#jangofctts

Nothing goes as planned—naturally. All Din finds is a man playing dress up, an oversized lizard, planetary drama he’s forced to resolve and—to top it all off—an attempted stickup. Maker—he’s not even worried about anything save for the kid and your speeder. The very same one now scattered over the sand in miserable heaps.           

At least some of it is salvageable…

By the time Din reaches the outskirts of Mos Eisley, the binary suns are smearing across the horizon like molten puddles of magma. Deep aches amass in his shoulders and back from the weight of the speeder parts, his gear, and the second pair of armor. Maker—it feels like his arms are going to be ripped off.

The baby babbles something incomprehensible. 

“Almost there, kid,” Din responds, sparing a quick glance down the baby. “How does soup sound?”

Instead of trudging back to the hangar, Din wanders to the cantina. Call it a hunch or just you and your aunt’s tendency to lurk around the premises, he’s certain he’s going to find one of you here. 

Din is right.

The moment he steps inside, he spots your mess of hair, the low solar lights illuminating the rich colors with a soft orange. The baby coos and blinks up at Din, his tiny clawed finger gesturing in your direction. 

Din hums. “Good job—you found her.” 

The child’s little teeth peek out, pleased with his discovery. Din steps into the doorway, down the carven stairs and over to your table. A older man—a ship rigger by the looks of his uniform—sits across from you, a game of Sabaac spread across the table between you. You’re winning. 

“Hello, Shiny.” You greet, dipping your chin in his direction. “Your armor is looking a tad ripe.” 

It’s true. The layer of slime coating his armor had baked and crusted under the suns—probably doesn’t smell too good either… 

“I killed a Krayt dragon.” Din states it with a twinge of smug satisfaction despite knowing how little something like that would mean to you. He could conquer three dozen planets and shower you in all the precious metals in the world and you’d still turn your nose up at everything.  

“And I curb stomped a centipede today—you aren’t special.” Your eyes never leave the set of worn cards you hold between your fingers, acutely ignoring him like you would an overly enthusiastic puppy. You inhale and scrape your right thumbnail along the edge of the hexagonal cardstock—it’s a subtle tell, one Din would more than likely miss if he were the unlucky bastard brave enough to sit at the other end of the table.  

“You playin’ or what?” Your opponent gripes. He scratches his unkempt salt and pepper stubble and quirks a furry brow. 

You lift your chin in scorned defiance and lay your hand down—full Sabaac. The man hisses through his crooked, clenched teeth and utters a curse as he shoves his winnings towards your end of the table.  

“Peli promised me information.” Din pushes, hearing the kid coo in curiosity as you begin shuffling the cards with practiced flare. “About others like me.”

“Do I look like my aunt to you?” You grumble. It’s the first time your eyes leave the perimeter of the game to look at him. They settle on the kid first with a guarded version of compassion, then leap to the faded green armor clipped to the heavy luggage, and then his visor. Your lip twitches at the green slime still coating the beskar. “I’m assuming my speeder didn’t make it.”

“A technical difficulty.”

You roll your eyes and snort, dealing out the cards then setting the stack in the middle. “Right…”

The background ambiance of the bar and the quiet rasp of cards fill the brief lull in conversation. Any other rational person would take the blaring hint to leave, but Din is just as stubborn as you are. 

“I don’t remember where the hangar is,” Din lies, cocking his head to the side in mock innocence, “could you show me?” 

The tip of your tongue peaks out of the corner of your mouth. The unconscious tic is not one of irritation—not yet. Though before you’re able to respond, your opponent beats you to it. 

“Yeah—I know where it is. It’s between fuck off and take a hike.”  

Din turns his head, the cool, even tone of his words sharper than shrapnel as he address the man. “I was speaking to her.”        

This is funny to you Din realizes—one of the tiny mysteries of your entirety clicking into the place of the puzzle map he’s conjured for you. 

“Well, I don’t have the time of day for cowards who wear shiny buckets over their head.” The man gripes into his drink, dark eyes flicking over to Din as he sizes him up. “What’s a Mandalorian doing out here anyway? Thought your planet exploded or something.”

The man’s ignorance irks him—sure. How could it not? But with years of harsh words and jabs at the foundation of Din’s very being, he’s learned to adapt. It’ll always sting no matter how many layers of beskar he wears but you on the other hand…

Your eyes spark, molten and bright like the last solar flare on the surface of a decaying star. Each encounter Din’s had with you, he’s bared witness to the deep well of your anger that fuels your being like the auto-mechanical heart of a droid. He’s felt the bite of your rage firsthand, but this anger—this is the tragedy of the delicate mayfly wings trapped between the black teeth of misfortune—the story of the boy who rammed a spear into the flank of an ancient beast that bites before it barks and gnashes its yellowed teeth in warning.

Din’s hand inches towards his blaster. He’s not willing to weigh the safety of the kid against your rash decisions, despite it being on his behalf.   

Though, just as quick as it appears, it recedes like the cool drawback of a tumultuous ocean. Din’s arm relaxes at his side as you release a puff of air. 

Your scuffed up fingers, stained with years of engine grease, scars and dirt, curl around your half finished drink. You stand, lay your cards face down onto the table and flash the stranger a feral grin.

Without a word, you toss your drink directly into the man’s unsuspecting eyes. In another breath, the pointed edges of your knuckles fly forward and hook beneath the point of his chin with a meaty thunk. The man’s head whips backwards and connects with the gravely wall—

Out like a light.  

Jaw clenched tight, you shake out your bleeding knuckles and gather up the strewn credits over the table. You shove them into the pockets of your jacket and side eye Din. “Restitutions for damages,” you mutter. 

The other patrons keep their eyes to themselves as the three of you hurry out the door. Only an apathetic glance from the bar tender serves as proof that something did, in fact, occur. No one wants to dirty their nose sniffing about where they shouldn’t be when they have their own business to safeguard.

The crisp night air rustles the stray strands of hair that escape from your ponytail. Ghostly moonlight carves the shape of your cheeks into an almost ethereal sight—one of those deep space creatures with pointy teeth and hellfire for eyes. Stuff of legends you’d never think to look in a dingy bar for.     

But he knows—Din knows that cool mask is just a front from what you hide. It is a hungry ghost that hounds your thin stretched shadow—what ifs and the glories of war you never really escaped. You forget that you are flesh and blood and ghosts are only air and echoes, nothing more. 

Din is sharp edged steel. A stray fragment of a shattered mirror, the lacerated reflection of a nameless purpose and a faceless existence. He’s torn edges and cracked glass but his heart beats within his chest with the blood of a thousand suns. Two souls under the umbrella of the word damaged but entirely different in nature.     

“No one—“ you growl, your voice a steady and lethal timbre that terrifies a part of Din’s unconsciousness, “—speaks that way to my friends.” 

Touching. 

“Don’t look at me like that, Creature,” you huff, staring down at the child who gurgles in return. “He deserved it—“

The reunion certainly wasn’t the one Din imagined, though it’s a relief to find that there’s no roughened edge like sandpaper over skin wedged between you. Picked up right where you left off—no questions asked and no inglorious retelling of how Din nearly died on the floor of a shitty cantina. There’s not a doubt in his mind that you'd laugh at him for it—it is sorta funny…   

The rest of the evening is spent walking back to the hangar, arguing over the fact that yes Din should take the couch instead of that miserable little hovel he calls a bed, and spend the night. He’d have to find some other mechanic to work through the night if he wanted to leave in the morning, because you certainly did not want to volunteer for that. And so—Din reluctantly takes the couch and agrees to let you tackle the monstrosity of fixing up his ship for tomorrow. 

He has to admit…the couch is a bit smaller than the length of his body, but it’s comfortable…maybe he’d buy a better blanket while he was here. As a treat.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- 

You purse your lips and whistle. “I swear each time I see it, it gets worse. Y’know, I know a couple guys selling—“ 

“Can you fix it?”

You fold your arms over your chest and roll your eyes.“Yeah I can fix it, jeez—no need to get your undies in a twist.” 

You try not to take offense, because hey—you’re offering him the info on the good deals on new ships (and at this point anything would be better than this old rust bucket). But if Din doesn’t want anything to do with that, then whatever. His loss.   

When you wander onto the ship, toolbox in hand, the Mandalorian tags along. Unsure if he doesn’t trust you with his things or just wants to hang out, it blankets the space with an air of uncertainty. Turns out it was neither of those guesses. All he does is throw open his stash of weapons, collect his pile of vibroknives, and set them on a table to polish and sharpen. 

Makes sense, you suppose. Everything has to be as shiny as his armor. 

You drop to your knees near the closest wiring panel you find. You wrench open the paneling and frown at the disarray of sparking wires and tangled cords. You organized these perfectly last time he was here. “Who the fuck junked up my rigging?”

Mando sits at the little table tucked away in the corner, brooding over his cache of weapons. He shrugs. “Could’ve come loose when I landed.” 

You roll your eyes at his half assed excuse and mutter a foul string of curses under your breath that’d make even Peli wince. It’s fine. It’s cool—no biggie. You can sort through this in a couple hours, maybe three. 

But of course rarely anything goes as planned. As time ticks away, arms deep in wires older than the kriffing Clone Wars, the distractions begin. The scrape of metal on durasteel makes the hair rise into little pricks all up your arms—you shoot a glare over your shoulder. Din tilts his head, your kneeling self reflecting within the ever dark visor, features scrunched into an obvious tell of annoyance. Huffing, you bury your head back into your task at hand. 

The second distraction arrives in the form of a quiet hum of curiosity originating from the Mandalorian. Out of the corner of your eye you see him bring a vibroblade up to his visor, inspecting the notch in the blade that disrupts the electrical current that flows through the weapon. Din then rubs his thumb over the handle of the vibroblade in a slow, sensual circle. You lick your lips and tear your eyes away. That shouldn’t be hot.

You furrow your brows and tear apart another wire, but the metallic tap, tap, tap of Din bouncing the tip of a different blade over the table is bothersome. You swing your head to your left, mouth parting to snap at him, but his hand—sans glove—brings you to a halting stop. 

It’s alluring, the way his long, weathered fingers twirl the knife with practiced ease—like silk through water and followed by the low hum of electricity meant to slice through flesh. Din tosses it in the air, watching it spin three rotations then catches it by the handle. Your lips purse when his visor meets your eyes. He spins it between his fingers.  

“Am I bothering you?”

Fucker.   

You scowl. “It’s fine.” 

The soft rasp of his thumb sliding along the flat of the blade entices the eye and damnit—he’s doing this on purpose. 

“Doesn’t seem fine,” he hums. 

“Well, it is.” You retort hotly. You snatch up your pliers and imagine you’re pulling his teeth out in place of the crooked paneling. “I’m currently thriving in my element.”  

Din hums, the sound buzzing with grainy distortion. “Do you want a closer look?”

You chew your bottom lip. He’s playing with an open flame and you with volatile jet fuel. 

“I don’t know, seems kinda lame from here.” You scoff, busying yourself by pinching and twisting another set of frayed wires between your fingertips. “A toothpick if anything.”

Din snorts behind you. The deadly whisper of beskar against the durasteel tabletop makes the hair on the back of your neck prick into points. You tense as heavy boots shuffle along the floor, the near silent rustle of armor tinkling behind you as Din steps closer. You’re slow to stand, even though the presence of the Mandalorian is no less than overbearing. You wipe your grimy hands onto a spare rag, continuing to face the paneling. You then turn, a coy smile threatening to break across your face. 

Stars Din is broad—and close enough you swear you’re able to see the perspiration of your breath fog the beskar plating. Your eyes follow the seams of the cuirass, across the leather bandolier and up to his helmet that’s fixed in an impassive glare of tempered steel. Your back bumps into the wall as Din takes another step forward, boxing you in. To escape you’d need to duck under his arm and yet…you refuse to move.   

Your breath catches as he languidly lifts his hand and taps the flat side of the vibroblade over your collarbone. The sharpened point tickles up the column of your throat, a crackle of nerves and your pounding pulse following in its wake. Din turns the blade to flat edge and pushes into the space right below your jaw—you squirm when he chuckles, the sound low and deep. 

“You like this…”

Din grunts as your hand reaches between his legs, squeezing the growing hardness there. “So do you.” 

Din circles his hand around your wrist with his free palm. Moons above his hands are warm. He murmurs your name—you shiver. “Tell me you want this—want me.”

A blush, hotter than the surface of Tatooine in the midday sun, rushes up your neck and pools into the apples of your cheeks. Maker you want him. With a shuddering sigh you nod—braving the scathing shrapnel of vulnerability. “I need you, Din—please.”

A low chuckle rumbles through Din’s chest. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard you say please before.”

Din drops his hold on your wrist as you roll your eyes. “Shut up, Bucket Head.”

The Mandalorian snorts and dips his head—gesturing towards the blade still lightly pressed against the base of your throat. “This ok too, Skitter?”

You flash him a wolfish grin. “Gonna fuck me with it?”

Din swears under his breath, crowding his body closer to yours. You hear his strained sigh as he dips his head closer, the beskar a chilly whisper against your cheek. “You’re depraved…take off your pants.”

You smirk, tear off your belt and shimmy out of your pants and underwear, bottom half now bare. His visor dips, entranced.  

Your heart leaps into your throat, your pulse roaring in your ears as he settles one of his bare hands over the swell of your hip while the other trails the blunt edge of the handle from your clothes collarbone, and down your belly. From your mid thigh he skates the handle up your bare thigh and then rests it over the crack of your thigh. Heat flushes through your entire body, a stark contrast to the cool metal of the handle. A shiver races down each vertebrae when he drags it over the swell of your cunt and then carefully pressing it against your clit. You gasp and arch into the light touch, your thighs involuntarily jerking as he increases the pressure. It’s cold, rigid and filthy. Who knows where that knife has been—how many lives it’s taken or severed through muscle and skin. 

You don’t find it in you to care all that much.    

He trades his hold on your hip to slide his hand into your shirt, palming and kneading your breast through your bra as you roll and whine against his fingers. The tight circles he's drawing over your clit burns through your abdomen, drags you closer to the precipice that you’re all ready so close to. Fuck—it’s been so long since you’ve indulged in this sort of pleasure.You whine his name as wicked heat licking up your body and spreading to each limb. You arch into him, the handle of his knife slipping through your folds as arousal drips from your cunt.   

Your groan as you tilt your hips into the handle, craving any lick of pleasure he’ll give. Your breath hitches as Din pushes the hilt closer to your throwing entrance, murmuring praise as he sinks the first couple inches inside of you. It’s cold—the knobby feel of the handle not too much thicker than one or two of your fingers combines. You huff and grab at his cowl, the warmth of his hand grazing your pussy each time he rocks his wrist forward. 

“You’re so quiet,” Din goads, pulling the handle free from your aching center. “You usually have plenty to say.” 

You shoot Din a glare, tongue weighed down by arousal to come up with a god retort. You lean your head back against the wall of the Crest and with a chuckle, Din’s hand leaves your shirt to pull you against his chest, the vocoder rumbling against your ear. The blade clatters to the floor and instead brings his calloused fingertips to your cunt. He softly rolls your swollen clit between his forefinger and thumb, delighting in the way you shake. “Be a good little thing and cum for me.”

Shit, you didn’t think it’d be that easy. Your body seizes as white hot heat ripples through your core. Stars, brighter than a dying sun burst behind your eyes, a high pitched cry filtering past your lips as shake and fall apart in his arms, your cunt clenching tight around the thick fingers he slips inside of you. 

You whine as he pulls out, little aftershocks of pleasure wracking through your body in wake of your euphoric high. You groan as he lifts your head and pushes his digits, coated in your juices into your mouth. You lick them clean, tasting the tang of your own arousal and the salt on his skin. “Fuck—that was good.”

You can only imagine that Din rolls his eyes. He takes a step back but before he can escape—

You drop to your knees, a wicked smile curling over your lips. The muscles in his thighs jump as your palms smooth over the outsides of them, then up to his narrow hips, your thumbs lightly massaging the ligaments that protects the fragile joints. Din sucks in a sharp breath when your fingertips hook around his trousers. 

“What are you doing?” Din asks, brushing a thumb over your jaw. 

You pause and glance up at him. You quirk a brow. “Was gonna suck you off, but if you have something else in mind…“ He hisses and tips his head back, flashing the underside of his chin as your hand leaves his hip to cup the heavy bulge tenting in his trousers. 

“Maker—“ He looks off to the side, inhales a choppy breath and then snaps his head back. “You’d…you’d do that?”   

You nod and flash him an encouraging half grin. “Wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to.”

Din mumbles an incoherent string of words under his breath and shifts his weight onto his right leg. His fingers touch your cheek again then tuck a loose hair behind your ear. “But—“

Moons above this man is straight out of some kind of fucking fairytale—arguing about getting his dick sucked—or not. 

Whatever.       

“Din…” His breath hitches at the sound of his name. “I’m asking you kindly to fuck my mouth—it’s cool if you don’t wanna, but my knees already kriffing hurt and—“

He cuts you off with a hasty nod. “Yes—stars, please.”

Fuck yeah.

You smile and slide your eyes past Din’s legs to the cargo crate shoved up against the wall. “You should sit—easier that way.”

He nods and shuffles over, lightly perching himself on the edge and ready to flee at the barest hint of well—anything.

Din’s knee jumps when you place your palm over it. You assume his nerves are from the nature of his occupation—trouble always strikes when you least expect it—and what better time would that be when his pants are around his ankles. “Relax—I’m not gonna bite—maybe.”

He makes a wary sound low in his throat as your fingertips hook into the waistband of his trousers and pull. Din lifts up as you tug the fabric further down his legs, tan skin and solid muscle following in its wake. Fuck…

You swallow, mouth feeling quite dry when your eyes drift between his legs. Din is thick, a rosy brown color, flushed at the tip and curling towards his bellybutton. Beads of liquid shine at the tip, dribbling down the underside and pooling into the dark patch of curls at the base. Din’s fingers hook over the side of the crate, squirming under the weight of your stare. 

Yeah—that’s gonna leave your jaw aching.    

You hear his breath hitch, magnified by the crackle of the vocoder as your lips descend over a silvery scar on the inside of his right knee. You pepper a trail of wet kisses and light nips up his thighs, and by the time you reach the crease of his leg, his hips mindlessly rock with need. 

The second the wet warmth of your tongue brushes over the tip of his cock, his hips jolt off the crate, a load groan echoing through the empty ship. It’s like striking a match to an open line of kerosene—devouring and explosive that’ll leave your delicate skin singed. You’re not nervous playing with fire if this barest scrap of wild heat is anything like burning to a crisp. 

Emboldened by his initial reaction, you wrap your hand around the base, pulsing and achingly hard beneath the velvety flesh. You flatten your tongue over the tip, lapping up the sticky liquid the slip the head of him into your mouth. His hands fly to your hair, tightening into fists as he throws his head back. The beskar scrapes over the durasteel with a sharp squeal, but you don’t find it in you to care about the abrasive sound—eardrums be damned.  

“Fuck—kriffing hell—“ Din snarls, arching his hips to seek more of your warmth. “K-keep going.”  

Your own rekindled arousal blazes hot in your core hearing his stuttered pleas. You pull away to catch your breath, feeling almost guilty for doing so at Din’s low whine of protest. He picks his head up, watching as you languidly jerk him off—entranced with the way your hand rolls over the leaking tip, back down to the base, then up again. You could keep him like this—tease until he cracks under the pressure and begs you for whatever iota of pleasure you want to give but—

You’re not that mean.    

Wetting your lips with your tongue, you part your mouth and slide nearly half of his length into your mouth. Din mutters something garbled, his hips jolting as you hollow your cheeks and bob your head.

Din shifts, arching his back and stuttering out broken whispers of encouragement. Placing your hand over his thigh, you can feel his pulse thrumming beneath your fingertips, wild and alive—something real beneath all that heavy armor and unforgiving helmet. 

“You—you look…” He grunts as you hum around around his cock, swallowing him down further. “Shit—you look so p-perfect like this.”

You groan and squeeze your thighs together, attempting to ignore the gnawing hunger snapping at your insides. 

Rolling your tongue along the underside of his shaft, your fingers slide over what your mouth cant reach—squeezing and gently coaxing him towards his high. He seizes up tight—yet, just when you think you’ve got him skidding off that precarious edge—

His hand fists your hair at the base your neck and yanks you off his cock. He huffs, breathy little pants as he folds into himself like he’s been punched in the gut, his head rolling forward onto his shoulder. Din shivers as he scrambles for control, beginning to loose that slippery foothold he’s so intent on maintaining. His cock, flushed an angry red and still slick with your saliva, twitches and throbs for the release so cruelly wrenched away. 

You let him catch his breath. The fingers tangled in your hair go lax and drop away to rest at his sides. You swallow, his previous skittishness suddenly clicking into place. “Din, are you…?” A virgin. Your question tapers off, unsure if it’ll embarrass and scare him off. 

“No,” he answers—not in a sharp way like you’d hear with a bruised ego—just stating a fact. “Just not—not this. Never had someone—stars—“

Your teeth roll your bottom lip between them, forcing your face to remain neutral despite the stroke of pride blooming singing in your chest. You’re his first—lucky enough to make this the best goddamned oral he’ll ever have. Something he’ll remember for years.  

“Do you want me to stop?” You ask, praying to the Maker he’ll say no. 

He shakes his head, sucking in another calming breath and unfurling himself. His fingers clench into fists then relax, crackling with pent up energy and unsure nerves as to where he should put them. You solve it by threading your fingers through his and placing them around you head. 

Your lips quirk. “You’re allowed to cum in mouth—don’t worry about it.”

His cock twitches as a quiet moan fizzles through the modulator. “You su-sure?”

“Oh, yeah.”

With a smile you bring your mouth back to his cock, tongue swiping up the entire length of him. Din groans as the soft warmth of your mouth slips over the flushed tip of cock, his thick length twitching as you hollow out your cheeks and suck. You bob your head as you slowly work him in further because even like this, hardly halfway into your mouth, you feel your lips stretching a bit too much around him. You groan and part your mouth wider, letting him sink into the soft warmth of your throat.  Din inhales, the sound shaky and unsure as his hips twitch with a few tentative thrusts. 

You take it slow—lifting your mouth nearly all the up to the tip then back down to the base. Din rolls his hips, helping you ease into the gentle pace. Saliva drips down his cock and over your knuckles making an absolute mess you have zero intentions of cleaning up. It’s his ship after all. Din swears as his hips stutter, your hand squeeing around him, trying to push him off that edge he so deserves. Din gasps your name, the pitch of his words knocking up to a lighter, more airy tone, warmer than melted butter. 

“Ca-can’t believe, it—ah—it fits.” He groans with astonished reverence. You preen under his praise. 

You swallow around him and grunt at the abrupt jolt of his hips. There’s no distinctive rhythm you can follow as you let him rock his hips into your mouth—seeking out his pleasure without a coherent thought in sight. Just a cacophony of gasping breaths and rough moans. 

You can feel is cock twitching over you tongue—he’s close—and when your eyes roll up to meet the darkened visor, he’s gone. He shouts your name and knots his fists around your hair as he spirals of that edge. You nearly gag from the force of his release hitting the back of your throat—cock throbbing and jerking in your mouth like he’s been denying himself release for months. His moans, fragile and gasping, filling the quiet space as his hips grind his cock deeper down your throat, his hands threaded into your hair acting as an anchor—the sole tether he has to the waking world. 

Din’s grip relents as the last few catastrophic waves tear through his body. He doesn’t move his hands, just lets them rest over your skull  as his chest heaves for precious air, a harsh crackle through the vocoder. You pull his still twitching cock halfway out, dragging the tip of your tongue below the frenulum while one of your hands circles the base of his length. Maker—he’s still going—

Last little dribbles of his cum spurt onto your tongue and drip over your knuckles still securely wrapped around him. His legs and lower abdomen flex when your hand falls lower to carefully knead at his balls, milking out his pleasure for all its worth. You let his softening cock slip from your mouth when he swears and mumbles your name.      

When you rest your back against the wall, he slips himself back into his trousers and joins you. You take a risk and rest your head over the chilly beskar pauldron. You’d never call this love—the word is much too harsh for this delicate string of seconds. Love means giving pieces of yourself to others like martyrs give their hearts to the sky—or risk fragile skin against the rays of an unforgiving sun. Broken ribs and clenched fists, immensity beyond comprehension—

“You should come with us,” he says with a hesitant mumble. Love is formidable—but you know that somehow, here, pressed against Din’s side, that this is right. In a golden way, a honeyed way, a path that tastes of blood, freedom and blaster smoke that will leave your lungs stained with blackened soot. Cowardice has long made a home inside of your soul, and he’s offering you a chance to shake off the layer of frost clinging to your bones and step into the gentle merciful dawn.  

“Yeah—alright, Din. I will.”

Scooting closer to you, he hollered, “Jealous, eh?”

“Jealous of what?” you hollered back. Fuse smirked and nodded his head toward the pair just as the dancer lowered herself in Kami’s lap, swirling her hips in time with the song. It hit you that Fuse thought you liked Kami. “Jealous of her? Fuck no! I’m not after Kami.” You shook your head and downed the rest of your drink, the alcohol burning your throat before settling in your tummy. When Fuse gave you a look of obvious disbelief you leaned back over to him. “I don’t like him! I just--” You paused for a second, debating whether or not to tell your friend about why you kept looking back at the pair. His expectant gaze implored you to continue. “I just wish I could do something like that. Dance like that.” You shook your head again, bracing for some teasing comment from Fuse. The trooper simply stared.

“What makes you think you can’t?” His brow furrowed as you shrugged, not wanting to open up about your insecurities in the middle of the bar. “What, do you think you’re not good enough or something?”

The concerned expression on your friend’s face made you cave. “I just don’t feel confident enough to pull something like that off. I’m awkward and clumsy and she’s so pretty and he’s so into it and I don’t know how to do anything like that. I don’t know how to make someone be into me like that.” 

Fuse’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Girl, you could captivate any guy in this bar if you danced like that. And I know you could do it. I know you could!” Fuse shouted in your ear. “That dress you’re wearing is already stunning. You could take any of these guys home with just a sway of your hips. Why don’t you believe in yourself?”

Heat bloomed in your cheeks as Fuse’s words settled in your ears. You could take any of them home just like that? You shook your head a little at the thought. There’s no way it could be that easy. You were too stiff and nervous to have prowess like that. Besides, the only trooper you wanted was still back at the base, most likely spending his night alone with his sniper rifle in the shooting range. Fuse snatched your mind from the enveloping quiet of the range and shoved it back into the dingy club.

“Maybe you just need some practice,” he purred, scooting impossibly closer and wiggling his eyebrows. 

“Shut up!” You shoved his shoulder at the insinuation, although you knew he wasn’t serious. Fuse cackled with laughter, lightly shoving you back. Your ankle wobbled as you took the weight of the shove on your high heel, damn the skinny things. They looked great, but at what cost? “I have practiced, thank you very much.” As soon as the words left your mouth you regretted telling him. If the air in the bar had been a little thicker, you supposed you could have snatched the words right out of it and popped them back in your traitorous mouth, but they had already entered Fuse’s ears. 

Fuse’s mouth formed a little ‘o’. “And just who have you been practicing with? Honey, I can give you all the tips you need on how to dance like that.”

Rolling your eyes, you shook your head. There was no way in the galaxy you were about to tell Fuse you had spent several lonely evenings practicing a dance on an empty chair. The mirror you danced in front of did nothing to boost your confidence--only betraying wobbly legs and stiff arms. The sensual sway of the music you picked never influenced your movements. It simply made them seem more clunky and out of place. The flimsy armchair rocked dangerously beneath you every time you leaned against it, lacking the anchor of an audience. You had actually slipped off it once, and when Void asked you why you needed bacta for the large bruise blooming across your side, you made up a story about running into your desk in the middle of the night. To make matters worse, you weren’t sure if the audience you always imagined would even want a dance from you. 

Sweets was so shy and quiet. Although he didn’t talk much when you first met him, it only took a couple of days for you to fall completely head over heels for him. After several weeks of working with the team, he had started talking to you about local flora he found on missions and let you watch him in the gun range. You got as close as he would let you, but you had no idea if he reciprocated your feelings. The thought of him refusing you--of him shutting you out--always made your stomach plummet as you tried to sway your hips over the empty chair. You could just see his face freeze at your offer of a private dance--how he would withdraw within himself with a disgusted look and never talk to you again. There’s no way he would ever want you or agree, so why should you risk your friendship over a stupid little dance? 

Fuse ripped you from your spiraling thoughts with a snap of his fingers before your nose. “Ground control to sad girl, do you copy?” You flicked his hand away, trying to rid your mind of its noise. “Come on, I know you. You’re sitting here telling yourself that you can’t do it so much that you’ve convinced yourself not to try at all. And I’m here to tell you that you can do it. Any guy would be lucky to get a dance from you, you hear? Any guy. So who’s the lucky one you’ve been practising for, huh?” 

“I wouldn’t tell you for a million credits,” you shot at him. It was true. The idea of Fuse knowing that you had feelings--and unprofessional thoughts--for his brother were mortifying, not only because of the storm of teasing to follow, but because of the possibility of some of the other squad members finding out, namely the squad member in question. Fuse was unpredictable. 

“I think I know who it is anyway,” Fuse waggled his eyebrows, “and he’s not here with us tonight.” A knowing smirk spread across his face as you shrank back, stomach falling to the dirty barroom floor. “Don’t worry, I’ll never tell Sweets you like him. You’re going to be the one to tell him. No, no, don’t shake your head at me. I’ve seen how you look at him. I’ve also seen how he looks at you when you can’t see him.”

Your head shot up. Sweets looked at you like that? Impossible. The words coming from Fuse’s mouth had to be wrong. The beat of your heart outpaced the music as you desperately hoped he was right. After all the months of becoming friends with Sweets, all the sleepless nights dreaming of his arms around you, his lips on your lips, you couldn’t throw everything away just because Fuse thought Sweets liked you back. But your heart lurched, urging you to give in to your feelings. What would happen if you never told him? You very well could lose him that way, too. The thought of that happening hurt even more, causing determination to dissolve the pit you carried in your stomach. Adrenaline flowed through your veins as you promised yourself to see this through. 

“I’m ready to head back to base.” You stretched and checked your watch. Blanche would not be happy if you brought the boys back too late, and by the looks of Blue and Jaws’ drooling faces, it was going to take a while to get into a cab. 

“Where’s Max?” Fuse wondered aloud, scanning the bar as he pulled his comm out. 

“I think he had company to attend to. I’ll get Bruiser. You can handle Kami.” You left Fuse in the booth before he could protest, eager to get back to base before your nerves convinced you to back out. Bruiser didn’t want to leave his winning streak, but the threat of Blanche’s wrath had him shoving credits into his pockets and heading toward the door. Max had indeed left with his date and Kami begrudgingly left his dancer to help you and Fuse haul the other two onto the small transport. 

Anxieties swirled up from your stomach and into your heart, melting your shoes to the transport floor. You could have let them flood you, drowning out your true feelings and wants in a tidal wave of insecurities and disbelief; instead, you distracted yourself by focusing on the city lights passing by. No matter how much you tried to steel yourself, the waves of doubt lapped at the sides of your stomach, threatening to dissolve you from within. As you drew closer to base, you became more and more nervous until you began to shake. Fuse surprised you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder.

“You got this,” he smiled. “I believe in you. You’re going to do great and he’s going to love it. Trust me on that.” You simply nodded, biting your lower lip to keep it from trembling. 

Sooner than you had hoped, the transport arrived at base. Although Fuse had tried to bolster you again, your knees wobbled and stomach churned as you led the boys back to the barracks. Blanche was waiting for you at the door, nodding at you and failing to hide a yawn behind his hand. You hadn’t meant to return so late. Part of you began to wonder if Sweets was even still awake. No matter what was going to happen tonight, the adrenaline rushing through you wasn’t about to let you sleep any time soon. Just as you hoped that maybe he had gone to sleep already, sparing you from potentially making a fool of yourself, Sweets walked down the hall from the gun range. Your stomach lurched when you saw him, sending little shivers down your spine. You waved at him a little awkwardly and he waved back, touseling his curls a bit before shoving his hands in his hoodie pocket. Fuse cast you one last smirk and helped Blanche herd their brothers toward the bunks. 

“Fun night?” Sweets asked softly, watching the others stumble and weave their way down the empty hall. 

“Maybe for them,” you replied, your voice too quiet. You clenched your hands to keep them from shaking and hoped Sweets didn’t notice. Unfortunately, he did. You couldn’t decide if  it was excitement or nervousness that caused your stomach to tighten at his next action--Sweets grasped your hands in his own. His long, slender fingers intertwined with your own trembling ones and before you could stop yourself, you imagined what they would feel like in other places. Sweets stepped closer to you, his breath fanning across your hair as he tilted his head to the side. 

“You ok?” he murmured. His thumb traced circles across your knuckles, causing you to involuntarily shiver. Sweets took that as a “no” and pulled you into his chest. “Did something happen while you were out?” 

“No.” The word barely escaped your mouth as a whisper into the collar of his hoodie. “I’m just tense is all.” 

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

An idea formed as soon as he spoke. Before you could let it be drowned in nervousness and doubt, you asked him: “Would you dance with me for a little bit? The bar was super crowded and loud and I just want to move around a little bit.” Your heart thudded so hard in your chest at Sweets’ silence that you were certain he could feel it. “Just maybe not out in the hall,” you added quietly. He huffed a small laugh at that, grabbing your hand again to pull you down the corridor.

“Come on.” 

Sweets lead you into his sanctuary: the shooting range. It was completely empty at this hour of the night. Instead of leading you to the target area, Sweets took you up to the observation room. It sat behind the range floor and up a flight of stairs, meaning less opportunity for intrusion. You silently hoped the range would stay empty tonight.

Sweets flicked the dim lights on and you pulled out your pocket music drive, selecting a soft but upbeat playlist. The two of you began to move on your own a little awkwardly from opposite sides of the room, but you gravitated towards each other as the song picked up. Soon, you were giggling as Sweets spun you in circles around him. The knot in your stomach loosened as he laughed with you. The fabric of your dress lifted and flowed with each spin and sway of your hips, making you loosen up a little just to feel it sweep around the tops of your thighs. As you began another twirl around him your ankle gave way above your flimsy high heel. Faster than a shot from his own rifle, Sweets caught you and pulled you into his arms. Your breath shook as you collided with his firm chest, heat tingling in your cheeks...and between your thighs. 

“Maybe you should take those off,” he hummed. “I don’t want you to get hurt.” 

You breathlessly agreed, kicking the offensive shoes into the corner. Sweets chuckled and pulled you into a slow dance, one hand on the middle of your spine while the other traced small circles into your lower back. Maker, he was going to be the end of you. You laced your fingers behind his neck, trying to calm down as you swayed back and forth. Sweets’ gracefulness on the battlefield had captivated you, almost causing you to get shot on multiple occasions as you watched him instead of paying attention to the battle, and it was no different as he swayed before you.

 “Feeling better?” The words vibrated in his chest, drawing you even closer to him. “I’ll dance with you for as long as you like.” 

You hummed against him. “I’m feeling better, but I want to stay here a while.” The pair of you stood closer than you had ever been before, and it nearly took your breath away. A particularly sensual song came up on the playlist--one that you had practiced your dance to many times--as well as the song immediately following it on the queue. It was now or never. “Sweets, would you like a dance from me?” You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him as your voice squeaked, too afraid of his answer. 

“I thought we were dancing,” Sweets said in a small, questioning voice. You could almost curse his endearing innocence. 

Letting out a nervous giggle you tried to subtly elaborate. “Yes, we are, but I was wondering if you would want me to dance for you.” 

When Sweets seemed to ponder your question in silence, you took it a step further. Lightly, you brushed your hips against his in time with the song, gazing up at him with hooded eyes and parted lips. Sweets’ eyes widened as the realization of what you meant sank it. You watched his Adam’s apple bounce as he gulped, nervousness creeping up from your belly. Finally convincing yourself that you fucked up, that he didn’t want you and would shut you out for good, you shrank away from him, the words I’m sorry just beginning to escape your trembling lips. Before you could slip away and fade from existence, Sweets grabbed you, pressing his fingers lightly into your hips. You snapped your head to find his normally calm eyes beginning to darken. He immediately closed his eyes as a deep flush spread across his face, nodding quickly. Relief flooded you, as well as a new kind of nervousness. You took a deep breath to calm your nerves. You could do this. 

With every beat of the music you pushed Sweets gently backwards until he sat in one of the observation chairs. You took another deep breath, going back to all the nights you practiced to this very song. Only this time, you actually had your dream audience sitting before you, darting his tongue out to wet his plush lips. Closing your eyes, you ran your hands across your hips, allowing your muscles to loosen up as you swayed. As the song picked up so did your hips, beginning swirling motions as your hands continued to travel across the front of your dress. Sweets audibly gasped as you lightly cupped your breasts, his eyes tracking every move of your fingers as they deftly kneaded the soft flesh. You knew you had to keep him on his toes, wanting more throughout the whole routine, so you stepped around the chair, trailing your hand across his shoulder and throat as you moved around him. He tried to turn and follow your movement but you turned his face back to the empty room with a light touch against his jaw. His breath shook as you leaned against him from behind, just barely pressing your soft chest to the back of his head. You giggled at his reaction, ghosting your hands down his chest through the thick fabric of his hoodie. 

“You wanna take this off for me, baby?” you cooed into his ear. Sweets nearly smacked you in the face as he rushed to throw the hoodie across the room. A laugh escaped you even as you tried to cover it with your hand and Sweets turned around at the soft sound of it. He smiled sheepishly, eyes crinkling at the corners. You leaned around to press a quick kiss to the heart on his his warm cheek and he immediately whipped his head back to the front, the blush from his face beginning to creep down his neck. 

The song kicked up a notch as you made your way around the other side of the chair. You spun before your captivated audience in a slow, tantalizing twirl, running your hands from your breasts all the way back to cup your ass through your skirt as you turned your back to him. By the time you turned back around to face him, hands trailing down your thighs to lift the dress’ hem up a little, Sweets had leaned forward in the chair, elbows resting on his knees. You paced toward him with an exaggerated walk, reaching forward to press him back into the chair. Nudging his feet a little further apart, you stood between his legs, rotating your hips toward him. Sweets’ hands shot up, stopping to hover on either side of your hips. He looked up at you, dark eyes searching for the permission to touch you. 

“Hold on to me,” you whispered to him. His strong fingers kneaded your soft hips as he pulled you closer to him, pressing his nose to the soft curve of your belly. You let out a breathy giggle and carded your hands through his curls. He let out a quiet moan at that, encouraging you to continue. The song on your music drive changed and the beat became slower, deeper.

You gently grabbed Sweets’ face, pulling his head further up your body as your hips swept in bigger circles, almost brushing against his chest. He buried his nose between your breasts, pressing a soft kiss to the skin your dress exposed. A high pitched whine left you and you pulled his hands up to your chest, lowering yourself into his lap. Every touch he gave you sent chills down your spine; hundreds of butterflies bursting from your stomach fluttered across your skin, exploding into stardust in your eyes. You raked your nails lightly across his scalp and down the back of his neck, finally settling on the thin fabric covering his chest as you swirled your hips against his. Sweets arched his body into yours, groaning softly at the contact. He pressed kisses up your throat as you continued your smooth movements, reaching up to pull your face to his. You pressed your forehead to his teal bangs, nudging your noses together as you closed your eyes. This night could not have been more perfect in your mind. Your whole body shuddered as Sweets ran his hands lightly up and down your back, settling again at your hips. 

“Can I kiss you?” he breathed against your lips, voice quavering. 

From the moment you’re assigned to the 343rd, Blanche knows he’s in trouble. An experienced, well trained, highly regarded captain… who just so happens to be a beautiful woman. Trouble indeed.

General Tavik told him that your previous squadron took extremely heavy casualties, and that only you and one other survived. She told him to expect the transition to a new squad to be difficult given the loss was so recent.

On the day of your transfer, Blanche made sure his brothers are spiffed up and on their best behavior. “She is a highly sought after officer,” Blanche reminded them, “at least try to make it seem like we’re worth her effort."

Upon your arrival, Blanche found that you were nothing like he expected. As weeks passed you proved to be every bit the capable and intelligent Captain the squad was promised. But instead of the broken, withdrawn soldier he’d become following his own experience with loss, you surprised him. You were vivacious and outgoing from the very beginning. You got along well with every single one of his brothers, took to your new role quickly, and seemed to make the unit function more smoothly. You were easy going, smart as a whip, funny as hell, and kriffing gorgeous. Oh yeah, Blanche was in trouble for sure.

“Commander?” Your voice rings out in the quiet of his quarters through his com device. His heart jumps, not only at the surprise of the sudden sound but at the prospect of an interaction with you.

“Go ahead Captain,” he answers after a moment to compose himself.

“The General has left me with a pile of requisition forms and data backups, looks like more than a few of them need your signature and approval. I know it’s a bit late, but if you have the time…” you trail off.

“I’m not busy,” he blurts out, “I-I mean, you can come down to my quarters and I’ll take care of you.”

I’ll take care of you? He thought, I’m such a fucking idiot.

“Great! I’ll be there in 5 minutes,” you reply happily. Oh good, maybe you didn’t notice how fucking creepy that sounded.

Just like you’d said, 5 minutes later there is a light tap on the door. Blanche calls for you to enter, and finds that he can not stop himself from staring as you walk in.

“Um… do you mind if I sit?” You ask, indicating the chair beside him.

Idiot, he thought to himself, stop staring and get to work.

“Of course,” he says.

You sit down next to him and place three data pads down on the small desk. You quickly explain what documents are on each one, and which require his signature for each.

“It must have taken you hours to file these reports,” he comments.

You laugh lightly, and continue tapping away on a fourth data pad in your lap. “The joys of command right? All the prestige and all the paperwork that comes with it."

“It’s not all on you to do this though, as the other senior member of command on this squadron these responsibilities fall to both of us,” his gaze meets yours, and he can see the slight look of guilt in your eye.

“Yes, I suppose it does,” you say quietly, suddenly dropping his gaze “I uh- I tend to take on a lot of extra work when dealing with other things."

Blanche understands this wholeheartedly, isn’t that exactly what he’d been doing for the last year and half? “Your first squad?” He asks gently, setting aside the datapad.

You smile at your hands, still avoiding his gaze. “Yes. The 242nd. They were like a family to me. I never had brothers or sisters growing up. But they were like the older brothers I always wanted." You look up suddenly. “Not that the 343rd isn’t wonderful. You’ve all welcomed me with open arms. You just, never forget your first squad, ya know?"

“I know what you mean. We had a 9th member of the squad originally. Even though we’re all brothers… he was mine. He was my little brother,” Blanche surprises himself at his own admission. This is the first time ever since losing Max he’s spoken openly about him.

“I don’t really understand The Force and all that stuff the Jedi use and live by,” you say “But, for the sake of our loved ones, I hope they’re right. I hope your brother and mine have found peace on the other side,”

“Sometimes I think he’s watching over me,” Blanche laughs. “Feels like he’s right there, urging me to step out of my comfort zone or make the right choice."

“See that’s exactly what I don’t want,” you giggle. “I don’t need my brothers looking down at me from the beyond when I’m trying to… uh… be productive” you waggle your eyebrows at him. When Blanche realizes just how close the two of you were sitting together, heat flushes his cheeks and he leans in a bit closer.

“Productive…” he muses, “Then let’s hope they’re not looking,” he dips his head down and captures your lips.

His lips are full and plush, save for the tiny scar on the left side that quirks downward and tickles just a bit in its variant texture. His large hand comes up to cup your face, just as his tongue slides past your lips tasting you.

You moan into the kiss, enjoying it immensely but craving more. You slide forward on the chair, he takes the hint and pulls you up into his lap to straddle him. Experimentally he runs his hands up and down your sides, climbing higher and higher until they’re resting on the outer curve of your breasts. He takes your continued moaning and fervent kisses to be an indication to proceed, he squeezes your breasts through the material of your thin shirt. You roll your hips against him in response, and reach back to unclasp your bra. He tugs your shirt up, over your head and revels in the opportunity to take one of your nipples in his mouth, tweaking and pulling at the other with his fingers.

“Commander.” Your hot breath tickles the shell of his ear, as you roll your hips again.

“Tell me what you want,” he pulls his head up, releasing your breast, and drops his hands down to grip your hips, stopping you from your ceaseless teasing. “If you want something, you have to ask for it."

You whimper at the loss of sensation, how ever little of it you had given all the layers of clothing separating you. “Touch me."

“You’ll have to be a little more specific,” he nips at your neck, teasing you back. You whimper at the attention but can’t find the words to express what you want.

“Fingers,” you manage to get out. “I want you to use your fingers."

He suddenly stands up, bringing you up with him. “Hmm, good girl,” he growls in your ear. He takes the few steps necessary to get to the bed, and drops you down onto it a little more roughly than he had intended. He leans back over to continue kissing you, as he works your pants and underwear off.

Your mouth falls open as his large hand palms your bare cunt, the pad of his thumb sliding between your folds to circle your clit.

“Is this what you wanted, sweet girl?” He purrs, dipping his first finger down to tease your aching hole, pleased to find you already wet.

“So wet for me, aren’t you? But you’re still so tight.” His words send waves of near painful arousal straight to your core. “Think you can take another finger sweet girl?”

“Yes, please, Commander,” you gasp out. You can tell he likes that, being referred to by his title, evident by the stiff tent in his pants rubbing against your thigh.

He slides a second deliciously thick finger in and begins pumping them deftly as you get closer and closer to the edge. He changes the rhythm he’s using to circle your clit, and you’re done for. You come hard and fast, clenching around his fingers.

“Mmm, good girl,” he whispers darkly, you smile up at him and drag his hand up to your mouth to suck his fingers clean. You bat your eyes at him as you swirl your tongue around his fingers, teasing him further.

“You want something else?” He pulls his fingers from your mouth and readjusts them to tilt your head up at him.

“I wanna suck your cock, Commander,” you say sweetly. He grins, loving the thrill of this little game and thoroughly excited at the prospect of it continuing. He moves to lay back against the pillows while you push yourself up to get on top of him. He rids himself of the top half of his fatigues, tossing it somewhere into the rest of the room.

Before you really think about it, you’re reaching out to run your hands over the sunburst tattoo decorating his muscled shoulder. Down over the particularly large scar on his chest. He watches your curious eyes, as they hungrily explore the well defined muscles of his chest and abdomen. Your fingers dip down to the waistband of the bottom half of his fatigues, and pull down.

His cock springs free, curving up towards his stomach. You can’t help staring a little bit as you finish working his pants off of him. You figured he’d be big given his stature, but he is… impressive to say the least.

But you’re feeling brave and up to the challenge so you look up at him. Without breaking eye contact, you take him in your hand, run your tongue up the underside of his shaft and wrap your lips around the head already dribbling precum. He breaks eye contact first, tipping his head back and trying to stifle a moan. Encouraged by his sounds of pleasure you take him further into your mouth, wrapping your hands around what your mouth can’t seem to take.

“So good,” he whimpers, “just like that." You hollow your cheeks and suck a little harder, dropping your other hand down to cup his balls. He’s getting close, the sight of your mouth stretched around him is almost too much for him

“St-stop,” he gets out. Quickly you look back up, and release him from your mouth. “Need to last long enough to fuck you, sweet girl."

With that he flips you over so you’re laying back down against the mattress. He ducks down to suck a mark on your collarbone. “You’re being so good for me, sweet girl. Think you can take this cock?”

“Yes,” your voice is light and breathy, “please Commander, want your cock."

He guides his cock to your entrance, rubbing the head up and down your soaking slit. Carefully he pushes into you, feeling your walls flutter around him. Your hands slide up his back and around his shoulders, feeling yourself stretch around him. It burns just a little, but in a pleasant kind of way that makes you crave more. He pushes in further, sheathing himself inside you.

He stills when he feels that he can’t push in any further, giving you time to adjust to the feeling of complete fullness. After a moment you give his shoulders a gentle squeeze and roll your hips up into him, encouraging him to start moving. He takes your cue and starts a steady rhythm, matching the upward thrust of your hips.

You shift slightly, hitching your leg up over his hip to change the angle. You smother the cry of pleasure that escapes you by burying your face in his neck when he hits something deep and wonderful inside you. He grabs you at your hip, and continues pumping into you.

“Blanche,” you moan out, “I think- I think I’m gonna-“ He can feel you starting to contact around him and he works hard to keep up his pace, fucking you through your impending orgasm.

“Come for me, pretty girl,” he snarls out, feeling himself getting close too. Your body goes rigid for a moment, digging your nails into his back as blinding white hot pleasure tears through you. Your cunt spasms, squeezing him impossibly tighter. A few more good thrusts, and he wrenches himself backwards, out of your grasp and pulls himself out of your wet heat.

He finishes himself off by pumping himself in his fist, cumming over your tits and stomach with a final grunt. He collapses down next to you, breathing heavily. You turn your head to look at him, admiring his gorgeous face. His eyes are closed, but the smile spread across his face as his breathing returns to normal is enchanting. When he does open his eyes, he takes in every feature of your perfect face. If he thought he was in trouble before… there’s no denying it now.

Eventually he gets up and brings a warm washcloth to clean you up. It feels nice, being taken care of like this, not all men are as considerate as Blanche. He comes back to the bed after tossing the washcloth back in the fresher. He leans over you again, and gives you the gentlest kiss on the top of your head.

“Can I get you anything?” He asks. You’ve never seen such tenderness from him, but it’s a welcome surprise.

“Will you just lay with me for a bit?” You reply. He smiles warmly, and pulls you in to cuddle up to his chest. After some time, just lying comfortably in each other’s presence, you guide his hand down to your hip and trace his fingers over the little protrusion in your skin where your contraceptive implant rests.

“Next time, I want you to come inside me,” you whisper to him. He gives your hip a light squeeze, and he slides his hand back up your waist and around your back, keeping you close.

“Next time?” He asks with the barest hint of a chuckle in his voice.

“I hope there’s a next time,” you say honestly, “that was too good to only happen once."

————————————————————————

In the months that follow, it’s almost like that night never happened. At least that’s what it looks like to everyone else. In front of the men you remain friendly but stern given your placement in command. You lead well and interact normally with Blanche. The squad is none the wiser. But when night falls, and everyone else is asleep there is nothing in the galaxy that can keep the two of you apart.

In his quarters or in yours, at times in riskier places if you’re feeling brave. It’s fun keeping a secret, trying to be quiet, exploring each other’s bodies and desires. It doesn’t need a label, it doesn’t get the teasing or scrutiny of the public eye; it’s unspoken and exciting… until one night something changes.

In the pitch black of your quarters, you’re splayed out on your back working to catch your breath and running your fingers through his thick curls that rest on your tummy.

“When this wretched war is over, we’re getting a bigger bed with a stronger frame,” you laugh. He laughs too, but something tugs at him.

When the war is over.

The thought turns over and over in his mind. It’s not like he doesn’t want the war to end. But who knows when that will actually happen. And who’s to say that either one of you will actually live to see the end of it. He feels guilty, laying there in your bed, running his hands down your sides. He’s let this go on for months. Pretending there’s nothing going on between you during the day, and fucking you like his life depends on it at night. All the while knowing either of you could be sent to die without a second thought on any given day. He feels selfish, slightly ashamed, and wrong about the whole thing. This can’t possibly have a future that doesn’t end in tragedy.

This has to stop, he thinks to himself, I can’t do this again.

You notice quickly that something has changed. Just days after that night, he’s acting differently around you. He doesn’t come to your room as often, or ever really. In briefings he makes no effort to include you in strategy planning, or decision making. You’re offended and hurt, but you know it is not your place to make a scene.

Instead, you pull away too. You stop all attempts to com him after hours, you lock the door to your quarters at night when you never used to, and you don’t spend time with him or the Squadron at large if he’s present. Instead you spend time with other members of the Squadron you’re friends with, or more often you spend your free time alone. In a word, you’re miserable. He is miserable.

He tells himself it’s for your own good. He’s doing you a favor by stopping this before you can get hurt. But it’s too late for that, you’re already hurt. You wonder what you did wrong. Why relationships, even ones without titles, have to end this way.

You try to push these thoughts and feelings away, by doing what you do best, burying yourself in work. There’s a very big important mission coming up in tandem with another battalion, the 410th, who are notorious for being difficult to work with.

The night before the mission, you lay in your bed tossing and turning, overcome with anxiety. When there’s a quiet knock at your door. You wonder briefly if you’d imagined it. But it comes again. You get up and go to answer it.

There he is, standing in the doorway looking at you with those beautiful eyes you’re hard pressed to look away from. You know what he wants without him having to say it. And you know you should say no, but you find that you can’t. Because you miss him so much, and you are longing for some kind of closure.

“I’m sorry, I hmmff” he doesn’t get the words out before you jump up, capturing his lips before he can say anything. He catches your legs as they wrap around his hips. He steps inside, and shuts the door with one hand.

This time is different from the others. He’s sweet and gentle, but still reaches that something deep within you that makes you fall apart in the best way possible. It’s like he’s desperate to know every inch of you. He rasps the sweetest praises into your skin, and sucks marks that are sure to stay long enough to make you miss him again.

Instead of falling asleep afterwards, like you know both of you should, you lay awake with your head tucked under his chin. Neither of you speak for the hours and hours that stretch by. Finally, the time comes, he has to leave before the others wake up to get ready for the mission.

He hates himself for failing again. He really thought he could do it. If tomorrow went even half as badly as he was anticipating, he might as well bare his soul to you. He thought he was gonna be strong enough to tell you how he feels. He’d practiced what he wanted to say. Spelled it out while he went down on you. But when it came down to it, he just couldn’t get the words out.

————————————————————————

The mission is a complete failure. Leave it to the 410th to fuck over a mission this badly and drag every other battalion and squad in the vicinity down with them. Blanche is seething, no less than four members of his squad are critically injured. Void already had his hands full keeping Blue and Jaws stabilized on the transport back to the ship, he had to enlist the help of Bruiser to hold down Fuse as he writhes in pain from his injuries. Leaving Blanche to hold an already saturated rag to the profusely bleeding wound on your abdomen.

You grip his blood stained hands, grounding you through the throbbing pain. Your skin is growing paler and clammier by the second. He holds your gaze, begging you to stay focused on him. The intensity in your eyes is fading, and your jaw goes slack.

“Captain,” he barks, pressing harder still. Your head lulls a bit and your eyes refocus on him for a brief moment. “Don’t you let go. You hear me? Don’t let go."

You try. You really do. You cling desperately to his rough hands on your stomach, and do everything you can to keep your eyes locked with his. But it’s too much, it’s beyond your control. You can feel yourself blacking out. The last thing you’re aware of his Blanche whipping his head around and screaming for Void.

You spend hours in surgery getting your perforated organs repaired, and longer still suspended in a bacta tank to get your tissues to heal. Finally you’re cleaned up, and laid down in a private recovery room of the GAR hospital on Coruscant.

Void looks like shit, but if he looks bad, Blanche looks worse. Dark circles under his eyes, unshaven, he hasn’t slept or showered in days. He’s too worried to eat, too scared to sleep.

Void slips out of your room, to find Blanche sitting on the ground just outside the door. Head in his hands, mumbling something under his breath.

“Blanche,” Void says gently. Blanche’s head twitches up, wild eyes searching for answers. “She’s stable now. She’ll be okay."

Blanche nods, trying to make it seem like is just relieved a member of their team is recovering. It’s not like that isn’t true. Void places a hand on Blanche’s shoulder.

“You can go see her. I’ll make sure no one goes in,” he said in a low voice. Blanche narrows his mismatched eyes. Void knew? How long has he known? Does it even matter right now?

He chooses not to think about it for the moment. Instead he hauls his miserable ass off the cold linoleum floor, and pushes open the door.

You look so small and pale laying there in the uncomfortable hospital bed. He approaches slowly, forgoing the guest chair at the foot of the bed. Instead he stands right next to you, gingerly picking up your hand. You open your eyes, despite how heavy your lids feel. His other hand moves to brush back some of your hair. Neither of you can find words, you’re lost in each other’s teary gaze.

He settles one leg on the bed, coming to sit with you and continues stroking your hair. He can feel his breathing getting shorter, and the tears in his eyes beginning to well up. He couldn’t stop this if he tried. The tears spilled over, and he winced.

“I can’t stand it,” he says shakily through his tears. “I can’t fucking stand it”

His hand stills over your cheek, a firm but gentle grip that commands your attention and grounds you in this moment. Your brow furrows in a silent question.

“I can’t stand the thought of losing you.” He’s just barely able to get the words out, his chest aches as he tries to hold back the ugly sob working its way up into this throat.

Both of his hands cradle your face, thumbs wiping away the tears that steak down your cheeks. He takes another shuddery breath, and whispers your name. “I love you,” he says. “I love you so much it hurts sometimes. I need you. I need you in my life. I don’t feel whole without you. I can’t stand the thought of being without you,” he cries, tipping his head forward to rest against your forehead. “Please, please, please, tell me I’m not alone in feeling this way”

“Blanche.” Your voice is gravely and hoarse, and just saying his name causes you to cough. He helps you sit up, and holds your shoulder while you work to clear your throat.

“I love you too,” you whisper. “You mean everything to me.” You snake your arms under his and settle your hands on the backs of his shoulders, drawing him into you.

He envelopes you into his body, careful of your sore abdominal muscles. His tears still flow, but they are tears of joy. That you’re alive. That you love him back. That there’s a chance for the two of you when this is all over. Maybe one of both of you wouldn’t make it to that end, but being with you for whatever time there is left is worth it.

“You’re mine. You’re my girl. You’re my baby,” he whispers, punctuating his statements with the tiniest of kisses. The familiar warmth of his body, the easy rise and fall of his chest, makes you feel safe. You can feel yourself slipping back into sleep. But you don’t fight it, you know that you need to rest.

Damn. You forgot how gorgeous Fuse’s smile was. 

It had only been a year since you wandered back onto your assigned base to find your squad was missing a member. Not dead, your commander had told you, just not here. There were snide comments, remarks told under breaths and in languages you neither spoke nor understood. They didn’t need some fucking mechanic trying to start a fight because a transferred clone had been insulted. 

Your commander - Fang, all sharp words and crooked smiles, a man you were nervous to talk to in the first place, let alone push him on a topic he didn’t want to continue talking about - had told you to leave it, leave him be. This was for the best. 

So you did. You left the thought of him behind on base, closing off the memories you carried in your chest to rot and slowly starve. Hopefully, one day, they’d be nothing, and you could finally wash Fuse off like the rest of the grease stains that littered your hands. 

That was so kriffing difficult, though. Every blaster fire, every stray explosion no one had planned for on the field, Maker, even a fly-away spark, and you felt sick. You missed him, you missed his warmth so much. You felt his absence in your fucking bones, your body physically ached. You worried, how was he supposed to stay alive without you watching his six? How was he supposed to get out of the trouble he caused without someone like you, someone who wasn’t hell bent on pissing off their commanders and brothers?

And how were you supposed to do anything without your partner in crime - without someone to ease your fears and anxieties, to calm you down so you could fix one last wire on the last speeder needed to get away from the Seppies. 

A unit - a duo. And now, you were alone. 

Stumbling upon him like that, watching him scrub the red off the plastoid armor… if you hadn't known better, you would have thought maybe something like the Force had brought you together. You supposed the Force had also pulled you apart, too, but-

Now here he was. 

Getting his ass to come with you to a club was easy enough. All you had to do was pay for his drinks - maybe it had been a year, give or take some time, but Fuse was still Fuse. 

Empty shot glasses littered the table. This late into the night, you weren’t really sure how many you had, you didn’t really remember much. Everything existed in a haze, a bright and vibrant dream. The music was almost too loud to hear your own thoughts, let alone the person you came here with. The patrons of the nightclub moved about, but the only person you wanted to focus on was right in front of you, a wide grin stretched over his cheeks — you never noticed the dimples in his cheeks, or the handful of freckles over the bridge of his nose. Up close, and with only him to transfix on, every detail was explicit and bright, the warmth radiating off of him feeling more like fire than a gentle spark. 

The feelings you tried to push away, the real reason you were so upset that you never looked for him, the fear that nothing would be reciprocated, all of it, it came roaring to the forefront of your drunken mind. He was beautiful, like a violent sunset, all fiery reds and deep oranges — you felt the panic flooding through you as you remembered that every sun crawls behind the horizon, leaving a cold and dark night in its absence. Nothing was forever. 

You tried to say his name, but it came out crooked and garbled, a mess of syllables and vowels, it didn’t sound correct. “Fuse,” you tried again. Better, but your words still slurred. 

Now it was his turn to say your name, and Maker, it made your chest ache. 

“I—” Did you want to tell him? You couldn’t un-ring this bell, you couldn’t go back. What if Fuse was still hurt and wanted nothing to do with you, what if—

You didn’t know when you were going to see him again. For all you knew, his new squadron was moving out in the moving, being shipped out to another moon or a Inner Rim planet, He would be gone just as soon as you had him again, and if this was it… 

“Hey,” you tried to shout over the music, “I love you.”

“What?” Fuse shook his head. “I can’t hear you, what?”

“I missed you,” you said. He rolled his eyes, but his smile grew a little bit brighter, and his eyes looked softer. For a moment, the past was forgotten and your Fuse was back. Every transgression had been forgotten, and for this bright and shining minute, you were better. 

“I missed my favorite cockroach,” Fuse laughed. “We have to do this again, huh?”

You tried not to be upset that you couldn’t say it, couldn’t fucking tell him. You wanted so badly for him to understand why you didn’t look for him. Fang was a terrifying commander, sure, but you and Fuse had gone around him and his orders before. No, the reason you didn’t look for him because you thought Fang was right, this was for the best. You couldn’t really be with Fuse, even if he did feel similarly. 

“I can’t let you go,” you said. “Not again.”

Fuse wasn’t sure — chalk it up to the whiskey, or maybe to the fact that Fuse had never paid close enough attention to you, to the way you looked at him like that, with eyes that almost looked misty, with a tight little frown forming on your sweet mouth - but to him, this felt so much deeper than the normal shallow of your relationship. This was not cut and dry, what you two had was not simple. Maybe it had never been simple. 

“So, yeah, this is gonna be a regular thing,” you added quickly. 

Fuse nodded. He didn’t want to think about what you meant. If you pushed on it, sure, you both could have that conversation. But he wasn’t running head first to be burned by you again. You could call the shots, and Fuse would follow. 

“Alright,” he said, shooting you half of a grin. “Fine by me, cockroach.”

You took a breath, glancing away for a moment. The lights around you glowed neon pink and purple, a haze of color and sound and life — your life had revolved around the war. You didn’t know where you would be without it. Out of a job you supposed, but then, you wouldn’t have Fuse, or any of his brothers. All the same, it was nice to get drunk in a dreamy club and pretend like you were normal sometimes. You could pretend that you were a normal civilian, and that you weren’t required to be on a military base in the morning, preparing for another battle, another violent and miserable day. You could imagine a life with someone, maybe with Fuse - making caf in a cramped kitchen space in a small apartment in the Inner Rim. You and Fuse could open a shop, maybe something repairing vessels, or blowing them up, fuck, none of the details mattered. The more you thought about it, the more you just wanted a normal life with Fuse. You wondered if he had ever thought about a normal life with you too - you really hoped so. 

When you looked back at him, Fuse was already staring at you - dark eyes and parted lips, his brow was furrowed up. Some dark thought was eating at his thoughts, tearing through him and overwhelming senses. You wanted to help him, you wanted to take his mind off of everything, you just wanted to heal. 

You worked with machines — you knew how to retire and reprogram and fix things to make it run smoothly. Fuse was not a machine, and he was not made of wires and parts. You didn’t know what to do to fix things, if there was even a way to fix the damage. 

Fuse leaned forwards, just a fucking hair closer, but it was enough to make it hurt. This was too much, he was too bright and too much, and you were suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to touch him. 

“Can I kiss you?” You stumbled over your words, and you were worried he couldn’t hear you again, but—

He surged forwards to reach you, his hands flying to cradle your head. Fuse’s lips were warm against yours, his belts were warm, he was so fucking warm, you felt alive. Every breath you stole between soft groans and nips of teeth came easy, releasing the tension that had been building in your chest all night. His tongue grazed along your bottom lip before slipping into your mouth, and this was home.

How many times did you think about kissing Fuse like this? How many times did you imagine his hands instead of your own? This was everything you could have ever wanted, everything you needed from Fuse. You missed him so much, thought about him every moment, but this was worth it. Fuse could burn you in every way he knew how, and you would probably deserve it, but you would brave it all to kiss him again.  

“Can this be our regular thing too?” You whispered against his mouth. Fuse pulled away for a second, and you almost were afraid that he was about to say no. But he moved forwards again, silencing all worry in your mind as he kissed you again. 

“Yeah, it can be,” Fuse answered you. He wouldn’t mind at all if kissing you like this was a regular occurrence. His thoughts weren’t in order — not that he had excellent ideas sober either, but he couldn’t quite figure out how to sneak you onto base without Blanche or Blue catching wind of it. Fuse was trying to come up with a plan, something that no one would notice. That would be hard, especially if Sweets was on patrol for the night- 

You lie with him in the dim room. His head rests against your chest as he absentmindedly draws little designs across the top of your breast with his fingertips. Your hand cards through his pretty curls and you twist the soft, cyan strands that frame his face around your finger. 

“What are you thinking about, Sweet Boy?” you hum, moving your hand down to cup his cheek. 

Sweets blinks up at you, a sleepy smile spread across his features. His hand stills over your steadily beating heart, warm and heavy on your skin. 

“You,” he murmurs. 

Your heart flutters at his confession and Sweets can feel it beneath his palm. He’d never get tired of learning all the ways your body could respond to his. The effect of his words or his touches, they all make you react in different ways. He moves his hand from your sternum and traces a finger from your collarbone down over your breast, circling once around your nipple before settling on your stomach. You shiver at the sensation and arch slightly into his touch, goosebumps forming on your skin. 

“Sweeeeets—“ you whine, tugging gently at his curls. 

He shifts, moving to press his lips between your breasts over your heart where his hand was moments before. Your breath catches in your chest as you watch him. Sweets whispers something unintelligible into your skin. 

“What was that, baby?” you ask, eyebrows coming together in confusion. He doesn’t clarify. 

Instead, he moves to take your nipple into his mouth. You gasp as he drags his tongue over the stiff bud. He releases you from his mouth and whispers softly into your skin again. Then he moves to your other nipple and does the same thing. You desperately want to know what he’s whispering but you don’t ask again. Sweets will tell you when he’s ready, if he wants to. 

He continues his path up your chest, kissing you and softly whispering a secret only he knows into your skin. You run your nails down his back and whine when he reaches the sensitive spot on your neck. He whispers again and you strain to make out the words but he’s only gotten quieter. 

Finally, his lips ghost over your ear. He nips at your earlobe and your heart starts to race. Sweets takes a moment to breathe before whispering his secret into your ear. 

“I love you.” 

Your mouth falls open in surprise and warmth spreads over your entire body. 

“What?” you breathe. You know exactly what he said but you just want to hear it again. 

“I. Love. You.” Maker, it sounds so beautiful when he says it. And it’s only for you. 

Sweets lifts his head to look at you, warm brown eyes so soft with adoration. You could bask under his gaze for a millennia. 

“I love you too.” The words come out so easily, like you’re meant to say them. “I love you so much.” 

Sweets lets out a gentle, almost relieved sigh and his lips curl into a smile. Your hand finds the back of his neck and you pull him into a kiss, trying to convey all the feeling you don’t have words for with the movement of your lips against his. 

Sweets shifts so he’s fully between your legs. He moves one hand to spread your thighs and he lines himself up at your entrance. His other hand grasps yours and your fingers intertwine with his. He meets your eyes, silently asking for permission. You nod once and gasp when he slowly sinks into you. 

“I love you,” he murmurs again and you don’t think you’ll ever get tired of hearing it. 

Sweets rolls his hips and you moan softly at the lovely feeling of him so deep inside you. He continues like that, steady, slow, and gentle, pulling you apart with each thrust. His lips trail everywhere they can reach, whispering into your skin over and over, like he’s trying to brand the words onto your body. 

There’s a familiar tightness growing in your lower belly as Sweets brushes that spot that makes you see stars. You lift yourself to meet him with each subsequent roll of his hips. 

“Gonna come, Sweets,” you whine. 

He reaches between your bodies to where you’re joined and begins to rub circles over your clit. You throw your head back and cry out as the feeling pushes you over the edge. Sweets takes advantage of your exposed neck and presses his lips to the sensitive skin. You cling to him, walls fluttering around him as you come. The pleasure radiates out from your lower belly, causing your legs to shake. You squeeze around Sweets, feeling him twitch inside you. The movement of his hips turns erratic and you know he’s close. 

“Come for me, my love,” you coo, urging him deeper inside you. Sweets stiffens, spilling himself within your walls with a grunt. 

“Good boy,” you praise and his lips are on yours again. They’re warm and gentle and oh so sweet. Another “I love you” falls from his mouth and you smile against his lips. 

“I love you too, Sweet Boy.” 

Sweets settles on your chest again as he softens inside you. He rests his palm on your breast, occasionally pressing his fingertips into the soft flesh. You wish you could just stay like this forever, not worrying about missions and battles and Jedi. But that doesn’t seem possible in this life so you cherish the moments like this until it’s time to leave again. 

Anyway, I love Sweets with my whole chest!