#howzer x reader

“What?” You try for wounded dignity. It probably looks more like a tooka that’s just been caught with its head stuck in a box. “I’m trying to make conversation. In a… a place of social gathering. This is what people do, right? They talk?”

“Yeah, but they don’t usually ask the guy they’ve been working with for two years if he comes to the one decent cantina in town often,” he points out, but there’s no real heat in it. Just that familiar, lazy amusement you’ve come to rely on. He gestures with his bottle toward the room at large. “Besides, you know the answer to that. You’ve been here with us before.”

“Right.” You smooth a non-existent wrinkle in your skirt. Your fingers feel clumsy. “Just trying to get back in the swing of things.”

“The swing of things,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the words. He sets the bottle down with a solid thud on the sticky tabletop. The condensation leaves a perfect, dark ring. “Is that what this is? Getting back in the swing of things?”

“It’s a drink, Howzer,” you say, finally meeting his gaze. “In a cantina. I’m… re-entering polite society.”

That makes him chuckle, deep and rumbling. “Polite society’s a few parsecs west of here, I think. This is more like… slightly-less-impolite society.”

“Baby steps,” you mutter, and take a sip of your own drink. It’s some local fruit wine, deceptively sweet and potent. It curls through your veins like a friendly warning. You’re already halfway to tipsy, a few sips in, and you wonder how long it’s been since you’ve done anything like this.

You glance up at Howzer again and wonder why you invited him. Or why he accepted. Or if he’ll make you go back home before you’re done with this wine.

The answer to all of the above, of course, is that you’re a moron. You’re a moron who’s been staring at the back of Howzer’s shoulders during PT, listening to his laugh over comms when you’re all out in the field, thinking about how he looks when he’s asleep in the back of the transport, the way he’d looked at you that night by the bonfire…

Howzer leans forward, forearms resting on the sticky tabletop, and you swallow hard. The way he’s looking at you now. It’s a lot.

The cantina is noisy, a dull roar of conversation and clanking glassware and the tinny, distant thrum of a jukebox that’s probably older than both of you combined. But it feels quiet, all the same. Just you and Howzer in a dimly lit corner, knees knocking under the tiny table.

You’ve been stationed on Ryloth for the better part of the year now, and the planet has a way of getting under your skin, into your bones. It’s all dust and heat and vast, empty skies that go purple at dusk. But there’s a hardness here, a resilience you respect. And the people… well. They’re survivors. Howzer fits right in. Always has. He seems to take to every planet, every culture, like he was born to it. Like he’s been at home everywhere, all his life. He doesn’t seem like a man who can be cowed.

It’s part of what makes you want him so much.

You slowly mimic his posture, bracing your elbows on the table and feeling a little spark of triumph when the movement doesn’t feel too awkward. His eyes flick down, just for a second, to the bit of skin showing at your neckline. A quick, almost unconscious glance. You feel the triumph bloom into something warmer, brighter.

“Alright then, smartass,” you say, keeping your voice low to match the sudden thrum that’s started up under your own skin. “Your turn. Make conversation. Impress me.”

He grins, and it’s a real grin this time, not just a quirk of his lips. It crinkles the corners of his dark eyes, makes him look younger. More approachable. Less like the stoic, by-the-book Clone Captain you first met two years ago and more like the man who’s come to be a good friend.

“Challenge accepted,” he says. He leans in a little closer. You match him. If anyone were to pass by your booth, they’d probably think you were discussing something serious. Top secret intel. Coordinating a battle plan. But the cantina is nearly deserted this late in the evening, and the few other patrons are either well on their way to drunken oblivion or too busy trying to keep their nuna skewers from falling to the dusty floor to pay much attention to the two Republic soldiers huddled in the corner.

The jukebox clicks, skips, starts playing a slow, lilting melody. The voice that emerges is sweet, a little smoky. A Twi’lek woman, crooning an old ballad in her native tongue. The words are unfamiliar, but the meaning is clear. Your heart beats a little faster.

Howzer is silent for a moment, eyes searching yours. It’s hard to read his expression. There’s a guardedness there, a tension. He’s a soldier, after all. He’s used to keeping his cards close to his chest. But he’s been different with you, lately. Softer. More open. And you find yourself wondering, not for the first time, what it would be like to press your lips to that little furrow of tension that’s formed between his brows.

Finally, he clears his throat. “So… What’s a beautiful girl like you doing in a shithole like this?”

You can’t help it. You burst out laughing before you can catch yourself, nearly spilling your wine in your lap in the process. It’s such a ridiculous line. You can’t believe he actually said it.

Howzer is looking at you like he’s just won some kind of prize. Like he knows he’s got you now. And, oh, he does. He really does. Because you’ve been on the receiving end of his stupid jokes before, but never like this. Never with that look in his eyes.

He’s got you, and he knows it.

“Oh, come on,” you say through stifled laughter. “I said impress me, not make me laugh. That was terrible.”

“It was not!” he protests with a grin. “I thought it was quite smooth, actually.”

“Sure you did.” You roll your eyes and take a sip of your drink. “I bet all the girls fall for that one.”

He snorts at that and leans back in the booth, settling his broad shoulders comfortably against the vinyl. “Please. I don’t need cheesy pickup lines to woo the ladies.”

“And how’s that working out for you?” you quip.

His answering smirk is positively feral.

You’re not sure how you got here. One minute you were sharing a quiet drink in the mess hall, toasting another successful mission. The next you were following him to this little hole-in-the-wall cantina, the kind of place where no one looks twice at a couple of Republic soldiers. The kind of place where no one asks questions. Where no one cares.

You’re not sure when it happened, exactly. When you went from being just another soldier, just another member of his team, to… whatever you are to him now. But it happened. Somewhere between the endless training drills, the late-night planning sessions, the shared cups of caffa, the stolen moments of quiet.

And now here you are, sitting in a dimly lit cantina, with the music of a thousand forgotten lovesongs hanging in the air between you.

“Come on,” you tease. “I bet you can do better than that.”

“Alright, alright. Let me try again,” he says. He takes a long swig of his beer and sets it down with a decisive thunk. His gaze dips again, lingering this time, and when it comes back to yours, the amusement has been banked into something else. Something that makes the hairs on your arms stand up. “You look beautiful tonight, you know that?”

Your breath hitches. It’s such a simple, stupid thing to say. And it’s not something you’d normally go for. But coming from him… it’s different. The way he says it—like he’s noting a fundamental truth of the universe, like he’s just now fully realizing it and the realization is staggering—makes it something more.

You have to swallow before you can answer. “Oh. Thanks.” Your brain short-circuits. “You also… you clean up good.” 

It’s not a lie. He’s just wearing the standard issue black t-shirt and cargos, but they might as well be tailored for the way they fit him across the shoulders, the lean strength of him. The sides of his head are freshly shaven, the dark curls on top neat for once. He looks less like a soldier and more like a man. Just a man, sitting across from you in a dingy cantina, with broad shoulders and kind eyes and a stare that feels like it’s stripping you down to the bone.

“Yeah?” He sounds pleased. Pleased and a little smug. You can practically see him preening under the praise.

“Yeah,” you confirm, your voice a little steadier now. You take a sip of your cocktail, the condensation slick against your palm. “Almost didn’t recognize you without the bucket on your head.”

Howzer laughs, and it crinkles around the corners of his eyes. “Funny. Almost didn’t recognize you with… all of that.” 

He gestures vaguely with one hand, encompassing your dress, your hair, the whole ridiculous effort. It had been a sudden, desperate idea. A way to force the issue. A way to see if he would ever look at you and see you.

He is looking at you now. He really, truly is.

“I can go change,” you offer, the tease coming out a little breathier than you intended. “Throw on some combat boots and a grease-stained jumpsuit. Make you feel more at home.”

“Don’t you dare.” 

The words are immediate, firm. A command. The humor vanishes from his face, replaced by that intense, focused look again. His tongue darts out, wetting his lower lip. Your own lips tingle in sympathy. 

“You stay right where you are,” he says, softer this time. “Just like that.”

And in the noisy, crowded, sticky-floored cantina, with the bad music and the worse lighting, everything goes quiet. The world narrows down to the two of you, to the force of his gaze and the frantic, hopeful beat of your own heart. He sees you. He’s finally seeing you. And the look on his face tells you that he likes, very much, what he sees. 

Howzer reaches across the table, his movements slow and deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away. You don’t. You couldn’t move if a thermal detonator went off in the corner. His fingers, calloused and warm, brush against your wrist. Your hand lifts, and you allow him to turn it over, to trace the lines of your palm with the calloused pad of his thumb. The touch is light, tentative, but it sends a jolt through you that’s more potent than any jolt of electricity from a malfunctioning droid. 

“So,” he starts again, his voice a low rumble that you feel more than hear. “Not a drill.”

The corner of your mouth kicks up. “Definitely not a drill.”

“Good.” His thumb strokes your palm once more, a slow, deliberate circle that feels like a brand. “Because I was starting to run out of excuses to talk to you.”

A bright, startled laugh escapes you. You cover your face with your free hand, overwhelmed, suddenly, by it all. By you, and him, and the endless dance of the last few months, finally, finally culminating in this. This warm, calloused thumb stroking your skin in the sticky vinyl booth of a Ryloth cantina.

“Stars above, Howzer,” you breathe, your voice muffled. “You too?”

His grin through your fingers is a thing of beauty. “Me too. For ages.”

You drop your hand. He’s still holding the other one, his thumb still resting in the center of your palm. He lifts it to his lips, presses a soft, warm kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner wrist. It’s a chaste, almost old-fashioned gesture, but it’s the most intimate thing anyone has ever done to you.

Your entire body goes hot. You feel it from the tips of your toes to the roots of your hair. He watches you, his eyes dark, as he lowers your hand back to the table, but doesn’t let go.

“If I knew all it took was a dress,” you murmur, a bit dazed. “I would’ve worn one months ago.”

Howzer’s answering chuckle is low and warm, and it vibrates through you, settling somewhere deep in your gut. “Well, if it helps, you look damn good in a mechanic’s jumpsuit, too.”

“Flatterer,” you reply with a huff, but you’re smiling, and you can’t bring yourself to stop. You feel bright, and bubbly, and dangerous. Like you could take on the whole CIS with nothing but this feeling humming under your skin. “You’re not so bad yourself, you know.”

“Mmm.” He squeezes your hand, and you squeeze back. The small, simple contact feels more real, more solid, than anything else in this war. “So… what now?”

The noise of the cantina slowly bleeds back in. The jukebox clicks, whirring to life with a new, equally terrible song. A group of locals at the bar starts arguing loudly about the outcome of some podracing bet. Someone drops a glass, and it shatters with a sound like a strike of lightning. Life goes on, loud and messy and exactly as it was five minutes ago. But for you, sitting in a sticky vinyl booth with a warm, calloused hand tangled in yours, the world has tilted on its axis.

This is it. This is the precipice. All the little glances, the near-touches, the easy banter that always hovered on the edge of something more—it’s all been leading to this. You could thank him for the drink, pull your hand back, and go back to the comfortable, aching familiarity of your roles. 

Or, you could…

“Walk me home, Captain?” The words are out before you can think better of them, but you don’t regret them. Not for a second. The title is a deliberate choice, a little bit of a challenge. A reminder that you’re still both soldiers, that this isn't just some fleeting cantina flirtation.

His grip tightens on your hand. “It’s Howzer.”

“Alright,” you concede, a little breathlessly. “Walk me home, Howzer?”

You watch him process it. Watch the muscles in his jaw work as he weighs the implications, the risks. He’s a soldier, and he’s always thinking three steps ahead. But the way he looks at you, like he’s starving and you’re the only meal he’s seen in a decade… it’s a fight he’s already lost.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. “Yeah, I can do that.”

He doesn’t let go of your hand as he slides out of the booth, and you follow, your movements feeling both clumsy and impossibly fluid. You’re pulled onto your feet and into his orbit, and you don’t fight it. You don’t want to. He throws a few credits down on the table—more than enough for the two drinks—without looking, a careless, imprecise gesture that’s so unlike the Howzer you know on the field. It makes something in your chest loosen, just a little. He’s as off-balance as you are. He’s feeling it too.

The walk back to the small, prefab barracks they’d assigned you is short. Too short. You find yourself slowing your steps, trying to stretch out the moments. The night air on Ryloth is cool and smells of dust and blooming ghost flowers, a gentle breeze ruffling the hem of your skirt. The sun has long since set, but the sky isn’t black; it’s a deep, bruised purple, streaked with the silver light of the moons. The few street lights that work cast long, distorted shadows that dance and writhe like living things.

You’re walking shoulder-to-shoulder, your hands swinging in a tentative rhythm, pulling and pushing with every step. It’s a ridiculous, juvenile game, and you love it. You’ve never felt more… like yourself. Not the soldier, not the mechanic, not the Republic asset. Just… you.

The silence between you is comfortable. Filled with all the things you don’t need to say. He lets go of your hand only to wrap an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer. You respond without thinking, tucking yourself into his side, your head resting against the solid warmth of him.

And then you’re there. Your building looms out of the darkness ahead, a two-story rectangle of permacrete and reinforced plasteel, all sharp edges and hard angles. A functional box for functional soldiers. You’re one of a handful of natborn officers housed there, a small island of individuality in a sea of identical barracks, and the privacy is a luxury you’ve come to cherish. Even though now, it feels like a very loaded question.

You stop at the base of the steps that lead up to your second-floor unit, and the gravel crunches under your impractical heels as you turn to face him. You have to tilt your head back to look up at him.

The streetlight is a weak, buzzing thing that casts long, distorted shadows. It illuminates one side of his face, carving the hard lines of his jaw, the proud bridge of his nose, the jagged scar that spans across his cheek. The other side is lost in shadow, a mystery. His eyes, though, are bright. Alert. Fixed on you.

“So,” you start, your voice sounding a little too loud in the sudden stillness. “This is me.”

His gaze flicks from your face to the building and back again. He doesn’t let go of your hand. “Looks… sturdy.”

A small laugh escapes you. “It’s not much. But it’s got a roof. And a working shower. And…no roommates. Which is a definite plus.”

You say the last part without meaning to, a slip of the tongue fueled by wine and hope. But the words hang in the air between you, heavy with implication. His eyes darken, and he takes a half-step closer, crowding you, eliminating any pretense of personal space. The gravel shifts under his boots.

“No roommates,” he repeats, and it’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact. A confirmation. He shifts his grip on your hand, intertwining your fingers together. His thumb finds the pulse point in your wrist, stroking it in a slow, deliberate rhythm. “Good to know.”

You look up at him, and the last of your careful control, your practiced composure, just… dissolves. This is Howzer. Your Howzer. The man who’s had your back in a dozen firefights, who’s patched you up when you’ve been stupid, who’s listened to you rant about supply requisitions and faulty droids at 0300 in the mess. He’s here. He’s right here. And he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the entire galaxy. You can't just say goodnight and walk away. You can’t.

“Do you want…” you begin, your voice barely a whisper. “Would you like to… come in?”

The invitation is clumsy. Awkward. The most straightforward thing you’ve ever said to him. The words feel enormous, irrevocable. You hold your breath, waiting.

For a moment, he just looks at you. The silence stretches, taut and thin, pulled to its breaking point. You can hear the distant hum of a speeder bike, the chirp of some nocturnal creature in the nearby desert. Then, a slow smile spreads across his face, transforming it from something hard and stoic into something unbearably warm and real.

“I’d like that,” he says, his voice a low, intimate rumble that seems to vibrate through the very marrow of your bones.

The relief that washes through you is so potent it almost brings you to your knees. You turn and lead the way up the metal stairs, making the final steps between the public world of the barracks and your private haven. You can feel him right behind you, a solid, warm presence. The hem of your skirt brushes against the fabric of his cargos with every step.

When you reach your door, Howzer's hand lands on your waist, and he turns you, crowding you gently against it. His other braces on the wall beside your head. You're trapped. You've never felt safer in your life. 

“What changed?” he asks, his voice a low murmur against your temple. “Tonight?”

His breath smells of cheap beer. Your hands, which had been dangling uselessly at your sides, come up to rest on the hard plane of his chest, right over his heart. You can feel the steady, solid beat of it through the thin cotton of his shirt.

“I got tired of waiting,” you admit, your gaze fixed on the worn collar of his shirt. Your fingers trace the frayed edge of the fabric. “I got tired of pretending I didn’t notice the way you look at me. Or the way I look at you. I figured… someone had to do something.”

He cups your cheek, tilting your head up until you have no choice but to meet his gaze. His thumb strokes the curve of your jaw, teasing the edge of your lower lip, and you instinctively part your lips for him.

“I’ve been looking at you for a long time, cyar’ika,” he says, the Mando’a endearment falling from his lips with an easy familiarity that makes your toes curl. “I just wasn’t sure if you were looking back.”

“Oh,” you breathe, the word barely a puff of air. “I was looking. I promise you, I was looking.”

Howzer huffs a shaky laugh and presses his forehead to yours. It’s a simple, grounding gesture, but it feels more intimate than anything you’ve ever done before. You close your eyes, savoring the contact, the warmth of him, the smell of him.

“I know,” he says, a world of relief in those two simple words. “I know now.”

He closes the remaining distance between you, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s surprisingly gentle. A soft, tentative press of lips that is as much about seeking permission as it is about expressing desire. He’s still holding back, still giving you an out. You answer by tightening your hold on his shirt and pulling him down, deepening the kiss. You feel him smile against your mouth, and then he’s kissing you for real. 

One of his hands slides into your hair, angling your head just so, while the other presses against the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. You kiss him back with everything you have, winding your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft curls at the back of his head. You part your lips, and he follows suit, his tongue slipping into your mouth to tease and explore. The kiss is both chaste and filthy, a clash of tongues and teeth that leaves you breathless, dizzy, aching for more.

He kisses you like he’s been starving for it, like he’s been dying to taste you for as long as you’ve been dying to taste him.  There’s no hesitation, no awkward fumbling. Just the firm, sure pressure of his mouth against yours, the confident slide of his tongue, the way his hands grip your hips like he has every right to be there. Like you belong in his arms.

And you do. You do.

When your fingers tighten in his hair, he makes a low, desperate noise in the back of his throat that sends a fresh wave of heat through you. You bite back a groan of your own, your body arching into his, seeking the solid warmth of him. He responds by tightening his hold, his fingers digging into the fabric of your dress, his mouth moving against yours in a fierce, possessive rhythm. It’s the most perfect, exhilarating, terrifying thing you’ve ever experienced.

When he finally pulls away, you’re both panting, and his pupils are blown wide, his lips kiss-bitten and slick. His hands are still on your hips, and you can feel the way his fingers twitch, like he can’t decide if he wants to pull you closer or put some distance between you. But when he looks at you, it’s not with regret. It’s with a fierce, hungry kind of determination.

“Inside,” he says, his voice ragged. “Can we go inside? I need to—” His hips shift, and you feel the firm press of him against the soft flesh of your stomach for the first time. Your breath hitches. “I need to do that again. Properly.”

You don’t hesitate. Your fingers shake, but you manage to key in the code before you’re stumbling into the dim, cramped space beyond. You don’t bother turning on the lights, or doing anything else for that matter. You’re too busy kissing him again, your mouths slotting together like puzzle pieces, his tongue slick and hot and insistent against yours. He kicks the door closed behind him and presses you up against it, his hands finding your hips again, holding you in place as he rocks against you.

You wrap a leg around his waist, opening yourself to him, and his groan is raw and guttural and so, so satisfying. He rolls his hips again, slower this time, grinding against the place where you’re already hot and aching for him. You gasp into the kiss, and he swallows the sound greedily, his teeth nipping at your lower lip. When you try to pull away, to catch your breath, he follows, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, your neck, the sensitive skin of your collarbone. His mouth is relentless, demanding, and you arch into his touch, your fingers tangling in his curls, holding him close. He kisses you like he’s claiming you, branding you as his own, and you can’t get enough. You never want it to stop.

“Kriff,” he growls, his lips trailing down to the neckline of your dress, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re perfect. You’re fucking perfect.”

You don’t feel perfect. You feel dizzy. Overheated. Desperate to touch and be touched. Your skin feels too tight, and you can’t stop the small, needy noises that escape your lips as he hikes you higher against the door and rocks against you again, his cock a hard, insistent pressure against the place that needs him most. It’s too much and not nearly enough, but it’s the closest thing you’ve felt to relief all night.

“Howzer…” 

You try to say more, to demand more, but it’s hard to form words when he’s kissing you like this. With the same single-minded determination that you’ve seen him apply to his work, to the battlefield. He’s kissing you like he’s been thinking about it for a long time, like he has plans for you, and you can’t wait to find out what they are.

But not here. Not up against your front door, still in your heels.

You break the kiss, and this time, he lets you pull away. He’s breathing hard, his chest heaving against yours, his pupils blown so wide you can barely see the brown of his eyes. 

"Bed?” you manage, the word coming out in a high, thready whine. You’ve never heard that tone in your voice before, but it seems to work on him. His cock jumps against you in response.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Where? Please tell me it’s close.”

You nod, too dazed to laugh at the sheer, unadulterated want in his voice. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s—” You gesture vaguely behind him. “That way. It’s—”

He doesn’t give you time to finish. He just shifts his grip, cupping your ass and squeezing hard, and then he’s lifting you, pulling you away from the door and into his arms. Your arms wrap around his neck, holding on tight as he carries you through the darkness. He bumps into a chair, curses, fumbles for the lightswitch, curses again when he knocks something off a table, and it crashes to the ground.

You don’t bother to check the damage. You can’t. You’re too busy kissing him, your mouths still locked together in a desperate, messy tangle. You nip at his lower lip, and the noise he makes is a low, primal thing that sends a fresh jolt of heat straight to your core.

“Careful,” he huffs against your lips, but he’s laughing. “I’d rather not crack my skull open before we get to the good part.”

“Can’t have that,” you murmur between kisses. “What would I do with the body?”

That earns you a real, full-throated laugh, and then you’re falling, the mattress rising to meet you as he drops you onto the bed. You bounce once, twice, before he’s on you, caging you in with his arms, his knees bracketing your thighs. The cheap, prefab mattress groans under his weight, but you barely register it. All you can think about is the solid, heavy press of him against you, the sheer, overwhelming reality of him.

He’s still laughing as he looks down at you. His hair is a mess, the dark curls sticking up at odd angles. His pupils are still blown wide, and there’s a faint flush to his cheeks. He looks disheveled. Wild. Unhinged in the best way. And the way he’s looking at you…

It’s a lot.

You reach up to brush a stray curl out of his eyes, and he turns his head to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the center of your palm. His lips linger there, his eyes closing for a long moment as he inhales, taking in the scent of your skin. When he looks down at you again, his eyes are dark with hunger.

“Hey,” you whisper.

“Hi.” He grins, his teeth a flash of white in the dimness. “We made it.”

“We did.” You trail your hand down to the nape of his neck. “Took us long enough.”

“Yeah.” He ducks down to nuzzle at your throat. “Took us long enough.”

He doesn’t kiss you again, not right away. He just explores, his nose nudging at your skin, his lips ghosting over the line of your jaw, the sensitive skin of your throat, the hollow of your collarbone. He’s taking his time, memorizing the landscape of you. It’s both incredibly sweet and incredibly frustrating.

“Howzer…”

He hums against your skin in response. “Patience, cyar’ika.” He shifts, his hands finding your hips again. “I’m getting to it.”

He slides one hand up your side, the calloused pads of his fingers tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your breast. He’s not rushing. He’s savoring. You, on the other hand, are about to combust. You squirm under his touch, arching into him, silently demanding more.

When he finally cups your breast, the cheap fabric of your dress does little to dull the heat of his touch. His thumb finds your nipple, and he circles it once, twice, before pinching, just hard enough to make you gasp. He does it again, and this time, you can’t stop the low, breathy moan that escapes you.

“There it is,” he murmurs, the words warm against your skin. “Like that, don’t you?”

You nod, a frantic, jerky motion. You can’t form words. You can’t think. All you can do is feel.

“Good.”

He shifts again, this time moving to sit up. You follow, rising up on your elbows as you watch him, your breath catching in your throat. He kneels there on your bed, looking down at you, his hands resting on his own thighs. He’s so solid. So real. Like something out of a dream you didn't know you were having.

He reaches down, takes one of your feet in his lap, and starts to work on the strap of your heel. His fingers are long and deft, and they make short work of the flimsy buckle. The shoe falls away, and he repeats the process on the other side, setting both shoes on the floor beside the bed with a reverence that feels disproportionate, and yet, entirely right. You feel a sudden pang of affection for this man, this soldier, who is taking the time to remove your shoes with the same care he would take disassembling a blaster rifle.

When he’s done, he runs his hands up your calves, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin behind your knees. You shiver, and you see a flash of a smile. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you. And he’s enjoying it. The bastard.

“Now, then,” he says, his hands continuing their journey up your thighs, pushing the hem of your dress with them. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

He pushes the fabric up, over your hips, baring your legs to the dim light of the room. You’d worn your good underwear, the lacy black set you usually saved for special occasions that never seemed to happen. You’re glad, now, that you’d made the effort. From the way he’s looking at you, he’s glad, too.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his hands sliding higher, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties. “Just...fuck.”

You open your mouth to say something, but the words die in your throat as he leans down, his lips brushing against the inside of your thigh. He nips at the skin there, just hard enough to sting, before soothing the spot with a hot, open-mouthed kiss. He does it again, a little higher this time, and then again, until he’s leaving a trail of bites and kisses up your thigh, his mouth getting closer and closer to the place that’s already hot and aching for him. You’re practically vibrating under him, your hands fisting in the sheets.

When he finally, finally reaches your cunt, you think you might actually sob. His tongue drags a broad, hot stripe over the lace of your underwear, and the noise you make is low and guttural and utterly inhuman.

“Kriffing stars above,” you manage. “Howzer—”

He hums against you, his hands sliding under your thighs to wrap around your hips, holding you in place as he teases you through the fabric. You’re already so wet that it’s a useless barrier, and you know he can tell. He’s not being subtle about the way he’s inhaling, breathing you in, tasting you through the soaked fabric. He lingers over your clit, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bundle of nerves in a slow, lazy circle that has your hips bucking up against his face.

“Easy, cyar’ika,” he says, his breath hot against your skin. He glances up at you, his gaze dark and hungry. “Let me savor this.”

He presses a kiss to the front of your panties before finally, finally hooking a finger under the fabric and pulling it aside. Your cunt is wet and glistening, and he makes a low, appreciative noise as he runs a finger through the slick, spreading it over your lips, your clit, your entrance.

“Beautiful.”

The first drag of his tongue against your bare flesh is enough to have your back arching off the bed, your hands fisting in the sheets. He takes his time, exploring every inch of your cunt, his tongue dipping inside before dragging up to your clit, where he swirls slow, tight circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves.

Your head falls back, your eyes closing, your mouth falling open in a silent cry. You’ve been eaten out before, sure. But never like this. Never with the kind of single-minded focus and determination that Howzer is bringing to the task. It’s like he’s studying you, cataloguing every sigh and moan, every twitch of your hips, every clench of your fists in the sheets. He’s learning you.

He’s still fully dressed, and the fabric of his shirt is rough against the backs of your thighs as he pulls you closer, throwing your legs over his shoulders and wrapping his arms around your waist to get a better angle. You’re completely at his mercy, and you’ve never felt so safe.

One of his hands moves down to press against your lower belly, pinning you in place as he starts to really work your clit. The other slides lower, his fingers tracing your entrance in slow, deliberate circles. When he finally presses one inside, you nearly come off the bed.

“Kriff, you’re tight.”

There’s a note of awe in his voice, and it sends a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. You can feel yourself clenching around him, the way your body is already aching to keep him inside.

“Been a while,” you gasp as he starts to move his finger in and out, curling it up to hit that spot that makes your toes curl. “Not since— oh, fuck— not since before Ryloth.”

“Really?” He sounds genuinely surprised. His lips brush against your clit as he speaks, sending little jolts of pleasure through you.

“Mm-hmm.” 

It’s all you can manage. You’re too busy focusing on the way he’s working your clit, the steady slide of his finger inside you, the way your entire body is already starting to tense up, to coil tight like a spring.

He adds a second finger, and your hand flies to his head, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding him close. You can feel his smile against your skin as he starts to fuck you in earnest, his fingers pumping in and out of your slick heat as he works your clit, alternating between slow, lazy circles and fast, hard flicks that have you gasping. Your hips buck up against his face, and he follows your rhythm, letting you grind against his mouth, letting you use him.

That’s what it is, you realize with a jolt. You’re using him. You’re taking your pleasure from him. And he’s letting you. He’s encouraging it.

You lose all sense of time. All sense of space. The world shrinks down to the feeling of his mouth, his fingers, the solid weight of him pinning you to the bed, the desperate, needy sounds you’re making. You can hear the soft grunts he makes when you pull his hair, the little hums of pleasure he lets out when you grind against his face. He’s enjoying this. He’s enjoying you. And that knowledge is almost as powerful as the pleasure he’s giving you.

“I’m—” you gasp, your heels digging into his back, your thighs starting to shake. “Kriff, Howzer, I’m—”

He doesn’t let you finish. He just doubles down, sucking your clit into his mouth and swirling his tongue over it in a hard, fast rhythm that sends you over the edge. A high-pitched keen tears from your throat, and you come, your cunt clenching around his fingers as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you, so intense it’s almost painful.

He doesn’t stop. He works you through it, drawing out your orgasm until you’re a writhing, whimpering mess beneath him, until you’re begging him to stop, your hands pushing weakly at his head.

“Howzer, please,” you breathe, throwing your head back against the pillow as his tongue slides from your dripping entrance back to your overly sensitive clit. “Please, I can’t—”

He lifts his head, and his face is slick with you, a look of pure, unadulterated triumph in his eyes. He’s grinning, a wide, feral grin that makes your cunt ache all over again. Your soaked underwear is still pushed to the side, and he runs his fingers over your puffy outer lips, spreading your slick over the flushed, tender skin.

“One more,” he says, his voice a low, commanding growl that sends a fresh jolt of heat straight to your core.

“What?” you gasp.

“One more.” The hand on your belly presses down, a clear, unmistakable order. “Stay still for me. Let me make you come again.”

You’re helpless to do anything but obey. Your body is a live wire, every nerve ending firing at once. You’re so sensitive that even the gentle brush of his breath against your cunt is enough to make you twitch.

He’s methodical now, a conqueror mapping out the territory he’s just claimed. He licks you clean, his tongue dragging through your folds, gathering your slick before delving inside, fucking you with it in slow, shallow thrusts. The two fingers he had inside you return, but he doesn’t fuck you with them this time. He just holds them there, a solid, grounding presence, as he mouths at your clit, his tongue soft and wet and impossibly gentle. 

 It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s a slow, deliberate kind of torture that has your toes curling, your hands fisting in the sheets again, your head thrashing back and forth against the pillow. You’re caught in a state of suspended animation, hovering on the knife’s edge of another orgasm, so close you can taste it, but unable to fall. Not until he lets you.

He’s watching you, you realize. Through it all, through the relentless press of his mouth, the insistent curl of his fingers inside you, he’s watching. Those dark, intense eyes are locked on your face, studying you, learning you. Cataloguing every twitch, every moan, every plea.

You try to beg again, to plead with him to let you come, but the words won’t come. All you can do is lie there and take it, your body coiled tight, your breath coming in short, ragged pants. You can feel the sweat trickling down the back of your neck, the ache in your thighs from where they’ve been pressed against his ears for so long. You can feel everything. Every single nerve ending in your body is alive and singing.

When he finally, finally lets you come, it’s like a bomb going off. Your vision goes white, your back arching off the bed, your hands flying to his head, holding him in place as you ride his face through it, grinding your cunt against his mouth, your hips moving in a frantic, desperate rhythm. You think you scream, but you can’t be sure. All you can hear is the rush of blood in your ears, the thundering of your heart.

He lets you come back down this time with a gentleness that belies his earlier intensity. His fingers slide out of you, and he kisses your clit once, twice, before laving his tongue through your folds one last time, cleaning you up. He kisses the insides of your thighs, your hips, your belly. The warm press of his lips continues up and up along with the hem of your dress, and you’re pliant in his hands as he sits back and pulls it over your head, tossing it aside.

There’s a pause as he looks at you, laid bare and still panting. You can see him, too. You can see his chest heaving, his lips swollen and slick, his eyes dark and hungry. You can see the clear evidence of his arousal pressing against the front of his fatigues. You can see him.

You reach for him, and he comes to you, his lips meeting yours in a soft, sweet kiss that’s a far cry from the desperation of before. His mouth still tastes of you, but you don’t care. You kiss him back with everything you have, your hands sliding into his hair, holding him close. He’s solid and warm against you, a comforting weight.

“Kriff, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his nose bumping against yours, his breath hot on your skin. “That was… you were… fuck, I don’t have the words.”

“You’re telling me,” you say with a breathless laugh that has him grinning. “That was… that was…” You shake your head. “Yeah, I don’t have the words either.”

He huffs a soft laugh against your mouth as his hand slides up your spine, and you take the hint, arching your back so he can undo the clasp of your bra and toss it away. Your soaked underwear is quick to follow, leaving you entirely naked under his appreciative gaze.

“You’re perfect,” he says, his voice a low rumble that you feel in your bones. “Just… perfect.”

Your hands slide to his shoulders, tracing the muscles of his back over his shirt. It feels unfair, suddenly, that he’s still dressed. That he’s seen you entirely and you’ve only gotten glimpses. You want to know him, too.

You tug at his shirt. “Off.”

He smirks, but he doesn’t object. He sits back on his heels and pulls his shirt over his head, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, the hard planes of his stomach. There’s a dusting of dark hair across his pecs, a trail of it leading down to the waistband of his fatigues. He’s not the most chiseled man you’ve ever seen, but he’s solid, muscular in a way that speaks to functionality rather than aesthetics.

You reach out and run your hand over the hard-packed muscle of his stomach, and the skin jumps under your touch. You trace the lines of his abs, the ridges of his hips, the little valley where his thigh meets his groin. You can feel the tension in him, the way he’s holding himself back, letting you explore.

When your fingers brush against the button of his pants, he inhales sharply, his eyes fluttering shut. You work the button open and slide the zipper down before slipping your hand inside. You can feel him through his underwear, hard and hot and straining against the fabric. When you cup him, his hips jerk, and he lets out a low, choked-off groan.

“Howzer,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“Mm?”

“Are you clean?”

His eyes snap open, and he looks at you for a long moment before nodding. “Yeah. Medics run regular tests on all the troops.”

“Implant,” you say, a non-sequitur, but he gets the point.

He exhales slowly, his hands coming up to cover yours. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” You nod, looking down to where his cock is tenting the front of his underwear. “Yeah, I’m sure. I want to feel you.”

He doesn’t need any further encouragement. He kicks off his pants and briefs, his cock springing free and slapping against his belly, leaving a trail of wetness. It’s big, bigger than you expected. The head is flushed a deep, angry red, the shaft thick and veiny, the tip already dripping with precum.

He gives himself a slow stroke, biting his lip as he does it, his eyes never leaving your face. You watch as he gathers a bead of moisture from the head and spreads it over the shaft, the skin glistening in the dim light.

“Like what you see?” he asks, a note of teasing in his voice.

You nod, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

He moves back up to kneel between your spread legs, his cock bobbing heavy and thick between his thighs. He runs his hands up the insides of your thighs, spreading them even wider, and a cool draft of air whispers across your cunt. You’re so wet that you’re dripping, the sheets under you damp and sticky with it. He notices, too. He trails a finger through the mess and raises it to your mouth. You don’t hesitate. You suck his finger into your mouth, tasting yourself on his skin. His breath hitches, and you can see his cock jump, a fresh bead of moisture welling at the tip.

He slides his hand down your stomach to settle on your belly again, a silent request. Stay still. Let me do the work.

You nod.

He lines himself up, the thick head of his cock nudging at your entrance. You can feel him there, hot and heavy and so, so ready. But he doesn’t rush. He doesn’t force himself inside. Instead, he rubs the head of his cock up and down your slit, gathering your wetness on the tip before dipping inside just a fraction.

He does this again and again, teasing you with the head of his cock, getting it nice and slick. It’s maddening. You’re so wet that every motion makes a filthy, lewd sound, and the air is heavy with the scent of sex. You’re aching for him, your cunt clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled. You want to beg, to plead, but the words won’t come. All you can do is lie there and let him have you, let him take his time, let him work you up again. You feel like you’re going to burst.

When he finally, finally pushes inside, you’re so ready for him that you take it all in one long, smooth slide. The stretch of him, the weight of him, the sheer, overwhelming fullness of him inside you is almost too much. You can feel him in your throat, in your teeth, in the tips of your fingers. You can feel him everywhere.

You cry out, your eyes screwing shut, your hands fisting in the sheets. He grunts, his hips jerking forward in a quick, reflexive thrust that has his balls pressing against your ass.

“Kriffing stars above,” he breathes, and you can hear the strain in his voice, the effort it’s taking him to hold himself back. “You feel— you’re so— fuck.”

You open your eyes to look at him, and the sight is almost enough to make you come right then and there. His eyes are squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration, his mouth hanging open. He looks lost in it, lost in you. You reach up to cup his face in your hands, and his eyes flutter open. He looks at you, and there’s so much in his gaze that you can’t even begin to unpack it.

“Hey,” you say, your voice shaky. “You good?”

He huffs a breathless laugh, his hands flexing where they grip your hips. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

“Good.” You tilt your hips up, just a little, and he groans. “Because I really, really need you to move.”

He doesn’t need any further encouragement. He pulls out until just the head of his cock is inside you, and then he slides back in, his hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm that has you seeing stars. He’s so deep inside you that you can feel him in your throat, and every time he bottoms out, the impact sends a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. You’re so full, so impossibly full, that you can barely breathe. You can’t think. You can only feel.

It doesn’t take him long to find a rhythm that works for both of you. It’s a slow, deep grind, his hips circling as he pulls out before snapping forward to bury himself inside you again. Every thrust hits a spot inside you that has your eyes rolling back in your head, and every time he bottoms out, the impact of his hips against yours is a bright, sharp burst of pleasure that makes you gasp. 

You’re so wet that every thrust is a slick, messy glide that makes the most obscene sounds. You’re dripping, the sheets beneath you soaked with it. And still, he doesn’t stop. Still, he doesn’t rush.

He’s fucking you like he’s got all the time in the world, like he’s content to spend the rest of his days right here, buried inside you, making you feel good. And you, for your part, are more than happy to let him. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your heels digging into the small of his back. Your hands slide up and down the slick, sweat-sheened muscles of his back as your body rocks with the force of his thrusts. You cling to him, an anchor in a storm of sensation.

This is what you wanted. This is what you’ve been craving. Not just the pleasure, though that’s a part of it. It’s the connection. The feeling of being known, of being seen. The feeling of being wanted, of being desired. The feeling of being cherished. That’s what you see in his eyes, in the way he touches you, in the way he’s holding himself back, even now.

It’s overwhelming. It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

You arch your back, pressing your chest against his, and Howzer’s hips stutter, a soft groan escaping his lips. He ducks his head, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his mouth hot and wet on your skin. His hands slide down to grip your ass, lifting you off the bed and changing the angle of his thrusts, and you nearly sob when the head of his cock hits a spot inside you that has sparks dancing at the edge of your vision.

“Kriff, there,” you gasp, your nails digging into his back. “There. Right there. Please. Harder.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He snaps his hips forward, pounding into you with enough force to shake the bed, to knock the wind out of you. His hands grip your ass tight enough to bruise, and you know you’ll have his fingerprints on you tomorrow, a tangible reminder of this night. The thought is enough to make you clench around him, and he groans, his teeth scraping against your skin.

“You close?” he asks, his voice rough, strained.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m—” You swallow hard, struggling to find the words. “I’m close.”

“Good.” He nuzzles against your neck, planting hot, open-mouthed kisses on your skin. “Want to feel you come. Want to feel you come on my cock.”

“Keep talking like that, and you will.”

He huffs a breathless laugh, his hips losing their rhythm, his thrusts becoming more erratic. “You like that? You like it when I talk to you like that?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, your nails raking down his back. “Yeah, I do.”

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper, a secret shared between the two of you. “Can’t believe I’m here, with you like this. Can’t believe you— fuck, you feel so good. You’re so beautiful.”

You can’t respond. You can’t do anything but hold on as he pounds into you, the headboard slamming into the wall. He’s babbling now, a litany of praises and filthy promises falling from his lips, but you can barely hear him over the rush of blood in your ears. Your entire world narrows down to the heat building in your core, the weight of him inside you, the slide of his cock.

When you finally, finally fall over the edge, it’s with a high-pitched keen that you can’t contain. Your body arches up off the bed, pressing against him, clenching around his cock in a desperate attempt to keep him inside. You feel your legs kick out uselessly, your toes curling so hard it almost hurts. Howzer grabs for them and pushes your legs back, bending you almost in half, and your eyes roll back in your head as he fucks you through your orgasm with short, hard thrusts that have you sobbing.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Just like that. Just like that.”

When it passes, you slump back against the bed, boneless, your vision blurry, your body still twitching and spasming around his cock. His pace slows, but he doesn’t stop, not until the overstimulation becomes too much and you push at his shoulders.

He pulls out, and the sudden emptiness has you gasping, your hands flying to your stomach. You feel hollow, aching, your cunt still fluttering weakly around nothing. You can hear the slick sound of him stroking his cock, the wet slap of his hand, and you look up to see him kneeling between your thighs once again, his fist flying over his cock.

“I’m close,” he says, his voice tight, his face twisted in a pained grimace. “Where do you want it? Where—”

You don’t even think about it. You pull your knees up to your chest, exposing your dripping cunt. “Here. On me. Please.”

He grunts, and his hand moves even faster. You can see the muscles of his abdomen tense, the veins in his neck stand out. He’s right on the edge, and you can’t look away. You can’t stop watching.

When he finally, finally tips over the edge, he does it with a guttural moan that has heat pooling low in your belly. His cock jerks in his hand, a thick spurt of cum painting a line across your cunt. He strokes himself through it, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as he wrings every last drop from his cock. It lands on you, hot and thick, coating your cunt, your stomach, your chest.

You’ve never felt so claimed.

It takes a minute for him to come down from his high. His chest is heaving, his skin shiny with sweat, his eyes glazed. When he finally opens them again, he looks down at you, at the mess he’s made of you, and his breath hitches.

“Kriff,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“Yeah,” you agree, your own voice sounding faraway and dreamy.

He leans down and presses a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. Then to your forehead, your cheek, your nose. It’s a gentle, unhurried exploration, a quiet apology and a promise all in one. You respond in kind, your hands sliding up and down the slick, sweat-sheened muscles of his back as you kiss him back, your mouth soft and pliant under his.

When he finally pulls away, it’s with a sigh. He pushes himself up and off the bed, and gives you a long, slow look. His gaze is heavy, possessive, and it sends a fresh jolt of heat straight to your core.

“Don’t move,” he says, his voice still rough.

You watch him walk into the ‘fresher, his muscular back and firm ass on display, and you can’t help the surge of affection that wells up inside you. You can’t believe that this is your life. You can’t believe that this is real.

He comes back with a towel, and you spread your legs to give him better access. He’s gentle as he cleans you up, his touch firm but careful, and you can’t help but be reminded of the way he handled your feet earlier. He’s thorough, too, making sure to wipe away every last trace of him from your body. When he’s finished, he tosses the towel in the general direction of the ‘fresher and climbs back into bed with you.

You shift onto your side, and he spoons up behind you, his arm wrapping around your waist. You can feel his chest hair tickling your back, the soft swell of his belly, the hard line of his cock nestled between your ass cheeks. It’s a solid, comforting weight, and you sigh happily as you relax into him.

He presses a kiss to the back of your neck, and you hum, your eyes closing. “This okay?” he asks quietly.

“More than okay.”

“Good.” He yawns, his breath warm on your skin, and nuzzles into your neck. “I don’t know if you had plans for the rest of the evening, but I was kinda hoping I could spend the night.”

You snort. “You think you’re leaving after that? I’m keeping you. Forever.”

He chuckles, a low, sleepy sound, and tightens his hold on you. “Yeah? Forever’s a long time. You think you can handle me?”

“I handled you tonight, didn’t I?”

“You did,” he agrees. “You did. And it was… it was everything.”

You reach down and lace your fingers with his where they rest on your stomach. “Yeah. It was.”

“You should know,” he says, his voice already thick with sleep, “that I have no intentions of letting this be a one-time thing. I plan on taking you to dinner tomorrow night, too. Properly, this time. No cheap cantina wine for you.”

“Are you asking me on a date, Howzer?”

“Mm-hmm.” His lips press to the crook of your neck. “So? What do you say?”

“I say,” you say, grinning into the darkness, “I’d like that. A lot.”

“Good.” He yawns again, and this time, he’s out. His breathing evens out, deep and steady, and you can feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest against your back.

You lie there for a long time, just listening to him breathe. You can feel the drying stickiness of sweat and sex on your skin, the ache in your muscles, the tender throb between your legs. It’s a pleasant ache, a reminder of the pleasure you just experienced.

You think about the last few months, about the slow, gradual shift in your relationship with Howzer. The lingering glances, the casual touches, the easy banter that always hovered on the edge of something more. You think about all the wasted opportunities, all the moments you could have said something, did something, but didn’t.

You don’t regret it, though. You don’t think you could have handled this sooner. You had to be ready. You had to be sure. And you are. You’ve never been more sure of anything in your life. You close your eyes, and for the first time in a long, long while, you’re not afraid. You’re not worried about the future, about the war, about what comes next. You’re just… happy.

You fall asleep with a smile on your face, wrapped in his arms.

FOX's fingers twitches against his datapad and a huff of breath escapes through his lips. “you don’t want to paint me, your paintings are… beautiful.” he thinks he doesn’t deserve to be painted on your worthiness canvas, but you tell him otherwise—you’d be honoured to be able to paint every inch of him. “fine, just ignore my scars, though, yeah?” obviously you don’t, they’re part of him.

WOLFFE raises an eyebrow and snorts softly, he stares at you for a while until he realises you’re serious. “me? you want to paint… me?” he replies slightly shocked, you just smile and nod, there was nothing about it, you wanted to paint your partner. “huh… go for it, then, I guess.”

CODY chuckled and tilted his head with a smile. “is that a proposition for something else?” he sees you frown and was about to over-explain until he shook his head. “kiddin’, just don’t want you to waste your materials over me.” you sigh and roll your eyes, it’s not wasting anything and you drag him with you anyway.

BLY stops what he’s doing and turns his attention to you immediately. he smiles softly and gave a nod. “i’d love to, that’s… if you don’t mind.” you tell him you wouldn’t have offered if you didn’t mind anyway. he feels a little nervous about it, but he doesn’t say anything.

MAYDAY lets out a small amused noise. “oh wow, I was not expecting that.” he knows you don’t mean it in a sexual way, but still, his mind did go into that direction. he clears his throat and nods. “knock yourself out.”

REX was in the middle of drinking caf, after hearing those words, he had to stop abruptly to not spit it out. he slowly turned his head and looked around, making sure you were speaking to him. “wait, me?” because who else would you be talking to. “oh, uh—yeah, sure.” he feels flustered, because he’s seen your art and he’s going to be part of that.

GREGOR snaps his head around and grins, he walks runs pathetically towards you and practically beams. “need me to pose or anythin’? cause I’m ready as ever!” safe to say he is very enthusiastic to start, which makes you both excited but concerned.

HOWZER hums, “of course.” not quite comprehending what you just asked him. until he double thinks and looks at you. “wait, naked? right now?” you nod and wait for an answer. “uh, yeah, right—yeah, sure.” he definitely doesn’t stumble over his words or anything.

HUNTER blinks at your question, staying silent for a couple seconds and then a small smile appears on his face. “well, your work is good, so I know you’ll do me justice.” he is actually quite excited on the inside.

WRECKER lets out a sudden loud laugh, hid behind nervousness. "ya wanna paint me?" he knows he says he loves to be part of anything you do, but, he knows he's very fidgety. you assure him you don't mind as long as he's comfortable. "can't promise I'll stay still, but I'll try!" all in all, he's definitely more excited than anything.

TECH slowly lifts his head up and puts the data pad in his lap. he is silent for a while, he doesn't quite know what to say. you tell him he can be clothed if he wants to, it's just for anatomy practice, you don't want to make him uncomfortable. "I see... if it's just for anatomy practice purposes, I can spare some time." it’s new to him and he knows he’s stepping out of his comfort zone, but he doesn’t mind for you.

CROSSHAIR scoffs and folds his arms over his chest. “you want me to let you paint me?” he chews on the toothpick and watches the slight disappointment in your eyes. he sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “I suppose I’ll allow it this once, get on with it.”

ECHO swallows deeply and glances down at his legs. “ah… I don’t think I’d be very uh… paintable.” he whispers, immediately you frown and tell him to stop being so hard on himself and you’d love to. but he does smile at the passion in your voice. “alright, I’ll try to keep still.”

FIVES snaps his head around and the widest smirk on his smile appears ever. he’s already unclasping the top half of his armour off and manspreads on the nearest crate. “well, then I’m all yours.” this may or may not be turning him on, and you can tell.

JESSE grins and raises an eyebrow. “naked, eh? sure that’s not an excuse just to see me without my armour on?” he holds his hands up in mock surrender as you complain to him. “hey, I’m kiddin’! I’d love for you to paint me… naked n’ all.”

HARDCASE is already getting into a pose as soon as you ask the question. “yes!” you blink and ask if he actually heard you. “you asked if you could paint me naked n’ I’m saying yes, do it.”

KIX takes his gloves off and turns around as you sit yourself down on one of the chairs. “as much as I’d love you too, I might be needed.” you say he can go at anytime, it’s just for practice. “ah, well then. lead the way.” he was internally slapping himself for having his mind elsewhere.

DOGMA gapes for about ten seconds, he opens his mouth to speak but couldn’t for a while. you ask if he’s okay, he clears his throat and nods. “sorry, just… surprised. uhm, you sure you don’t want to ask any of the others? I wouldn’t mind for this occasion.” you sigh and explain you want to paint him and him only. “okay… yeah, alright, just… don’t be disappointed.” you chastise him for even thinking that way.

TUP lets out a nervous giggle and rubs his nape. “me? do you have the time? i know how long this sort of thing takes and it’s gonna be about me.” you tell him you don’t care if it’s him and that you’d love to paint him. “well, I’m honoured! thank you.”

The dust on Ryloth had a way of settling into every crevice, much like the ones you kept your secrets in. For months, the relationship between you and Howzer existed solely in the quiet, stolen moments between briefings and skirmishes. It was a careful dance of disciplined glances, formal salutes that lingered half of a second too long, and whispers in the dim light of command tents when the rest of the galaxy was asleep. You both had always been careful. 

Or so you thought.

The illusion of your perfect secrecy didn't shatter under the scrutiny of the Jedi Council, nor was it exposed by a careless transmission intercepted by the Separatists. Instead, it was dismantled entirely due to a Twi'lek child with a love for wandering exactly where she wasn’t supposed to.

On a blistering afternoon near the Lessu outskirts, you were standing under the temporary shade of a canopy, reviewing supply logistics with Cham Syndulla. As always, he was intensely focused on the well being of his people, his lekku twitching slightly as he pointed out the dwindling rations and the desperate need for medical supplies. You were listening intently, which was likely why neither of you noticed the sudden commotion approaching from the nearby military perimeter.

You eventually looked up, only to find Howzer marching toward the canopy. He held his helmet against his hip. His other hand was firmly, but gently gripping the shoulder of a very small and very dusty Hera Syndulla.

Hera looked thoroughly unbothered, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, a stubborn pout across face. Her cap was slightly crooked, coated in a fine layer of orange Ryloth sand.

"General. General Syndulla," Howzer addressed you both, his voice laced with a mixture of authority and exhaustion of a man who had spent the last twenty minutes chasing a child. He came to a sharp halt, "Apologies for the interruption, but I found a stray."

Cham’s eyes narrowed instantly, his demeanor shifting to that of a deeply exasperated father in the span of a single heartbeat. "Hera," he groaned, placing his hands on his hips. "What did I tell you about leaving the palace perimeter?"

"I didn't leave the perimeter," Hera grumbled, kicking at a loose pebble with the toe of her boot. "I was exploring."

"She was exploring the secondary fuel yards, sir," Howzer corrected gently, "Right alongside the heavy transport loading zones. She was hiding between two rhydonium canisters when I spotted her."

Cham let out a long, heavy breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The stress of leading a rebellion was nothing compared to the stress of keeping up with his daughter's boundless curiosity. "Hera, look at me," Cham scolded, his voice dropping into that strict, unyielding tone that only parents could manage. "The fuel yards are off limits. We are in the middle of a war zone. Those canisters could ignite, or a transport could easily miss you. You cannot simply go wherever you please and do things you are not supposed to do. There are rules for a reason, Hera. Everyone has to follow them."

Hera shifted her weight, her lekku swaying with a defiance that she undoubtedly inherited from her father. She looked up at Cham, then darted her eyes over to Howzer, and finally to you. A strange glint sparked in her eyes. It was one that made a sudden, inexplicable knot form in the pit of your stomach.

"Why do I always get in trouble when I do things I’m not supposed to do?" Hera asked, stomping her foot into the ground. She pointed a small, accusing finger straight at Howzer. "Captain Howzer doesn't get in trouble."

Cham blinked, momentarily thrown off balance by the deflection. "The Captain is a soldier, Hera. He follows orders."

"No, he doesn't! Not all the time," Hera protested, her pout deepening as she bared the ultimate bargaining chip of a child caught red handed. "He doesn't get in trouble for kissing the Jedi. He's not allowed to do that, right? I saw him. Behind the communications tent last week. He did it anyway."

The silence that followed was deafening.

You felt the blood rush to your face, as heat began spreading across your cheeks and neck. Your hands froze against the datapad you were holding. You looked over at Howzer, whose entire body had gone completely rigid. Through the Force, you could feel the waves of sheer panic rolling off him. Howzer looked as though he had just been shot. 

Both you and Howzer stood silent, unsure how to deflect this so suddenly.

But before you could speak, Cham broke the silence.

A slow, incredibly amused smile spread across his face. He let out a soft chuckle, the tension entirely draining from his shoulders as he looked between you and your utterly mortified captain.

"Is that so?" Cham nodded, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine warmth. He looked down at his daughter, tapping her head playfully. "Well, Hera, what the Captain and the General chose to do is their choice. But you are still a child, and you are still grounded. Now go back to the palace and find your mother.”

Hera let out a dramatic sigh, realizing her deflection had failed to save her from her punishment, and began dragging her feet back to the palace.

Cham turned his attention back to the two of you. His smile softened, turning into something deeply empathetic and completely devoid of judgment. As a man who had loved and built a family in the middle of a rebellion, he knew exactly what it was like to grasp onto whatever light you could find in the dark.

"I’m sorry about that." Cham apologized for his daughter, his tone quiet enough to ensure it didn't travel beyond the shade of the canopy. "However, hiding something like that while being leaders for a planet wide rebellion, it’s a heavy burden."

You swallowed hard, finally finding your voice, "General Syndulla, I assure you, our priorities remain-"

Cham held up a hand, gently cutting you off. "You do not need to defend yourselves to me. Ryloth owes you both everything. If there is anything I can ever do to make things a little easier for you two, to give you some peace, you let me know." He looked over his shoulder to Hera, who was nearing the palace entrance, "Consider it a fair trade for helping me keep up with Hera's daily shenanigans. Clearly I need all the help I can get with her."

True to his word, Cham didn't waste any time fulfilling that promise.

When the military campaign eventually shifted its command operations to the capital city of Lessu, the Republic forces were mandated to take up residence within the outskirts of Orn Free Taa's palace. The place was a testament to political greed. It was vast, opulent, and filled with winding corridors, towering archways, and excessive luxury that felt entirely inappropriate during a war. Normally, a Jedi would have been assigned to a guest room within the palace and the clones would be assigned to separate military quarters. 

But Cham had intervened.

Using his leverage, Cham had quietly manipulated your lodging assignment. When you were handed the access key to your new quarters, you discovered you weren’t placed in the standard guest room. Instead, you had been assigned a private, suite style apartment tucked away deep within the Syndulla’s wing of the palace.

It was a small sanctuary. Positioned far away from prying eyes, casual foot traffic, and the strict, watchful gaze of the Republic. It was the one place in the galaxy where a General and a Captain could completely disappear. Because of a little girl's mischief and a father's understanding, you finally had a genuinely safe, private space to just be together.

It’s been months now since you’ve been in the suite, and truthfully, there was nothing you could do to repay the Syndullas for their generosity. 

A security breach earlier in the evening threw Orn Free Taa’s palace into a tense panic. Hours were spent tracking signals and verifying sensor grids, ensuring that no Separatist assassins or local saboteurs had slipped through the cracks of the capital's defenses.

By the time you finally completed the grueling, final perimeter check of the high stone walkways, your muscles ached with deep exhaustion. 

Stepping into a secluded alcove of the perimeter, you pulled your comlink from your pocket. You pressed the secure frequency.

"I'm finishing up the final sweep now," you whispered into the receiver, "Everything is secure. I’m heading in."

There was a brief crackle of static before a familiar voice filtered through the speaker. "Copy that, General. The door is unlocked."

The sheer comfort that washed over you at the sound of his voice was enough to put a spring back into your step. Leaving the cold stone perimeter behind, you navigated the ckrridors of the palace, slipping past the occasional patrolling guard until you reached the isolated, quiet hallways of the Syndulla’s wing.

When you reached the door of your suite, you slid the access key across the lock. Stepping inside, it didn’t take long to find him.

Right in the center of the living room couch, was Howzer.

He was sitting on the plush, oversized couch, completely stripped of his armor. He was wearing a pair of civilian sweatpants and a loose fitting short sleeve top. His legs were stretched out comfortably across the couch. A holodrama was playing on the screen across from him, casting blue shadows across the room.

When the door slid open and shut, Howzer didn't even turn his head to look at you. He remained perfectly still, his eyes apparently fixed on the screen.

A playful smile instantly tugged at the corners of your lips. You were trained to perceive everything around you, but right now, you didn't need the Force to know exactly what he was doing. He was most likely teasing you by deliberately pretending to be completely engrossed in the show just to see what you would do.

You certainly weren't going to let the opportunity go to waste.

Kicking off your boots by the entryway, you stepped onto the soft rugs, taking a slow, looping route that brought you directly behind the back of the couch.

Howzer still didn't move, though if you looked closely, you could see the tiny twitch at the corner of his eye. He knew exactly where you were.

Leaning over the back of the couch, you draped your arms loosely over his shoulders. You leaned down, burying your face briefly into the side of his neck before pressing a soft kiss against his warm cheek.

Howzer didn't startle in the slightest. Instead, the moment your lips touched his skin, a smile broke across his face. He reached up with one hand to firmly grip your forearm, anchoring you against him.

"Welcome back," he hummed. He tilted his head back against the cushion, looking up at you upside down with warm eyes. "I was starting to think you were going to stay out on the perimeter all night."

"And skip this?" you teased, leaning your chin on his shoulder, looking over at his face. "Not a chance. I'm exhausted."

"I can tell," he agreed, his thumb tracing a gentle, soothing circle against your wrist. He shifted slightly, turning his head so he could press a kiss to the outside of your hand. "Don’t get me wrong, you look beautiful. But you look tired."

"It was a long sweep," you sighed, letting your eyes flutter shut for a moment. 

"Well, the good news is, everything’s clear," Howzer said, his smile turning a little bit wicked as he looked up at you. "I've already showered, but I'm not opposed to taking another one right now if you want me to join you."

You let out a soft, breathy laugh against his shoulder, opening your eyes to look at him. "Oh, really? The Captain draws up the plans now?"

Howzer rolled his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. It was only then that you noticed the tips of his hair were still clumping together, holding onto the dampness from the shower.

"More of a strong recommendation, General," he replied playfully. He gestured to the floor near the entryway where his armor was sitting. "That sandstorm this afternoon had me absolutely filthy. I swear, orange grit gets into the seals and just stays there. I felt like a walking sandbox. I figured I'd better get it all off my skin before you got back."

Reaching out, you slid your fingers into his damp hair, gently scratching your nails against his scalp.

Howzer instantly let out a long, shuddering sigh, his eyes rolling shut as his entire body completely melted under your touch. There were few Clones in the GAR that got to experience the simple luxury of someone touching their hair, and Howzer was absolutely defenseless against it. He leaned heavily into your touch, a look of pure, blissful surrender washing over his face as you scratched a few more times, tracing the neat lines of his haircut.

"Never stop," he mumbled, his voice thick and sleepy. "Never stop doing that."

"As much as I would love to take you up on that second shower, Captain," you cooed affectionately, giving his damp hair one last gentle tug before pulling your hand away, "I think I just need a few minutes to rinse off the dust myself. I'll be right back."

"Take your time," Howzer slowly opened his eyes, his gaze filled with an overflow of quiet devotion as he watched you step away. "I'm not going anywhere."

You smiled, turning toward the refresher of the suite, the heavy fatigue in your bones suddenly feeling a whole lot lighter knowing he was waiting right there for you.

The hot water of the shower worked wonders, washing away all the built up sand from your skin. When you finally stepped out, you felt incredibly better. You pulled on your favorite set of cozy loungewear and attempted to dry your hair with a towel before you stepped back into the main living space. 

The ambient golden lighting of the suite felt incredibly welcoming. Before heading back to Howzer, you made a brief detour toward the small kitchen alcove. The cool air of the small fridge hit your skin as you opened it, browsing the shelves before pulling out a small bowl of fresh fruit that Cham brought over a couple of days prior.

Popping a sweet piece into your mouth, you turned back toward the living room, cradling the bowl in one hand. As you approached the couch, your eyes naturally drifted down to the table.

Sitting right there, was a bright, slightly crumpled piece of flimsiplast. You must have missed it when you initially walked in.

You let out a soft laugh, setting the bowl of fruit down on the table as you reached for the flimsi. "What in the stars is this?" you asked, a smile already playing on your lips.

"Take a guess," he rumbled softly, "It was waiting right there on the table when I got back from the barracks."

You turned the flimsi over. Written on the back in giant Aurebesh letters was a single name: HERA.

You let out a half laugh, turning the flimsi back over to inspect the actual drawing. It was exactly what you expected, yet it still made your heart swell. Done entirely in vibrant, heavily pressed crayons, it was a child's unmistakable rendering of the two of you.

On the left was a figure with an exaggerated amount of hair and a very bright blue streak that was clearly meant to be a lightsaber. On the right was a blocky teal figure. Hera had taken meticulous care to draw Howzer’s distinctive hair, though she had given him a smile so wide it nearly wrapped around his entire head. The two stick figures were holding hands, standing right in front of a giant, looping scribble.

"Well," you shrugged, your eyes never leaving the colorful page. "It looks like our favorite little lookout drew us a masterpiece."

Howzer shifted his position on the couch, allowing room for you to cuddle up next to him comfortably. The moment sank into the cushions, Howzer didn't hesitate. He moved closer to you, lifting his arm and draping it securely around your shoulders. He pulled you flush against his side, his palm resting gently against your upper arm. You leaned into him, resting your head against the crook of his neck, still holding the drawing up between you both.

"She certainly has an eye for detail," Howzer added, his voice vibrating right against your temple as he leaned down to look at the flimsi with you. He pointed at the blue crayon streak. "I think she made your lightsaber twice as big as it actually is. It’s very intimidating."

"She definitely captured your good side," you teased, tracing the giant crayon smile she had given him.  “She must think you smile like that all the time."

"Only when I'm in this room," Howzer replied softly. He pressed a gentle kiss into your damp hair, breathing in the clean scent of your shampoo.

You looked quietly at the drawing for a long moment. Your mind drifted back to the afternoon Howzer caught her in the fuel yards, and how he marched her back. You thought about how patient he always was with her, how he never talked down to her like the other officers sometimes did, and how his eyes always lit up whenever the little girl started rambling about starships and piloting.

"You know," you began, stretching to set the drawing down on the table, "I was thinking about last week when she tried to sneak into the gunships."

"If Twi’lek’s had hair, Cham would have pulled all of it out by now with her shenanigans," Howzer joked, though his tone was incredibly fond.

"Probably," you shrugged, turning your head slightly so you could look up at him. "But I really admire how you are with her, Howzer. Truly."

Howzer blinked, looking down at you. He seemed a little caught off guard by the sudden sincerity in your voice, his brow furrowing slightly in that gentle, curious way it always did when he was thinking deeply. "With Hera? I just treat her like any other citizen we're assigned to protect. Perhaps with a little more supervision."

"No, it's more than that," you insisted. You reached up, your fingers lightly resting against the center of his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath his shirt. "You're incredibly patient with her. You listen to her. Even when you're exhausted and dealing with a million logistics, you take her seriously."

You paused, your eyes locking onto his, "I was just thinking you'd make a really good father, Howzer."

The words were spoken softly, almost like a confession. Clones were created for one singular, brutal purpose. They were grown in glass tubes, raised in clinical barracks, and thrust into a galactic war before they even understood the concept of a normal life. To speak of fatherhood to a Clone was far beyond comprehension for most of them

For a second, Howzer just stared at you, before slowly, the most beautiful, breathtaking smile broke across his face. It wasn't the confident smile of a captain briefing his squad. It was entirely overflowing with an emotion so deep it made his eyes crinkle at the corners.

He tightened his arm around you, pulling you so close against his side that there was practically no space left between you. He leaned his head down, his nose brushing softly against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

"You think so?" he asked, his voice thick with affection, a playful spark dancing in his dark eyes as he looked down at you. "Well if we're putting out parental recommendations, I can think of someone who would make an absolutely incredible mother."

The sweetness of his comment lingered but as the seconds ticked by, a bittersweet gravity began to settle. It was an unwanted guest of a feeling, the kind that always seemed to hover just outside the borders of this small sanctuary, waiting to remind you both of who you were supposed to be.

​You let out a soft laugh, but it held a faint trace of melancholy. Leaning your head back into the crook of his neck, you looked up at the ceiling.

​"You're just saying that," you sighed, "You're biased."

​"I am not just saying that," Howzer countered instantly. He moved his head, his lips brushing against the temple of your forehead. "I've watched you on the battlefield, and I’ve watched you with the refugees. You carry the burden of an entire planet's suffering, yet you still have enough tenderness left over to listen to a little girl ramble for an hour. You're patient, you're fierce, and you protect the people around you with everything you have. I'm a soldier, I know a good leader when I see one, and you’d be an incredible mother. Bias has nothing to do with it."

You squeezed his hand, "Even if you're right, I’m sure the Jedi Council would be thrilled to know about this conversation. We are stretching the Code to its limit just by being in this room together."

​You swallowed hard, "And besides, it's not just the Council. The Kaminoans are meticulous, Howzer. They engineered your genetic makeup down to each exact gene. They probably made it as close to impossible as possible for a clone to even think about having a family of his own. And even if by some miracle it was possible, a pregnancy isn't exactly something I can hide from the Council. They would feel a shift in the Force before I could even try to explain."

​Howzer didn't tense up at your words. Instead, a quiet  hum rumbled deep within his chest. He tightened his arm around your shoulder, pulling you tightly against his side.

​"You're wrong about the Kaminoans," Howzer smirked.

​You blinked, tilting your head back up to look at him in surprise. "What do you mean?"

​"The first clones and the earliest generations of the regular infantry. The Kaminoans originally tried to make them completely sterile," Howzer explained, completely serious now. "They wanted total control over our biology. But according to the medical logs and the rumors that float around, suppressing those specific reproductive traits ended up accidentally degrading the genetic stability of us clones. It made us more susceptible to cellular breakdown, muscle fatigue, and immune deficiencies. In trying to engineer that out of us, they accidentally created a weaker soldier."

​You stared at him, your lips parting slightly. "I've never heard of this. It’s not in any official report I’ve reviewed."

​"Exactly," Howzer hummed, "It's what they want people to believe. The Kaminoans are proud. They would never admit to a flaw in their perfect cloning process. So they swept the data under the rug, reversed the suppression blocks for the rest of the production lines, and let everyone assume we were entirely manufactured from top to bottom. But biologically? We're as capable of having a life outside the military as any civilian."

​The revelation left you momentarily breathless. The concept of the clones' humanity was something you fought for every day, but hearing that their creators had been forced to leave them entirely human in that specific, fundamental way felt promising.

​"But even so," you reasoned, trying to ground the sudden, soaring feeling in your chest before it completely took over. "That still leaves the other thing. The Council would notice."

​"Would they?" Howzer interrupted. He shifted his position on the couch, turning his body so he was facing you completely. "Think about it. Technically, we’ve been stationed here on Ryloth for six standard months now. Because of the constant Separatist insurgencies and the strategic importance of the Outer Rim, the Council keeps extending our deployment. We have no orders to do anything else but stay here. There’s no sign of leaving anytime soon."

​A hopeful, bright spark kindled in his eyes, and you could feel the sudden, intense surge of emotion flowing through him. Howzer was completely engulfing himself in the idea now.

​"You could be full term right now, carrying a baby under those loose Jedi robes, and if we stayed within this wing of the palace, no one would ever know," Howzer whispered, his voice laced with breathless excitement.

​"Howzer, stop," you laughed, half shocked and half endeared, reaching up with your free hand to playfully swat at his chest. "Surely the other men in your squad would notice if their General suddenly stopped showing up to battle. And Senator Taa? He's a greedy, observant politician. And Cham? And Hera? You think a child that smart wouldn't notice?"

​"The men are fiercely loyal to you, and they follow my orders. They wouldn't say a word to the Republic," Howzer countered instantly, his smile widening, completely unstoppable now that the dam had broken. "Senator Taa is too busy stuffing his face and worrying about his political standing to ever pay attention to what's happening in the Syndulla wing. And Cham?" Howzer chuckled, "Cham already gave us this suite just so we could have a place to be together. If you were expecting, Cham would probably be the first one trying to help us hide it. He’d probably do anything just to ensure you were taken care of."

He was so completely captured by the vision.

​"We are sitting in a luxury palace in the middle of a war zone, talking about starting a family," you shook your head, “we’re delusional.”

​"It’s only us in this room," Howzer reminded you as he leaned in closer. He reached up, his hand gently cupping the side of your face, his thumb wiping away a stray lock of your hair. "We can say and do whatever we want."

Howzer’s words hung between you, not as a wild fantasy, but as a tangible, breathless possibility. The barrier of what was considered right and wrong seemed to thin under the intensity of his gaze, until all that remained was the reality of his hand on your cheek.

His thumb stroked your cheekbone, then drifted down, tracing the line of your jaw with a reverence that made your eyes flutter shut. When his fingers slid beneath your chin, tilting your face up to his, you opened them again. There was just Howzer, looking at you as if you were the only star in the sky.

“So, tell me what you want,” he whispered, his breath ghosting over your lips. “Right here, right now. Just us.”

“I think I’m looking at it,” you breathed out, the word barely more than a sigh. It was the truest thing you’d ever said.

A deep exhale escaped him. The hand on your face slid back, his fingers threading into your damp hair, holding you with a possessiveness that made you rigid. The other arm, still draped around your shoulders, tightened, pulling you from your position until you were half in his lap, your legs tangled with his.

“You have me,” he vowed, the words spoken against your mouth before he finally closed the last, torturous millimeter between you.

The kiss was not soft. It was claiming. His lips were firm and insistent, moving over yours with a hunger you’ve never experienced. You met it with equal fervor, your hands coming up to grip the fabric of his shirt, fisting it at his sides as you parted your lips for him. 

As the holodrama played on, its dialogue a meaningless buzz in the background, Howzer once again moved his hands.

One of his hands slid down from your hair and down your neck, his thumb pressing gently into the frantic pulse there before continuing its descent. It slipped beneath the loose hem of your top, his palm settling on your lower back. You arched into the touch, a gasp breaking the kiss.

“Howzer, I-”

“I know,” he growled, his lips leaving yours to blaze a trail down your jaw to your neck. He nipped at the sensitive spot beneath your ear, then soothed it with his tongue. “I know. I know you like that. 

His other hand released your shoulder, joining the first under your top. A whimper caught in your throat. You were drowning in the sensation of his wet hair against your cheek and his hands on your back.

With a smooth, powerful motion, he shifted, turning you fully onto your back against the cushions. He loomed over you, bracing himself on one arm, his eyes drinking you in. Your top was bunched up, your hair fanned out, your lips swollen and parted as you looked up at him. He looked utterly wrecked, his own breathing ragged.

He dipped his head, catching your mouth in another searing kiss as his hands finally pushed your top up and over your head. It joined Hera’s drawing somewhere on the nearby table. The cool air of the room nipped your skin, followed immediately by the devastating heat of his mouth leaving your lips to travel downward.

He kissed your collarbone, then the slope of your chest above your bra. His fingers found the clasp at the back, tugging at it until it came undone. He peeled the fabric away, his breath slowing as he looked at you.

Then his mouth was on you. He took one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking deeply, his tongue flicking over you. You sharply inhaled, your back bowing off the couch. Your fingers scrambled into his hair, holding him to you. The sensation was electric, shooting straight to your core, making you ache with a need that was rapidly becoming unbearable.

He lavished attention on one breast, then the other, his free hand kneading the soft flesh as his touch alternating between tender and demanding. 

“Howzer.”

He lifted his head, his lips glistening. “What do you need?” he teased, his voice rough with desire.

“This off,” you pleaded, your hands sliding down his chest, tugging at the hem of his shirt. 

A wicked grin touched his lips. He sat back on his heels, straddling your thighs, and in one fluid motion pulled his own shirt off over his head. The sight of him, bare chested and breathing heavily, was enough to make your mouth go dry. The blue light from the holodrama played over the muscles on shoulders and chest. Your eyes drank in all the scars that made his chest uniquely his - a blaster graze on his ribs from a small battle outside the city, a splotchy white mark on his shoulder from an explosion that nearly took his life.

You reached for him, your hands sliding up the hard planes of his stomach to his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart under your palm. He leaned into the touch for a moment, his eyes closing, before his hands went to the waistband of his sweatpants.

He didn’t tease this time. He pushed them down along with his briefs, kicking them off the couch. Then he was there, his erection nearly against his stomach. You adored the sight, a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your stomach.

His hands went to the waistband of your own lounge pants, his fingers hooking into the fabric. He looked up at you smirking, with a question in his eyes, “Permission, General?”

You gave him a playful shove with your foot, smacking his side just hard enough to make him chuckle. “Permission granted, Captain,” you shot back with an affectionate roll of your eyes.

He peeled your sweatpants and your underwear down your legs in one slow motion, his hands smoothing over your calves, your ankles, as he removed them. He then knelt between your spread thighs, looking down at your body, completely bare and open to him.

He didn’t move to enter you immediately. Instead, he leaned down, bracing his hands on the cushions by your hips, and lowered his head between your thighs. His breath, hot and damp, washed over your most sensitive flesh first. You jerked, a gasp tearing from your throat.

“Howzer!”

“Shh,” he soothed, his voice vibrating against your skin. “I’ll be quick.”

His tongue swept through your folds in one long stroke.

“Oh,” The sound was punched out of you, your head falling back against the arm of the couch. It was too much, yet somehow it was not enough. His mouth was relentless, worshipping you with a focused intensity that bordered on devotion. He licked and suckled, exploring every fold, every hidden nerve, his nose nudging against your clit until you were shaking, your heels digging into his back and your fingers twisted in his hair.

“Stars Howzer” you babbled, lost to everything but the building, coiling tension in your gut.

He hummed against you, the vibration sending a shockwave of pleasure up your spine. His tongue circled your clit, faster, more insistently, and then he sealed his lips over you and sucked one last time.

Slowly, he kissed his way back up your body - the inside of your thigh, your stomach and finally the valley between your breasts. He nuzzled into your neck, his own breathing uneven. You could feel the hard, insistent length of him pressing against your thigh, wet with his own desire.

“Howzer,” you teased, decided it was officially your turn to drive him out of his mind. Reaching down between your bodies, your hand wrapped around his length. A breathless, needy groan ripped from his chest, his hips moving in gentle thrust into your hand. He looked up at you, desperate for your next words. You held his gaze, “You know, you really would make an incredible father.”

He didn’t need further encouragement. Bracing his weight on his forearms, he positioned himself and pushed forward, sinking into you in one slow, inexorable slide.

The feeling of him filling you, stretching you, completing you, was utterly overwhelming. The initial stretch was a delicious burn that melted into a feeling of absolute rightness. You were both still for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other’s air, connected in the most primal way possible.

Still pressed together, he opened his eyes to look at you. “You can’t just say that,” he whispered, his voice strained with the effort of holding still. “Okay?”

“I know,” you winked, rolling your hips up to take him deeper. 

He withdrew almost completely, then sank back in, setting a deep, rolling rhythm that had you seeing stars all over again. The couch creaked softly in protest, the sound lost under your breaths and moans.

You forced your eyes open again, meeting his burning gaze. The intimacy of it was almost more than the physical act. To see the love, the want, the sheer wonder in his eyes as he moved inside you shattered the last pieces of your restraint.

“Howzer,” you gasped out, your fingers tightening in his hair to pull him down. “Just- Howzer.”

His rhythm stuttered. A look of pure, unguarded joy flashed across his face, so bright it was painful. He captured your mouth in a desperate, sloppy kiss.

His thrusts became less controlled, more frantic. The coil in your stomach tightened again, impossibly fast, fed by the friction of his body on yours. You could feel his own control fraying and his muscles trembling with the effort of holding back.

“I-,” you pleaded, digging your nails into his shoulders. “I’m so close, Howzer.”

His name on your lips again was his undoing. With a ragged shout that was half your name, half a wordless roar, he plunged deep and held there. You felt him pulse inside you, his final push sending you spiraling over the edge.

Your climax was breathless for a second, as a wave of pure delight burst from your very core. Then the sensation crashed into a cry that he swallowed with his mouth. Your walls clenched around him rhythmically, absorbing his own release, as pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.

He collapsed onto you, his full weight providing a necessary pressure. You wrapped your arms and legs around him, holding him inside you, as your hearts hammered against each other’s chests. The only sounds were your mingled, ragged breaths and the distant, cheerful theme song from the forgotten holodrama.

Minutes passed. Slowly, the world seeped back in. Howzer finally stirred, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder before he carefully pulled out and rolled to the side, gathering you instantly against him. You turned, tucking yourself against his body. Your back was to his chest and his arms held you tight. He nuzzled into your hair, his lips brushing your temple.

“So,” he murmured, his voice a sleepy, satisfied rumble against your ear. “About being an incredible father.”

You let out a breathless laugh, threading your fingers through his. As you squeezed his hand, you felt his mind nearly short circuiting with the thought of it. The dangerous vision of starting a family completely consumed him. For a clone captain who had never been allowed to own so much as a personal item, the idea of having a child suddenly became a desperate necessity.

With a single statement on fatherhood, you had unlocked the absolute power to his heart, and it terrified you with how beautiful it was.

He turned his head, burying his nose into your neck, “You shouldn’t have said it if you didn't mean it, because now- Now I can’t unsee it. We’re making it happen.”

His words sent a shiver straight through your spine. The fear you felt just moments was replaced by a deep, unyielding wave of absolute devotion. There was a finality to what you two had just spoken aloud. You realized that there was no taking it back now.

You moved your head as far back as you could, looking back at him. It was then that you realized you didn’t want to take any of it back.

“I meant it,” you whispered back, your voice carrying reassurance, “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

With that massive, life altering promise finally hanging beautifully in the warm air of the room, the heavy physical exhaustion of the day finally crashed over both of you. 

Howzer let out a long, ragged exhale against your head. He reached down to grab the edge of a blanket and with one smooth movement, he pulled the blanket all the way up over both of your shoulders.

He tucked you securely under his side, his arm wrapping firmly around your waist and anchoring you flush against his chest. You adjusted, resting your head perfectly in the comfortable crook of his neck, while your hand came to rest flat against the center of his chest. Beneath your palm, his heartbeat was strong and steady. But, he wasn’t ready for bed quite yet. 

“I don’t know how we’re going to pull it off,” Howzer sighed. He said it in the same way he would discuss the details of a nearly impossible mission. He turned his head, pressing his lips firmly against the crown of your head, holding the kiss there before resting his jaw against your hair. “I don't know how we'll hide it, or where we'll go. But we’ll figure it out. We have time.”

The contrast of your reality hit you one last time. Outside the reinforced palace walls, a catastrophic war was raging. On Coruscant, the Jedi Code strictly dictated cold isolation and forbade the very concept of attachment. To the Republic, Howzer was nothing more than manufactured property, a number on a ledger meant to fight and die on a distant world.

But inside the Syndulla’s wing, your worlds were completely rewritten. That piece of flimsi on the table wasn't just a child’s silly fantasy anymore.

It was a blueprint.

firm believer that this man is a MUNCH and PROUD.

he begs for it. as a captain, his work is hard and stressful. even more now that the empire has risen to power. spending his time with is face buried between your thighs is exaaaaactly how he likes to unwind.

you don't even really get a chance to ask him how his day was (you wouldn't really like the answer anyways). once that door slides open to his quarters, to where you've been hiding out for the day, he drops his helmet on the ground, not even bothering to remove the rest of his armor while he crawls over to you.

"turn over f'me," he mumbles, forgetting his manners and not even saying hello to you.

he would gladly eat it from the back, and he has before, but for right now, he wanted to see your face. no, he needed to see your face.

"howzer-" you try to say, still rolling over onto your back. your words are quickly cut off once he yanks your sleep shorts down, causing you to drop the holopad that was in your hand onto the mattress.

"'t's ok," he mumbles.

shamelessly, he leaned forward to dig his nose into your panties and inhaled deeply. it was gross and filthy, and you really shouldn't be turned on by it. but with the way his brown eyes glance up at you like he was genuinely possessed by the smell of you, it felt like your stomach was doing backflips.

"give me just a few minutes," howzer says while lazily pulling your panties down with his pointer finger.

it was moments like these you started to question if this was for your pleasure or his. the moment his tongue dove in and your mouth hung open, you could hear the moans begin to escape him. he got off on this as much, if not more, than you did.

"oh my god," you gasp out once his lips wrap around your clit, sucking hard. your fingers fly down onto his sweaty hair, lacing through and tugging him closer gently. the action made him buck his armored hips into the mattress.

"taste so good," howzer groans, his voice muffled.

you feel one of the hands that was on your thighs leave, but quickly find a new home as his middle and ring finger slowly enter your dripping hole. every single movement he makes is planned and specific. he knows your body and he knows it well. he's perfected the art of making you fall apart under his touch.

you can hear him growing louder as you begin to grow closer. the noises he's making are obscene, like he's making a nasty porno. the wet sounds of his fingers ramming into your hole combined with his filthy moans are enough to bring you closer to the edge just on its own.

and he can see it in your eyes as you watch him.

"give it t'me, c'monnn, baby."

you're almost sure he whines the last word out, but he doesn't give you too much time to think about it before his lips wrap around your clit again, his tongue circling around the swollen bud. it was all too much, and he could feel the grip on his dark hair tightening.

"fuck- howzer, i-" you nearly try pushing him away from the overstimulation but quickly succumbed to the pleasure, your vision and mind turning fuzzy. the sound of him was like he was underwater as your body shook and trembled, howzer letting you ride out your high on his face.

once you started to calm down, he gave you a few seconds to breathe before removing himself from your lower half and sitting up. he looked a whole lot more relaxed than how he did when he first entered the room. it made you giggle a bit, watching him lick his lips of you, wiping the excess off with the back of his hand.

looking him over, you admire his bulky form with the added white and teal armor on. but once your eyes travel down to his crotch, you notice the big wet stain seeping through his blacks.

furrowing your brows, you look back up to meet his dazed expression.

"did you seriously cum just from that..?" you ask.

"course i did," he shrugs like it was obvious. "you know it soothes me."

(google doc link)

i need psychiatric help

Content: breast play, a whiff of brat taming, a whiff of dom!Howzer, fingering, vibrator, did I mention breast play? ;)

.

He dragged his tongue up the side of your neck, and what might otherwise tickle or repel you now sent a wave of electricity through you, straight between your legs. You arched your back, nestling your butt closer against him where you both lay naked and spooning, and shifted against his erection in no subtle way. An enticingly breathy sigh escaped your lips as you felt its length pressing against you, but it faded into protest as he drew away, tucking himself out of reach of your nefarious ass. He grinned, one hand propping up his head while the other glided along your side toward a breast. Teasing fingers barely grazed back and forth along the bottom of its curve before continuing up your shoulder and around your neck, ever so gently. 

“Not yet,” he rumbled against the side of your face as he brushed a thumb along your jaw. 

“Not fair,” you groaned. 

“Not my fault,” he returned with the flicker of a smile at the corner of his lips where they pressed against your cheek, your temple, your neck, your collarbone…

* * * 

You’d known he was coming for you from the moment he walked in the door that night. A mission debrief had kept him late, and the two of you had spent the better part of the day exchanging increasingly spicy comms, the last of which was sent while you idly stirred the creamy soup you’d been keeping warm on the stove for him. You knew the potential when the spark of novelty met the depth and familiarity of old love in bodies entwined, and you found yourself shifting in your silky pajamas, a craving ache in your core. The dim evening light made his eyes look darker, and his lips had brushed against yours a second longer than usual in greeting, softer and heavier. 

“What’s this?” he smirked, giving your camisole a playful tug after cleaning up and changing into a thin t-shirt and the soft sweatpants he knew you liked.

“Proper cooking attire.”

“Hmmph.” He didn’t argue, rather fitted his form along your back, hands slowly reaching around your hips.

“Hungry?” you asked, turning off the burner and leaning into his touch.

“Yes.” He pulled you tight against his chest, one hand sliding straight up the middle of your front to hold you close, fingers splayed across your collarbone. 

The soup was the last thing on his mind as you squirmed around to face him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and burying a hand in the hair on the back of his head before pulling him down and kissing him hard. He almost whimpered. 

Almost. 

Instead his hands were on you immediately – sliding up a thigh, cupping your ass with a firm grip, resting between your shoulders. You writhed against him and he pressed into you, as though the two of you could become one against the kitchen counter. Kisses grew messy. Cheeks reddened. Lips swelled. A trail of kisses down the side of your neck stoked the fire ever further. 

“Bed. Now,” you demanded, pushing him back. He chuckled, normally the one to obediently follow your lead, but he wasn’t feeling that tonight. Instead he came right back, grabbing your thigh and lifting it around him as he kissed you again. His tongue flickered against your own, and you arched your back to grind against him as he dragged his teeth gently across your lower lip. 

“You don’t always get to call the shots, princess,” he murmured, releasing your mouth to kiss your jaw and nip your earlobe. “It’s about time someone stood up to you, I think.”

“Oh really?” you laughed, equally aroused and indignant. Any further retort died on your lips as he pressed his erection against your thinly-clothed sex; the thick fabric of his sweatpants increasing the friction. He was in a mood, and it was insanely hot. 

That was ten minutes ago. 

Ten minutes of making out. Being lifted onto the counter and ravaged within an inch of your sanity. Kissing and sucking and nipping and caressing. Your top was gone, shorts hanging on by a thread as you writhed against his front. You wanted to beg. Gods, you wanted to beg. But you were not one to beg. So you’d get your way…

Or so you thought. 

He’d lifted you against him, soldier muscles taut as he relished your weight in his arms, then carried you to your bedroom. He’d tucked you under a soft sheet, pulled your shorts to your toes where you kicked them off, and laid against your backside, naked and radiating heat. And now he was teasing you, drawing every last miserable second out into an eternity as his deft fingers glided along your skin. You didn’t know what he was waiting for, and he seemed to be quite enjoying your flustered impatience. 

You shifted your ass against him again, grinding against his cock as you grabbed one of his hands in your own, guiding it toward your chest. But he pulled it back, scolding you in your ear with a sinful whisper before grabbing both your wrists in one hand and drawing them over your head, rolling you onto your back as he pinned them there. You felt exposed and electrified, nipples pebbling in the cool night air as he gazed down at you. 

“Stubborn, aren’t you?”

“Goddamnit,” you breathed, insanely turned on but yes, stubborn as hell. 

He moved down a bit, keeping your hands pinned as he trailed kisses down your neck and chest until they got to a breast, where he paused with a warm, open-mouthed exhale across it. You bit back a whine, settling instead to give him your best “fuck me” look when he glanced up at you, mouth hovering over a nipple. You’d never seen such a fiendish grin on his face in response, and he lowered his lips slowly. You arched your back again, aching for contact, and he flicked his tongue across the tip, sending a shock to your core. Your little gasp provoked him further, and he shifted his thighs around his cock, leaking and swollen between them. He licked a circle, once, twice, three times with more pressure each time, then without warning took as much of your breast into his mouth as he could, sucking and running his tongue along it. 

You were too lost in the sensation to notice his hand gliding up the inside of your thigh. 

That was five minutes ago. 

Five minutes of his masterful fingers enticing your pussy. Feather-light tracing grew into firmer strokes. A finger inside drew out a full moan from you, and a sinisterly slow rub around your clit had you squirming. He’d released your wrists to prop himself up further, dragging his tongue across a breast before sucking hard enough to make your toes curl. The stimulation from above and below was echoing through your core as he sank two fingers in, groaning against your sternum as he felt your slick walls around him. It took all he had to keep from thrusting his cock into you right there, but the helpless whine it elicited from you set him on his course. Fingers in and out. Slowly. A thumb against the clit. Fueling the fire. Cool air across a nipple before careful teeth and a warm tongue. You were coming completely undone. 

“You want something?” he asked, and you were suddenly aware that your stubbornness had flown out the window at the first finger.

“Please,” you whispered, aching in the best way. Gods, there was never such desperate need in your voice. And to know he’d been the one to do it to you…

He began to rub your pussy, broad strokes alternating with devastatingly accurate circles of your clit, and you could feel the waves building from deep inside. Your breathy praise encouraged his every movement, and he pressed his face against your neck, hot breath tickling your collarbone as his deft fingers wrote a symphony of sensation between your legs. But then he slowed. 

“Oh hell no–” you began, smothered indignation melting into laughter as he covered your mouth with a hand. He rolled away for a moment, then came back brandishing your vibrator. 

“So impatient,” he chided, replacing his hand with a kiss to your mouth as he passed the vibrator to you. He didn’t have to ask; you knew what he wanted. And you loved it.

“Gonna last like 13 seconds…” you murmured, smiling against his lips at the faint sound of a chuckle in his chest. He didn’t reply, but kissed you more deeply as you switched it on and dipped it between your legs, biting your lip immediately at the crash of sensation where you’d already been primed to the slightest touch. He sat up a bit, watching you move it from front to back, teasing your pussy as you squirmed, and thought he would explode. The sight of your furrowed brows, heaving chest, and glistening sex was driving him mad, and he closed his eyes for a moment, grasping one breast and kneading it firmly. 

You pulled the vibrator away for a moment, absolutely spinning as nerves went off across your body like fireworks, His scent, his heat, his mouth, his hand… The desperate little sounds that he made to match your own as you pressed it against yourself again… He’d worked you into a near frenzy, and you clutched his arm, further aroused by his muscles as his hand ravaged one breast, then the other – cupping, pinching, caressing, squeezing… As he felt your response growing, he lowered his mouth once again, dragging his tongue across a nipple before taking it in his mouth, knowing it would drive you over the edge, and when your body tensed as moans turned into mewls, he buried his face, licking and sucking you through your climax. White hot electricity rocked through your body as he continued, slowing only with the movements of your hand as your unhindered gasps and whines sang his praises and slowly quieted.

When you closed your legs to the side with a huge exhale, basking drunkenly in the orgasmic glow, he grinned, pulling back to tuck himself neatly along your back again. A million pert comments ran through his mind, but none were strong enough to break through his thick haze of contentment. You shuddered, one residual wave of bliss, and started to roll to face him, murmuring something about his turn as you made a feeble grasp for his cock. He laughed, tucking you back neatly where you’d been, and kissed your shoulder blade. 

“You just enjoy that,” he offered.

“I’m recharging for round two,” you said in mocking sternness. 

“If you say so,” he conceded, a knowing grin softening his handsome face. 

And the dynamics were back in play. 

Join the tag list by commenting for the discord server link or filling out my form.

@wings-and-beskargam @returnofthepineapple @heidnspeak @photogirl894 @ladylucksrogue

@techhasmjolnir @skellymom @reader6898 @vrycurious @burningnerdchild

@kashasenpai @shadowphantomreaper @dangraccoon @littlemissmanga @grayrideruniverse

@mxkyrie @cw80831 @sweeticedtea @followthepurrgil @youreababboon

@littlemissbshine @lightwise @etod @remotelyhauntedstatue @nursekyra

@stardusthuntress @waytoooldforthis78 @dreamie411 @cdblake1565 @jedi-master-jora-malli