#clone x reader

fem reader warnings: sexual content

hunter can’t switch off his bedroom voice in time for responding to his comms. his voice is thick and dripping with sex even with just a hoarse “yeah?” that he answers under his breath, his eyes flicking down at you as he slows his thrusts but doesn’t fully stop. he inhales roughly and rubs your swollen clit, barely listening to whoever is on the other side of this conversation. you squirm and whimper from the stimulation, feeling his pulsing cock move in and out of you with a teasing, dragging motion where you can feel every last vein and inch.

tech sighs exasperatedly and reaches for his commlink, only stopped when you say, “you’re seriously going to answer that?” he looks down at you like you just asked an obvious question and holds the flashing device in front of your face. “perhaps you would prefer taking this, then?” he says as he rolls his hips forward, smugly watching your mouth drop open in a breathy moan. his lips are slightly curved when he leans down and kisses your jawline, whispering, “i’ll only be a moment” before answering with a colder, sharper tone. “yes?”

wrecker grunts at the sound of his commlink beeping and draws away one of his hands from your hip. he still holds you firmly with his free hand, bouncing you on his thick, heavy cock as it wedges itself deep against your guts, hitting you in all the right places. “sorry, baby, have to take this,” he mumbles before answering with a growl in his tone when he barks out, “what do you want?” you grab his shoulders and try to slow yourself, but he just starts thrusting his hips upward, and you drop your face into the crook of his neck with a gasp.

crosshair presses a long finger against your lips and narrows his eyes at you, silently shushing you. “i don’t have all day,” he hisses in a low and raspy tone. he feels you trying to roll your hips against him, greedily seeking more friction from this disruption. he slowly smirks at the opportunity to tease you, like it’s that easy. if he’s gonna be interrupted, he might as well make the most out of it. and he does, intentionally dragging the conversation on as your muffled pants get heavier and more pathetic against his touch, staring down at you smugly.

echo gasps and sinks into you abruptly, startled by the sound of his comms going off. you moan from the sharp pressure of his cock bottoming out inside of you, not giving you any time to adjust. “fuck, i’m sorry,” he murmurs, kissing you softly. he reaches over your head to grab his commlink. you watch his face contort into a deep scowl when he answers, “this better be important,” visibly irritated with whoever had to interrupt you two. but his expression softens as you cup the side of his face, and he turns his head to steal a quick kiss to your palm.

wolffe is quick to grab your hips and turn your body over. he pushes your face into the pillow to muffle your breathy moan as he reenters you with a slow and deep thrust, his voice even deeper when he answers his beeping commlink. “make it quick,” he orders, somehow still able to keep his voice level and demanding, like he’s not currently fisting your hair to control the slick, heavy movement of your bodies. his fingers squeeze in warning at the intensifying sound of your soft cries, but you feel him fuck into you harder, like he’s testing how good and quiet you can be for him. you don’t even know when he finishes his conversation until he turns you back over and kisses you, murmuring, “good fucking girl…” against your lips.

fox lets out a frustrated groan of irritation and clamps a firm hand down on your mouth. “i’m busy,” he snaps into his commlink, his eyes piercing into yours as you stare up at him, your eyebrows scrunched in a desperate pout, just barely able to silence your noises. his hips snap against yours at a hungrier pace at the helpless look you give him, and he doesn’t break his gaze away from you even while saying, “i’ll be there in a fuckin’ minute.” then the line goes silent, and he slides his hand down to grip your jaw, mildly impressed. “hm, not bad…”

cody fucks you a little slower, just enough to catch his breath. “grab that for me baby, will you?” he groans, his big, beefy biceps braced around your head. you whimper as you reach around for his commlink and hold it to his face. he exhales his next order with a slight grunt, spreading your legs out wider. “need you to be quiet,” he murmurs, “can you do that for me?” you stare up at him and nod. he nods back slowly. “answer it for me—i’ll do the talkin’, just press it…” he commands gently before hardening his whole demeanor in the blink of an eye.

mayday flips your bodies so that you’re on top of him. the change in position makes you gasp, and he pushes up into you with a soft but stern look in his eyes. “keep ridin’ me baby, don’t stop,” he says to you quietly, leaning back to let you use him as he answers his comms, muttering, “i have a feeling you’re about to waste my time.” he keeps his eyes on you, watching how your tits bounce and your back arches while you roll your clit into the head of his cock, grinding down on him in a way that feels so good to you, ‘cause he always puts you first.

rex has been sick and tired of his brothers cockblocking him for laughs, and now someone is interrupting his much needed alone time with you. he doesn’t need to say much to express his despair as he buries his face into the crook of your neck, groaning loudly. “fuck, i should take that,” he mumbles. “mm, then take it,” you moan, wrapping your legs around his waist, which makes him dig his cock into you deeper. “uh-huh, nice try,” he whispers in your ear, turning your bodies over so he can keep fucking you on your side and he can grab his commlink.

fives groans and drops his head to your chest mid-thrust. “tell ‘em i’m not here,” he mutters. you giggle softly. “you want me to answer it?” you reply. he glances up at you and pushes himself into you further, holding your flushed, heavy-lidded stare. your nails dig into his back at his movements. “you think you’re up for it?” he teases in a low voice, slowly resuming the hungry rhythm of his hips. you throw your head back and gasp, “oh, you’re such a—” and he chuckles deeply. “yeah, tell me in a second,” he says right before pressing to answer his comms.

kix is always on-call, it’s like you can never get a moment with him alone in peace. you’re honestly used to it at this point, but he feels bad every time it happens. he pauses inside of you with a heavy exhale and whispers, “sorry, baby, one second…fuck, you look so pretty just like that…” he can’t take his eyes away from you as you lay under his body, your body warm and naked, squirming when he brushes his fingers over your nipples. you arch your back as he plays with them while he answers his comms in a concerned tone. “is everything okay?”

jesse grunts in annoyance and mutters, “great fuckin’ timing” in your ear. he reaches to answer his commlink, slowing down his hips against yours, but he quickly clamps a hand over your waist to stop you from rolling your hips, knowing you’re trying to tease him in this compromising moment. he squeezes his eyes shut and throws his head back, his throat tightening from the way he swallows hard, his tone strained. “no, i’m listening,” he says into his commlink, looking down at you with a look in his eyes that tells you to expect payback—that’s a promise.

hardcase is so unserious sometimes. he’s breathing hard as he answers his comms, startling you when he turns the device over to you, pointing it right under your lips. “it’s for you,” he teases. your eyes widen at him, and you pinch his bicep hard, mouthing, “not funny!” but he thinks it is, chuckling under his breath before he takes control over the conversation again. you glare at him, only bringing out a wider, goofier grin from him as he continues to move his hips against yours, this time more lazily and slow. “uhh, yeah, i’m kinda busy right now…” he says.

gregor sighs against your lips, drawing your bottom lip out with a playful tug before he pulls away to answer his commlink. your legs are spread out wide, taking every inch of him, but your bodies seem to be frozen in time while he stares at you, furrowing his eyebrows a bit. you nearly die watching him fumble for a response. “no—i’m not alone—” he sees you shaking your head furiously so he says, “i mean, yeah, i am…” and he grabs your face with his free hand, holding you still to stop you from distracting him, both of you trying not to laugh.

howzer presses his nose against the side of your face, inhaling deep and slow before he grabs his commlink roughly, like he’s pissed but doesn’t want to show it. he stares at you, his gaze serious. “not a sound, alright?” he tells you as he strokes your cheek, waiting for you to nod before he answers it. he pauses a bit, seeing if you’ll keep your word, and then he starts thrusting into you again, lifting your leg over his shoulder to hit you deeper. you press your hand over your mouth and squeeze your eyes shut, proving to him that he doesn’t have to stop.

emerie kisses the inside of your thigh as she’s going down on you, murmuring, “is that mine? or yours?” you dig your fingers into her hair and moan, “oh, who caresss, fuck ‘em.” she sighs quietly and shakes her head, looking up to see that it’s her commlink. you whine in protest when she answers it, “emerie speaking,” but you fall silent when her dark gaze flicks toward you sternly, reminding you that she can take charge when she wants to. she slips her soft fingers inside of your pussy and gently strokes the inside of your walls, watching you fall apart.

Clones x gn reader: soft/endearing habits

Includes TBB, Rex, Wolffe, Cody, Fox

warnings: none

⟡ ݁₊ . fem!reader x clones ⟡ ݁₊ .

pt 1

“their reactions to when someone is staring at you.”

a/n: saw @tanobatcher’s tiktok where she wrote out her own head cannons and i NEEDED to write them out. thank you for giving me permission to write this out pooks. doing the commanders and captains first!

✶⋆.˚ CODY - CC-2224

It starts while you and Cody are waiting in line at a small café on Coruscant—one of those rare, quiet days where the war feels far away.

You’re reading the menu, rambling about wanting to try the new pastry, and Cody is just… watching you. Soft, relaxed, genuinely happy to be here with you instead of on a battlefield.

Then he sees it.. some guy at a table across the room, openly staring at you.

Not a passing glance.

Not polite curiosity.

A full-on, shameless, hungry stare.

Cody’s smile doesn’t even falter, but he shifts his stance ever so slightly—shoulders squared, chin lifting.

His hand rests casually on the small of your back, thumb brushing with a grounding gesture for himself more than for you.

You don’t notice.

But Cody sees everything.

He leans in, voice low, teasing, warm against your ear,

“Look at you… collecting fans wherever you go.”

You laugh, nudging him.

“Fans? Please. He’s probably staring at the menu behind me.”

Cody snorts, soft but incredulous.

“Oh no, cyare. Trust me.. he’s definitely here for you.”

You roll your eyes, amused, flustered, completely unaware that Cody has already mapped out five different ways to remove this man from the room without disrupting lunch.

“He’s harmless,” you shrug.

“Mm,” Cody hums, smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Inside, his thoughts are a different story.

Stop staring at her. She didn’t invite your attention. Walk away before I make you.

He keeps his expression light, because the last thing he wants is to ruin your good mood over something so small.

You finally decide on chocolate, and Cody orders for both of you—calm, polite, charming.

But while you wait, the staring continues, and Cody feels every muscle in his body coil tighter.

He doesn’t confront.

Not yet.

Instead, he slides closer, arm brushing yours, claiming you without making a scene.

“Careful,” you tease him. “People might think you like me.”

Cody gives you that tiny, sideways smirk that always melts you.

“Oh, they already know,” he murmurs. And I want them to.

When you run to grab napkins, Cody’s eyes flick back to the man.

One single look—sharp, commander-level, utterly lethal.

Stop. Now.

And like magic, the guy’s gaze drops to his drink, shoulders stiffening, suddenly reconsidering every life choice he’s ever made.

Cody exhales slowly, controlled, tension draining from his posture.

Not because he doubted himself, he just didn’t want to escalate and ruin your day.

When you return, completely oblivious to the storm that almost happened, he wraps an arm around your waist, fingers resting comfortably at your hip.

You raise a brow.

“Possessive much?”

He chuckles, brushing a playful but honest kiss to your temple.

“Well, what can I say? My girlfriend’s famous.”

You laugh, leaning into him, and Cody decides, yep, worth it.

He’ll joke, he’ll tease, he’ll keep it light… because your happiness matters more than his pride.

But Maker help the next person who forgets how to respectfully use their eyes.

✶⋆.˚ REX - CT-7567

The 79’s cantina is unusually calm tonight—soft music, dim lights, clones scattered at tables unwinding after long rotations.

You and Rex sit in a booth tucked against the wall, his arm draped behind you, not quite touching, but close enough that you feel protected.

He looks relaxed even though he wore his armor, chestplate reflecting the warm lighting, helmet resting beside him on the seat.

He’s smiling because you just said something that made him forget there’s a war outside.

And then he sees it.

Across the room, a man—civilian, slouched at the bar—eyes locked on you.

Not accidental, not passing curiosity.

Lingering. Bold. Disrespectful.

Rex’s smile fades, jaw tightening just a fraction. He forces himself to breathe slowly through his nose.

Benefit of the doubt, he tells himself. Maybe he’s looking past her. Maybe he’s not actually staring.

You’re too busy talking, unaware, glowing in the low lighting, and all Rex wants is to stay in this tenderness a little longer.

But then the stranger’s gaze drops—slowly, lingering, crawling—and returns to your face with a smirk.

Rex’s patience snaps like a blaster bolt through glass.

His arm moves from behind you to rest firmly on the table—protective, grounding—as he turns his head just enough to confirm what he already knows.

Yeah. The guy’s staring at you.

Controlled yet furious, Rex exhales through his teeth. Maker, keep me from decking this man in front of her.

He really does try to stay seated.

To ignore it.

To be the reasonable, composed captain you deserve.

He lasts maybe a second.

Then he stands, his plastoid armor shifting with the movement. Smooth, silent, terrifyingly calm, and he starts walking.

“Rex?” you ask softly, confused.

He doesn’t answer, because he already knows what needs to be done.

He reaches the bar and stops right beside the man, close enough that the air shifts, close enough that the entire room quiets.

Rex doesn’t yell.

He doesn’t have to.

He leans in slightly, voice dangerously even.

“You wanna tell me what you’re lookin’ at?”

The man startles, eyes wide. “I—I wasn’t—”

Rex lets out a humorless and sharp laugh.

“Oh, you were. And now you’re gonna stop.”

The stranger opens his mouth, maybe to deny it, maybe to be stupid, but Rex raises a brow, and the words die in his throat.

Rex’s posture is relaxed, hands loose at his sides, but every fiber of him radiates do not test me.

The man swallows hard. “S-sorry.”

Rex nods, like this was a polite conversation about the weather.

“That’s what I thought.”

He steps back—not breaking eye contact—until he’s sure the guy gets the message.

Then Rex turns, face softening instantly when he sees you watching him.

He returns to the booth, sliding in beside you again, armor knocking lightly against the seat.

You give him a look mix of concern and affection.

“You okay?” you whisper.

Rex shrugs, arm returning behind you, this time brushing your shoulder deliberately.

“Fine. Just didn’t like how he was looking at you.”

You smirk. “Jealous?”

He scoffs, but his ears turn the faintest shade of pink.

“Protective,” he corrects, voice quieter. “There’s a difference.”

You lean into him.

“Well… thank you.”

Rex pressed a kiss to your forehead. It was gentle and grounding, everything he wishes the galaxy was.

“I’ll always look out for you, cyare. Always.”

Across the room, the man suddenly finds the floor very interesting.

And Rex?

He goes right back to smiling, because as far as he’s concerned, problem handled.

✶⋆.˚ WOLFFE - CC-3636

It’s supposed to be a peaceful night—just you, Wolffe, and a quiet stroll through a small Coruscant marketplace after his shift.

Shops are closing, lights dimming, crowds thinning.

Wolffe stays beside you, hand instinctively hovering near the small of your back. Not quite touching, but always there if you need him.

He’s in full armor, helmet tucked under his arm, hair slightly mussed from hours of command.

He looks tired, but content.

You’re pointing out a vendor selling tiny holo figurines when Wolffe feels it—the weight of someone’s stare.

Sharp. Intentional. Unwelcome.

His expression doesn’t change, but something in him goes perfectly still.

Without a word, his gauntleted hand finds your waist and gently guides you forward, placing you directly in front of him.

Your back meets his chest, solid and warm, as his legs widen just slightly, bracketing yours.

A wall of armor and possessive silence.

You blink up at him. “Wolffe?”

He doesn’t look at you—he’s too busy tracking the man across the walkway, gaze narrowed to a sniper’s focus.

“Nothin’ to worry about,” he mutters, voice low, controlled.

But his arm stays firm around your middle, pulling you closer, tucking you securely into his side like you belong there.. because you do.

The guy keeps staring—pretending he’s not, but failing miserably.

Wolffe’s jaw flexes once. Twice.

He won’t cause a scene… not unless he has to.

You go back to browsing, unaware of the storm brewing behind you.

Wolffe rests his chin lightly atop your head, positioning himself so his body blocks the man’s line of sight completely.

Then the stranger decides to walk past you both—slowly, deliberately—eyes still lingering.

Wolffe doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t warn.

Doesn’t negotiate.

He just moves.

As the man passes, Wolffe straightens, shifts his stance, and shoulder checks him HARD.

Hard enough to send the guy stumbling, nearly losing his footing, making a few heads turn.

“Oh. Sorry,” Wolffe says flatly, tone so insincere it’s practically a threat.

The man looks up, ready to start something, until he sees who hit him.

The armor.

The scar.

The unblinking grey-striped commander staring him down like prey.

Wolffe tilts his head. Just a fraction as he silently challenges him.

The guy swallows, quickly averts his eyes, and keeps walking fast.

Wolffe watches him disappear into the crowd, making sure he’s gone.

Only then does he soften, hand returning to your waist, pulling you gently back against him.

“You good?” he asks quietly.

You turn, confused but smiling, completely oblivious. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

Wolffe exhales through his nose, relief slipping into something warm, almost fond.

“No reason,” he lies, thumb rubbing absent circles into your hip.

You loop your arm around his middle, leaning into him.

“You’re in a cuddly mood today.”

He huffs. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation.”

You laugh and start walking again, and Wolffe follows—close, attentive, protective—eyes still scanning the area, just in case.

Because if anyone else even thinks about staring?

They’re getting shoulder checked too.

✶⋆.˚ FOX - CC-1010

Coruscant nightlife always felt a bit too loud, too bright, too chaotic, but you liked it.

And Fox liked you, so here he was, escorting you to a late dinner during his shift, armor still on, helmet on, posture relaxed for once.

You’re talking about your day, your voice was soft yet excited, and Fox can’t stop staring at you.

Not in the way others do.

His gaze is reverent. Protective. Home.

Then he notices it.

A man at the bar—leaned back in his stool, drink forgotten—eyes glued to you.

Tracking every movement. Undressing you with his stare.

Fox’s pleasant mood dissolves instantly, replaced with a cold, razor-sharp alertness.

You don’t notice since you’re too busy looking through the dessert menu.

Fox does, though. He always does.

He leans slightly toward you, voice calm but edged with steel,

“Stay here a moment, mesh’la.”

You blink. “Everything okay?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he says with a reassuring smile. “Just handling a little… administrative matter.”

You don’t even have time to ask before he’s already striding across the room—purposeful, predatory, commander mode activated.

The man doesn’t look up until Fox’s shadow falls over him.

Fox crosses his arms—biceps straining against plastoid, posture perfect and terrifying.

“Enjoying the view?” he asks pleasantly.

The guy stutters. “Wh-what?”

Fox smiles dangerously under his helmet. “I said, were you enjoying staring at the woman I’m with?”

The man’s mouth opens and closes like a dying fish.

“I-I wasn’t staring—”

Fox taps the Coruscant Guard emblem on his shoulder plate.

“Right. Because if you were, that would qualify as harassment. Which, fortunately for you, falls under my jurisdiction.”

The man pales, looking around for help. There is none.

Fox leans closer, lowering his voice so only the man can hear.

“Here’s how this goes. You’re going to stop looking at her, finish your drink, and leave. Or I will drag you out of here in binders, and you won’t see daylight again without clearance codes.”

He pauses, letting it sink in.

“Do we understand each other?”

The man nods so aggressively Fox worries he’ll sprain something.

“Good,” Fox says, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

When Fox turns away, the man grabs his coat and practically sprints out of the building.

Fox returns to your table like nothing happened, sliding into his seat, expression calm, voice soft again.

“Sorry about that. What did you decide on?”

You narrow your eyes.

“What did you do?”

Fox shrugs innocently.

“Public safety is my responsibility.”

You give him a look. “…Fox.”

He sighs, reaching for your hand.

“Alright, alright. Maybe I reminded him I outrank literally everyone in this district.”

You snort. “You love pulling the rank card.”

Fox smirks, kiss-creases forming at the corners of his eyes.

“Why have power if you can’t weaponize it in defense of your beautiful partner?”

You laugh, shaking your head, until your datapad pings.

You glance at the screen.

“Um… Fox? Did you just add him to a watchlist?”

Fox removes his helmet as he pops a bite of bread into his mouth, casual as ever.

“Of course. Can’t be too careful.”

“Fox—”

“What? Saves time later.”

You stare at him in disbelief, and maybe a little awe.

He softens, thumb brushing your knuckles.

“I’m never letting someone make you feel unsafe. Not on my planet.”

You melt, because honestly? You believe him.

And somewhere in a database, a brand-new entry reads:

Subject: Creepy bar guy.

Status: Watched, monitored, and extremely unlucky.

✶⋆.˚ GREGOR - CC-5576-39

The hideout was busy today—more civilians than usual had come to drop off supplies: food, medical stock, blankets, spare tools.

You were helping organize it—clipboard in hand, sorting crates, directing where things needed to go.

Gregor was supposed to be helping too.

He was not.

He was leaning against a stack of ration boxes, helmet on the floor beside him, arms crossed, watching you with that familiar lazy grin—like you were the most entertaining thing he’d ever seen.

Then he noticed it.

One of the civilian volunteers—a young guy carrying a crate—kept staring at you.

Not quick glances.

Not accidental looks.

Full-on, wide-eyed, wow who is she staring.

Gregor didn’t tense.

Didn’t get jealous.

Didn’t even frown.

He just let out a quiet, amused little laugh.

You looked over, brows furrowing. “What?”

He tilted his head toward the civilian, smirking.

“You’ve got an admirer.”

You blinked, confused, until you caught the guy doing that lingering stare again.

Your face warmed instantly.

“Oh Maker,” you muttered, pretending to check your clipboard. “He’s being obvious.”

Gregor shrugged like it was the most natural thing in the galaxy.

“Well, of course he’s staring. Look at you.” He waved a hand at you dramatically. “Anyone with functioning eyesight would.”

You swatted his arm lightly. “Be serious.”

He leaned in, voice rich with playful innocence.

“I am being serious. You’re hot. It’s practically a public hazard.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Gregor cut you off—eyes sparkling, grin widening.

“Honestly?” he mused, nodding toward the guy, “Maybe you should give him a chance. Poor kid looks like he’s about to faint.”

Your jaw dropped. “Gregor!”

He held both hands up like he was being reasonable.

“What? I’m just saying, good for him. Look at his taste! Impeccable!”

You stared at him, scandalized and flustered.

He leaned closer, dropping his voice into something softer, warmer—meant only for you.

“But…” his fingers brushed yours, just barely, “you’re already taken.”

Your heartbeat stuttered.

His grin shifted—still playful, but undeniably possessive—like he enjoyed reminding you as much as saying it.

Across the hideout, the staring civilian suddenly found something else to carry—quickly, awkwardly, and in the opposite direction.

Gregor chuckled, satisfied, bumping your shoulder with his.

“See? No need to scare him off. Just had to remind the room who you belong to.”

You squinted at him. “You are insufferable.”

He winked, picking up a crate like he finally intended to help.

“Yeah, but I’m your problem.”

And as he walked past you, he added—just loud enough for you to hear.

“Lucky you.”

✶⋆.˚ HOWZER - CT-7569

The two of you are standing in line at a small open-air café on Ryloth—warm lights, soft night breeze, quiet chatter filling the streets.

Howzer’s shift ended an hour ago, but he’s still in his armor—minus the helmet—arms crossed loosely over his chest, hair slightly tousled, expression relaxed.

He’s listening to you talk about your day, nodding along, eyes warm and focused, because when you speak, he always listens.

You’re mid-sentence when he notices someone a few tables over staring.

Not a curious glance.

Not a passing look.

A lingering, territorial stare.

Howzer’s smile fades just a touch, shoulders straightening.

He doesn’t interrupt you—he never would—but his attention shifts, eyes narrowing slightly.

He watches for a moment, giving the benefit of the doubt.

Maybe the guy will look away. Maybe he’ll realize he’s being weird.

He doesn’t.

In fact, he stares harder—eyes dragging over you slowly, disrespectfully.

Howzer’s jaw ticks.

He tries to breathe through it, tries to stay calm because he hates conflict, hates making a scene, hates the idea of ruining your evening.

But he also refuses to let anyone treat you like that.

So he steps forward—smooth, controlled, radiating authority—and positions himself slightly in front of you, blocking the man’s view.

You pause. “Howzer?”

He offers you a gentle smile. “One sec, mesh’la.”

Then he turns and walks toward the man with a calm, steady, and purposeful stride.

The guy looks up, startled, clearly not expecting a cloned captain built like a wall to approach him.

Howzer stops right beside his table, tilts his head slightly, voice polite, but sharpened with steel.

“Can I help you…?”

Not friendly.

Not genuine.

A warning wrapped in manners.

The man blinks. “What? No— I wasn’t—”

Howzer raises a brow, unimpressed.

“Oh, really? Because you’ve been starin’ for a while. Thought maybe you needed something.”

The tone is condescending and just enough to make the point without escalating.

The entire patio goes quiet, all eyes suddenly on the interaction.

The guy flushes, shrinking into himself.

“N-no, sir. Sorry.”

Howzer holds his gaze for a moment—long enough to make sure it sinks in—then gives a curt nod.

“Good. Then keep your eyes to yourself.”

His voice is calm, quiet, but devastatingly firm.

He doesn’t wait for a response, he just turns on his heel and walks back to you.

You’re staring at him, wide-eyed.

“Everything… okay?” you ask slowly.

Howzer’s expression softens immediately as he reaches you, placing a gentle hand on the small of your back—guiding you forward in line again.

“Yeah,” he says, voice warm now, almost playful. “Just helped someone remember their manners.”

You snort. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He leans down, lips brushing your temple.

“I know. But I’ll never let someone disrespect you, not while I’m around.”

Your heart flips, cheeks warming.

You loop your arm through his, and he pulls you a little closer—protective, but tender.

Behind you, the man hurriedly pays and leaves, head down.

Howzer watches him go for half a second—satisfied—then returns his full attention to you like nothing ever happened.

“Now,” he says, smiling gently, “you were telling me about the part with the flowers?”

And just like that, your night continues—safe, comfortable, yours.

✶⋆.˚ MAYDAY - CC-????

The outpost is quiet for once—snow drifting lazily outside, heater humming, you and Mayday sharing a rare moment of peace at his cluttered desk.

He’s half in armor—pauldrons off, chestplate unbuckled, gloves tossed aside—hair slightly messy, scruff framing that devastating smirk.

He looks tired, but lighter with you there, shoulder brushing yours as you flip through supply logs together.

Then he notices it.

Some visiting lower rank officer across the room—pretending to review paperwork—eyes glued to you.

Not subtle.

Not respectful.

Just staring like you’re a warm fireplace in the middle of a frozen wasteland.

Mayday doesn’t tense, doesn’t posture, he just… laughs.

A low, amused, is this guy serious? kind of laugh.

You glance up. “What?”

Mayday tilts his head toward the man, voice dripping with smug amusement.

“You’ve got an admirer.”

You roll your eyes, dismissing it. “He’s just looking around.”

Mayday arches a brow, no he isn’t, and leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest like he’s settling in for entertainment.

But his gaze stays soft on you—never threatening, never demanding—just quietly claiming.

Then the staring continues.

Longer.

Harder.

Bolder.

Mayday exhales through his nose—still amused, still dangerous.

He shifts forward, elbows on his knees, leaning in close enough that his breath brushes your ear, voice low and wicked.

“Wanna give him a show?”

You freeze, pulse tripping. “Mayday—”

He chuckles again, hand sliding to your thigh—not squeezing, just resting there like it belongs.

His eyes never leave yours.

“I’m just saying,” he murmurs, tone playful but possessive, “a kiss would send a very clear message.”

You turn slightly, meeting his gaze—dark, confident, inviting.

“And what message is that?” you ask, breath softer than intended.

His smirk deepens—dangerously slow, smug, sure.

“That you’re mine.”

Not up for debate. Not a question.

A fact.

Before you can respond, he gently cups your jaw—thumb sweeping across your cheek, touch both reverent and territorial—leans in, and kisses you.

Unhurried and certain. Completely unapologetic.

The kind of kiss that says I’ve waited for this and I dare you to look away.

You melt into him, fingers gripping the edge of his pauldron, and he smiles against your lips because yeah—he knew you would.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t glance at the staring officer.

He doesn’t need to.

Instead, he keeps his forehead resting against yours, voice soft but laced with smug satisfaction.

“Still looking?”

You peek over his shoulder.

The man is suddenly very invested in a blank datapad.

Mayday laughs—low, satisfied—and presses one more kiss to your temple, thumb brushing your chin.

“Thought so.”

Then he sits back, arm draped over the back of your chair, posture relaxed, claiming you without touching.

“Now,” he says casually, “where were we?”

Like he didn’t just ruin someone’s self-esteem and mark you as his in one breathtaking move.

star wars masterlist

give him all the smooches

—

Rex/Bats 💙

AO3: More Than Empty Servitude

Getting Broody After Seeing You With a Baby

Includes; Wolffe, Cody, Rex, Fives, Fox, Bacara, Hunter & Howzer

Warnings: mentions of pregnancy, some mature comments

Wolffe

The baby is laughing. Full-body giggles, little hands grabbing at your fingers while you talk in that soft voice you only use around things you love.

And maker, Wolffe is staring.

He tries not to. He really does. But there’s something about the way you look down at the baby, patient, warm, and completely gentle, that hooks into his chest and pulls.

The kid spits up on your sleeve and you just laugh, wiping their chin with the edge of your shirt while murmuring, “Oh, you’re lucky you’re cute.”

Warnings: Suggestive but that's about it. A/N: So...I know these aren't requests butttt I just am a greedy person who loves to treat myself so what can I say? Requests are still coming, I'm just stumped on a few so please bear with me.

Hunter

Hunter can sense your body heat before you even wrap your arms around him, and he chuckles lightly as you squeeze him tightly, breasts pressing into his back. "What are you up to?" He asks, jolting as your hands slip past the hem of his shirt, wandering along his stomach and sliding up towards his chest teasingly. He can feel the vibrations of your laughter in the expanse of his shoulder, and he's about to turn around when you abruptly pull away, patting him lightly on the ass and leaving the scene as quickly as you came.

Wrecker

Your arms just barely wrap around Wreckers waist, and he giggles softly as you squeeze him tightly from behind. He pats your hands, curiously raising a brow as he looks at you over his shoulder. "Its cute when you do that, baby...but what exactly are you doing?" You answer him by slipping your fingers in his waistband, fingers brushing against the soft hairs of his happy trail as you playfully tease him just right above where he's most sensitive. He grunts before grabbing your hands and twirling you around, pulling you into his chest as he settles his hands against your ass and squeezes tightly.

Tech

Tech leans back in his pilot seat as your arms wrap around his shoulders, soft lips pressing into his cheek in what is a sweet and completely innocent manner. He types a few notes on his data pad from the last mission, barely noticing the way your hands rub his shoulders before drifting lower towards his chest. Its only when your palms encompass his chest, softly squeezing and groping the flesh there, that he finally sets his data pad on his knee and turns to look at you. "Are you...massaging my pectoralis major?" "Man boobs, Tech." "Uh, no. That is incorrect."

Crosshair

Its nothing new to Crosshair when he feels your hands slide up and down the sides of his waist, before curling around his front and settling on his stomach. He's wiping down his rifle, breathing in sync with yours as you press your chest up against his backside, nose nuzzling into the curve of his spine needily. His lips quirk up, thinking he has you beat as your continue your desperate ministrations for his attention, until he feels a sharp nip through his blacks and he yelps, almost dropping his rifle. "What the fuck--did you just bite me?" He whips around, but you detach yourself from him quickly, darting down the Marauder as the echoes of your laughter follow.

Echo

“Just a Teeny Prick, Sweetheart”

Bad Batch x Reader

Hunter was tired.

Exhausted, really. The kind of tired that seeps into the marrow of your bones, the kind that sleep doesn’t fix anymore. He was holding his squad together with sheer willpower, dwindling rations, and stim packs, and Tech had said something the other day that actually stuck:

“Statistically, it would be more efficient to outsource a trained medic. We are ill-equipped for sustained self-triage.”

That, paired with Wrecker nearly bleeding out after a skirmish on Corellia because someone (Echo) had “accidentally” used the wrong bacta dilution, finally pushed Hunter to agree.

You came highly recommended.

And you were… different.

⸻

The first time they saw you in action, you were crouched over Wrecker’s arm, cooing at him like he was a scared child.

“I know it stings, baby. Just a teeny prick, okay? You’re doing so good, honey.”

Wrecker—literal tank of a man, bruiser of nightmares—was blushing.

Like, full-body, ears-pink, avoiding-eye-contact blushing.

Hunter stood behind you blinking slowly. Tech actually stopped typing. Echo raised an eyebrow. Crosshair made a noise in his throat that might have been a suppressed laugh.

You, of course, were oblivious to the storm you’d just kicked off.

“All done!” you announced brightly, patting Wrecker’s arm as you bandaged it up. “You were so brave, sweetheart. Go on, get yourself a treat.”

Wrecker beamed. Like a puppy who’d been told he was a good boy.

And from that moment on, everything changed.

⸻

Hunter didn’t mean to stare. He really didn’t.

But he started noticing things.

The way your voice softened when you worked on him—“Deep breath, baby. In and out, just like that—good boy.”—and he’d nearly dropped dead right there. The way your hands lingered just a second too long when you pressed a bacta patch to his ribs. How your touch didn’t hurt even when it should.

He’d caught himself looking at you more than once while you cleaned your kit or tucked your hair behind your ear. You hummed while organizing supplies. You smelled like sterile wipes and something sweet. You called him “darlin’” once and he had to physically leave the room.

He started volunteering for med checks even when he was fine. “Just making sure I’m cleared for the next mission.”

You smiled every time. “Of course, sweet boy.”

Hunter was not okay.

⸻

Tech was confused at first. Your bedside manner was… statistically illogical. Surely grown men didn’t need to be called “sugar” or “darlin’” to survive triage.

And yet—

“You did amazing, sweetheart,” you said once, after removing a shard from his thigh. “So still, such a good patient.”

He’d never flushed so fast. His datapad nearly slipped from his fingers. The next day, he updated your medical database for efficiency—and also uploaded a music playlist that made you beam and say “Oh! This is perfect, thank you sugar.”

He recalibrated your scanner after that.

And your med droid.

And the lighting in the medbay.

And then started inventing reasons to come back. “Mild tinnitus,” “possible corneal abrasion,” “a faint ache in my ankle.” All documented. All excuses.

He was fine.

He was not fine.

⸻

Echo didn’t trust you at first. Too soft-spoken. Too sweet.

But then he watched you work during a firefight—calm under pressure, patching him mid-cover behind crates while blaster fire flew overhead.

You were gentle, but you didn’t flinch. Not once.

“You’re okay, baby. I’ve got you. Just keep pressure there, that’s it.”

He looked at you sideways, something twisting in his chest.

Later, after the fight, you came to check his stitches. “You really held it together,” you said with a warm smile. “Tough cookie.”

He snorted. “I’ve been called worse.”

You tilted your head. “Well, I call you Echo. And you’re one of my favorites.”

He didn’t know what to say. He just nodded and looked away.

And when you touched his metal arm without flinching—even thanked him for holding his own gauze—he felt… seen.

He was used to being patched up. But not to being cared for.

Now he sits just a little closer to you at meals. Offers you the first ration bar. He pretends not to notice when you call him “honey” again.

But he does.

⸻

Crosshair didn’t say anything for a long time.

He watched you. A lot. Silently. Unnervingly.

He noticed how your hands didn’t shake, how your tone stayed steady. You never flinched from his scars. You never forced him to speak.

One day, you caught him cleaning his rifle with a nasty cut on his hand.

“Cross,” you said gently, crouching beside him. “That’s gonna get infected, baby. C’mere.”

He raised a brow. “You call all your patients baby?”

You smirked. “Only the stubborn ones.”

He let you clean it. Didn’t complain once. Not even when you blew gently on the wound before bandaging it. His ears turned red, though.

“You’re good at this,” he said quietly.

You winked. “Don’t tell the others. They’ll want special treatment.”

He definitely did not steal one of your gloves to keep in his kit later.

Definitely not.

⸻

Wrecker had it bad.

From the second you cooed at him and called him “sweet boy,” he was gone.

He came to you for everything. Paper cuts. Headaches. “Funny feelings in his tummy” that were totally not butterflies. He’d pretend to limp just to get you to touch his shoulder.

And you? You were so nice about it.

“Oh, baby, you poor thing. Let me kiss it better.”

You didn’t actually kiss it. But he thought about asking. Just once.

He made you a little plushie out of spare parts and gave it to you with a bashful grin. “It’s you! Well, kinda. I made it ‘cause you always take care of us.”

You squealed. Hugged it to your chest. “This is the cutest thing anyone’s ever made me!”

Wrecker nearly passed out.

⸻

Eventually…

You start to notice.

How they hover just a little too long. How they all suddenly have “injuries” every time you do inventory. How they flinch slightly—but in a good way—when you call them sweetheart.

One night, you say it out loud at dinner.

“You boys sure do get hurt a lot. Almost like you’re doing it on purpose.”

They all freeze.

Then Echo coughs. Tech pushes up his goggles. Wrecker drops a fork. Crosshair mutters, “Told you it was obvious.” And Hunter—poor Hunter—rubs the back of his neck and avoids your eyes.

You lean forward, resting your chin in your hand with a smile.

“It’s okay,” you say sweetly. “I don’t mind being the team’s favorite. As long as I get paid in compliments.”

Wrecker nearly yells, “YOU’RE SO PRETTY.”

Tech immediately corrects, “Statistically, she has extremely symmetrical features.”

Crosshair sighs. “Maker, you’re all pathetic.”

Hunter just looks at you, dead serious. “You keep us together. You matter.”

You blink. A little stunned.

Then you grin. “Guess I better stock up on bacta patches, huh?”