Winter Is Coming

Wolffe never thought babies were his thing. Too loud, too fragile, too unpredictable. He’d spent most of his life around soldiers and warzones, not soft blankets and tiny socks. But then he sees you sitting in the corner of the barracks lounge with someone’s infant tucked against your chest, his entire brain short-circuits.

Wolffe’s gone after that.

Because now he’s imagining what your child would look like. If they’d have your smile. If they’d curl tiny fingers around his scarred hands without fear.

It unsettles him how badly he wants it.

Later that night, he corners you in the corridor, arms crossed, trying to act normal while absolutely failing.

“You’re good with kids,” he mutters.

You grin. “That surprise you?”

“A little.”

His eye lingers on your mouth before dropping lower. “Made me think.”

“Oh?” you tease.

Wolffe steps closer, voice rough. “Thought about you carrying one around that looked like us.”

The silence after that is dangerous. You blink at him, cheeks warming, and he notices immediately. His smirk is slow and wolfish.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That got your attention.”

When you shove at his chest, embarrassed, he catches your wrist easily and pulls you closer.

“Don’t start blushing now, cyare. You were the one making domestic life look tempting.”

Then, “Besides, I think youd look good carrying my kid.”

And the bastard sounds entirely too pleased with himself when your knees nearly give out.

Cody

Cody has always been good at adapting. New battle plans, impossible odds, sudden chaos, he handles it all with a calm smile. But nothing prepares him for seeing you with a baby asleep against your shoulder during a base gathering.

You’re swaying gently to keep the little one asleep, absentmindedly rubbing tiny circles over their back while talking to someone nearby. The baby’s fist is curled in your shirt, completely content.

Cody feels something in his chest go painfully soft. He’s done for.

He leans against the doorway watching you for way too long, helmet tucked under his arm while his mind wanders somewhere dangerous. Somewhere warm, somewhere domestic.

You catch him staring eventually and raise an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says too quickly.

You narrow your eyes. “You’ve had that look on your face for five straight minutes.”

“What look?”

“The one where you’re pretending not to think very loudly.”

That gets a laugh out of him. But he walks closer anyway, gaze drifting back to the baby.

“He trusts you,” he says quietly.

“Well, babies can tell who’s safe.”

The words hit him harder than they should. Because Cody suddenly imagines coming back from deployment and finding you in shared quarters with a sleepy infant curled against your chest. Imagines hearing tiny footsteps running toward him. Imagines home.

He’s absolutely cooked.

The baby wakes and starts fussing. Before you can soothe them, Cody crouches beside you and offers his finger. Tiny hands grab him instantly.

Your expression melts. And stars, that look from you almost kills him.

“What?” he asks, smiling.

“You’d make a really good dad.”

Cody freezes for half a second.Then his eyes darken just slightly as he looks between you and the baby. “That so?”

“Mhm.”

He stands slowly, close enough now that your breath catches. “Careful saying things like that to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I already spend enough time thinking about you.”

Your face warms instantly.

Cody grins, completely unrepentant. “Now I’m imagining you pregnant and looking at me like that too.”

You choke on air while he laughs softly, leaning down to murmur, “And honestly? That mental image is becoming a problem.”

Rex

Rex doesn’t notice it happening at first.

One second he’s walking into the medbay looking for Kix, and the next he’s stopped dead in the doorway because there you are with a baby balanced on your hip like you were born for it.

The little girl is babbling at you while clutching your name tag, and you’re answering her with complete seriousness.

“Oh really? That’s fascinating. Tell me more.”

The baby squeals happily and Rex feels his heart fold in on itself. You look so natural like this.

And suddenly he’s wondering what it would feel like to have a life outside the war. A tiny apartment somewhere quiet. You laughing in a kitchen while a child toddles after him calling him dad.

It hits him hard enough to steal the breath from his lungs.

The baby grabs your cheeks with both hands, making you laugh louder, and Rex is completely helpless after that.

“You break easy around kids, Captain?” you tease when you notice him staring.

“Only this one,” he says automatically.

Your eyebrows lift. You start laughing and he groans because now he’s embarrassed and you look adorable laughing at him.

But then the baby reaches toward him.

Rex hesitates before taking her carefully, surprisingly gentle for someone built for war. The baby immediately grabs his blond hair and giggles.

Your expression softens instantly.

And maker, that look from you nearly ruins him.

“You’re good at that,” you murmur.

Rex glances up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Something shifts in his face then. Something quieter. More vulnerable.

“I think…” He pauses. “I think I’d want one someday.”

Your breath catches slightly and Rex notices. His gaze drops to your lips before meeting your eyes again, warm and steady. “With the right person,” he adds softly.

The silence between you suddenly feels charged.

Then he smiles, slow and devastating.

“And if you keep looking at me while holding babies, you’re not making it easy to stay responsible about that.”

Fives

Fives notices things other people don’t. Tiny details, expressions, habits.

So the second he sees a baby crawl straight past three shinies and make a beeline for you, he’s paying attention.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor of the hangar, laughing softly while the little boy climbs into your lap like he belongs there. The kid immediately grabs your face with sticky hands, and instead of recoiling, you kiss his palm dramatically.

“Well, hello to you too, tiny menace.”

The baby shrieks with delighted laughter.

Fives feels something dangerous spark low in his chest. Because you don’t even realize what you look like right now, smiling all soft and sleepy, holding that kid like it’s the easiest thing in the galaxy. Like you were made for it.

And suddenly his brain betrays him completely. He imagines a baby with your eyes and his curls. Imagines hearing you laugh like that in the middle of the night while holding his kid. Imagines waking up beside you with tiny feet kicking between you both.

He’s staring so hard Echo has to elbow him. “You look insane right now.”

“Shut up.”

You glance over at the sound of their bickering and grin. “You wanna hold him?”

Fives tries to play it cool. “Depends. Is he gonna throw up on me?”

“Probably.”

“Alright, hand him over.”

The second the baby settles against his chest, tiny fingers gripping his blacks, Fives is absolutely finished. Completely gone.

And then he looks up and catches the expression on your face. “You’re good at this,” you say quietly.

Fives smirks automatically. “Good with my hands, mesh’la.”

You snort. “That line work on everyone?”

“No.” His eyes flick down your body slowly. “Just the people I think about having a future with.”

The teasing leaves his voice at the end, replaced with something warmer, realer.

Your breath catches. Fives notices immediately, grin turning wicked. “Kriff,” he murmurs. “You really liked that one.”

Then he bounces the baby lightly and adds, “Careful or I’m gonna start thinking about putting one in your arms for real.”

Fox

Fox is exhausted almost constantly.

Coruscant never sleeps, which means neither does he. His life is paperwork, politics, and trying to stop the galaxy from collapsing every five minutes.

Domestic thoughts don’t happen for him anymore.

Until you. Until he walks into the Senate daycare during a security sweep and finds you sitting in the middle of a pile of toddlers like some kind of battlefield medic for tiny disasters.

One kid is asleep against your side. Another is braiding your sleeve strings together. A third is demanding you read the same holobook for the fifth time.

And you’re handling all of it with this calm, patient smile that hits Fox directly in the chest.

He leans in the doorway longer than he should.

Then one of the toddlers waddles over and wraps themselves around your leg while whining sleepily, and you scoop them up without hesitation, kissing their forehead automatically.

Fox is done for.

Because now he’s imagining coming home to this.

To you waiting up late with a baby half-asleep on your shoulder. To tiny socks left around quarters. To hearing laughter instead of blaster fire ringing in his ears.

It’s terrifying how much he wants it.

“You look scary when you stare,” you tell him eventually.

Fox crosses his arms. “Occupational hazard.”

“Mhm.” You smile knowingly. “Or you just like watching me babysit.”

His silence gives him away instantly. Your eyebrows rise. “Oh my gods,” you laugh softly. “Fox.”

He exhales through his nose, already doomed. “You’re good with them.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I’m thinking things I shouldn’t.”

Your smile turns dangerous. “Such as?”

Fox steps closer slowly until he’s standing right in front of you, gaze dropping briefly to the baby in your arms.

Then back to you. “Such as how good you’d look holding mine.”

The words come out low and rough and your face heats immediately. Fox notices, eyes darkening just slightly before he leans down near your ear. “And now I can’t stop imagining it.”

Bacara

Bacara is not soft. At least, that’s what everyone assumes.

The commander of the Galactic Marines is cold efficiency wrapped in armour and discipline. People straighten when he enters rooms. Troopers go silent.

Then he sees you holding a baby and suddenly the terrifying commander looks like he’s forgotten how to function.

It happens on leave. Some little girl from the settlement toddles toward you with grabby hands, and you crouch instantly to pick her up.

The child presses her face into your neck like she trusts you completely.

Bacara feels something sharp crack open in his chest, because you look beautiful.

You sway gently while talking to the girl, smiling every time she babbles nonsense at you. The kid eventually falls asleep against your shoulder, tiny fist curled into your shirt.

And Bacara cannot stop staring.

He starts thinking things he’s never let himself think before. About family. About seeing you heavy with his child and knowing, for once in his life, that something good belonged to him.

It scares him with the intensity of it.

“You’ve been glaring at me for ten minutes,” you say eventually.

“I’m not glaring.”

“You absolutely are.”

Bacara walks over slowly, eyes fixed on the sleeping child in your arms. His expression softens almost imperceptibly.

“She likes you.”

“She likes everybody.”

“No,” he says quietly. “Not like this.”

Something in his tone makes your stomach flip.

You shift the baby slightly. “You ever think about kids?”

Bacara’s gaze drags up your body slowly before meeting your eyes again. “Never used to.”

Your breath catches. “And now?” you ask softly.

His voice drops lower. “Now I can’t stop picturing you full of mine.”

The honesty of it nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

Bacara notices instantly, thumb brushing briefly against your wrist.

“You’d look good like that,” he murmurs. “Safe, happy. Full of my child.”

And somehow the bluntness makes it infinitely worse.

Hunter

Hunter hears the baby laughing before he sees you.

Bright, uncontrollable giggles echo through the Marauder, and he follows the sound automatically, only to stop dead in the doorway.

You’re lying on the floor with a baby balanced on your stomach while Omega sits nearby absolutely delighted by the whole thing.

The kid is cackling every time you make exaggerated shocked faces.

“No way,” you gasp dramatically. “You stole my nose? Give it back!”

The baby smacks your face happily. Hunter’s chest aches instantly. Because this, this easy warmth around you, fits too well.

He’s spent so long protecting people that sometimes he forgets there’s supposed to be more to life than survival. But watching you with that child makes something painfully domestic settle into his mind.

A home somewhere quiet. Hunter’s completely lost in the thought before you notice him.

“You just gonna stand there looking mysterious?” you tease.

Omega snickers. “He’s doing the staring thing again.”

Hunter sighs. “Traitor.”

You laugh, and the baby reaches for him immediately.

The second Hunter takes the child, tiny fingers latch onto his bandana and tug hard enough to make the kid squeal triumphantly.

Your smile softens.

And stars, that expression from you nearly drops him.

“You look natural,” you murmur.

Hunter glances up. “With kids?”

“Mhm.”

Something vulnerable flickers across his face then disappears beneath a crooked smile. “That dangerous for me?”

“Very.”

He steps closer, baby balanced carefully against his chest while his eyes stay locked on yours.

“You know,” he says quietly, “seeing you like this is giving me ideas.”

Your cheeks warm instantly. “Hunter—”

“I’m serious.” His grin turns softer. “Can’t stop wondering what our kid would look like.”

The air between you suddenly feels too warm.

“Think they’d have your smile or my attitude?”

Howzer

Howzer falls a little bit in love with you every day already.

Seeing you with a baby just seals his fate completely.

You’re visiting one of the families on Ryloth when their infant starts crying mid-conversation. Before the parents can apologize, you hold your arms out automatically.

“Can I?”

The mother hands the baby over gratefully. And somehow within seconds, the crying stops.

You bounce the little girl gently against your chest, murmuring nonsense in a soft voice while her tiny fingers curl around yours.

Howzer stares like a man witnessing a divine revelation. Because you look radiant. Warm sunlight catches your face while the baby blinks up at you sleepily, completely calm now. You kiss her forehead without thinking, and Howzer feels his entire heart cave in.

He’s gone. The dangerous part is how quickly his mind jumps ahead.

He imagines children with your laugh running through open market streets. Imagines you teasing him while a baby naps against his chest. Imagines slow mornings and peace and a future he never thought he’d get.

“You’re staring again,” you say with amusement.

“Can you blame me?”

You grin. “I’m holding a baby, not performing magic.”

Howzer smiles softly. “Feels pretty close.”

The baby yawns, nestling deeper into you, and he physically has to stop himself from saying something reckless immediately.

Unfortunately, he fails.

“You’d make an incredible mother.”

Your eyes widen slightly. Howzer notices and steps closer, voice gentler now. “I mean it.”

There’s something devastatingly sincere in the way he says it. No teasing, no deflection. Just completely honest.

Then his gaze drops briefly to the baby before returning to you, warmer now. More intimate.

“And selfishly?” he murmurs. “I can’t stop thinking about how beautiful you’d look carrying my child.”

Your breath catches hard enough that he smiles instantly.

“Ah,” he says softly, delighted. “There you are.”

Then he brushes his fingers against yours where they rest against the baby’s back.

“Good. Means I’m not the only one thinking about it now.”

Especially when you've been lingering around him the entire day, eyes fixated on every part of his body, meeting his gaze with a dark heated look that screams i need you right now. You were ovulating, and Maker he'd be lying if he said it didn't turn him on too. He could smell it from you—the changes in your body, the scent of your hormones calling out to him, the subtle waft of your arousal every time you rub your legs, how you look at him like he's a piece of meat—it drives him absolutely insane.

So, taking pity on his girl, he came up behind you and leaned down so he could whisper in your ear. Go home and get ready. He almost laughed at how fast you stood up from your seat and marched away, leaving the rest of his brothers confused at your sudden departure. They must've thought you were upset. Good, saves him the time and privacy. And now here he was—holding you down on your bed with your ass pulled up high, large hands on your hips to pull you back against him, and your face buried in your pillows to muffle your sounds.

He could've been more gentle with you, especially now that your body was sensitive—not to mention fertile—but something told Hunter gentle wasn't what you needed right now. You needed him hard, rough, and deep. You were sobbing for it, and he could only oblige his sweet girl's wishes. It's what your body wanted too, after all—to be filled by his spend and do it over, and over, and over again until you're completely satisfied. And who was he to deny that?

“Is this what you want?” Hunter snaps his hips faster, groaning at the sensation of your walls clenching around him. “Been thinking about it too. Could smell you all day. Driving me crazy with those eyes and smell. Next time, just ask. I'd give it to you, mesh'la. Give you this—”

He thrusted again, deeper, pulling another loud moan out of you. “—for as long as you want. All day. All night. I'd take care of you, sweet girl.”

He smiled at the way you tried to meet his thrusts, pushing back against him for more, moaning his name to spur him to go harder. He did, flipping you over so you faced him and hitching your legs around his hips, before he began another brutal pace that has you crying out and sobbing. Hunter only kisses your tears away, shushing your babbling in gentle murmurs—the opposite to his rough thrusts.

“I'll fill you up, mesh'la. Won't stop until you're round and swollen with me.”

ECHO

Echo is honestly the perfect lover. Thoughtful, caring, and deeply understanding.

He's incredibly sweet to you, always making sure your well-being is perfect and advising you to tell him immediately if there's something wrong. He's all about communication and trust, which makes you love him. Especially now that you're on your first day of ovulation, seeing him be so attentive and nurturing lights an insatiable heat within you. He knew everything about you—your quirks, habits, tell-tales, favorite things, dislikes—so, he should've known this day would come. He just didn't expect it to come sooner.

You'd never forget the look on his face when you suddenly pulled him inside an empty storage compartment, snickering at his wide-eyed stare, before you locked the door behind him. Echo immediately picked up on what was happening, flushing for a moment as he tried to ask you if this was okay. But he didn't get any answer except for the sight of you dropping on your knees, peering up at him through your lashes, and giving him that wicked smile that knocked the air out of his lungs.

Echo didn't need to be told twice. He was already clumsily fumbling with his armor, then dropped his codpiece on the ground, and pulled himself out—half-hard and throbbing—while you impatiently tugged his blacks down to expose more. And when you grasped him, Echo already knew he wouldn't survive this. He'd walk right out of this compartment utterly wrecked and ruined. But he didn't mind it. His girl can have whatever she wants right now, and if you want him like this, he's all yours.

So, Echo gathers your hair in his other hand and leans back against the wall. Go on, cyar'ika. Take what you want. Oh, you did. You took him down and deep like you've been starving for it. You kept praising him for how he's been so good to you, how you wanted to thank him, how irresistible he looks when he's concerned. And Echo was left grunting and covering his mouth using his scomp through every praise and suck.

But just before he could come, you pulled away from him and stood up. Shoving your pants and underwear down, turning around so you face the opposite wall, and bending over while tossing him a dark look over your shoulder. Echo didn't think twice—he placed a hand on your spine, his scomp against your hip, gently nudged your feet apart, and lined himself up against you.

“Greedy little thing.” You heard him laugh from behind, before you felt him push inside with an agonizing pace, filling you up perfectly with every inch of his girth. “Both hands on the wall. Just be quiet for me. Okay, cyar'ika?”

TECH

Tech has your Ovarian cycle catalogued ever since your first intimate moment with him.

Now, he's perfectly aware of each phase your body goes through every month. He'd let you pester him during his work, bring him food and drinks when you're in your follicular phase because apparently that makes you happy. He'd spend time with you during your luteal phase, returning the acts of service to nourish your needs through those times. And in time of your menstrual phase, he'll be even more gentle and soft around you.

But between the follicular and luteal phase was the one variable he always could never be prepared for. He should be able to predict it, at least, anticipate when it will happen. But compared to the other phases, this phase was entirely unpredictable. Thankfully, he understood how your body by now. The moment your heat signature rises to a certain degree, the way your heartbeat quickens faster than normal, and the sight of your skin flushed and glowing told him enough.

All signs leading to your Ovulation phase. And during this phase, you were more. . . demanding with your needs. So, Tech wasn't even surprised when you knocked his datapad off his hands and tugged him towards the cockpit where you sealed yourselves inside for the remainder of the day.

“Ahhh—oh, stars. Are you sure you don't—ahhh—want to be more gentle, my dear?” Tech gritted out through clenched teeth, grasping your hips to ground himself while you rode him on his pilot seat. “Oh, kriff. No, you don't. That's—ahhh—fine. I'll document this for next ti—”

He didn't even get to finish his sentence as you crashed your lips on his, muffling his surprised gasp. Oh, of course. How could he forget? Sometimes, you disliked it when he began rambling during these acts. Especially during this phase of your cycle. And so, Tech adjusted his goggles and shifted in his seat.

Very well, then.

He didn't give you time to adjust, before he tightened his grip on your hips and started thrusting up. You cried out, both in pleasure and relief, meeting his thrusts with every downward grind—wrapping your arms around his neck and burrowing your face on his shoulder.

“That's it, my dear. Let go. Do not stop. Don't.”

CROSSHAIR

Oh, Crosshair's gonna be onto you the moment he catches your stare and sees the hungry glint in your eyes.

It wouldn't take him long to know you're in that phase, his favorite one, and he will rile you up on purpose. Because why not? It's more fun that way. A challenge to see who's going to give in first. He'd intentionally drop his voice and slow his words when talking to you, flex his fingers around his rifle while he cleans it, lets out more noises when he stretches or trains, and shifts his toothpick around with his tongue—making sure you see and hear everything.

His touch lingers on your body when he pats your hip or squeezes your thigh. He uses his height to tower over your frame when he corners you and whispers all the filthy things he knew would get you all hot and bothered. And he'd always have that infuriating smirk on his lips when he sees the frustration on your face the moment he pulls away and walks off like nothing happened.

But it's all part of his plan. The moment you decide enough is when he'll claim victory. And the moment he catches your stare, come here right now or else, and he's already following close behind you still wearing that infamous grin that makes your blood boil and race at the same time. If you thought he was a tease before, he's much worse once in private.

Because he knows all the right buttons to press. The right pace—torturously slow—to have you squirming in frustration. The patterns he'd draw between your legs to have them shaking. All the sensitive spots on your body he knew would make you more desperate. He exploits all of them while he takes you against a wall, hidden from the public but risky enough for someone to catch you.

One hand on your mouth, the other gripping your hip, back arched as he thrusts into you from behind. Rough, deep, and punishing. You're already panting and drooling in his palm, while he's keeping his own noises down through strained groans and grunts.

“So desperate,” his voice slithers between your ears raggedly. “Not even ashamed we're out here. Need me that badly, huh? Well, you have me now. And you'll have more later when we get home.”

WRECKER

Now, Wrecker is a little more dense when it comes to these things.

You have to let him know each time because he could mistake your wandering gaze and lingering touches as genuine affection. And he's a pretty physical guy himself, he'd see those gestures as something normal and he'd return them equally. So, whenever your ovulation phase comes around, you'd have to tap his arm and give him a look specifically for him to understand alone. Or if that doesn't work still, you'd gesture to him to lean down so you could whisper in his unscarred ear—can we get out of here?

Which is usually his cue to know you need him, and you wanted to be as far away as possible from others. His eyes would go wide, starts nodding furiously once he puts the pieces together. It never fails to amuse you every time when he starts to fumble out an excuse to others. Then, you'd pull him away while he's wearing a giddy grin that stretches so far on his face.

The next moment, he's sighing in relief as you sink down on his massive length—already throbbing and leaking the moment you stripped down to your underwear and pushed it aside to straddle him. His energy switches every phase. Sometimes he's rough and fast, carried away by adrenaline and the thrill of someone finding the two of you here. Other times, he lets you lead the pace. And right now, he's letting you take control.

“Love it when you're like this,” Wrecker groans out, then curses when you clench around him. “Kriff—so wet and warm. Take your time, sweetheart. This one's all yours. Just wanna watch you come on my cock.”

He sits back and watches you struggle against him, grinning up at you as he helps you move by holding your hips and letting you grind back and forth. His hands would wander all over your body, always praising and talking you through it. That's it, pretty girl. Have all of me. I'm right here. You need this badly, huh? Not going anywhere, just take it slow. I'll stuff you full later. Fill you up nice and slow.

And once you finally come, Wrecker grins and switches up.

You knelt beside him with your kit spread out. "Hold still," you murmured, your voice a soothing barrier to the ship's low rumble. Echo's eyes met yours, a mix of frustration and fondness flickering there.

"It's just a glitch," he protested, though he didn't pull away as you gently detached the lower panel on his leg. Your fingers brushed against the cool metal, tracing wires that intertwined with what remained of his organic flesh. You'd learned his systems inside out over the months, not just as a medic but as his partner.

"A glitch that could turn into a full shutdown if we ignore it," you replied, scanning the damage with your device. The readouts blinked green mostly, but a red warning pulsed for the servo. You reached for a tool, your other hand resting on his thigh for stability. Echo's breath hitched slightly; not from pain, but from the warmth of your touch cutting through.

He watched you work, smiling lightly at the way your brow furrowed in concentration. "You know, before you joined, Tech sometimes just would slap some tape on it and keep going." His voice was light, but there was a hint of vulnerability.

You paused, setting the tool down to cup his face. Your thumb tracing along his jaw. "Well im now here to looking after you, Echo. You’re not alone in this." Leaning in, you pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

He closed his eyes, leaning into it, the tension easing from his shoulders.

Resuming the repair, you rerouted the wiring. As the servo whirred back to life, Echo flexed his leg experimentally. "Feels good," he admitted, sitting up only to then pull you into his lap.

You smiled, checking his vitals one last time: heart rate steady, systems nominal. "Vitals holding," you whispered, echoing the phrase that had become your shared mantra after tough days. Echo's lips found yours in a grateful kiss, a silent thank you for seeing him whole.

Hunter

word count: 536

The Marauder’s engines idled low as the ship settled into a quiet landing on a forested moon, far from any Imperial patrols.

The mission had been simple reconnaissance but the dense undergrowth and sudden rain had turned it into hard work. Harder than it had to be.

Hunter had pushed through without complaint, as always. The usefulness of his enhanced senses guided the squad but the constant barrage of scents, sounds, and electromagnetic pulses had left him quietly frayed.

Now, he sat on the edge of a bunk, elbows on knees and head bowed. The infamous bandana was off with dark hair falling loose over his face.

With a look of concern, you stepped up to him quietly whilst carrying a damp cloth and a small vial of soothing balm of your own recipe.

“Rough one out there?” you asked softly, kneeling between his legs so you were eye-level with him.

Hunter exhaled through his nose, a sound that was half sigh, half reluctant admission. “Everything was loud. Too loud. The rain on leaves, every insect wingbeat for klicks around…” He rubbed at his temple. “Felt like my skull was vibrating.”

You reached up, fingers brushing his cheek before sliding into his hair. He leaned into the touch instinctively, eyes fluttering closed. Your thumb traced slow circles at his scalp, right where the tension always gathered. “You carried us through it anyway. Like always.”

A faint, crooked smile tugged at his lips. “Had to. Couldn’t let you get lost in the mud again.”

You chuckled quietly, dipping the cloth in cool water and pressing it gently to the back of his neck. He shivered once from relief. You worked in silence for a moment, letting the damp fabric ease the ache.

“Lie back,” you murmured.

He hesitated, the leader in him reluctant to fully let go, but your hand on his chest was steady and grounding. He reclined slowly, stretching out on the bunk. You sat beside him, one hand resting over his heart.

With careful fingers, you massaged the balm into his temples, then down along his jaw, working out the tightness. Hunter’s breathing depened, slowing as the sensory storm inside him began to quiet. Every so often, he’d hum softly, a low sound of contentment that you know he’d never admit to making.

“You don’t have to be on all the time,” you whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to his lips. “Not with me.”

His hand found yours, lacing fingers together. “I know,” he said, voice rough but soft. “Just… takes time to turn it off.”

“Then let me help.” You shifted closer, tucking yourself against his side. He wrapped an arm around you without hesitation, pulling you in until your head rested on his chest. The steady thump-thump beneath your ear.

Hunter’s free hand came up to stroke your hair, mirroring the way you’d soothed him. The ship’s hum faded into background noise; the galaxy outside could wait.

After a long while, he murmured against your temple, “Vitals holding.”

You smiled into his chest. “Vitals holding.”

He pressed a lingering kiss to the top of your head, the last of the tension melting away in the quiet safety of your arms.

Wrecker

word count: 614

The Marauder’s cargo hold was quieter than usual, the usual clatter of Wrecker’s laughter replaced by a low, frustrated grunt. He sat on an overturned crate, one hand pressed to his lower back.

The mission had wrapped up hours ago but Wrecker had insisted on hauling the last heavy munitions crate aboard himself. “I got it!” he’d boomed, grinning wide. That was until a sharp twinge hit, deep in his back muscles. Now here he was: the strongest clone in the Batch, felled by his own enthusiasm.

You found him like that, shoulders hunched, staring at the floor as if it had personally betrayed him. The embarrassment was written all over his face. Jaw tight and eyes avoiding yours.

“Hey, big guy,” you said gently, stepping into the hold with your medkit slung over one shoulder. “Heard you took on a crate and lost.”

Wrecker huffed, a sound that tried to be a laugh but landed somewhere closer to a groan. “Didn’t lose. Just… reminded it who’s boss. A little too hard.” He shifted, winced, and immediately tried to play it off with a forced grin. “I’m fine. Really. Jus’ need a minute.”

You set the kit down and moved to stand in front of him, close enough that he had to look up at you. “You’re not fine. And it’s okay to not be fine.” Your voice was calm, no judgment, just the steady certainty he always leaned on. “Let me see.”

He hesitated, pride warring with the ache, but eventually he let his hand drop and turned slightly so you could reach his back. You knelt behind him on the crate, fingers gentle as you pressed along his lumbar muscles. The knot was tight, hot and angry from the sudden strain. Wrecker sucked in a breath through his teeth.

“Easy,” you murmured, already reaching for the warming salve. “You pulled something good here. Nothing torn, but you’re gonna feel this tomorrow if we don’t loosen it up now.”

He let out a long, defeated sigh. “Hurt by liftin’ a kriffin’ box.” His voice cracked just a little on the last word, the embarrassment giving way. “What kinda soldier does that?”

You paused, hands still on his back, then leaned forward until your forehead rested lightly against the back of his shoulder. “The kind who cares more about getting the job done for his squad than looking invincible.” You kissed the spot between his shoulder blades, right over the scar from an old explosive. “And the kind who’s allowed to hurt sometimes. Even the biggest ones.”

Wrecker went still, then slowly relaxed under your touch. You worked the salve in with slow, firm circles, thumbs digging just enough to ease the spasm without pushing too hard. Every time he tensed, you eased off, waiting for him to breathe through it. Gradually, the knots began to give.

“Better?” you asked after a while.

“Yeah… a lot. Still stings, but not like before.” He turned his head, catching your eye over his shoulder. The grin was smaller this time, but real. “Thanks, mesh’la. Didn’t mean to be a baby about it.”

“You weren’t.” You slid around to sit beside him, tucking yourself under his arm. He wrapped it around you immediately, pulling you against his side like you were the most precious cargo he’d ever carried.

You rested your hand over his heart, feeling the steady, powerful beat. “So, are your vitals holding?”

Wrecker chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest into your palm. “Vitals holdin’. Thanks to you.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, lingering there, and for once didn’t try to hide how much he needed the quiet comfort.

Tech

word count: 661

The back room of Cid's Parlor smelled like stale smoke and cheap liquor.

As the main cantina buzzed faintly beyond the beaded curtain, Tech sat at Cid’s desk that she had grudgingly given and one leg propped up on a crate from the fracture he had endured form the cargo container collapse.

You pushed through the curtain with your medkit, the beads clacking softly behind you. Cid had cleared out at that point, muttering something about "not running a free clinic", leaving just the two of you.

Yet he was no longer sitting down, instead he was standing awkwardly and looking through the grumpy Trandoshan's collection of random stuff she had collected.

"I told you to stay off it," you said, setting the tray down on the desk with a deliberate clunk.

Tech didn't turn around. "I am off it. Most of my weight is on the good leg. Statistically, this qualifies as minimal load-bearing.”

"You're also standing. On a fractured leg. In a bacta cast that's still setting."

He glanced over his shoulder, goggles catching the low light. "The cast has reached its polymerisation point. I was just… looking at possible useful junk. For later."

"Uh-huh." You stepped closer, "Sit. Before I make you."

He let out a quiet breath, half annoyed and half amused, but he didn't fight it. He eased himself back onto the chair, leg stretched out.

You knelt in front of him, "You're doing that thing again," you say softly, voice warm and teasing. "Talking tech to hide that you're hurting."

"I'm not hiding anything. Pain is just… information. I was only—"

You placed your palm lightly over his chest, right where his heart was beating faster than usual under his armour. "Your heart's telling a different story."

Tech went still. His eyes dropped to your hand, then flicked back to your face. "That is… an elevated heart rate attributable to—"

You tilted your head, fingers trailing up to brush along his jaw, nudging his goggles up just enough to see the heat on his cheeks. "Or maybe because you like when I take care of you?"

He blinked rapidly behind the lenses, processing. "I… find your presence efficacious for recovery. Statistically speaking, positive emotional stimuli can accelerate—"

You leaned in, lips brushing his. Tech froze for a second, then leaned into it, one hand coming up to rest carefully at the back of your neck.

The kiss deepened just enough to make him forget the ache for a moment. You pulled back barely an inch, forehead resting against his. "Better?"

He let out a shaky breath, "Much better. Though I'd like… more proof it's working."

“Behave, Tech.” You playfully roll your eyes, smirking quietly at his disappointment of not getting another kiss just yet.

With steady hands, you adjusted the bacta cast and started the compression wrap carefully. He usually makes a comment on how uneven it is but this time Tech stayed quiet, just watching, breathing steady, his fingers occasionally brushing your arm like he needed the contact.

When you finished, you started to stand, but Tech's hand caught yours gently. "Come here." He tugged lightly, but insistent.

You raised an eyebrow, but let him guide you. With a careful shift of his good leg to make space, he pulled you down onto his lap, settling you sideways across his thighs so your weight didn't press on the injured one. His arm wrapped around your waist immediately, holding you close against his chest. Moments like this with him are rare so you wasted no time in tucking your head under his chin.

With one hand, you rest it over his heart again, feeling it slow to a calm, even rhythm now.

The parlor's distant noise felt miles away. Just the two of you in the cluttered back room, tangled together in the chair. You smiled into his neck. "Vitals holding?"

Tech pressed a soft kiss to your temple, voice low and content. "Vitals holding."

Crosshair

word count: 544

You found him in the refresher to your shared apartment, door half-open, the mirror fogged from a recent shower. He stood shirtless, one hand braced against the sink, the other fumbling with a bloodied cloth pressed to his left side. A shallow but stubborn gash that caught on jagged durasteel ran along his ribs.

It was not life-threatening, but it wept fresh blood every time he tried to clean or close it one handed. The angle was impossible now; his missing hand left him reaching awkwardly.

Crosshair never asked for help. Not ever. So when you stepped in quietly, he didn’t look up, just kept trying, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped.

“Out,” he muttered.

You didn’t move. Instead you stepped fully inside. “You’re making it worse. Sit.”

“I said—”

“Crosshair.” Your tone was quiet and firm. You reached past him for a clean towel from the rack, then guided him to perch on the edge of the low tub. He resisted for half a second but let himself be moved.

You knelt in front of him and you peeled the soaked cloth away. The wound was angry but clean enough to stitch. You exhaled slowly through your nose, fighting the urge to scold him for being reckless with his own body.

“Why do you do this?” you asked, voice softer now as you reached for the bactaspray. “You know I’m right here.”

He stared at a point over your shoulder, refusing to meet your eyes. “Habit. Fix it myself. Always have.”

“Not anymore.” You dabbed the wound clean, careful around the inflamed edges. He hissed once, barely audible, but didn’t pull away.

When the first stitch went in, his remaining hand twitched toward yours like he might stop you. Instead, his fingers curled loosely around your wrist. Just… holding.

You paused, needle hovering. “Talk to me.”

Crosshair’s gaze finally dropped. “Can’t reach it anymore,” he muttered, so quiet you almost missed it. “Feels… wrong. Needing you for something this basic.”

You resumed stitching, slow and precise. “It’s not wrong. It’s just different.” You explained. “And I’m glad I’m here for the different parts.”

He didn’t argue. Just watched your face as you worked, the tension in his shoulders easing stitch by stitch. When you tied off the last knot and smoothed a fresh bandage over it, he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours.

You stayed kneeling there, hands resting lightly on his thighs. “Better?”

He finally looked at you, really looked. The usual guarded sharpness had cracked, leaving something raw underneath. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stubborn.” You rose enough to lean in, brushing your lips against his in a kiss that was gentle and unhurried. He froze for a heartbeat, then tilted his head to meet you properly.

When you pulled back, you rested your forehead against his. “Vitals holding?”

Crosshair’s lips curved, just the barest hint of a smirk. “Vitals holding.” His thumb brushed your cheek. “Thanks to you.”

You helped him stand, steadying him as the adrenaline crash made his legs unsteady. He didn’t protest when you wrapped an arm around his waist, guiding him out of the refresher and toward the bed. For once, the sniper let himself be taken care of quietly, stubbornly, but completely.

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“Not getting involved,” Crosshair muttered, already lining up the next shot.

The blaster cracked again and the fruit vanished in a puff of pulp. He stared at his empty hand, then sighed. “I’m no good at this stuff.”

“At what?” Crosshair asked dryly.

“Sayin’ things. Feelings.” Wrecker swallowed hard, rubbing the back of his neck. “This time it’s… different.”

Crosshair finally looked at him with a long, assessing expression. “I know.”

Wrecker blinked. “You do?”

“I’m not stupid.”

Across the dock, you moved between the stalls, a woven basket tucked against your hip. 

Barefoot as always, the warmth grounded you to the island the way shoes never could. You looked peacefu, mauve tone catching the sunlight in soft, shifting gleams. White markings curved across your cheeks and brow like elegant strokes; your montrals rose tall and striped, lekku swaying gently with each step, one draping over the curve of your teal crop top, the patterned hip sash brushing your thigh. 

You were done shopping for the day, ready to head back home when your foot caught a slick patch of spilled water.

Before you could lose your balance, a huge hand steadied you instantly. “You need any help?”

Your heart gave a quick thump at the familiar voice. “Wrecker—!” The basket tipped, weight shifting.

“I’ll take that as a maybe,” he teased, already lifting it from your hands with that big, easy grin.

Heat bloomed under your skin. “Thanks, muscles.” If he’d been any less strong, the basket might’ve slipped. Instead, he swallowed hard and smiled like you’d just handed him a medal.

Curious, he peeked inside the basket. “You cookin’ a feast?”

“Trying to,” you said. “Used to do it a lot back home. Figured I’d pick it back up.”

“Smells good already.” His gaze dropped to your bare feet, then flicked back up. “Hey, don’t your feet hurt? Walkin’ around like that all day?”

You smiled softly. “The ground and I are friends. Shoes just get in the way.”

Wrecker stared for a second, then nodded like that made perfect sense in his world.

An impulse bubbled up before you could second-guess it. “Actually… maybe you’d like to have dinner with me tonight?”

He froze. “Like…me and the guys?”

You stepped a little closer, hands folding behind your back as the sun warmed your skin. “I was thinking just us. If that’s okay?”

Wrecker’s knees nearly gave out. “Yeah,” he quickly.. “Yeah, absolutely.”

You paced your small kitchen, flustered heat prickling your skin as you stirred the pot. “Okay, think, Grandmother always said a pinch of that spice first, then the herbs… or was it the other way around?” You muttered to yourself, tasting a spoonful and grimacing, “No, that’s not right.”  

Your stomach twitched with nerves, as you rummaged for ingredients. 

“Get it together. It’s just dinner. With him.” A soft trill escaped your throat as you wiped your brow, hoping it would all turn out okay.

Once the food was simmering safely, you slipped away to change. The outfit decision had been circling in your mind all afternoon as each option felt too much or not enough.

Eventually, you settled on something that felt like home and something that honored Shili without being overly formal. You stared at yourself in the mirror, fingers smoothing out your robe, wondering if Wrecker would like something more or something less. 

The knock came sooner than expected, jolting you from your thoughts.

Wrecker filled the doorway, clutching a small bundle of wildflowers. He’d cleaned up nicely; a smart button-up shirt tucked into his trousers, top button undone for a relaxed look (his expression said otherwise), sleeves rolled to his elbows showing his muscular forearms.

“For you,” he spoke, suddenly shy.

Your smile bloomed immediately. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

He couldn’t look away. The lantern light of your apartment caught your eyes. Soft, opalescent, swirling lavender into pale pink and cool blue. It stopped him cold. “You look… really pretty,” he breathed quietly.

You ducked your head, pleased. “Thank you. Uh, come in, watch the step, it’s a bit uneven.”

He ducked under the frame carefully, then stood there like he was afraid to move shoulders hunched a little, hands clasped in front. His size made the cozy space feel even smaller, but he was trying so hard not to loom.

You noticed right away. “Hey, relax. You’re not going to break anything. Make yourself at home. Sit, or help me stir if you want.”

Wrecker rubbed his neck, chuckling nervously. “Yeah? I don’t wanna mess up your place. I’m kinda… big.”

You laughed softly. “So? I like that about you. Besides, my home’s meant for company. No point in a pack mentality if everything’s too fragile, right?”

He eased a bit at that, shoulders dropping as he followed you in.

Once seated for food, dinner passed in easy warmth with conversation flowing like the ocean outside. You raised your cup first. “To good company?”

“And good cookin’,” Wrecker added, clinking his cup to yours.

He asked about Pabu first, but soon circled back to you. “So, Shili, right? Tell me more. What was it like growin’ up there? All those stories about packs and feasts sound kinda nice.”

You leaned in, eyes lighting up that he seemed interested. “It was everything. Warm all the time, like Pabu. Endless fields, hunts at dawn. My family was close; we cooked together for the whole pack. These recipes?” You gestured to the plates. “From my grandmother. She’d gather us kids around the fire, teaching us to season by feel. I fumbled through it earlier, talking to myself like a fool, trying to remember stuff.”

Wrecker grinned, taking another bite. “Well, you nailed it. Bet you miss that, the family thing. Being alone here must feel… off.”

You nodded. “It does, sometimes. Togruta aren’t made for isolation; we thrive on closeness, sharing space. Pabu’s welcoming and everything, but it’s not the same.” you shrugged, taking another forkful of food. “I’ve adapted, though. What about you? Clones, squads… that sounds like a pack too.”

He chuckled, setting his fork down. “Yeah, kinda. Me and the boys have been through everything. Missions, explosions, you name it. But it’s different now, settlin’ down. I like it, but… I dunno, sometimes I feel like the big guy who sticks out.”

“You don’t stick out,” you say gently. “You fit. Right here, at least.”

When you served dessert, there was a shift. Knees brushed beneath the table, fingers lingered when passing plates. He fed you a bite of fruit, watching your reaction like it was the most important thing in the galaxy.

“You’ve got really pretty eyes,” he blurted out softly. “Hard not to get lost in ’em.” You hid your smile behind your hand, bashful and giddy.

“Would you like a drink on the balcony?” you asked, voice a little lighter than you felt. “The sunset view is to die for.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

He stood to help clear the plates whilst you poured two glasses of rum and carried them out together. The balcony chairs were low and wide, cushioned with woven mats that smelled faintly of salt and sun. You settled side by side, close enough that your bare arm brushed his sleeve.

You were right, the view was beautiful. The sky had gone molten gold at the edges, bleeding into deep rose and violet over the water. Waves rolled in slow, steady breaths below, and the air carried the warm scent of blooming night flowers. 

For a while neither of you spoke and Wrecker kept glancing over at you.

The first time you pretended not to notice, sipping your drink and letting the rum warm your throat.

The second time you felt the shift of his gaze like a brush of heat along your cheek, but you kept your eyes on the horizon, lips curving just a fraction.

The third time you turned your head slowly, catching him mid-stare. You raised one brow, playful. “Like what you see?”

Without missing a beat, he answered, voice low and sure. “Absolutely.”

Your cheeks heated instantly, skin deepening to a richer shade under the sunset glow. You ducked your head with a soft giggle, lifting your hand to cover your mouth again out of habit.

Wrecker moved before you could hide completely. His large hand caught your wrist gently, “Don’t,” he murmured. “You shouldn’t hide your smile. It’s pretty.”

The words landed soft but heavy, stealing your breath for a second. You lowered your hand, letting him see the full curve of your lips, the way your delciate sharp canines peeked just a little when you smiled for real.

“Thank you,” you said quietly. Then, because it felt only fair, “Yours too. Your smile, I mean. It lights up everything.”

He looked almost surprised, like no one had ever said it back to him. His thumb kept tracing lazy circles on your wrist.

Next thing you knew, his fingers slid down, threading through yours. His hand dwarfed yours completely - calloused, scarred, strong—but the way he held you was careful, like he was afraid of holding too tight. You squeezed back, and for a long stretch of minutes you just sat like that: hands linked, watching the sky bleed into dusk.

Eventually Wrecker spoke, “Why’d you ask just me tonight?”

You shifted slightly, fingers curling over one of your lekku and holding it closer to your shoulder as if for comfort. You took a slow breath before answering, “I… thought it was obvious,” you admitted, staring at where your fingers laced with his. “That I like you. A lot.” 

You risked a glance up at him; his eyes were fixed on you, soft and wide. “I thought maybe I read the situation right. That you… liked me too.”

The words hung there, vulnerable in the quiet.

Wrecker didn’t look away. His thumb resumed its slow stroke along the back of your hand.

“Yeah,” he said after a second, rough around the edges but honest. “You read it right. Been tryin’ to figure out how to say it for weeks. Didn’t wanna mess it up.”

It was like music to your ears.

“You’re different. Special. Not just pretty—though kriff, you are—but the way you are with people, with the island, with everything. Makes me feel like I could just…be me.”

Your heart gave a hard thump and you leaned a fraction closer.

“I feel the same,” you whispered. “With you, I… I just want to be near you. I don’t want to be alone tonight, Wrecker. Maybe not ever, if that’s okay.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for months. “More than okay.”

The sunset had faded to deep indigo now, stars beginning to prick through. You tilted your head, meeting his gaze fully, your eyes swirling with soft colour in the dim light. “So,” you begin, voice barely audible, “what happens next?”

Wrecker’s free hand lifted slowly, hesitating before he cupped your cheek. His thumb brushed the white marking along your jaw with reverence.

“Whatever you want,” he murmured. “I’m right here.”

Wrecker’s thumb traced one last slow circle over the back of your hand before he let go lift his other palm to your cheek again, cradling it like something priceless. “Can Ikiss you?”

You didn’t trust your voice right then. You only nodded, eyes locked on his as you leaned across the small space between the chairs.

The first press of his lips was tentative. Just a soft peck, warm and brief, like he was testing if this was real. You felt the faint tremor in his breath against your mouth.

Then another. Longer this time, lingering.

And another.

Until the pecks melted together into something deeper. Your lips moved in gentle rhythm, tasting the faint sweetness of rum and fruit still on his mouth. His left hand slid from your cheek to cup your jaw fully.

Your own hand found his knee, steadying yourself as much as him.

His free hand drifted higher, fingertips grazing the striped length of your lekku where it draped over your shoulder.

You shuddered with a sharp, involuntary breath. Wrecker pulled back instantly, eyes wide with worry. “You okay? Did I—?”

You shook your head quickly, cheeks hot. “I’m okay,” you whispered, voice a little breathless. “They’re… sensitive. In a good way.”

He searched your face for a long second, then exhaled, the tension easing from his shoulders. His fingers stroked the base of your lekku now in deliberate yet feather-light touches. “Like that?” he murmured.

You nodded, biting your lip around a small, pleased sound.

For another minute you stayed like that. Kissing slow and unhurried, hands exploring in gentle arcs. His fingers learned the texture of your lekku, stroking from base to tip in long, soothing passes that sent warm sparks down your spine. Your palm slid a little higher on his thigh, feeling the muscle tense under your touch.

Eventually you drew back just enough to speak, lips brushing his as you did.

“Wrecker…Do you want to take this inside?”

His breath hitched. He tried to play it cool, but the ache was already there, straining against his pants and impossible to hide completely.

“Yeah,” he rasped, nodding once, then again like he needed to convince himself. “Yeah. Please.”

You rose first, fingers still tangled with his, and guided him back through the open doorway into the warmth of your home. The lighting had dimmed to a soft amber glow, casting long shadows across the room. You paused near the sturdy dining table and leaned back against its edge.

Your fingers drifted to the ties of your flowing robes, brushing the fabric in a slow, deliberate slide. Not pulling exactly, just tracing the neckline, letting it slip a fraction lower to reveal more lavender skin and the delicate curve where your collarbone met shoulder. A silent invitation. Just for him.

Wrecker crossed the room in two strides, towering over you. His chest rose and fell faster than before; you could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the clean salt-and-sun scent that clung to his skin. He stopped close enough that his breath fanned across your face.

His hand came up slowly, knuckles grazing the soft fabric at your shoulder you just touched. He hooked two fingers under the edge and tugged ever so gently, easing it down one arm, then the other. The robe loosened, pooling at your elbows, baring the smooth expanse of your torso to the lamplight. Your skin glowing warm, white markings curving elegantly over your ribs and hips.

You looked up at him through your lashes, voice a husky murmur. “I’ve been feeling so hot all evening…”

Wrecker’s eyes darkened, pupils blown wide. A low rumble vibrated in his chest—half laugh, half groan. “Then I should help you out of these,” he answers, voice thick. “Can’t have you uncomfortable, mesh’la.”

His lips found your neck as his hands worked. 

He kissed the sensitive spot just below your jaw first, open-mouthed and warm, then trailed lower along the column of your throat. Each press of his mouth sent little jolts through you and your head tipped back on instinct. 

He sucked lightly, just enough to make you gasp, and his fingers slipped beneath the remaining ties of your robe, loosening them until the fabric whispered to the floor in a soft heap.

Cool air kissed your bare skin, but his body heat chased it away instantly. His palms slid up your sides. His huge, tough hands spanning almost your entire waist. His thumbs brush the undersides of your breasts in a slow, almost worshipful sweep. He groaned against your neck when he felt how hard your nipples had already peaked.

“Kriff… you’re beautiful,” he breathed, “So soft. So perfect.”

One hand stayed at your waist while the other cupped the back of your head, fingers placed gently into the base of your montrals. The touchdrew a needy whimper from you. Your hips rocked forward without thought, pressing against the hard ridge of him through his pants.

He hissed softly, hips jerking once before he reined himself in. “Easy,” he murmured, though his own voice shook. “Wanna take my time with you.”

But his mouth was already moving again; kissing down the slope of your shoulder, then lower, lips brushing the swell of your breast. He paused there, breath hot against your skin, waiting for permission.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”

Soft pen-mouthed presses along the curve, tasting the warmth of your lavender skin like he was memorising every inch. Then, his mouth closed over one nipple, slow and careful, tongue circling once, twice, before he sucked softly. So softly you felt the pull all the way down your spine. A sound escaped you, high and trembling, something between a gasp and a sob. It was tender, almost too tender. 

Worshipped rather than claimed.

Your head arched back, montrals brushing the wood as your neck stretched long. One of your legs lifted on instinct, hooking around his lower back, heel pressing in to draw him impossibly closer. The movement made your sex grind lightly against the hard line of him through his pants, and he groaned low into your skin, the vibration traveling straight through you.

Wrecker eased you down fully onto the table, the wood was cool beneath your back. He straightened just long enough to look at you as you spread out beneath him, lekku fanned across the surface, lavender skin flushed deeper at your cheeks and chest, opalescent eyes half-lidded and glowing softly. Hunger flickered in his gaze 

But as promised, he didn’t rush.

His fingers went to the buttons of his shirt. One by one they came undone, revealing the broad, scarred expanse of his chest. The fabric slid off his shoulders and then he was back over you, caging you gently with his arms braced on either side of your head.

His mouth returned to your breasts like he couldn’t stay away. This time he wasn’t quite so careful. His tongue hungrily flicked over one peaked nipple and then sucked harder, drawing it deep into the wet heat of his mouth. 

He rolled the other between his thumb and forefinger, a gentle pinch that made your hips jerk. You whimpered, hand flying to his shoulder to anchor yourself. Your nails dug lightly into the muscle there—not to hurt, just to hold on as pleasure coiled tighter in your belly.

You moaned his name and he answered with a rough exhale against your skin.

“Mesh’la…” His voice cracked on the word. He kissed a slow path back up your chest, your throat, until his forehead rested against yours. “You feel so good. Too good. Tell me if it’s too much.”

Your leg tightened around him, pulling him closer until there was no space left between your bodies.

“Not too much,” you whispered, voice trembling with want. “More. Please.”

His hips rolled against you deliberately, grinding hard enough that you both gasped. One of his hands slid down your side, palm flattening over your hip. The other stayed at your breast, kneading softly while his mouth found yours again. The kiss was deeper now, tongues sliding together in lazy, heated strokes.

Wrecker broke the kiss just long enough to murmur against your lips, “Gonna take care of you. Promise. Just… let me feel you like this a little longer.”

Wrecker’s mouth crashed back to yours with a new edge but still gentle in its care. You met him eagerly, tongues tangling in wet, languid strokes, tasting each other like you’d both been starving for it. His hand cradled the back of your head again, fingers splayed wide through the base of your montrals. You couldn’t help but moan into his mouth, the sound swallowed by the kiss.

He broke away just long enough to breathe, forehead pressed to yours, voice wrecked. “Need you closer.”

Before you could answer, his arms hooked under your thighs and back, lifting you like you were made of air.

He cradled you against his broad chest as he carried you through the open doorway to your bedroom. Your legs wrapped loosely around his waist, lekku draping over his shoulders like warm silk. You buried your face in the crook of his neck for a moment, inhaling the scent of him, heart hammering.

He eased you down to sit on the edge of the low bed, mattress dipping under your weight meanwhile Wrecker stood between your knees.

Your hands moved on instinct, flying to the waistband of his pants, fingers fumbling with the clasp. You looked up at him through your lashes, opalescent eyes swirling with heat. The look you gave him was pure want and adoration.

He watched you, throat working on a swallow.  You tugged the fabric down, freeing him in one careful pull. His cock sprang free. Heavy, thick, already flushed dark and throbbing hard in your palm. The size of him made your breath catch; no surprise, really, but seeing it and feeling the velvet heat sent a fresh pang of arousal straight to your core.

You gasped softly, thumb brushing over the slick tip. “Wrecker… you’re huge.”

He let out a shaky laugh, hand coming up to cup your cheek. “Yeah… sorry if–"

“Don’t apologise,” you whispered, stroking him slowly from base to head, feeling every ridge, every vein. “ You’re wondeful. And I want it. I want all of you.”

His hips jerked once into your grip. “Kriff… you’re gonna kill me sayin’ things like that.”

You smiled sharp canines glinting and then gave his cock a playful little slap against  your breast. The smack made you both groan. You did it again, lighter this time, watching his eyes darken as the head left a faint glistening trail across your lavender skin.

“Like that?” you teased, voice husky.

“‘Like everything you do,” he rasped. “But if you keep that up, I’m not gonna last long enough to make you feel good.”

You tilted your head, pressing your breasts together around his length. “Then use them. Fuck my tits, Wrecker. I want to feel you.”

He exhaled roughly, hands coming to cup the sides of your breasts gently at first, then firmer as he guided himself between them. The heat of him as well as the drag of his cock sliding through the soft valley made you whimper. He rocked forward with slow controlled thrusts, watching himself disappear between your breasts, the head bumping your chin on every upstroke.

“Maker, look at you,” he murmured, voice thick. “So soft around me.”

You leaned forward just enough to flick your tongue over the tip when it crested, tasting salt and heat. He shuddered, hips stuttering.

“Careful,” he warned, half-laughing and half-pleading. “You’re too good at this.”

After a few more slow slides he pulled back, breathing hard. His hands slid to your hips, urging you to lie back. You did, scooting up the bed until your head rested on the pillows, legs parting instinctively.

Wrecker crawled over you, clearly being careful not to crush you with his weight which made you smile lovingly at him. He chuckles softly, relaxing before bracing on his forearms so he hovered just above. His cock dragged a hot, wet line up your body as he moved: over your stomach, leaving a slick trail. 

he settled between your thighs, thick length resting heavy against your folds, not pushing in yet—just grinding slow and deliberate, coating himself in your wetness.

His lips began to move lower, mapping the white markings along your ribs, the dip of your waist, the sensitive curve of your hip. When he reached the apex of your thighs he paused, looking up at you with dark, reverent eyes.

“Can I taste you?” he asked, voice rough. “I just wanna make you feel so good.”

Your breath hitched. You nodded quick and eager as your legs fell open wider. “Please.”

Wrecker settled between your thighs like he belonged there. His big hands slid under your hips, lifting you gently so he could drape your legs over his broad shoulders. The first brush of his tongue was slow, flat and warm, lapping slowly along your slit from bottom to top. You gasped, hips twitching up toward his mouth.

He groaned at the taste, low and hungry. “So sweet… been thinkin’ about this for so long.”

“Wrecker…”

Then he dove in properly. His tongue circled your clit in slow, firm strokes, sucking lightly, then harder when your fingers tightened in the sheets beneath you. He alternated from long licks to quick flicks, then sealing his lips around the sensitive bud and sucking with gentle pulses that made your back arch off the bed.

Soft trills and whimpers spilled from your throat as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter. “Wrecker! Oh stars, right there-.”

He hummed against you, the vibration sending sparks through your core. One thick finger pressed at your entrance before sliding in to the first knuckle, then deeper when you rocked down to meet it. He curled it just right, stroking that spot inside while his tongue worked relentless circles on your clit.

Your thighs trembled around his head. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He added a second finger, stretching you gently, pumping in time with his mouth until your whole body tensed, breath coming in short, desperate pants.

You came with a broken cry. Back bowing, core pulsing hard around his fingers as waves of pleasure crashed through you. Wrecker worked you through it, slowing his tongue but not stopping, lapping softly until you were trembling, oversensitive and practically boneless beneath him.

When he finally lifted his head, lips shiny and chin wet, his eyes were dark with awe.

“You’re so beautiful when you come,” he whispered, crawling back up to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue but his fingers still very much in your pussy.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down until his weight settled over you, comforting and solid.

“Need you inside me,” you breathed against his mouth. “Now.”

Wrecker kissed you through the aftershocks, swallowing the last soft whimpers that spilled from your lips. His fingers stayed buried inside you for a moment longer, curling gently until your thighs stopped trembling around his wrist. Only then did he ease them free, bringing them to his mouth to taste you one last time with a low, appreciative groan.

He shifted, rolling to lie beside you on the bed. The mattress dipped deeply under his weight as he pulled you against him with your back to his chest. One thick arm bands around your waist to hold you close and you could feel his heart against your spine, the hard length of his cock resting heavy along the curve of your arse.

He nuzzled into the crook of your neck,“You’re so beautiful and make so many pretty noises,” he murmured, voice rough with want as you purr in pleasure.

You arched back into him instinctively, “I need you inside,” you whispered again, reaching back to guide his hand down between your thighs. “Please, Wrecker… want to feel you stretch me.”

He exhaled shakily against you, the sound almost pained with how badly he wanted it. His free hand wrapped around the base of his cock and he lined himself up carefully at your entrance as you raised your leg. The broad head nudged your folds, parting them slowly, teasing the sensitive rim without pushing in yet.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, serious even through the haze of lust. “I’ll go slow.”

You nodded, breath hitching. “I trust you.”

He pressed forward. Inch by careful inch.

The stretch was immediate and intense. Your walls fluttered around him, trying to accommodate his girth as he sank deeper. A soft, broken moan tore from your throat; your head fell back against his shoulder, montrals brushing his cheek. Wrecker froze the second he felt you tense, one hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple in soothing strokes.

“Easy, mesh’la,” he breathed, “You’re takin’ me so good. Look at you… so tight around me. Feels like everything.”

He rocked gently once he was halfway in, letting you adjust and letting your body soften around him. Each shallow thrust pushed him a little deeper until finally, he was seated to the hilt, hips flush against your arse and cock throbbing deep inside you.

You both groaned in unison.

He started moving then. Long, languid strokes that dragged every thick inch along your walls, pulling out almost to the tip before sliding back in with a wet, filthy sound. The slap of skin on skin filled the quiet room. His pelvis met your arse with each measured thrust, the lewd squelch of your arousal coating him unmistakable.

“Stars, listen to that,” he rasped against your ear, voice needy. “Hear how wet you are for me? So perfect. So wet and hot and mine.”

His hand stayed at your breast, kneading softly, rolling your nipple between his fingers in time with his thrusts. The other arm kept you locked against his chest. Possessive but gentle; holding you like he never wanted to let go. 

You moaned louder, hips rocking back to meet him, chasing the deep grind of his cock against that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes.

Your hand slipped down between your legs, fingers finding where you were joined. You felt him sliding in and out, stretching you wide on every inward stroke. The sensation was obscene and intoxicating. You traced the base of him as he pulled out, feeling how soaked he was, how your lips clung to him like they didn’t want to let go.

Then your fingertips found your swollen clit, and you started rubbing slow circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. 

Wrecker felt it immediately. The way your walls clenched harder around him when you touched yourself. “Kriff—yeah, touch yourself, sweetheart,” he groaned, hips stuttering for a second before he found the pace again. “Love feelin’ you squeeze me like that. Show me how good it feels.”

Each deep thrust punched a soft cry from your throat. His hand left your breast to join yours between your legs. He didn’t take over, just resting there and feeling you work your clit while he filled you over and over.

“Could love you like this all night,” he moans after a few minutes. He had shifted just slightly, angling himself enough to lean over and kiss your lips. “My perfect girl. So good for me. Gonna make ya come again… wanna feel ya pulse around my cock.”

Your fingers sped up, slick and frantic now, chasing the edge while he rocked into you steadily, kissing and moaning against his lips. 

“Wrecker… I’m close…”

“I’ve got ya,” he murmured, against your mouth. “Let go for me, mesh’la. Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”

With one more deep thrust, harder this time and grinding against that spot, you shattered.

Your orgasm hit like a wave walls clamping down hard around him in pulsing waves. You cried out his name, fingers still circling your clit through the aftershocks, milking every last tremor.

Wrecker groaned low and broken, hips stuttering as your release dragged him right to the edge with you.

“Gonna…fuck. Where do you want me?”

“Inside,” you cried, voice breaking with need. “Come inside me, please, Wrecker—I want to feel you fill me.”

He groaned deep in his chest, the sound raw and desperate. “Mesh’la…” He eased out of you slowly. You whimpered at the sudden emptiness, but he was already moving, strong arms guiding you with tender strength.

“C’mere,” he murmured, sitting up against the headboard and pulling you into his lap. “Wanna see your face.”

You straddled him face-to-face now, knees bracketing his hips on the crumpled sheets. His hands settled at your waist as you sank down onto him, the stretch even more intimate this way. Feeling every ridge as he filled yu completely. Your arms wrapped around his neck; his came around your back, holding you flush to his chest.

“Like this,” he whispered, forehead resting against yours. “Just like this. You’re so perfect… takin’ me so sweet.”

You rocked together slowly, the gentle rolls of your hips meeting his careful upward thrusts. The rhythm was unhurried, loving, each slide drawing soft gasps from you both. Your breasts pressed to his scarred chest, nipples brushing his skin with every movement.

“Wrecker…” You moaned his name like a plea, nails grazing his back lightly.

He kissed you then. Slow tongues sliding in lazy tandem with your bodies. “I’ve got ya,” he breathed into your mouth. “Gonna fill you… gonna give you everything.”

The words sent fresh heat pooling in your core. You clenched around him, hips circling tighter, chasing the building pressure. His hands guided you, lifting you just enough to sink back down over and over but never rough. Just always reverent. 

Your whole body melted into him, the intimacy overwhelming from the skin on skin, your hearts pounding in sync and his massive frame enveloping you like safety.

“I’m close—” he gasped, sweaty forehead pressing to yours.

“Cum for me baby,” you beg quietly.

Your soft command was all he needed as he came with a shuddering groan. Hot spurts filled you, thick and warm, spilling deep until you felt every twitch. He held you through it, arms locked around you, whispering praises into your ear: “So good… my perfect girl… love feelin’ you like this…”

You stayed wrapped together as the aftershocks faded—his cock softening slowly inside you, cum dripping lazily where you were joined. Eventually he slipped free, but he didn’t let go. He eased you down beside him, pulling you half onto his chest, one leg tangled with yours.

“That was…”

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice soft and soothing now. “You did so good for me.”

He pressed gentle kisses to your shoulder, your neck, the base of your lekku. “You okay?” he whispered, nuzzling into your body. “Need anything?”

You shook your head weakly, turning just enough to tuck your face into the crook of his neck. “Just… stay. Hold me.”

“Always,” he promised, arms tightening around you. “Never lettin’ go.”

Instead, you lean back in your seat and sigh, trying and failing to tear your eyes away when he adjusts the panel and the muscles in his back shift beneath the armor.

He glances over his shoulder. “You are unusually quiet.”

You blink, caught. “Am I?”

“Yes.” He turns back to his console. “Normally you ask at least six questions while I perform maintenance.”

“I do not ask six—”

“You average nine,” he corrects without looking up. “Sometimes eleven.”

You flush. Then again, you couldn’t be surprised that he took note of your behavioural patterns. “I’m just… giving you space.”

He pauses again, just long enough that you know he’s assessing something. Then he resumes tinkering with a small component, the movement drawing your eyes downward to the way his gloves flex around the tool.

“What are you doing right now?” he asks mildly, though there’s an edge in his tone that makes your chest tighten.

“Watching you work,” you admit.

“Indeed,” he says. “I noticed.”

“What—” you hesitate, embarrassed, “—what gave it away?”

“You have not blinked in approximately twenty one seconds.”

You snap your eyes shut, mortified. “Well, maybe I was thinking.”

“Thinking,” Tech repeats. He sets the tool down and slowly, deliberately stands up straight. “Would you like to specify about what?”

His voice isn’t teasing or accusing, just gentle and intrigued. Tone warm enough to almost liquefy your spine and turn your legs into jelly.

You swallow as you shift in your seat, crossing your legs over one another… tightly. “About you.”

He steps away from the console and faces you fully. He looks so composed. So steady. And so impossibly confident in all that gear.

Maker, you’re in trouble.

“What about me?” he asks softly.

“You look…” you trail off, fighting the burn rising to your ears, “…really good in your gear today.”

Something flickers behind his tinted lenses. “Good?” he repeats.

“Yeah,” you answer, throat tight. “It’s just… there’s something about it today. I don’t know. You look…Put together.” You laugh nervously. “It’s stupid.”

Tech tilts his head slightly, studying you quietly. “It is not stupid,” he starts. “It is arousal.”

Your breath catches. “Tech—”

“It is,” he continues matter-of-factly. “Your voice has lowered in pitch. Your pupils are dilated. You are shifting your weight in a way that suggests warm fervour.”

You nearly choke. “Warm fer— Tech!” You sit up straighter than before and look around in case someone, anyone could hear or see you both.

He steps closer, “Don’t worry, we’re alone.” He then leans over you, tilting his bucket. “I’ve seen the way you look at me in my gear, just like today. You are having a physiological reaction to my armour.” His tone changes in a way that sends heat straight through your belly. “Are you aware of that?”

His words made you swallow hard. “I… wasn’t. Not until now.” A gear kink? This was news to you and honestly, you were not mad about it.

“And now?” His hands move to your hips, gloved fingers tightening in your shirt.

“Now I’m very aware of it.”

Tech inhales sharply, a sound that slides right beneath your skin. “I would like,” he says quietly, “to explore this new information.”

Your heart leaps. “Explore how?”

He gestures toward the cockpit behind him. “If you will follow me.”

You follow, heart thumping with every step you take. He lifts his hand to tell you to halt and you do with a small stagger and watch him in curiosity as he detaches the whole steering stick from the pilot's seat. “What are you doing?”

“Ensuring you are comfortable for what is about to happen. Also, this area demonstrates the best area for this activity.” He explains but you don’t quite follow.

Tech notices your confusion and with a flourish, you are lifted into his arms and placed exactly where the steering once was, practically sitting on the control board. “Woah-” you say breathlessly, eyes widening as Tech flushes up against you.

But instead of touching you, he reaches up to the side of his helmet and ever so Tech, says: “I cannot perform oral stimulation with this on,” he says simply. “And my intention is quite clear.”

Your breath leaves you entirely. “You want to— here?” you whisper.

Tech’s voice drops to a low heat. “I want to pleasure you. Thoroughly. Immediately.”

He then adds, almost shyly, “And repeatedly, if you are willing.”

Your stomach plummets in the best possible way. “Yes,” you breathe. “Take it off.”

He removes the helmet with practiced ease. The moment it’s off, he pushes his goggles up, revealing warm brown eyes already darkened with desire.

He sets the helmet aside before returning his attention to you. His mouth parts and your sex burns as you watch him inadvertently lick his lips. “Spread your legs for me,” he murmurs. “I would like to see all of you.”

Your breath stutters, but you obey. Your legs spread, but your whole being feels excitement as his hands gently guide your legs further apart, gloved palms warm against your thighs even through the fabric.

His voice softens. “You’re trembling.”

“Because you’re looking at me like that,” you whisper.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re starving.”

His jaw tightens. “I am.”

Then he takes a seat directly in front of you, lowers himself until he’s between your legs. The sight of him alone is enough to make your core clench. He glides his hands up your thighs and pauses at your waistband. “May I?”

“Yes,” you say instantly, voice meek.

Tech pulls your clothes down with carefully, panties included, setting them aside neatly before settling back between your thighs. The shift of his armour and the way it frames him sends a bolt of heat straight through you.

He exhales shakily, leaning in until his breath brushes sensitive skin. “You are already so warm,” he murmurs, voice thick. “I wonder if you taste as good as I imagine.”

“Tech—”

You don’t get to but in another word as his mouth covers you with a single, devastating stroke.

Heat explodes through you so fast your body jerks against the console, hands flying back to brace yourself but you barely manage to stay upright when Tech groans softly against you. The vibration shoots straight through your core.

You gasp, “T-Tech—”

He’s already looking up at you from between your legs, eyes molten, goggles fogging at the edges.

“This,” he breathes against you, lips brushing your swollen clit, “is far better than I predicted.”

You whimper, thighs trembling around his head. “You predicted this?”

“Of course.” He drags his tongue up the length of your sex, slow but deliberate, like he’s savouring data. “But the reality is significantly more intoxicating.”

Your fingers curl into his hair, and he groans at the pull before burying his mouth back against you. Maker, he’s thorough and hungry. It’s like he’s been waiting for permission to do this since the moment you started dating.

And maybe he has.

Your relationship is still new. Sweet and careful with kissing and nights curled into each other’s arms.

But nothing like this. The pair of you hadn’t gotten this far yet. And you definitely hadn’t imagined your first time with his mouth on you would happen on the Marauder’s cockpit console while he’s still half in armour because it was your kink.

He pulls back just enough to speak, voice ruined with want. “I have wanted to do this for weeks.”

Your breath catches. “Weeks?”

“I did not want to… assume your comfort level.” His thumb strokes your inner thigh gently. “But today, when you looked at me in my gear, I was left with no doubt.”

You let out a shaky, embarrassed laugh only to be cut off immediately by a sharp gasp as he licks your pussy again, firmer this time.

“You taste,” he murmurs in reverence, “extraordinary. Such a sweet pussy.”

You’re about to melt into the console just by his words alone.

Then, his gloved hand slides up your thigh, higher this time and pauses right between your legs.

“Tech,” you whisper, hips lifting instinctively at the loss of his mouth.

He raises his head a little. “I would like to use my fingers,” he says. “But these—” he wiggles his gloved fingers “—are hardly ideal.”

You blink down at him, dizzy. “Then take them off.”

He hums. “My hands are occupied.”

Before you can ask what he means, he brings two gloved fingers to your lips.

“Remove it for me.”

Your stomach drops yet your mouth opens before you can think. Most likely the heat, instinct, and want of this. So you bite down gently on the fingertip seam. He pulls back slowly, letting you drag the glove off with your teeth, sliding it free.

The way he watches you through it with an expression so focused, aroused and with breath uneven… nearly sets you on fire.

He repeats the process with the second glove, your mouth tugging it off while his gaze burns into you like he’s memorising the moment.

When both gloves are discarded, he leans in again, this time cupping you with bare, warm hands.

You shudder violently at the difference.

“Oh,” Tech whispers, voice tight with awe. “You react even more strongly to direct contact. Fascinating.”

Then one slow finger slides through your slick, just once, collecting you.

“And you are…” He breathes hard, pupils blown huge. “Stars above, you are exceedingly wet.”

You make a broken sound and he moans in response, actually moans, the sound vibrating against the inside of your thighs.

He brings his glistening finger to his mouth and tastes you.

And that’s what undoes you.

His lips part, his lashes flutter, and a shiver runs down his spine so obvious you feel it. “I need more,” he whispers.

You barely have time to inhale before he’s on you again. His mouth hungry and eager, tongue stroking deep, hands spreading you open so he can press in closer to devour you properly.

He licks like he’s noting down every single reaction, every twitch of your hips, every gasp that tumbles out of you. His fingers slide against you again, this time circling your entrance in sync with his mouth, building heat with devastating efficiency.

You’re already shaking. “Fuck- you’re so...”

“Let me,” he murmurs into you, voice thick before placing a sweet kiss to your clit, “please let me.”

Then he pushes two fingers inside you.

Your head slams back against the bulkhead, a sharp cry leaving your throat.

He gasps at the sensation, at the way you clench around him, his rhythm faltering for half a second as he processes the reaction of you wrapped around him for the first time.

“Oh,” he says, breathless delight spilling into his tone, “you are… perfect.”

Then he moves.

Slow, deliberate thrusts of his fingers paired with long drags of his tongue over your clit, down your folds, sucking, circling, mapping you with ruthless rigour.

Your thighs clamp around his head and he groans like that’s exactly what he wanted.

“T-Tech— I’m gonna—” you pant, one hand still holding the back of his head as if to guide him, the other one palming your breast just for that extra touch.

One of his hands tightens on your hips, anchoring you against the console as he looks up briefly, lips shiny, and voice ragged. “Then come for me,” his tone almost pleading. “Please. I want to feel you cum on my fingers.”

That does it.

The orgasm hits you like a blaster round—fast and overwhelming—your cry echoing off the cockpit walls as your back arches and your fingers clutch harder in his hair. Tech moans into you as you ride his mouth, pinned beneath your shaking thighs, eating every shudder like he can’t get enough.

You don’t realise tears have formed until you blink them away.

He doesn’t stop, even after you are done seeing stars when you close your eyes. He keeps going with soft, slow licks until the last tremor leaves your body and you sag helplessly against the console. His fingers twist and pulse slowly and leave you devastatingly empty when he pulls them out.

Only then does he finally lift his head. His lips are wet, cheeks are flushed and his goggles have slipped down his nose.

He looks wrecked.

And proud.

He rises slowly, placing both palms on either side of your hips, leaning in until his forehead nearly touches yours.

“You,” he breathes, voice shaking with controlled hunger, “are extraordinary.”

You reach for him, pulling him close until his mouth brushes yours.

“Tech,” you whisper, still panting, “can we do… more?”

He smiles softly like he was utterly in love and leans in. “With pleasure.”

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Halfway through the infiltration, you had leaned over a table to scan a data chip. Unfortunatley, the angle forces your skirt upward just a bit but also just enough.

You hear Hunter curse under his breath. Quiet, harsh and something reverent.

Before you can ask, he steps forward abruptly, planting himself between you and the rest of the club. His chest nearly brushes your back, and his hand subtly goes to your hip, steadying you.

“Hunter?” you breathe, startled by his sudden presence as you look over your shoulder at him.

“I can… see your panties.”

Heat floods your cheeks. You stand up straighter, skirt falling back into place, feeling a little flustered. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No, no. Don’t apologise.” He clears his throat, voice tight. “I shouldn’t have been looking. I just… didn’t want anyone else to.”

Your heart thuds and this time, not from embarrassment. Instead from the way he says it; possessive without meaning to be.

You speak before thinking: “I don’t mind you looking.”

Hunter stills, pupils wide in the dark. “…You don’t?”

You shake your head, smiling softly as if to ease him. “I trust you. You’re not gonna make it weird.”

He breathes out like you just knocked the wind out of him. His hand is still on your hip to which you’re both fully aware. Yet, neither of you mentions it.

Then, because you’re feeling bold and because his fluster is ridiculously attractive, you tilt your head and tease:

“So… be honest with me. Does black suit me?”

For the first time tonight, Hunter looks genuinely lost. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“Stars—” he mutters, voice dropping even lower. “…You’re gonna kill me.”

And he absolutely cannot stop imagining that glimpse of lace now.

Echo - 551 words

The Marauder was a mess. As always.

He mutters to himself as he digs around for the medkit, brushing aside tangled wires, ration wrappers, datapads, and whatever else the others have tossed around.

Then he spots it: a thin, white strap looped over the edge of your bunk curtain. “Finally,” he sighs, grabbing it.

He gives it a tug and it resists but after one more tug, it slides free and Echo freezes immediately.

Because what he’s holding is not a medkit strap. Not at all.

It’s your underwear.

White, delicate, very intricate and unlike anything he’s ever seen before.

Ribbons, straps, soft textured fabric, the kind that looks expensive and meant to sit high on the hips. The little garter-style attachments confuse him even more. He turns it in his hand, brow furrowing.

“What—? How does this even work?” he whispers.

He runs his thumb over the soft detailing. Not only does it look expensive, it feels expensive. Soft and pretty. Too pretty.

His cheeks heat. You wear things like this?

He can’t help imagining— No. Stop. Maker, stop.

He’s still staring down at it, eyes wide and body going hot, when a soft throat-clear cuts through the room.

Echo’s head whips up.

You’re standing there. You look from the underwear in his hand …back up to his face.

Your expression? Amused. Curious. A little blushy with embarrassment. But very much not upset.

Echo, however, looks like he’s about to overheat.

“I— I— stars— I’m sorry, I thought it was part of the medkit and I grabbed it and—” He still hasn’t let go.

You step closer slowly. Your eyes are bright with barely hidden laughter.

“Echo,” you say gently, “it’s alright.”

“I shouldn’t be holding this,” he stammers. “I didn’t mean to see anything.”

“But I don’t mind you seeing,” you say with a small laugh, tilting your head at him in a sweet, almost innocent way that makes his stomach burn. “I shouldn’t have left them out.”

His eyes widen slightly. “You don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” you say warmly.

Echo glances down again at the complex tangle of straps and lace in his hand.

“Why do you have a pair like this?” he blurts, instantly regretting it. “I— I mean— not that you can’t— I just… it’s very… elaborate.”

You smile, a little shy, and reach out to gently take the lingerie from his hand. “Sometimes,” you murmur, “I like to feel sexy. Even if no one else sees.”

Echo goes absolutely still.

“And,” you add with a teasing lift of your brow, “you never know. I could get lucky one day.”

The words hit him like a blaster bolt. His mouth opens. No sound comes out.

You bring the lingerie up between you both, letting the white straps cascade over your fingers.

“You attach this part to stockings,” you explain sweetly, “and this lace sits high on the waist. It’s actually not as complicated as it looks.”

The only thing he could do was stare at this point.

“Echo,” you say softly, “if you want… I can show you.”

His breath catches. “…Show me?” he repeats, voice low and shaky.

You step even closer, close enough that your breath brushes his cheek. “Uh-huh. Only if you want to,” you whisper.

And he definitely, unmistakably wants to.

Wrecker - 422 words

The training room hums with the low echo of footsteps and equipment, bright lights reflecting off Kamino's silver floors. You’re on your mat with Wrecker, doing stretches before sparring. Your workout gear is snug and overly flattering.

Wrecker lifts one of the heaviest bars like it weighs nothing, curling it while watching you from the corner of his eye. After all, he finds it’s impossible not to watch you. You stretch forward, bending deep into a hamstring stretch, and—

There they are.

A flash of hot pink poking above your workout pants. Bright, bold (especially for just going to the gym) and Completely unexpected.

Wrecker’s grip falters. “Woah,” he blurts under his breath, eyes going wide.

Then he drops the entire heavy bar with a thunderous metallic CLANG.

You jerk upright, startled. “Wrecker?!” you rush toward him. “Are you okay?”

He’s standing stiffly, hands half raised like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. His cheeks are on fire. “Yeah, uh… I’m fine!” he sputters. “Just… dropped it.”

But even as he tries to play it cool, his gaze flicks down again. He can’t help it. The hot pink waistband is still poking out at him like it’s screaming for attention.

You follow his eyes and then you realise. “Oh,” you breathe out, a little laugh bubbling from your lips to hide your embarrassment. You tug the waistband of your workout pants up to fix it. “Oops. Guess they slipped.”

He rubs the back of his neck with his hand.“Uh… yeah. I didn’t mean to look,” he says honestly. “It just… sorta happened.”

You smile softly, stepping closer, gentle reassurance in your touch as you brush his arm.

“It’s okay, Wrecker,” you say warmly. “Really. I don’t mind you looking.”

“...Really?” he asks, voice cracking adorably.

You nod. “Really.”

He wipes his brow dramatically, like he’s about to faint from relief.

“Kriff, sweetheart,” he huffs out, giving a breathless laugh, “you nearly made me pass out.”

You tilt your head. “Because of my panties?” You ask innocently, hips swaying a little.

“Because of you,” he says without hesitation, grin going crooked and a little bold. “Pink looks real good on you. ’Specially when it’s peekin’ out like that.”

His eyes flick down once more, this time on purpose, and he bites his lip in a way that tells you he’s absolutely imagining it again. “And, uh…” he adds, lowering his voice as he steps a little closer, “If you ever wanna… stretch like that again, maybe warn me first. Or don’t.”

Tech - 635 words

You smooth your dress one last time. A black, floaty, knee-length, dress that sways beautifully when you move. It was enough to give you confidence for your date.

You’re halfway down the ramp when Tech’s voice echoes from somewhere inside the cockpit, calling your name.

“Do you have a moment to lend a hand?”

You hesitate about keeping your date waiting but it was Tech and you enjoyed his company even if it’s for a minute or two.

“Of course. What do you need?”

He’s on his back beneath the flight console, only his boots and the legs visible. “There is a circuit panel that requires manual activation. I need you to flip the second and fourth switches while I observe the internal response.”

“Easy,” you say, stepping into the cockpit.

You move to the controls, leaning slightly forward to reach the panel and followed his instructions. Just out of reach of a spanner, he slides further out from underneath to grab it but then, he looks up.

And immediately goes still.

Because from his position underneath you… he gets a perfect, accidental view directly beneath your dress.

Your legs are right there and so were your panties. a lacy, elegant, emerald shade of green are revealed.

Tech inhales sharply and wrenches his gaze away instantly, cheeks flaming, eyes squeezing shut like that’ll erase the image. (It doesn’t)

“Tech? Is that working?” you call out cheerfully unaware.

His voice comes out strangled. “Yes, yes, that is— ah— that is sufficient, actually—”

Then he jerks too fast and cracks his head on the panel.

“Tech?!”

He slides out from beneath the console, rubbing his head and trying to pretend he’s not so burning so hot he’s practically overheating the ship.

“I am fine. Perfectly fine. Thank you for your assistance.” He says as he stands up.

You smile warmly. “Anytime. Now, I should go—”

And that’s when something curls hot and unwelcome in Tech’s chest.

A strange, sharp emotion he doesn’t like acknowledging:

Jealousy.

Because someone else, someone who isn’t him, gets to see you this way.

It bursts out before he can stop it. “Emerald suits you.”

You stop mid-step. “Huh?”

Tech blinks at you, realises what he said, panics internally, and tries to clarify which naturally makes everything worse.

“I mean your undergarments— your panties—”

He winces as your eyes widen at his words.

“I saw them while you were adjusting the switches. I apologise. The angle was… unfortunate.”

You stare at him, face hot as your hands fly up to cover your cheeks.

“Oh shit… Tech—”

He immediately shakes his head, hands raised.

“There is absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. I should not have been looking in that direction. The fault lies entirely with the geometry of my position.”

“Tech,” you say through your hands, half mortified, half laughing, “it was an accident.”

“Yes,” he agrees quickly. “Entirely unintentional. Though - aesthetically speaking - emerald is a highly flattering colour on you.”

You drop your hands and blink at him. He’s serious.

Your eyes drop shyly for a second, then lift again with soft boldness. “…I don’t think I would have minded if you saw a little more.”

Tech malfunctions. Visibly. His mouth opens but no sound comes out.

You step toward him and lean in just slightly, voice warm and teasing:

“You know, if you’d worked up the nerve to ask me out yourself… today’s view could’ve been intentional.”

He swallows so hard it felt like swallowing a marble. “Intentional,” he repeats in a whisper, like the concept itself is short-circuiting him.

“Ask me when I get back,” you murmur. “My date might not be a good one, after all)

And then you walk out of the cockpit, leaving Tech standing there.

He’s frozen in place and absolutely determined that he will ask you the moment you return.

Crosshair - 496 words

Your house on Pabu is quiet, warm, filled with the sound of ocean wind through the open balcony doors. You’re in your bedroom trying on new underwear. Teal lace, a little racy, matching bra, the kind of set you bought “just because.”

You’re adjusting the straps, turning to the side in the mirror, when the door suddenly swings open.

Crosshair steps in and stops dead.

You freeze too, body burning under his stare.

He blinks once, jaw tightening just a fraction.

“You could’ve locked the damn door.” he snaps, voice sharp as a knife.

Automatically, you throw your arms over yourself, scrambling for your clothes.

“Crosshair! Knock! What are you—”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling through his teeth. “I was looking for you. Didn’t know you’d be… putting on a fashion show.”

You yank on a shirt and shorts as fast as you can, pulse hammering. “You could’ve knocked,” you fire back, pushing past him toward the hall.

He’s leaning against the wall now, arms folded, jaw tight.

But something’s off.

He won’t look at you.

You stop, chest still tight with embarrassment. “…Crosshair?”

He doesn’t answer, making you sigh quietly.

“Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled. You just startled me.”

His fingers toy with the toothpick behind his ear, but his voice is steady, low.

“Don’t apologise.”

You step out onto your balcony, trying to cool off. The breeze hits your skin, calming you. You rest your elbows on the railing, staring at the ocean.

You hear Crosshair shift behind you.

You glance back and catch his eyes very blatantly, unmistakably, glued to your rear.

You raise a brow. “Really?”

He curses under his breath, jams the toothpick between his lips, and finally meets your eyes.

“Not… my intention,” he mutters.

“You sure?” you tease, heat rising to your cheeks.

He narrows his eyes, irritated at being caught but the flush on his neck betrays him.

“I’m not embarrassed,” he says coolly.

“Oh?” You fold your arms. “Then what was that little freak-out about?”

He exhales slowly, gaze dragging over your face with a rawness you rarely see from him.

“I just…” A pause, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “…would’ve preferred seeing you like that with your permission.”

Crosshair stares at you, expression unreadable, but his pupils blown just a little.

Something bold rises up in you: heat, bravery, curiosity.

“Well,” you murmur, pushing off the balcony railing and taking slow steps toward your bedroom door.

“…maybe I give my permission now.”

You almost chokes on his toothpick, his brows lifting in surprise

Your hand touches the doorframe and you hold his gaze. He watches you like a man trying very hard not to lunge.

“…You’re inviting me to look?” he asks, voice low and disbelieving.

You smile daringly. “If you want to.”

The toothpick nearly slips from his mouth.

You turn and walk back inside your room.

And behind you, you hear the soft, controlled footsteps of Crosshair following.

Tags: @littlefeatherr @kaitou2417 @eyecandyeoz @jesseeka @theroguesully @ladykatakuri @arctrooper69 @padawancat97 @staycalmandhugaclone @ko-neko-san @echos-girlfriend @fiveshelmet @dangraccoon @plushymiku-blog @pb-jellybeans @sleepycreativewriter @erellenora @zippingstars87 @ezras-left-thumb @the-rain-on-kamino @tech-aficionado @grizabellasolo @therealnekomari @brynhildrmimi @greaser-wolf @kaminocasey @marvel-starwars-nerd @ladytano420 @ladyzirkonia @raevulsix @cw80831 @knightprincess @crosshairlovebot @jane8675 @dalu-grantkylo @kindalonelystars @sugar-monster @thizandthatzz @tentakelspektakel @stellarbit @griffedeloup @imalovernotahater @sithstrings @whore4rex @temple-elder @mysticalgalaxysalad @yunggoblin @photogirl894 @lulalovez

Always from a distance. Always with that unreadable slant to his eyes, pretending he wasn’t studying the way your fingers moved. 

Today, the Marauder was blissfully still. You’d already filled a page with quick figure sketches: Hunter twirling his viroblade, Tech hunched over a datapad like a gargoyle and Wrecker lifting Gonky with one hand. 

Your helmet sat on the weapons rack behind you. Blank. Scuffed. Boring. Begging for personality. For weeks the idea had bounced around your head that maybe you would add some little doodles.

You set your pencil down, brushed the graphite from your fingertips, and reached for it.

Your fingers just grazed plastoid when Hunter called out across the hold, urgency clipping the edge of his voice. “Hey, can I get a hand with something?”

“Yeah, coming!”

A whole stack of crates had been arranged in the exact wrong order and it took all of you longer than you liked to sort out. By the time you wiped sweat from your brow and stretched your back, dusk light was slipping through the Marauder’s ramp.

You headed back to the rack, grabbed your helmet without even thinking, scooped up your paint kit, and slipped outside before nightfall swallowed the light.

The air was cool, dust brushing around your boots as you settled on an overturned crate. You hummed to yourself, flipping open the little paint tins, dipping your brush into the first colour.

You toyed with ideas such as patterns, symbols, tiny flowers or maybe a loth-cat but after a moment you finally decided on something easy. Cute spirals that blended into small, petal-like shapes. 

You’d only been working for five minutes when you turned the bucket to get a better angle.

And froze.

This was NOT your helmet.

Your stomach dropped so fast you nearly choked on the breath you sucked in.

This was—

“What are you doing?”

You snapped upright so fast your brush nearly flew out your hand. Crosshair stood ten paces away, his expression blank. He marched toward you, long strides kicking up dust.

“Heck, Crosshair—” You scrambled to your feet, holding his helmet between slightly shaking hands. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise— I thought it was mine. I can clean it off, I swear—”

He stopped right in front of you. Close enough for you to see the slow shift of his jaw as he rolled the toothpick between his teeth. His eyes dropped to the helmet—covered in delicate spirals and tiny flowers—and then slowly lifted to yours.

He didn’t say a word.

You swallowed hard. “I’ll get something to wipe it—”

“No.”

He yanked the helmet from your hands in one swift motion and tucked it under his arm.

“No?” you repeat, startled. “Crosshair, seriously. I’m really sor—”

“I said no.” 

His tone wasn’t angry. Abrupt, yes, but not sharp.

He exhaled through his nose, pinched the bridge of it briefly, then muttered, “I’ll deal with it.”

He was being weirdly calm. You blinked. “Are you sure? I really didn’t mean—”

He raised a hand, silencing you with barely a flick of his fingers. “I’ll deal with it,” he repeated, eyes lingering on you for a long, unreadable second before he turned and strode back up the ramp of the Marauder.

You stood there, rooted to the spot, guilt clawing at your ribs.

“Idiot,” you muttered, tapping your knuckles against your forehead. “Force-damned idiot.”

Of all the helmets to grab, you had to take his. Wrecker would tease him for cycles, and Crosshair already had a short fuse on good days.

You waited outside a few minutes, working up the nerve to follow, then climbed the ramp.

“We’ve just received a transmission from Captain Rex.” Tech called the moment he saw you.

You barely heard him at first, scanning the hold for Crosshair, searching for a glimpse of dark armour with fresh flowers. Nothing. 

Tech repeated himself, a little more pointedly, and you jolted out of your thoughts long enough to nod and sink into a seat.

You assumed Crosshair was in the cockpit.

Possibly sulking. Possibly simmering. Probably hiding the evidence of your accidental vandalism before anyone else noticed.

You stared down at your hands, the faint stain of paint still clinging to the pads of your fingers.

Maker, you hoped he wouldn’t stay mad.

The next evening you’re back on Kamino and the endless storm thundered against the white walls of the barracks as sheets of rain streaked down the windows

You sat alone inside the squad’s quarters, perched at Tech’s messy workbench. The only clear space being the part you had tidied for your sketchbook. Loose wires, open datapads, stripped comlink parts and scribbled diagrams were shoved aside so you could finish an old drawing: a twisting Felucian tree with luminous leaves you’d seen months ago.

Your pencil moved in soft strokes, lost in memory and oblivious to the rest of the galaxy. Just how you liked it.

Meanwhile, across the training complex, the other five were gearing up for a battle droid simulation.

Training hadn’t even started yet when Wrecker’s voice boomed through the prep area.

“Crosshair’s got FLOWERS on his helmet!”

Crosshair stilled before answering with a snarl as if to say, ‘shut up’.

“Wrecker,” Hunter warned without even looking up from tightening his vambrace, “drop it.”

But Wrecker didn’t seem to want to.

“I’m just sayin’,” he laughed, clapping Crosshair’s shoulder (which Crosshair immediately shrugged off), “if he didn’t want people to notice, maybe he shouldn’t’ve kept the paint! He didn’t even wipe one lil’ petal off!”

Crosshair’s shoulders tensed and the toothpick in his mouth almost snapped and pierced his lip.

“Maybe,” Wrecker continued cheerfully, “he kept it ’cause someone special painted it. Y’know… maybe he li—”

“Wrecker.” Echo interrupted, annoyed already even when he wasn’t the source of the conversation. “Stop. You’re winding him up.”

Tech, busy checking the simulation parameters, added dryly, “If he becomes distracted during the exercise, I will be holding you responsible for every missed shot.”

Wrecker went silent. Though a giant grin still plastered his face as he held up a heart shape in the shape of his hands directly to Cross.

He said nothing. Just clenched his jaw, helmet tucked under his arm, spirals and flowers still fully intact and marched away. He would train on his own for now.

Back in the barracks, you were still lost in the swirls of Felucia’s bark, completely unaware of the chaos your artwork had caused.

You only looked up when the sliding door hissed open and Crosshair strode inside. His annoyance was obvious.

“That was quick,” you said automatically, glancing at the chrono on the wall with a small frown as training shouldn’t have been finished yet.

He didn’t answer immediately.

Your gaze drifted from his face and then to the helmet tucked beneath his arm.

It was still adorned with your doodles from yesterday evening. Something screamed in your mind that he might have been teased about it. You swallowed, unsure whether to feel guilty or amused.

You dropped your pencil, letting it roll onto the workbench with a soft clink, and leaned your arms against the surface. “Uh… are you sure you don’t want me to…?”

“To what?” Crosshair retorted, sliding onto the edge of his bunk. The helmet rested beside him while he began tending to his rifle, wiping the barrel with precision.

You bit the inside of your cheek, suddenly aware he was being difficult on purpose. “Clean it off. Obviously.”

His hand rubbed the cloth over the metal, but he paused mid-stroke, fingers lingering over the barrel as if deep in thought.

You couldn’t help it—your stomach fluttered. He wasn’t jumping at the chance to get rid of your doodles. He actually seemed okay with them. The absurd thought that maybe he liked what you’d done made your face heat up. Ridiculous. Completely ludicrous. You shook it off, telling yourself he couldn’t possibly feel that way.

Crosshair finally broke the silence. “Where’s your helmet?”

You raised a brow, tilting your head toward your make-shift hammock in the corner. “Under there,” you reply but kind of regretting it the moment he moved.

Without a word, he stood and retrieved it, moving back toward you. You stared up at him, jaw slack, trying to process what the heck he was doing.

“Budge up,” he demanded, not harshly, but with the sort of quiet authority that left no room for argument.

You scooted a little to the left, giving him space to settle beside you.

“What are you doing?” you asked slowly, cautious, eyeing the way he started flipping through your paintbrushes, selecting one and opening a small pot of paint.

“Vandalising your helmet,” he stated simply.

Your stomach dropped. Well… maybe you deserved this. But still, it was a mistake! “D-do you have to? It was an acci—”

“Do you have a blue colour?” he interrupted, completely uninterested in your pitiful plea. His tone was calm and dangerously focused, as if your protests were background noise.

You blinked, then caught the faintest glint of something in his expression; calm, yes, but also… deliberate. Like he was testing you, or maybe just daring you to say no. You swallowed hard as you handed him the small pot of paint..

Your hand brushed against his as you passed him the pot. You froze, heat crawling up your neck, and quickly snatched your hand back, pretending to fuss with a loose pencil.

Crosshair didn’t flinch. He merely dipped his brush into the paint, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he looked down at the helmet and began his act of purposeful vandalism. All the while you sat stiffly beside him.

“Please don’t draw anything rude on it…” you muttered, “I do have to have a uniform of some sort.”

A faint smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth.

Your eyes widened. “Crosshair—”

Before you could crane your neck to peek, he tsk’d sharply and angled the helmet farther from you, elbow coming up like a shield.

“Don’t even think about it,” he drawled.

You huffed, dramatic and miserable, and slumped forward, chin dropping into your palm. Your other hand idly nudged your abandoned drawing, sliding the flimsi back and forth without actually looking at it. 

Despite trying not to look, you felt his gaze flick toward you.

Not long,  just a second or two. Long enough to make your pulse skip.

Every time your eyes started drifting his way, he snapped his attention back to the helmet with suspicious urgency, as if you’d caught him doing something he shouldn’t. 

Your fingers began tapping on the worktop, fidgety and impatient, creating tiny tremors across Tech’s mess of tools.

Crosshair groaned. “For kriff’s sake sit still.”

You scoffed. “Sorry. Didn’t realise you needed complete silence for your… masterpiece.”

“If you want it neat, stop shaking the table,” he shot back, not even looking at you.

“…If I’m getting a lewd painting, it can at least be tidy,” you muttered to yourself.

His smirk returned but he didn’t deny it which did nothing to help your nerves.

Finally, he sat back, dropped the brush into a jar of water. “All done, have a look.”

You didn’t look. If he’d drawn something mortifying, you’d rather die later than right now.

“I said,” Crosshair tilted his head, voice lightly mocking, “take a look.”

“I’ll look when you’re gone.” You stretched your arms above your head in a weak imitation of a yawn. “I need to emotionally prepare, you know.”

He didn’t argue and didn’t taunt.

He simply stood and slid the helmet across the table toward you, turning it just enough that the paint faced you.

You sighed, defeated, and let your eyes flick to the surface

It wasn’t some crude joke or anything embarrassing. It wasn’t even messy.

It was one clean word: mesh’la

You blinked. Twice. Three times.

Then looked up at him, facing his back.

Crosshair was already halfway back to his bunk. “I don’t understand,” you called, “What does this even mean?”

He stopped mid-step, shoulders shifting as if debating whether to even answer. Finally, he turned just enough for you to see his gaze.

“It’s a word,” he said, low and simple, “that describes you.”

You stared. “Great. Typical.”

He watched irritation settle across your face, and the faintest, driest sigh escaped him“You don’t know what it means.”

“Well, I can’t see it being anything pleasant,” you shot back. “Probably means idiot. Or ‘dickhead.’”

Crosshair hummed, almost amused sound, and slung his rifle over one shoulder. “Maybe,” he starts, “you should check what it means before assuming.”

You grumbled under your breath something incoherent and something probably impolite.

Crosshair’s quiet hum echoed in your ears as you began digging through the clutter on Tech’s desk as you look for a datapad.

“‘Maybe you should check what it means,’” you mimicked under your breath as you finally found a datapad buried under a heap of wiring. Victory.

You shot Crosshair a glare. He was leaning in the barracks doorway, arms folded across his chest, one boot crossed over the other, all coiled in smugness. The faint tilt of his head told you he was enjoying this far too much.

You scowled and typed the word into the translator with quick, irritated jabs: Mesh’la.

The results popped up. You blinked. Then blinked again to make sure your eyes don't pop out of your skull.

Beautiful.

Your jaw slackened and heat shot up your throat so fast you almost choked.

“That—” you stuttered, staring at the screen in disbelief. “That can’t be… I must’ve—” You typed it again. And again. Each result came back the same.

Very slowly, you lifted your gaze.

Crosshair hadn’t moved from the doorway. His expression was almost blank, carefully controlled… but there was something in the slight raise of his chin, the faintest flex at the corner of his mouth, that gave him away.

Satisfaction.

“W-what…” you breathed, barely managing to get the words out. “Why?”

You were filled with just genuine, overwhelmed confusion as your fingers curled around the datapad to keep them from trembling. 

Crosshair didn’t answer. He simply shifted his rifle higher on his shoulder, gave the smallest nod and pushed off the doorframe.

“See you later,” he murmured.

And then he was gone. Boots echoing down the hall and leaving you sitting in the mess of Tech’s half-disassembled gadgets, clutching a helmet with ‘beautiful’ painted on it. 

Your face was on fire. Hot. Burning. You pressed your palms against it, trying to think, trying to breathe. Crosshair. Crosshair.

He… he actually liked you. And you were pretty certain you liked him too.

Whisky’s eyes widened, a look of surprise flickering across his face before he burst out. “I can’t believe you were causing trouble with the Coruscant Guard,” he teased, his shoulders shaking as he tried to contain his laughter. “No wonder Fox is always so grumpy.”

You rolled your eyes, nudging his shoulder playfully. “It wasn’t even that bad! Just a little prank gone wrong.” You sighed dramatically, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “It’s not my fault Fox has no sense of humour.”

He shook his head, though amused. “Probably because you’re all trouble, you know that?”

You grinned, your eyes twinkling. “I like to keep things interesting.”

His expression softened, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. “I’ll bet you do.”

A comfortable silence settled between you, the two of you simply enjoying each other’s presence. It felt… right. Easy. Like you could spend hours here just talking and laughing with him.

But then his fingers started drumming against his thigh again, a sign you were starting to recognise as nerves. His gaze grew distant, his shoulders tensing slightly. “You know…” he started, his voice lower now, “I think I get why Fox is so protective of you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Why’s that?”

He hesitated, his jaw clenching as his eyes flicked to the ground. “You’re important. To a lot of people. I don’t think he realised it.”

Your chest tightened, his words stirring something deep inside you. It was as if Fox was saying it staright to you.

“I don’t know about that.” You looked away, suddenly feeling shy. “I just try to be there for them. Like they are for me.”

“Do you think that, uh, Fox, thinks you’re there for him? Like you are with Stone and Thire I mean.” Your brows knit together as you sit up and look at him. “You sure like to ask alot of questions about Fox, y’know? Any reason.”

“N-No.” He stutters quickly. “Just simply asking.”

“Alright, alright,” you raise your hands up in defence, hoping he didn’t take it to heart but you can’t help but notice the topic of Fox quite a lot. “Well, to answer your question: I don’t know. I’ve tried joking here and there with him a few times but there’s no knocking down that wall he built.”

“Wall?” You nod. “Sure. He’s one of the most elite Commanders in the GAR. He doesn’t have time for fun and games.” You then roll your eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh.”

Whisky, or should we say Fox, feels his stomach twist. You weren’t bad-mouthing him, but there’s a clear divide between him, yourself and his brothers. Kark, maybe he did have to lighten up after all this.

“Anyway, enough about him.” You hum, your fingers gliding through the glades of grass. “Any more crazy stories from your side of the Guard?”

“Ah, nothing that exciting. Mostly just…fixing things.”

You scrunched your nose. “Boring.”

He laughed this time, but the slight tension in his posture lingered. “Yeah, guess I’m just not as much of a troublemaker as you.”

You gasped in mock offence, placing a hand over your heart. “How dare you? I’ll have you know I’m a model citizen.”

He arched an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk. “Right… remind me again who set off an alarm and hid behind crates?”

You stuck your tongue out at him, unable to hide your grin. “Fine. Maybe just a little trouble.”

You loved the way his face lit up when he laughed. He was far too handsome for his own good.

His laughter soon faded, his gaze growing thoughtful as he looked at you. “Hey, do you remember at 79’s, when you asked me what I wanted to do after the war?”

You blinked, the memory surfacing. “Yeah, I remember. You said you didn’t know… that you hadn’t thought about it much.”

“I think I’ve figured it out now.”

Curiosity sparked in you, and you leaned in, giving him your full attention. “And what’s that?”

He hesitated, but then his expression softened, his eyes growing distant. “I want to settle down… find somewhere quiet. Have a home and a wife. Maybe even some kids, if I’m lucky.”

Your heart skipped a beat, his confession hitting you harder than you expected. It was such a simple dream, but coming from him, it felt so personal and real. “That sounds nice, Whisky. Really nice.”

His gaze lifted, eyes locking with yours, and for a moment, you swore his walls were completely down. You could see everything he was feeling—the hope, the fear, the longing.

A teasing smile plays on your lips. “So, do you have a wife in mind yet?”

His eyes widened, his face flushing with warmth. “W-What? No… I mean…” He stumbled over his words, a nervous laugh escaping him. “I didn’t… I wasn’t saying… No.”

You laughed, the sound echoing through the quiet meadow. “Relax, I was only jokin’.” You tilt your head back, the sun warm on your face. “But…” you say slowly, sneaking a peak at him mischievously, "if there was a candidate, what would she be like?”

He swallowed, his eyes flicking back to you before he looked away, scratching at the back of his neck. “Well, she’d probably be strong. Brave and loyal. Funny, too.”

You tilted your head, watching him as he spoke. “Sounds like you’ve thought about this a lot.”

A shy smile tugged at his lips. “Only quite recently.”

You felt bold then, the teasing glint in his eyes sparking something in you. 

There was a moment of hesitance but the two of you were alone, the situation felt right. 

Shifting onto your knees, you moved toward him, his eyes widening as you straddled his lap, settling down with a casual confidence you didn’t quite feel. His hands instinctively went to your waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt as his breath hitched.

You leaned in, your face so close you could feel his warmth, “What else?”

His eyes were wide, his grip on your waist tightening. He was speechless, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to form words as his whole body grew warm.

You grinned, loving the way you had him completely flustered. “C’mon, Whisky… what else does the perfect girl have?”

Fox swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile moment between you. “She’s beautiful. Kind. She makes me feel… normal.” His gaze flickered downward, lingering on your lips for just a second too long. “And I’d do anything to protect her.”

Your breath hitched, his words settling deep in your chest, making your heart pound against your ribs. You felt the heat of his body beneath your hands, the steady, powerful thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips as they trailed from his chest to his shoulders.

“It’s strange,” you murmured, tilting your head as your fingers toyed with the edge of his hood. He didn’t stop you as you slowly pushed it back, revealing the sharp lines of his face, the soft streaks of silver in his hair. Your fingertips brushed lightly over his skin, tracing the faint scars along his jaw before threading into his hair. Your touch was reverent, as if trying to commit every inch of him to memory.

“I feel like I know you,” you whispered, eyes locking onto his, searching for something unspoken. “Really… really know you.”

Fox’s mind was a battlefield, a war waging between duty and desire, between truth and deception. But all of that faded into the back of his mind as he looked at you and the unguarded moment between the two of you. You were so close, warm and trusting, pressed against him in a way that made him forget, just for a second, that this was all built on a lie.

He exhaled shakily, his forehead brushing against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

“Maybe you do,” he murmured.

You didn’t quite understand what he meant, but you didn’t care. You were too caught up in the way his fingers skimmed along your waist, the way his hands pressed against the small of your back, drawing you in as if he was afraid to let go. The moment was intoxicating, pulling you in deeper, drowning you in everything that was him .

You leaned in, your lips just a whisper away—

And then he stiffened.

It was subtle, barely noticeable, but it was enough. 

Then, he pulled back. Just a fraction. 

“I can’t.”

The words were a cold splash of reality against your skin. Your eyes fluttered open, searching his face, your stomach twisting into a painful knot.

“S-Sorry,” you stammered, retreating slightly. “Did I overstep or—?”

“No,” he interrupted, shaking his head quickly, his expression laced with something close to regret. His hands, still warm against your body, squeezed just slightly before pulling away. “It’s not that. I just—”

He hesitated.

Your chest tightened. Nothing good ever came from I just .

“I have to tell you something.” Or that, in your case.

“Okay,” you said cautiously, pulling back fully now, your hands dropping from his shoulders to your lap, fingers twitching nervously. “What is it?”

He swallowed hard, exhaling through his nose, like he was bracing himself. “This has been… everything.”

Your pulse pounded in your ears. Where was this going? Was he about to tell you that this was a mistake? That he didn’t feel the same way? Your stomach churned, your eyes already stinging with unshed tears.

“Please don’t tell me you already have a partner,” you whisper, kind of trying to laugh it off but it came out weaker than you intended. “Don’t do that to me, Whisky.”

He froze for a second, his entire body going rigid before he quickly shook his head. “No. No, nothing like that. I promise.” His hands found your face again, cradling it gently, as if you were something fragile about to shatter. “I would never do that to you.”

A relieved sigh escaped your lips, a nervous chuckle following as you wiped away a stray tear. “Okay, that makes me feel a lot better. But… what is it, then?”

His lips parted, another breath drawn in deep.

“I’m not—”

A sharp, shrill siren cut through the air like a viroblade.

You both froze.

Fox’s comm buzzed immediately, and he tore his gaze from you to glance at the message flashing across the screen. His jaw tightened, his eyes widening.

“I have to go,” he said suddenly, urgency in his tone.

Your mind reeled, still spinning from everything that had just happened. “Wait—what? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know yet,” Then, to your surprise, he moved fast—gripping your waist and easing you down onto the grass as he hovered over you, preparing to go.

Your head spun. “Whisky—”

“I’ll tell you,” he said quickly, eyes flickering with something heavy, something tormented. His hands gripped your face again gently, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. “I will tell you. Everything. I promise.”

You nodded, still dazed, still trying to process everything.

He hesitated, cursing under his breath before leaning down, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to your cheek. “Do you know your way back out of here?”

You barely nodded, still caught in the whirlwind of everything that was transpiring.

He stands to his full height, his body already shifting into something sharp, something ready for action. You barely had time to sit up before he answered a quick transmission and took off running, disappearing before you could see or hear what was being said.

You exhaled shakily, flopping back against the soft grass, staring up at the sky.

What had he been about to tell you?

And what the hell had just happened that made him run off so fast?

A bitter taste settled on your tongue.

There were too many questions.

And for the first time, you weren’t sure if you wanted the answers.

Part One - 79's

Part Two - Reflection

Part Three - Sniffed Out

Part Four - Dreams

Part Five - I’ll Take My Whisky Neat

Part Six - Escape

Part Seven - The Truth

Or read on AO3 here for more parts ♥️