think he'd risk diplomatic trouble for that?"

"I think he'd risk anything for a distraction." You turned left at the junction, heading toward the eastern wing. "He's bored. Boredom makes him stupid. We've been here three weeks without any real excitement. He's probably crawling out of his skin."

The corridors grew dimmer as you moved away from the main hub. The lighting in this section was always inconsistent, a quirk of the compound's outdated power grid. Shadows pooled in the corners, stretching across the walls as you passed.

Howzer stayed close. You could feel his presence behind you, a solid warmth at your back. He'd been that way since the beginning, always positioning himself between you and any potential danger. You never asked him to. He just did it, like it was instinct.

"Do you have any idea where he'd go specifically?" he asked.

"Guest quarters. Room 47 through 52. Those are the ones with the private sitting areas."

"You've thought about this before."

"I've had to find him before." You picked up the pace. "Last time it was a supply closet. The time before that, the communications tower. He's not creative, just persistent."

The eastern wing opened up into a wider hallway lined with doors. Each one was identical, unmarked except for a small number plate near the top. You moved past them quickly, checking for any signs of disturbance.

Room 47 was quiet. Room 48 the same. At 49, you heard something. A muffled sound, barely audible over the humming of the compound's ventilation system.

You stopped. Howzer stopped behind you.

"Did you hear that?" you whispered.

He nodded. His hand drifted toward his blaster, though he didn't draw it. "Stay behind me."

You didn't argue. He moved forward, positioning himself in front of you as he approached the door. The sound came again, clearer this time. A soft thump. Then a giggle.

Howzer exchanged a glance with you. He pressed the door release.

Nothing happened. The door was locked.

"Senator?" he called out. "Are you in there?"

Silence. Then another muffled sound, like someone trying very hard not to make noise and failing.

Howzer sighed. He looked at you, and you could see the exhaustion in his eyes. This was the part of the job neither of you had signed up for. Babysitting a politician who had no sense of self-preservation.

"Override code," he said. "I have clearance for emergencies."

The door clicked open. He pushed it forward, and the light from the hallway spilled into the room.

It was a closet. A small storage room, barely big enough for the two figures pressed together inside. The senator was there, his bulk wedged against a shelf, his robes disheveled. And next to him, a Twi'lek woman with her headtails pulled back and her shirt half-unbuttoned.

They froze. You froze. Howzer froze.

The Twi'lek made a sound of embarrassment, pulling her shirt closed. The senator tried to stand up straight, bumping his head against a shelf in the process.

"Ah," he said. His voice was strained. "My assistant. And my guard. What a delightful surprise."

Howzer didn't respond. He just stared, his face unreadable.

You grabbed his arm. "We should go."

He didn't move. He was still staring at the scene in front of him, his mouth slightly open.

"Now," you said, pulling harder.

He stumbled backward, following you as you turned and walked away. You didn't stop until you reached the end of the hallway, where it branched off into a small sitting area. A couch sat against the wall, next to an empty table.

You stopped. Howzer stopped next to you. For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then you started laughing.

It came out of nowhere, a burst of sound that surprised even you. You couldn't help it. The image of the senator, caught in the act, his face red and flustered. The way he'd tried to pretend like nothing was happening. The sheer absurdity of it all.

Howzer stared at you. Then his face cracked, and he started laughing too. A deep, genuine laugh that shook his shoulders and made his eyes crinkle at the corners.

"I can't believe it," he said, between breaths. "I searched for an hour. I thought he'd been kidnapped."

"Kidnapped." You wiped at your eyes. "He was getting kidnapped, alright."

"By a Twi'lek."

"By a very attractive Twi'lek."

Howzer laughed harder. He leaned against the wall, pressing a hand to his chest. "I was so worried. I thought something terrible had happened. I thought…" He shook his head. "I don't even know what I thought."

You sat down on the couch, still chuckling. "That's the senator for you. No danger too great, no risk too small."

"He's going to give me grey hair." Howzer sat down next to you, close enough that his arm brushed against yours.

"You're not supposed to have to rescue your charge from a closet either."

"True." He let out a long breath. "That's something I definitely wasn't trained for."

The laughter subsided, replaced by a comfortable silence. The sitting area was dim, lit only by a single overhead light that cast long shadows across the floor.

You looked at Howzer. He was staring at the wall, his expression distant. His hands rested on his knees, fingers tapping a slow rhythm against his armor.

"What are you thinking about?" you asked.

He hesitated. "Nothing. Just…" He shook his head. "That was the first time I've ever seen something like that."

"Like what?"

"Two people. Together." He seemed to struggle with the words. "I mean, I know it happens. I know how it works. But I've never actually... seen it. Not even on holoprograms."

You looked at him, surprised. "Never?"

"Clones aren't exactly raised with access to that kind of thing." He spoke carefully, each word measured. "We have training modules and combat simulations. We have basic biological education. But nothing like... what we just walked in on."

"Howzer." You shifted to face him. "Are you saying you've never...?"

He met your eyes. His cheeks were darker than usual. "I'm a soldier. That's all I was made to be."

The words hung between you. A confession, delivered quietly, almost shyly. This was the same man who'd thrown himself into firefights without hesitation, who'd stared down armed assailants without flinching. And now he was blushing in a dim sitting room, admitting something he clearly found embarrassing.

You felt your own cheeks warm. "There's nothing wrong with that."

"I know." He didn't sound like he believed it. "It's just... strange. Thinking about what I've missed."

"Have you ever wanted to?"

He was quiet for a moment. "I didn't think about it much. There was always the next mission. The next battle. You don't stop to consider things like that when you might not be alive tomorrow."

"But you're alive now."

"I'm alive now." He turned to look at you fully. His eyes were dark in the low light, searching yours. "What are you suggesting?"

You weren't sure. The words had come out before you'd thought them through, and now you were sitting here, heart pounding, saying things you hadn't planned to say. But something about the moment felt right. The quiet. The closeness. The way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing.

"I could be your first time."

The words left your mouth before you could stop them. You felt your face go hot, a flush spreading down your neck.

Howzer's eyes widened. He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared at you, his breath catching in his throat.

"I mean," you said, suddenly flustered, "if you wanted. Only if you wanted. I just thought, maybe, since we're here, and we're alone, and…"

"Yes."

The word came out rough. He cleared his throat. "Yes. I want that."

You swallowed. Your heart was beating so hard you could feel it in your fingers. "Okay."

"Okay." He repeated the word like he was testing it. "Okay. How do we…"

"Like this." You reached out, placing your hand on his cheek. His skin was warm, rougher than you'd expected, the beginnings of stubble scratching against your palm. "Just like this."

You leaned in. Your lips met his.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative. He didn't seem to know what to do, his mouth pressed against yours, unmoving. You guided him, tilting your head, parting your lips slightly. After a moment, he responded, his hand coming up to rest on your waist.

You deepened the kiss. His mouth opened, and you felt the heat of his tongue against yours. He made a sound, low and surprised, his fingers tightening on your hip.

You pulled back, just enough to look at him. His eyes were glazed, his breathing uneven.

"Was that okay?" you asked.

He nodded. "More than okay."

You kissed him again. This time he was more confident, his hand moving from your waist to your back, pulling you closer. You shifted on the couch, turning to face him properly, your knees brushing against his armored legs.

You broke the kiss long enough to say, "You can touch me."

"I don't know where."

"Wherever feels right."

He hesitated. Then his hand moved, slowly, from your back to your side. He traced the curve of your ribs through your dress, his fingers trembling slightly. He stopped at the swell of your breast, his palm hovering over the fabric.

"Here?" he asked.

You nodded. "Go ahead."

He cupped you gently, his thumb brushing over the fabric. You gasped at the contact. He removed his hand immediately, looking at you with concern.

"Did I hurt you?"

"No." You took his hand and placed it back. "It felt good. Keep going."

He did. His fingers moved more confidently now, exploring the shape of you through the fabric. He found your nipple and pressed, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. You arched into his touch, encouraging him.

He groaned. It was a sound of pure pleasure, deep and rough. He pressed his forehead against yours, his breath hot on your skin.

"This feels good," he murmured.

"Then keep going."

He did. His hand moved from your chest to your shoulder, pushing the strap of your dress down. He followed the path of fabric with his mouth, kissing the exposed skin of your collarbone.

You shivered. His lips were warm, slightly chapped, tracing a line down your shoulder. He paused at the edge of your dress, looking up at you.

"Can I…"

"Take it off?"

He nodded, and you reached behind you, unzipping the dress. It fell forward, pooling around your waist. You were left in your underwear, the dim light of the room casting shadows across your skin.

Howzer stared. His eyes traveled down your body, lingering on the curve of your breasts, the line of your stomach. He swallowed.

"You're beautiful," he said.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. "Thank you."

He leaned forward, pressing his lips to the top of your chest. Then lower, following the path his hands had traced earlier. He found your nipple through the thin fabric of your bra, his tongue circling it slowly.

You moaned, your fingers finding their way into his hair. It was softer than you'd expected, the dark strands slipping between your fingers as he continued his exploration.

He pulled the fabric down, exposing your breast fully. He didn't hesitate. His mouth closed around you, his tongue working in careful strokes.

"Does it taste good?" you asked, your voice breathy.

He pulled back for a moment. "You taste good. All of you."

He returned to his work, his mouth moving from one breast to the other. His hips shifted, pressing against your thigh, and you felt the hard line of him through his blacks.

You reached down, your fingers brushing against the bulge. He gasped, his whole body tensing.

"Sorry," you said. "Too much?"

"No." He shook his head. "Just unexpected."

You smiled. You pressed your palm against him more firmly, feeling the heat of him through the fabric. He groaned, his hips bucking involuntarily.

"Can I…" His voice cracked. "Can I touch you? There?"

"You can touch me anywhere you want."

His hand moved to the waistband of your underwear. He paused, looking at you for confirmation. You nodded.

He slid the fabric down, his fingers following the curve of your hip. He was careful, almost reverent, like he was handling something precious. When the fabric fell away, he sat back, looking at you fully naked.

"I want to see you too," you said.

He stood, his hands moving to the seals on his blacks. He fumbled with them, his fingers clumsy. You stood with him, gently pushing his hands aside.

"Let me."

You worked the seals yourself, pulling the fabric apart. His chest was bare underneath, broad and muscled, covered in a thin layer of hair. You traced your fingers along the lines of his pectorals, down his stomach, stopping at the waistband of his leggings.

He held his breath as you pushed the fabric down. His length sprang free, hard and already slick at the tip. You wrapped your fingers around him, feeling the weight of him in your hand.

He groaned, his head falling back. "That feels..."

"Good?"

"Amazing."

You stroked him slowly, watching his face. His eyes were closed, his lips parted, his breathing ragged. He looked undone, completely vulnerable in a way you'd never seen him.

He opened his eyes. "I want to be inside you." You nodded.

He guided you back to the couch. You lay down, and he positioned himself above you, his body blocking out the light. He looked down at you, something soft and wondering in his gaze.

"How do I…"

"Just guide yourself in." You reached down, helping him align. "Slowly."

He pushed forward, and you felt the head of him press against you. He paused, looking at you for confirmation. You nodded.

He entered you slowly. The sensation was overwhelming, the stretch of him filling you. You let out a sound, half-moan, half-gasp.

He stopped halfway. "Did I hurt you?"

"No." You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper. "It feels good. Keep going."

He did. He pushed all the way in, his hips flush against yours. He stayed there for a moment, both of you breathing hard, adjusting to the sensation.

"You feel incredible," he whispered.

"So do you."

He started moving. Slowly at first, experimental thrusts that made him groan with each one. He watched your face, studying your reactions, learning what made you gasp and what made you sigh.

"Like that," you said. "Just like that."

He found a rhythm, his hips rocking against yours. His hand found yours, fingers lacing together, pressing into the cushion beside your head.

He was close. You could feel it in the way his movements became less controlled, in the way his breath came in short, desperate gasps.

"I'm going to…" He tried to pull out. You stopped him.

"Inside. It's okay."

He groaned. His hips stuttered, and you felt him release, a warmth spreading inside you. He collapsed against you, his face buried in your neck, his whole body shaking.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice muffled. "I couldn't hold it."

"Don't apologize." You ran your fingers through his hair. "That was perfect."

He lifted his head, looking at you with an expression you couldn't quite read. "I'm glad it was with you. My first time."

"How was it?" you asked.

He laughed softly. "It was maybe not a good idea."

You blinked. "Why?"

He stood in the doorway, backlit by the dim hallway lights. His blacks clung to him like a second skin, and the holocamera in his hand caught the faint glow from the barracks.

You sat up, heart still racing from the sound that woke you. "You came here."

"Couldn't wait." He said it simply, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "My bunk, your bunk. Same, no difference."

It wasn't the same difference. You told him to meet you at his bunk. He was the one who suggested it, clearly wanting to control the situation. But now he stood at your door, unable to wait even a few more hours. That meant something. You weren't sure what exactly, but it pulled at something in your chest.

Fives stepped inside, moving quietly despite his size. The barracks were dark, most of the troopers already asleep.

He stopped beside your mattress, looking down at you with an expression you couldn't quite read. The playful confidence from earlier had softened into something more serious.

"I meant what I said." His voice came low, barely above a whisper. "You're the most precious person I have."

Your throat tightened. "You said that earlier."

"I know." He set the holocamera on your footlocker. "I wanted to say it again. In case you thought I was just trying to smooth things over."

You hadn't thought that. But hearing it again made it real in a way it wasn't before. He could have shown up with a joke, deflected with humor like he always did. Instead he stood there, serious and open, waiting for you to say something.

You reached for him.

He came down to you, one knee on the mattress, hands finding your waist. The kiss started gentle, almost tentative, like he was still testing whether this was real. Then your fingers tangled in his hair, and he pulled you closer, deeper.

"I've wanted this," he murmured against your mouth. "For a while now."

"Me too."

His hands moved up your back, warm through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt. You tugged at the hem of his blacks, wanting to feel skin. He helped you pull it over his head, breaking the kiss just long enough to get the fabric past his shoulders.

The scar along his ribs caught the faint light. You traced it with your fingers, felt him shiver under your touch.

"Battle of Ryloth," he said. "Shrapnel."

"Does it hurt?"

"Not anymore." He caught your hand, brought it to his lips. "Not when you touch it."

You pulled him back down, kissing him harder this time. His weight pressed you into the mattress, solid and warm. Your hands explored his chest, his shoulders, the curve of his spine. He groaned softly when you scraped your nails down his back.

"Wait." He pulled back, breath uneven. "You wanted a picture, right?"

Your mind was hazy, full of him. "What?"

He grinned, that familiar mischievous light returning to his eyes. "You stole my picture of you. I offered you a trade. Remember?"

You remembered. You just hadn't expected him to bring it up now, in the middle of everything.

"You're serious?"

"Always." He sat up, reaching for the holocamera. "I promised you a picture. I'm a man of my word."

He stood by the foot of the bed, naked now, the dim light carving shadows across his body. He struck a pose, flexing his arms, chest puffed out. The grin on his face was pure showmanship.

"Go ahead." He winked. "Capture the moment."

You grabbed the holocamera, fingers fumbling slightly with the unfamiliar controls. The device was old, manual, nothing like the sleek holorecorders the army issued. You aimed it at him, trying to find the right angle.

"Hold still."

"I'm always still."

You pressed the button. The flash illuminated the room for a split second, followed by the soft whir of the picture printing. The flimsi slid out of the slot, pale and developing slowly in the darkness.

He flopped back onto the bed, landing beside you. "See? Worth keeping under your pillow."

"It's still developing."

"Give it time." He rolled onto his side, facing you. "Good things take time."

You set the picture aside, still dark, and turned to him. The humor faded from his face, replaced by something quieter. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek.

"Come here."

You went. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close until there was no space left between you. His skin was warm against yours, heartbeat steady against your chest.

"Tell me if you want to stop," he said. "At any point. I mean it."

"I know."

He kissed you again, slower this time. His hands moved with deliberate care, learning the shape of you. When you guided him closer, he followed without hesitation.

The world narrowed to the space between you. His breath against your neck, the scrape of his stubble on your shoulder, the way he whispered your name as it mattered. Each touch built on the last, steady and patient. He took his time, letting you set the pace, watching your face for any sign of hesitation.

You didn't hesitate. Not once.

When he finally pushed into you, slow and deliberate, his forehead pressed to yours. He kept his eyes open, watching your face as he filled you inch by inch. The sensation was overwhelming. The stretch, the heat, the way he seemed to reach so deep inside you. You gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

He stilled. "Okay?"

"Yes. Don't stop."

He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that had your breath catching with each thrust. You could feel every inch of him, the way his cock slid against your walls, the fullness that left you speechless. He groaned low in his throat, his pace steady and patient.

"You feel so good." His voice cracked. "So good. I…"

He didn't finish. Didn't need to. You pulled him closer, legs wrapping around his waist, urging him deeper. The rhythm built, faster now, the room filling with the sound of your shared breaths. His movements grew less controlled, more urgent, the earlier patience giving way to raw need. Each thrust sent sparks through you, and you could feel yourself tightening around him.

He was sloppy now, his rhythm faltering as he got lost in the feeling. The words he spoke came broken, whispered against your skin. How long he'd wanted this, how many times he'd imagined it, how he never thought it would actually happen. Each confession made your chest ache, but you held him through it, your fingers tracing patterns on his back.

"Where do you want it?" he panted against your ear. "Tell me."

"Inside." You gripped his arms, pulling him closer. "I want it inside."

He drove into you once, hard, and came with a shudder, filling you with his first release. But he didn't stop. He kept moving, kept thrusting even as your walls clenched around him. A second surge followed, spilling into you again, hotter and deeper. You were trembling, overwhelmed by the fullness. A third time, and he finally stilled, his body pressed fully against yours, his breath ragged against your neck. You could feel him still pulsing, the warmth spreading inside you, filling you to the brim.

You collapsed against him, breathless and trembling. His arms stayed wrapped around you, holding you close like he was afraid you'd disappear.

When it ended, you collapsed against him, breathless and trembling. His arms stayed wrapped around you, holding you close like he was afraid you'd disappear.

"Stay," he whispered. "Just... stay."

"I'm not going anywhere."

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then settled back against the pillow. One hand found your hair, fingers threading through the strands with gentle repetition. The motion was soothing, rhythmic, pulling you toward sleep.

Your eyes grew heavy. The warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart under your ear, the soft caress of his hand. It all blurred together into a haze of comfort.

You were almost asleep when you heard it.

A soft click. A flash of light, brief enough that it barely registered through your closed eyelids.

You stirred, blinking. "What…"

Fives was grinning, holocamera in hand, a fresh picture sliding out of the slot. "Compensation."

"For what?"

"For stealing my picture of you." He held up the developing flimsi, still dark. "Now we're even."

"You took a picture of me sleeping?"

"Of you falling asleep." He looked at the picture, then at you. "I wanted to remember this."

Your face heated. "That's not fair. I was…"

"Perfect." He set the camera aside, pulling you back against his chest. "You were perfect."

You wanted to argue, but the exhaustion pulled at you again. His hand resumed its gentle stroking through your hair, and your eyes drifted shut despite your best efforts.

"I'll show it to you tomorrow," he murmured. "When it's fully developed."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

The word hung in the air, soft and warm. You felt his lips press against your hair one more time, felt his arm tighten around you, felt the steady rhythm of his breathing slow as he relaxed into sleep.

The barracks smelled like sweat and cleaning solvent, the familiar mixture that clung to every surface after a mission. You dropped your gear by your bunk and stretched your shoulders, still feeling the tension from the last forty-eight hours. The door to the refresher was closed, water running inside, which meant someone was still washing off the grime.

Fives' helmet sat on his bunk, abandoned as he'd just tossed it there without thinking. You'd seen him do that a hundred times already, always in a rush to get to something else. But today something caught your eye—a small piece of flimsi tucked inside the visor, held in place by the padding.

You glanced toward the refresher door. Still closed. Still running.

The picture was small, creased at the edges like someone had handled it too many times. You picked up the helmet, telling yourself you were just curious about what he kept in there. Maybe a holo of his batchmates. Maybe some kind of lucky charm.

It was you.

Your own face stared back from the flimsi, caught mid-laugh during some briefing you barely remembered. You were looking off to the side, hair messy from a long day, something amused on your face that you couldn't even recall feeling. The picture wasn't anything special. It wasn't posed or flattering. It was just you, existing.

He kept a picture of you in his helmet.

Your face went warm, then hotter. You set the helmet down carefully, expecting someone to walk in any second and catch you red-handed. But the barracks stayed empty. Just you and this impossible discovery.

Fives flirted with everyone. That was just who he was. He'd charm a droid if it stood still long enough. You'd watched him work his way through supply officers, medics, even that Twi'lek diplomat who visited last month. He treated flirting like breathing, automatic and constant.

So this picture didn't mean anything special. Probably. It could be a friendly thing. He kept pictures of all his squadmates, right? Echo was probably in there somewhere too, tucked away in another crevice.

But you knew that wasn't true. You'd seen inside his helmet before, glanced at it when he left it lying around. There was never a picture before. This was new.

The refresher door creaked. Water stopped running.

You made a decision quick, before your brain could talk you out of it. Your fingers slipped the picture into your pocket, smooth and fast. Then you stepped back to your bunk, grabbing a datapad off your pillow like you'd been reading it the whole time.

Fives came out with a towel around his waist, hair dripping water down his chest. He nodded at you, easy and relaxed.

"Long mission," he said.

"Long enough."

He didn't notice. He picked up his helmet, gave it a casual glance, then set it on his footlocker. No panic. No checking for the picture. He just pulled on a fresh undersuit and started lacing his boots like nothing had happened.

You sat on your bunk, datapad in hand, not reading a single word.

The shared restroom was loud when you got there. Troopers crowded around the sinks and mirrors, some still in armor, others already stripped down to their blacks. Steam rose from the open showers, voices bouncing off the duracrete walls.

Fives stood near the far wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. He looked like he'd been like that for a while already.

"Where is it?" His voice cut through the noise, sharp enough to make a few conversations pause. "I'm not asking again."

Echo stood across from him, hands raised in a placating gesture. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"The picture. Someone took it from my helmet while I was in the shower."

The room went quieter. You felt your stomach drop somewhere down to your boots.

"Why would I take a picture from your helmet?" Echo sounded genuinely confused, which made it worse. He wasn't faking. "What picture?"

"That's what I'd like to know." Fives stepped closer, shoulders squared. "Only someone in this room would have access to my bunk while I was gone. So whoever has it, now's the time to speak up."

Nobody spoke. You pressed your back against the wall, heart hammering.

"I'm not going to let this go." Fives' voice went lower, more dangerous. "That picture was important to me, and I want it back. If I have to search every locker in this room, I will."

Echo's expression shifted from confusion to frustration. "You're accusing me of stealing from you? I'm your brother."

"I'm not accusing anyone specifically. But I'm not dropping this either."

The tension in the room felt physical, like you could reach out and touch it. Troopers exchanged glances, uncomfortable and uncertain. Most of them had never seen Fives like this, usually easygoing and cracking jokes even in the middle of firefights.

You pushed off the wall and walked toward them, trying to keep your steps steady. Echo noticed you first, relief flickering across his face like he was grateful for an interruption.

"Hey," you said, keeping your voice light. "What's going on?"

Fives didn't look at you. "Nothing you need to worry about."

"Someone took something from him." Echo shrugged. "He thinks it was me."

"I didn't say it was you. I said…"

"I took it."

The words came out before you could stop them. Fives finally turned, his eyes narrowing. Confusion replaced some of the anger.

"You what?"

"Your picture." You reached into your pocket and pulled it out, the flimsi still warm from being pressed against your thigh. "I took it from your helmet earlier. I was curious."

The restroom went dead silent. Even the water from the showers seemed quieter.

Fives stared at the picture in your hand, then at your face, then back at the picture. A flush crept up his neck, spreading toward his cheeks. You'd never seen him embarrassed before, not once, but he looked it now, caught and exposed.

"Why?" His voice came out rougher than before.

"Because it was me." You held the picture out to him. "I saw it, and I wanted to know what you'd do. If you'd notice."

He took the picture, fingers brushing yours for just a second. Then he looked at it, the image of you caught mid-laugh, and something in his face softened.

"Of course I'd notice." He said it quietly, almost to himself. "I always notice when something's missing."

The room still watched. You felt their eyes on both of you, putting pieces together that you weren't ready to acknowledge. Echo cleared his throat, then turned and walked away, signaling for the others to give space. They dispersed slowly, conversations restarting in hushed tones.

Fives grabbed your elbow, gentle but firm. "Come here."

He pulled you out of the restroom and into the corridor, where the lighting was dimmer, and the noise faded to a distant hum. He stopped near a supply closet, turning to face you with the picture still in his hand.

"You didn't have to do that," he said. "Admitting it in front of everyone."

"I couldn't let you blame Echo."

"You could have told me later. Privately."

"I wasn't thinking." You leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted. "I just saw you getting angry, and I didn't want it to go further."

He looked at the picture again, running his thumb along the edge. "You know why I keep this, right?"

You shook your head.

"Because you're one of the most important people in my life." He said it simply, like it was obvious, like it didn't make your heart stop. "You and Echo. You're the ones I trust most. When I'm out there, when things get bad, I look at this, and I remember what I'm fighting for."

Your throat felt tight. "You keep a picture of me in your helmet to give you courage."

"Yeah." He laughed, self-conscious. "Sounds stupid when you say it out loud."

"It doesn't sound stupid."

He looked at you then, really looked, like he was seeing something new. The corridor was quiet, just the two of you standing close enough that you could feel the heat coming off his skin.

"You know," he said, a hint of his usual humor creeping back, "since you stole mine, I think you owe me a picture in exchange."

"Of what?"

He winked. The gesture was so familiar, so him, that you almost laughed. "Of me. A good one. Maybe something worth keeping under your pillow."

You felt your face go red. "You're suggesting…"

"I'm suggesting whatever you want me to suggest." He grinned, full charm now. "A picture of me. A nice one. Or not nice. Depending on your preferences."

The joke landed somewhere between embarrassing and thrilling. You should have laughed it off, called him ridiculous, walked away. That would have been the sensible thing.

"I want it," you said.

Fives' grin froze. His eyes went wide, genuine surprise replacing the performative confidence. "Wait. Really?"

"I said I want it."

He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could get the words out, a voice echoed from down the hall. "Fives! Command wants you in the briefing room, now!"

He looked toward the voice, then back at you. Something unreadable passed across his face. "I have to go."

"I know."

But he didn't move right away. He stood there, caught between duty and something else, before finally shaking his head like he was clearing it. "Tonight. After lights out. My bunk."

"Your bunk?"

"If you want the picture." The grin returned, softer this time. "I'll have something worth taking a picture of."

He walked away before you could respond, disappearing around the corner toward the briefing room. You stayed against the wall, heart pounding, the picture of yourself still warm where it rested in your palm.

You'd stolen his picture to see what he'd do.

You hadn't expected this.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. You went through your duties mechanically, logging mission data and updating cartography files, but your mind kept drifting back to the corridor. To the look on his face when he said you were one of the most important people in his life. To the way he winked when he offered you a picture. To the fact that you said yes.

The barracks felt different when you returned that evening. The lights were dimmed, most of the bunks occupied with troopers settling in for the night. Echo was already asleep by the door, his breathing steady and deep. A few others murmured, but the room had that heavy, drowsy atmosphere that came after a long day.

Fives' bunk was empty.

You lay down on your own mattress, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince yourself that he'd forgotten. That the briefing ran long, that he'd been pulled into something else. That you could just close your eyes and let this whole thing fade into an awkward memory.

But you didn't close your eyes. You lay there, listening, waiting.

The faint sound came near midnight. A soft tap against the doorframe, barely audible over the hum of the ventilation system. You sat up, heart already racing.

Fives stood in the doorway, backlit by the dim hallway lights. He wore only his blacks, the thin fabric clinging to his frame. In his hand, he held something small and rectangular. A holocamera, old-fashioned, the kind that printed physical pictures.

He smiled, slow and lopsided.

Rex walked through the corridor, his boots echoing against the metal floor. The briefing room was three levels up, and he took the stairs two at a time, partly from habit, partly from the need to move. To do something. Anything that wasn't lying in that cot with her warmth still on his skin.

Jesse stood outside the briefing room, arms crossed, helmet tucked under his arm. The smirk on his face was exactly what Rex expected. Exactly what he dreaded.

"Captain." Jesse's voice carried that particular tone. The one that meant he was enjoying himself far too much.

"Jesse." Rex kept his voice flat. Professional. Like he hadn't been caught with his hands on something he shouldn't have touched.

Jesse fell into step beside him as they entered the empty briefing room. They had a few minutes before the others arrived. A few minutes that Jesse clearly intended to use.

"So," Jesse said, leaning against the conference table. "The mechanic."

Rex didn't answer. He pulled up the briefing data on the terminal, pretending to study it.

"The one you've been staring at for years. The one you said was 'just a good repair technician.'" Jesse made air quotes with his fingers. "Right."

"She's good at her job." Rex kept his eyes on the screen.

"I'm sure she is. Must be really good, considering how long you stayed."

Rex turned to face him. "What do you want, Jesse?"

Jesse held up his hands, palms out. "Nothing. I'm not going to report you. You're my captain, and I'd follow you into hell. But I am going to enjoy watching you squirm."

His damn smirk. Again.

"You heard everything?"

"Enough." Jesse's smirk softened into something almost genuine. "Look, I don't care what you do in your off hours. You're a person, after all. We all are, even if the Republic forgets it sometimes. Just be careful. If someone else finds out, if someone who doesn't have your back catches you..."

"I know." Rex ran a hand over his face. "I know."

"How was it?"

The question caught him off guard. "What?"

"The mechanic. How was she?" Jesse's grin returned, sharper this time. "Come on, give me something. I covered for you. I deserve details."

Rex stared at him. A part of him wanted to shut this down, to remind Jesse of protocol and chain of command. But another part, the part that had just spent hours with a woman who made him feel like something other than a weapon, wanted to talk about it. Wanted someone to know.

"Different," he said finally. "She made me feel different."

Jesse waited. When nothing else came, he sighed. "That's it? Different? I risk my neck for you, and all I get is 'different'?"

"You want specifics?"

"No, actually. I don't." Jesse's expression shifted, becoming more serious. "I just wanted to make sure you're okay. You've been wound tight for years, Rex. If she helps with that, then good. Just don't let it get in the way of command."

"It won't."

"Good." Jesse straightened as footsteps approached from the corridor. "Because we've got a real problem. The Separatists are pushing into the Outer Rim, and Command wants us on the front lines within the week."

The door slid open. Other officers filed in, clones in white armor and a few nat-born commanders. Rex pushed thoughts of her to the back of his mind. He had a job to do. He always had a job to do.

You spent the morning working on a V-wing that had taken shrapnel damage during a patrol. The repairs were straightforward, almost boring, which gave your mind too much room to wander. Every time a clone walked past, you looked up. Every time footsteps approached, your heart rate spiked.

Rex hadn't come back to your quarters after the briefing. You hadn't expected him to. He had duties, a command, a war to fight. But the absence still sat heavy in your chest.

The V-wing's stabilizer needed recalibrating. You had your head buried in the panel when you heard someone clear their throat behind you.

"Need a hand?"

You pulled your head out and turned. A clone stood there, helmet tucked under his arm. You recognized him. Fives. He'd been part of Rex's unit for years, always quick with a joke and quicker with a smile. He had that look about him, the kind that made troopers popular in bars and caused trouble in command structures.

"I'm good," you said, wiping grease off your fingers. "Thanks."

"I'm sure you are." He stepped closer, peering at the panel you'd been working on. "You've got a reputation around here. Best mechanic on the base. Maybe the whole sector."

"I do my job."

"That's not all you do." He said it lightly, but something in his tone made you freeze. He couldn't know. Could he? "I've seen the way you look at the captain."

Your breath caught. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Fives laughed. "Relax. I'm not accusing you of anything. Just making conversation." He leaned against the V-wing's landing strut, crossing his arms. "Rex is a good man. Best captain I've ever served under. But he's also the most uptight, rule-bound clone in the GAR. If you're trying to crack that shell, you've got your work cut out for you."

"I'm not trying to crack anything."

"Sure you're not." He winked at you. "Anyway, if you ever get tired of waiting for him to make a move, my bunk's always open."

He said it like a joke, but the way he held your gaze suggested he wasn't entirely kidding. Before you could respond, a voice cut across the hangar.

"Fives."

Rex. He stood near the entrance, still in armor, watching the two of you with an expression you couldn't read. His voice carried that clipped, professional tone, but you caught something underneath. Something sharp.

"Captain." Fives straightened, snapped a lazy salute. "Just getting to know the local talent."

"Get to the armory. We're running inventory."

"Copy that." Fives looked back at you, another wink. "See you around."

He walked off, passing Rex with a clap on the shoulder. Rex didn't acknowledge it. He kept his eyes on you.

You turned back to the V-wing, trying to look busy. Trying to look like your heart wasn't hammering against your ribs. You heard his footsteps approach, measured and deliberate.

"Captain." You didn't look up. "Here about the V-wing? It'll be done by the end of the shift."

"That's not why I'm here."

You kept your hands moving, adjusting a coupling that was already perfectly aligned. "Then why are you here?"

He didn't answer immediately. You could feel his presence behind you, solid and warm. The urge to turn around, to touch him, was almost overwhelming.

"Fives," he said finally. "What did he want?"

"Just making conversation. Said if I ever got tired of waiting for you to make a move, his bunk was open."

The words came out before you could stop them. You weren't sure why you said it. Maybe to see his reaction. Maybe to push him, to see how far you could go before he cracked.

The silence stretched. You finally looked up.

Rex's jaw was tight. His hands, resting at his sides, were clenched into fists. "He said that?"

"He was joking. Mostly."

"It didn't sound like a joke."

You straightened, wiping your hands on your coveralls. "Are you jealous, Captain?"

"A clone doesn't get jealous. We don't have that programming."

"Programming." You stepped closer, close enough to see the tension in his shoulders. "Is that what you call it?"

"I call it what it is." His voice dropped, barely above a whisper. "I saw him talking to you. Flirting with you. And I wanted to put my fist through his face."

"That sounds like jealousy to me."

"Then maybe it is." He looked away, his jaw working. "I don't know what to do with this. With you. I've never had to share anything in my life. My brothers and I, we share everything. Our food, our quarters, our missions. But this..." He met your eyes again. "This is mine."

The words hit you somewhere deep. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to drag him into the nearest closet and prove to him that he had nothing to worry about.

Instead, you smiled. "So what are you going to do about it?"

His eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, if you're so worried about Fives, what are you going to do? March over there and tell him to back off?"

"Maybe I will."

"You can't do that. It'll raise questions."

"Then what do you suggest?"

You stepped closer, close enough that your chest almost touched his armor. "I suggest you find a way to remind me why I shouldn't take him up on his offer."

Something flickered in his eyes. He grabbed your arm, not hard, but firm, and pulled you toward a supply closet near the hangar's edge. The door slid open, and he pushed you inside, following close behind.

The closet was small, barely enough space for two people. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with spare parts and cleaning supplies. The light was dim, a single bulb casting harsh shadows.

"Rex…"

He kissed you before you could finish.

It was different from before. More frantic. His hands found your waist, pulling you against him, and you felt the hard curve of his armor pressing into your stomach. He bit your lower lip, just hard enough to make you gasp, and used the opening to push his tongue into your mouth.

"Is this about jealousy?" you managed, between kisses.

"Shut up."

He turned you around, pressing your chest against the shelves. Something clattered to the floor. You didn't care. His hands found the front of your coverall, working the fastenings with practiced efficiency. The fabric pooled around your waist, leaving your upper body bare.

The air was cool against your skin. His hands were warm. He cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you arched into his touch.

"Someone could hear," you said, though you didn't care anymore.

"Then be quiet."

He lowered his head, mouth finding your neck. He kissed a path down your shoulder, your spine, until he reached the small of your back. Then he turned you around again, facing him.

His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. He looked at you like you were the only thing in the galaxy worth seeing.

"I should have killed him," he said.

"Fives?"

"Anyone who looks at you like that."

You laughed, breathless.

His mouth found your stomach, kissing a trail downward. His hands gripped your hips, thumbs pressing into the bone. When his lips reached the waistband of your pants, he looked up at you.

"Tell me to stop."

"Don't you dare."

He pulled your pants down, not bothering with the fastenings. The fabric caught on your ankles, and you kicked it away. You stood bare before him, shivering in the dim light, and he looked at you like you were sacred.

His mouth pressed against your thigh, kissing, nipping. You felt his breath against your skin, warm and uneven. He took his time, working his way inward, and every second of anticipation made the tension coil tighter in your belly.

When his tongue finally found you, you had to bite your hand to keep from crying out.

He was thorough. Methodical. He learned every reaction, every sound you tried to suppress. He lingered in places that made your knees weak, pulled back when you got too close, pushed forward again when you begged him with your eyes.

"Rex," you whispered, his name a prayer.

He looked up at you, his chin wet, his eyes hungry. "Say it again."

"Rex."

He smiled. Then he pressed two fingers inside you, curling them just right, and you lost all ability to form words.

He worked you with his mouth and his hands, bringing you to the edge and holding you there. The world narrowed to the feel of him, the sounds of his breathing, the taste of the air between you. When you finally came, it hit you like a shockwave, and you collapsed against him, your legs barely holding you up.

He held you, pressing kisses to your hip, your stomach, until your breathing steadied.

"That was unfair," you said.

"Was it?"

"You know it was."

He stood, his armor creaking. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, everything else fell away. The war, the danger, the constant threat of discovery… None of it mattered. There was only him, and you, and the space between you that somehow managed to shrink every time you touched.

"Rex," you said, softer this time. "I'm not going to run off with Fives."

"I know."

"I'm not going to run off with anyone."

He kissed your forehead. "I know."

He had his hands on you, walking through the hangar, and he had you pressed against the closet wall. You felt his cock pressing against you through his blacks, felt the desperation building on his side.

Someone's footsteps clomped along the metal corridor outside, and Rex clamped his hand over your mouth.

"I should go... But don't you dare forget about this. About me."