A/N: i had too much fun writing this, thank you so much for this request <3 enjoy!
'Maybe we should make a run for it,' you suggest, glancing at the sniper to your right. He folds his arms, clearly bothered by the pouring rain that separates the two of you from the Marauder.
400 yards, you want to guess. It would probably take the two of you no longer than a minute to run through the clearing, granted you didn't fall on your way back.
In hindsight, maybe you shouldn't have let Crosshair whisk you away for target practice, especially without heeding Tech's incessant blabbering about the planet's weather patterns. He's probably preparing to tell you 'I told you so' when you return.
'Absolutely not.'
You huff, not at all surprised by the clone's blunt rejection. 'Well, we can't just stay here, it's dark and we have no idea when the rain will stop.'
He purses his lips. You're right. But Crosshair despises rain: its repetitive drumming, the thickness of the air...He feels trapped here, reminded of his cadet days stuck on Kamino, back when rain was all he knew.
When his reply doesn't come you return your attention back to the direction of the Marauder, assessing the terrain. A smirk that could rival the sniper's falls on your lips, 'We could race?'
Now this, piques his interest. He looks at the Marauder, and then back at you, trying to decipher your intentions. 'What are you getting at?'
You grin, eyes lighting up, 'If I make it back to the ship first, you...have to make me caf every morning. For. A. Week,' you punctuate, poking at his chest.
He's amused, turning away to retrieve the rifle he left leaning against a tree, slinging it onto his back. 'Okay, but if I win, you have to tell my vode that I'm the best kisser you've ever locked lips with.' You narrow your eyes. His smugness is...attractive, you have to admit. Sometimes annoying, but attractive.
You nod, extending your hand and lifting your head to say 'Deal.'
He reciprocates your actions, then turns to face the clearing. 'On three.'
You roll up your sleeves, the both of you moving into separate stances, prepared to run.
One
You reach your hand out in front of you, feeling the impact of the rain on your forearm, retracting it once you count again.
Two
You inhale, glancing one more time at the sniper next to you.
Three!
You both break into a sprint, moving in a straight path towards the Marauder.
The wind is harsh on your face, the rain is heavy, and the grass squelches beneath your boots.
Crosshair is slightly ahead of you, but you could probably catch up with him if you accelerated just a bit.
And yet, you can't bring yourself to care. You make it three quarters of the way before you slow down, lifting your head towards the sky and letting the rain fall onto your face. Crosshair doesn't notice you stop running until he turns his head and sees you just standing there, in the middle of the rain, laughing.
It's a sight. One he wants to commit to memory. The way the moonlight caresses your face, the light reflecting off the water droplets that dance across your features.
He's so close to the Marauder, he could just dash the last few yards and wait for your return, maybe preparing you a towel and some warm water in the mean time.
But seeing you like this changes him. When he looks at you laughing in the rain, he forgets all those years surrounded by dark skies and stormy weather on Kamino, and sees you, admiring your state of carelessness, feeling a sense of serenity despite the harsh pattering of the rain.
He swears under his breath, running back towards you. Crosshair reaches for your hand, tugging your arm to pull you towards the ship, to him.
You laugh again and he almost swoons, somehow hearing the sound over the rain. You pull against him, bringing his face to look at yours.
Crosshair swears there must be something in rain, clouding his judgement; he should've just gone back to the Marauder. But when he finally looks into your eyes, he realises the only thing he is intoxicated by, is you.
He doesn't speak, but you can see everything in his eyes. He's frozen, and yet, in this moment, you feel so alive.
And when your lips meet, its electrifying. The rain continues to pour, the wind howls, and the Bad Batch are not far away—undoubtedly cosy in the ship—but this, this is everything. His warmth is enough. He's all you need, and you're everything to him.
You smile into the kiss as he pulls you closer to him, soaked clothes pressing against each other.
You eventually, reluctantly pull away, resting your forehead against his. 'Wow' you breathe against him, revelling in the chuckle that escapes his mouth. 'Maybe you are 'the best kisser I've ever locked lips with,' you muse, mocking his words from earlier.
He can't help the shit-eating grin that covers his face, visibly satisfied by your words.
But your grin is bigger, 'Too bad your brothers will never know!' you quip, immediately darting to the ship, leaving him to chase after you in the wake of his bliss.
a/n: requests will be open throughout the summer! feel free to drop by anytime
“Twenty minutes?”
The usual rich, unwavering timbre of authority and complete control of Wolffe’s voice is instead replaced with a strained half-whine half-plea as he squeezes his eyes shut. Brought low by, of all things, a sheet mask.
“You have to keep it on for twenty minutes,” you affirm from the bedside as you crumple the sheet mask sachet into your palm, squeezing out what dregs of watery serum remain into your hand. As artfully as you possibly can, you scoop a generous heap of the fragrant gel with your fingertips and smear it into the thin sheet pressed over Wolffe’s skin. “Corvis has the comms and Sinker and Wildfire are doing your paperwork, so you, commander, are stuck with me.”
“And I have to stay still the whole time,” he repeats flatly.
“Unless you want serum on your blacks. And stop scrunching; you’ll get wrinkles.” You reach up to the crease between his brows, rubbing insistently until he relaxes and peeks up at you with an uncertain expression.
“Y/n I feel like a corpse,” Wolffe mutters. And to some extent, he is right, lying ramrod straight on his back with his hands clasped at his navel, stone-still save for the occasional restless twitch of his fingers. But he’s also being dramatic (oh woe, relaxation).
“Lucky corpse,” you quip, trailing your fingers over the bridge of his nose to smooth over the dark lines of exhaustion etched into the skin of his undereyes. “I’m pretty sure most living people never get to try Corellian heartleaf extract, much less corpses.”
For all his restless graces, you don’t miss how his cheeks twitch at your remark in a floundering attempt to smother the smile under your touch. He looks a bit silly, his eyes and mouth bordered by a stark ring of white silk and gleaming almost comically under the thick layer of serum. But it’s easy to look past the spectacle; you can still make out the proud line of his jaw, his dark lashes, and the somewhat artificial distress in his deep brown eyes as you feel him shiver delightfully under your touch.
Still handsome, you think as you massage your fingertips over his temples, but just a little silly.
“You think I look ridiculous, don’t you,” Wolffe mumbles, grimacing when you laugh.
“Just a little bit,” you admit, and you laugh a bit brighter when Wolffe rolls his eyes. “But it’s cute. You’re cute. Your skin’s going to look fantastic tomorrow, too.”
“Cyar’ika,” Wolffe huffs, the unmistakable lilt of laughter lifting his tone. “Aren’t I usually the one calling you cute?”
“I’m just calling it how I see it,” you smile, and the warmth in your chest blooms with fluttering strength anew when you open your eyes to catch Wolffe’s gaze, soft ease and fond (reluctant) admission that maybe the whole song and dance of skincare was nice after all. It’s that kind of expectant look, as close to pleading puppydog eyes as humanly possible over Wolffe’s near perpetual scowl, but it’s your sure signal that the good commander’s last defenses have been lowered: that you’re not only welcome but very much anticipated.
You take your invitation like a prize and lean down to press a quick kiss over Wolffe’s lips, careful and chaste so not to smear mask gel over you, too.
But it’s not enough, one kiss is never enough, and you lean down over his bedside again, capturing Wolffe’s lips with yours. You tilt your head, murmuring happily into his touch, and you’re so enthralled by this, by him, that you can only vaguely register the weight curling at the base of your neck as the commander’s hand cupped over your skin and pulling you closer.
You only pull away, yelping at the sudden shock of cool gel on your skin when you eagerly press a bit too close and brush up against the mask over Wolffe’s nose. You certainly hadn’t intended it, but it’s cheesy and sweet and it has Wolffe's eyes fluttering shut as he laughs softly, the burdens and obligations of today and tomorrow far out of your mind’s eye. It’s the little things, you concede, and you dip close for one last kiss.
“Cute,” Wolffe muses dark eyes deep and warm, and you realize the only downside to sheet masks is that you can’t jump his bones at that very moment without putting to waste your handiwork. You touch the tip of your nose to Wolffe’s, and his low chuckle resonates through your chest.
“Hey, y/n!” Boost calls into the barracks, Warthog and Comet in tow, and you hastily sit upright, wiping the mask gel from your nose as you catch the boys tossing their buckets onto their bunks. “Can we get one too?”
You open your mouth to tell him there’s plenty to go around, more than happy to pamper the good brothers of your beloved battalion. But Wolffe is faster.
“Not a chance,” Wolffe calls out.
“Wolffe,” you protest, seeing how his brothers suddenly stiffen and exchange awkward glances among themselves. You’re ready to rally the boys to your defense of a batallion spa day when you feel his arm loop around your waist, tugging you close.
omg babes congrats on 100!! I love your writing sm
if you'd like, may I suggest "19) "Do you need me to finger you first?" from the prompt list with either Boba or Wrecker?
you know their bulges be huge 👀
thank you so much!!!! finally an excuse to write about the legend of the stomach bulge!
#19: "Do you need me to finger you first?" + Wrecker (i got carried away with this one oops)
warnings: f!reader, the legend of the stomach bulge, dirty talk, size kink, squirting
You knew he was big.
Look at him.
You knew, realistically, that he would be big. But, you never really thought about how every part of him would be proportional to his considerable height and bulk.
Still, you're still in shock at the sight of Wrecker's massive cock sliding between your pussy lips, the head resting a good couple of inches above your clit.
Wrecker rolls his hips minutely, and the slide of his cock gives your clit the most delicious friction.
You've felt his cock before, of course. You've shoved your knee between his legs and let him grind against you until he came all over the inside of his blacks like a cadet, but he always stopped you when you tried to take it out.
You think it might be a good thing, because if he had shown you his cock earlier you wouldn't be able to keep your mouth or cunt off of it.
Still, your body is wracked with nerves as you're faced with the biggest cock in the galaxy.
Again, you know he's big. You shiver at the memory of him laying you on his bed and enveloping your body in his bulk, caging you in until you could do nothing but writhe against his fingers in your pussy. You think about the way his strong arms, with biceps bigger than your head, wrap around your hips to keep them down while he eats you out.
Wrecker hands trail down your sides until he's able to spread apart your pussy lips with his thumbs. The sound it makes is downright filthy, and you'd be embarrassed if you didn't want him to fuck you so much.
You watch in awe as his cock sinks further between your folds.
Fuck, it's so big. You'll be able to feel him in your fucking throat you think.
You force your eyes up to Wrecker's face.
His undivided attention is on the way your cunt gushes around his cock, getting it nice and wet for you but there's a feeling inside you that says it won't be enough.
He's sizing you up, you realize, seeing if his cock will be able to fit in your cunt. He wants to see how deep he'll be.
Your clit throbs and your pussy clenches around nothing at the thought.
"Do you..." you trail off, biting your lip as Wrecker's hands shift to your thighs to spread your legs further apart. Like this, you're fully exposed to Wrecker's hungry gaze. You think you'd let him eat you alive if he wanted to.
You feel childish in what you're about to ask — like a virgin all over again wondering if sex will be as good as everyone says it is.
You know it will be. Wrecker's made you cum on his tongue and fingers more times than you can count, plus that one time he had you grind against his thigh while still in armor, but he's never put his cock in you.
"Do you think it'll fit?" You finally ask, pushing your hips against his grip even though you know it won't do anything.
Wrecker's groan is filthy and he can't stop the downright vicious way he thrusts his cock between your folds, giving your clit that glorious friction it craves while your cunt gushes and flutters around nothing.
You drop your head back against the pillow with a sob. Fuck, he's so big. He'll never fit.
"What do you think?" he breathes, continuing to slide the length of his cock against your folds. He can't seem to take his eyes off the way your puffy cunt spreads around his cock and coats it with slick.
You can do nothing but pant with every roll of his hip. Maker, you think if he doesn't fuck you now you'll explode.
Wrecker is saying something, you know, but your world has shrunk down to only his cock and your cunt. Nothing else matters.
"Answer me," Wrecker demands with another devastating thrust of his hips. He takes one hand off your inner thigh to grab the base of his cock and slap it against your cunt with a wet splat.
You gasp and jerk in his grip. "Fuck!" you cry out, already aching for more.
"Do you need me to finger you first?" Wrecker repeats, resting his cock back against your folds. He keeps it there, staying perfectly still in a display of patience that Wrecker can only show in the bedroom.
Fuck, he's never gonna fit. He's going to ruin you. You'll feel him in your throat, for Maker's sake.
"Need me to stretch out your tight little cunt for my big cock? Huh?" Wrecker's hand wraps in your hair and forces your head up to watch how your cunt gushes and drenches his cock in your slick.
"Please!" you sob, unable to take your eyes off the magnificent sight. "You're so big, Wrecker, I think you'll break me,"
Maybe you want him to break you.
Wrecker wants to break you too if the way his cock jerks against you is any hint.
"I plan on it," Wrecker hisses against your neck before he releases his grip on your head to let your head fall back against the pillow.
~
Your world shrinks down, once again, to the sight of your cunt.
Your thighs tremble as Wrecker presses a fourth finger into your cunt.
"Tightest fucking cunt in the galaxy," Wrecker hisses, grinding his hips into the mattress to find even the smallest bits of friction. "You gotta relax for me," he soothes, sliding his fingers against the spongey part inside of you that makes your back arch and your mouth drop into a silent scream.
Pressure rises in your core like you've never felt it before.
Wrecker angles his fingers even more, now pressing against That Spot with unerring accuracy.
Your climax rips through your body, pleasure sparking from deep into your chest to the tips of your fingers. Your cunt spasms around his fingers that are knuckle deep inside you.
Your tipping point is Wrecker keeping eye contact as he lowers his head to wrap his lips around your clit.
You fall of the cliff of release with a shriek. Your body is wracked with convulsions as you gush against him, your cum flooding his face and fingers.
You can't even bare to watch. The sight is too much. Your body quivers like a leaf in a wind storm.
When Wrecker is finally done drinking from you — because that's what he did. Drink your cum down and lick his lips like it was the most delicious thing he's ever tasted — he rises back up to cage you in.
"What do you think? You ready for my cock?"
"Please!" you sob, still trembling with the aftershocks of your orgasm. "Please, put your cock in me, please! Pleasepleaseplease—"
Your babbling is cut short as Wrecker pushes the head of his cock into you.
"Oh, fuck!" you cry out, eyes wide as you watch your cunt split open as hit cock sinks into you, inch by devastating inch. "Wrecker!"
Wrecker's hand drops down to your clit, and this gun-calloused thumb begins to rub tight and slow circles around the throbbing bud. "Maker, you're still so tight for me," he groans, rolling his hips to slide deeper inside of you.
You're speaking now — blubbering nonsense that means absolutely nothing except that you think Wrecker's cock is going to split you in half.
You were right. You think you can feel him in your throat.
Wrecker groans again, thumb speeding up against your clit, "Look at that," he breathes.
He's so close. Just a few inches left before he's completely inside, and every inch of him just wants to slam inside you but he knows better.
Besides, watching you tremble around him is one of the best sights he's ever seen. He wishes he managed to grab is holo-recorder to capture this moment forever.
"Stars, your pussy is just eating me up, pretty girl," Wrecker continues, finally — finally — sinking in to the hilt.
He stays flush against you as you wail your pleasure. Your hips jerk as best they can against his grip on you.
You force yourself to pick your head up and — Oh fuck.
"Wrecker!" you keen, hand scrambling against the sheets. "Look, you're—" you suck in a big breath, eyes rolling in the back of your head as Wrecker rocks his hips. "You're splitting me open!"
And it's true, because right there, above your mound is him.
The bulge of his massive cock is pushing through your skin and leaving an imprint in your tummy.
Wrecker's hips jerk, thrusting into you with devastating force. He can't seem to take his eyes off of the proof that he's fucking you — he's making tears of pleasure spring to your eyes.
"Oh, fuck, mesh'la," he hisses, somehow pressing deeper inside of you. His hand slides up from your clit, and you don't even have time to lament the loss before he's pressing his hand against the bulge.
The pressure is too much. You yowl at the feeling of Wrecker, both inside and outside of you, and your cunt clenches down against his cock as you cum a second time that night.
You don't think you'll ever be the same after this. You'll never be able to fuck anyone else. No one will ever compare.
"That's right," Wrecker coos, finally pulling his hips back and setting a punishing pace. "No one will ever fuck you the way I do. You hear me?"
Wrecker's hand grabs your jaw, forcing you to open your eyes and meet his gaze. "No one," he repeats, his voice drenched in a feral desperation.
"No one!" you agree, writhing uselessly against his cock and the catastrophic feeling of his cock splitting you open. "I'm yours!"
You clench down on him one more time as he pushes his thumb into your mouth. It's all so intimate despite the filthy way he's fucking you.
His thumb presses into your mouth for your tongue to lathe against, and he never breaks eye contact as he fucks you. His other hand stays on the bulge that appears through your skin every time he thrusts him.
"That's right," Wrecker breathes, dropping his forehead to yours, "you're mine."
You sob as another orgasm takes over your body. Tears are streaming down your face in earnest now but Wrecker doesn't seem inclined to slow down any time soon.
He's ruining you. True to his name, he's wrecking you for any other man, but you don't want any other man. You want him.
[cody x gn!reader] sometimes, commander cody, diplomatic duties can be set aside. otherwise known as living, if only for a brief moment, with the golden boy.
warnings: none
w/c: 2.8k
a/n: i just think dancing with cody on a lakefront at sunset would be infinitely nice. and y/n is gender neutral! they could be read as more feminine coded because of their gown and heels but there are no explicit pronouns/gendered references.
"Have you ever danced for a gala, Cody?"
"I can't say I have, senator," Cody responds as the Theelin representatives pass by. Some tenuous balance of concern and mild amusement playing over the arch in his brow, he watches you lift the long hem of your gown to rub at your ankles.
"I would recommend you avoid it if possible," you say, grimacing when your fingers brush over a sure blister come dawn. "Nasty business, dancing."
Were he but a newly made acquaintance, as he had been when he had known you by name and Fox's fond regard alone, he would most certainly be on his highest guard. But after Obi-wan had very inconspicuously assigned him to your escort detail, placing you through a grand total of one assassination attempt and two stolen frigates, he allows himself a sort of relaxed regard that only comes by a bond forged in the belly of a ship under heavy fire.
Camaraderie, he had called it breathlessly as you wiped engine grease from your robes, collapsing against him after you had finally toggled the hyperdrive online.
Friendship, you had countered with the firm clack of your wrench on the helm. You recall with brilliant clarity that his hand had been warm when you had gripped it tight, illuminated the ghostly blue of the streaks of light flooding the viewport.
Comrades were bound to duty; friends, something much more. So he allows himself to stand back at pause to admire how the setting sun gleams over your skin, how your nose scrunches just slightly as you fuss at the sheer inconvenience of your heels, as if you are not as radiant in his eyes as the fading light sparkling and rippling over the water.
"Truly, an unfortunate part of the democratic process, y/n," Cody chuckles.
Without the presence of other senators to demand the formalities of titles and decorum, you watch his shoulders slacken from sharp attention as he calls you by your name. The cool neutrality of his gaze as a soldier softens into a warm amusement meant for a dear friend, and you are happy to bask in its glow despite the groaning ache in your feet.
"If I knew there would be this much dancing in politics, I would have listened to my mother and taken her speeder shop," you groan.
"And deprive the Senate of your voice?" Cody asks, and his smile, as discreet and small as it may be, is irresistible.
"You have to actually convince me, Cody."
"Fair enough. Then, deprive the 212nd of your acquaintance?"
You hum, your fingers suddenly still over your heels as he watches you genuinely contemplate his words.
"Just a bit closer," you prod, a playful gleam in your eye.
"I thought you said you didn't like 'fawning sycophancy,'" Cody snorts. "You and your politician language."
"I don't like groveling politicians. I won't turn down flattery if it is from you, my dear commander," you respond, unable to hide the bright smile high on your lips.
"Then, say you'd taken the speeder shop. Would you deprive me of your acquaintance?" Cody relents with a huff. It's nothing but a puff of breath exhaled soft, but it's a welcome sound close to the rich warmth of his laughter, the sound of the poorly concealed joy glimmering in his deep brown eyes.
"If you help me to a quiet place where I can simply sit for the rest of the evening, I might just tell you if that was enough," you tease, offering your hand to him with a haughty flourish as if you were the queen of Naboo herself and not a common voice of the people of Coruscant. Cody rolls his eyes, breaking into a brief grin that flashes over his expression as brilliant as the sun.
You're already in a bit of a secluded spot a few paces away from the swelling quartet music and bureaucratic chatter, giving you the space to break your level-headed courtesies and poke fun. But more than anything, you simply want time alone with the commander in all the impeccable neatness of his uniform dress. Besides, while you think you make quite a pair—the clean press of his formal whites and the shimmer silk of your ivory gown shimmering in the sunset—the old senatorial farts have little regard for the handsome soldier in your company (and it's, really, their loss).
"Are you suggesting I help you escape from your very important diplomatic duties?" Cody asks, a low gasp light on his lips. How many times have you played this game, knowing damn well that the both of you would much rather die in a firefight than sit through a foggy senator raising toasts? It's become close to second nature, now.
"I absolutely am, commander," you nod firmly. "As I always say, sometimes, commander Cody, diplomatic duties may be set aside. This is one of those dreadful times."
He rolls his eyes again, but this time, he takes your outstretched hand, complete with a low bow as he plays along with your theatrics. You rise, only to wobble on your heels, but Cody is there to gently grasp your arms, ever steady. The consternation that flashes over his eyes for a brief moment is deep, more than simple concern, and while you cannot exactly label what his expression betrays, it sets your heart fluttering in your throat all the same.
What Separatist arguments and militaristic rebukes could not rile in your unflappable calm on the Senate floor, Cody effortlessly awakes. It's his power, you think as you regain your footing. The man spun from gold.
"There's a place over the water by the back of the villa," you say, falling into step beside him as the din of the party recedes behind you. "I think we should find some peace and quiet there."
"So you already had an escape route planned out?" Cody laughs. "I guess you never needed a security detail in the first place."
"Well, 'needed' isn't exactly accurate. Maybe 'strongly preferred?'" you offer, and Cody laughs a bit brighter. It's funny, how you barely feel the ache in your feet as contentment blooms triumphant in your chest.
By the time you sneak past the serving droids, stifling soft laughter when you hide from a few stray representatives, the sun is a slim arc curved over the silvery waters of the lake. In the moments of approaching dusk, you stand far from the treaty talks and ulterior motives before an old gazebo, its curved arches heavy with flowering vines like verdant curtains awaiting your arrival.
You look to Cody with bright eyes and squeeze his hand.
"We only have a few minutes of light left," you say in a hushed, excited whisper as the the purpling darkness of night begins to chase the sunset light. With little but the soft lakefront winds breezing through the blooming pavilion arches, there is no need to whisper. But your time with the commander is a precious, fragile thing, so easily burst by the sudden arrival of your colleagues or his men. A whisper is only a savoring tribute to this rare moment. "Dance with me."
"I thought you said dancing was 'nasty business,'" Cody chuckles.
"With you, a dance is a pleasure," you say, the whispers of laughter on the tip of your tongue.
"All due respect, but this is the first time we've shared a dance y/n," Cody teases as you tug him to duck under the creeping trellis vines and onto the sun-kissed stone of the little pavilion. "What makes you so certain you'll enjoy this one?"
"Dancing at these," you wave your hand with a sigh, "little parties are nasty, only if by virtue of the other senators with whom I am obligated to dance. They see me as a rival or a signatory to be won over or fought, and dance is little but a means to an end. But with you..."
The words fall back on your tongue as Cody emerges from under the low-hanging leaves, immediately awash in the glimmering gold light of the sun. He is a kind of breathtaking awe in the cresting cold of dawn, chin held high and proud. But in the resplendence of the waning sun, as he tugs his gloves from his hands, he is the warm and steadfast comfort of home.
In his relaxed posture and soft, dark eyes lies the kind of beauty that you ascribe to an ancient sun rising from behind a waking planet. A star brimming with ageless wisdom and forgiving light, as the sunlight dances over the commander's even, tawny skin, he is nothing short of life breathed into pure gold.
"With you, even a dance can be something I hold dear," you finish as he catches your wide-eyed wonder with a wry smile.
"Very well, senator," he says, a smooth, diplomatic cadence that's sickly enough for you to laugh. He extends a hand to you with a flourish, and you relish in the pure joy. "May I have this honor?"
"With pleasure," you grin.
Although he claimed to never have danced, Cody fluidly assumes a regal sort of poise, moving your hand to his shoulder and settling his free hand light on the small of your back. You have seen him heft his brothers over his shoulder; you have seen him cast aside his blaster for raw strength; you have seen the firm hand he carries wherever he goes. And yet, he is gentler than ever as you step close and meet his eyes to share a smile.
With a soft inhale, you begin a simple waltz over the warm stone.
For the first few steps, there is form. You quietly nudge him to take your lead, step by step, and he is a diligent student as he follows. But where political waltzes have always kept rigid time, space between your chests and guarded caution to the orchestral suites, you quickly fall into something sweet, unhurried and soft as your steps become slow sways in the fading light.
Wordless, brimming with joy, you are free. Cody lifts your hand above your head, laughing with you as you tiptoe through a spin that gently flares your dress, and a few dizzying turns and careful dips later, you can't help but wonder if Cody's heart is racing as fast as your own.
Too enraptured by his steadfast composure (even with the warmth in his eyes), you do little to mask your surprise when Cody shifts his hand higher up your back and tugs you close, pressing you flush to his chest under the emerging starscape above.
Shock, then saccharine goodness, sweet on your tongue, floods you as you slip your hand from his. After a beat of hesitation, testing, careful, you slowly reach up and rest your arms over Cody's shoulders, waiting for the bashful regret to overtake you when he might gently let you down. (It's unbecoming of you, you think shamefully, no matter how closely you may regard him as a friend.)
But the rejection never comes.
Instead, as the sun slips below the lake horizon, Cody simply fixes you with a soft smile and clasps his hands behind your waist, pulling and keeping you close while he continues to sway with the lake breeze. He does not need to speak for you to know his presence bared to you, not as a soldier or as your guard, but as a humble man to bear witness to the starlight in your eyes.
Heart beating wildly in your throat, you press a bit farther, leaning forward to rest your head on his shoulder. You have all but stopped your lazy waltz, simply swaying in place with the cool night winds fast approaching. In the stillness, you feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against your ear, a steady, reassuring rhythm that quells the giddy excitement from your chest. Yet you still start when he lifts one hand from your waist to the nape of your neck, raising delightful shivers as he strokes his thumb over your skin.
"Cody," you murmur.
You are certain it is no mistake that when Cody turns towards your voice that he presses close, his lips ghosting over your brow. You are no stranger to his closeness in harrowing blaster battles and narrow escapes from certain death. But this is new, the tenuous gossamer of intimacy not yet shared, as you reach for him and he reaches back.
"Yes, cyar'ika?"
(Cyar'ika? You do not recognize the sound, but it floods heat over your cheeks all the same.)
"My answer. About whether it was enough to choose the Senate over the speeder shop," you begin, reveling in how close Cody stands, cradling you so close that you feel his soft breaths over your skin. "Sometimes I wonder if I would have been happier outside of the politics."
"I hear a 'but,'" Cody muses. But instead of any teasing bite to his words, there is only patience, fond and warm.
"But if I had stayed in the lower levels; if I had never come to the Senate, I would have never left the surface. I would have never come to call a jedi general a friend, nor would I have known your men. I would have never met you. And to meet someone like you..."
You pause, sighing deep as your heart begins to pound anew.
"It is beyond enough."
Upon your last word, you hold your breath close.
You had only intended this to be a part of your teasing game of lighthearted chase with the commander. What was meant to be a quick and breezy escape from the politics of gowns and frivolities (even if you could not deny your affections for the commander) has brought you here, wondering if your words might be a push too far. Truths they may be, but they open you to uncharted waters. And you tremble in the falling night at the vague possibilities and consequence.
"Cyar'ika." Cody's voice, still as the lake stretched behind you, rumbles above your ear. "Do you know what that means, y/n?"
You shake your head slowly against him, only to meet him with eyes wide in surprise when he gently takes your jaw in his hand and tugs you upright.
"It means," he says quietly, sliding his palm from your chin to your cheek. "Sweetheart."
You're too stunned to do anything but blink when you feel his lips on your forehead.
"Darling."
Another touch, this time, pressed to your cheek as your eyes slide shut. You wait, anticipating with blooming wonder the promise of more lingering on his tongue. But when he does not return, you open your eyes, and Cody is waiting for you, dark eyes and soft smile radiant even without the glow of the setting sun.
"Beloved," he says at last, and tips your chin to press one final, dizzyingly gentle kiss to your lips. He may not meet you in vivacious energy, but Cody holds you close, pressing unhurried, luxuriant touches over your skin as you hold tight. His touch is chaste, stolid restraint holding him to only slow, deliberate motions, but you savor every fleeting moment in the evening calm.
When you part, you open your eyes to dusk in its clear, cold darkness, bejeweling the lakefront with scatter of stars high above. Yet all you can see is Cody before you, his soft smile and beating heart glowing brighter than any constellation in the inky black of night, his own radiant sun, spun gold.
Enchanted, you reach one hand up from its place on his shoulder and slowly, trembling, touch one finger to the scar carved around his brow. And he knows that you mean nothing but adoration as you trace the dark ridge of his scar beneath his eye, then lower, over the proud line of his cheek to cradle his jaw in your palm.
"I am only a soldier," Cody murmurs, nuzzling close into your touch. "Cyar'ika," he calls, leaning close to kiss your cheek. "Will you have me all the same?"
The cooling wind rises across the water, brushing stray petals from the trellis vines as your gown flutters around your feet. You wonder if this is what it feels to fly through the aftermath of a supernova, the silence of what was and yet the promise of what might yet be, glittering dust and neon gas diffusing into the ever expanding possibility of the universe. You wonder if this is right where you were always meant to be, aching feet and politics and shared breaths with a simple man with eyes full of light and heart like the sun.
"Only if you will have me," you reply, and the smile that breaks over Cody's lips is brighter than any sunset light you have seen, golden and alive. "Cyar'ika."
no shade to the the ppl who stan thrawn because u do ur thing but i am forever haunted by the fact that his rebels render makes him look like a he got a little too much botox in suburban la
JJ I have a thing - I want to hear your soft ✨ thots on Plo
this is one of the many ways to my heart ohmygod i love him so much. got a smidge carried away but you can’t blame me this is plo we’re talking about.
✨soft plo, warm plo✨
will absolutely flourish under forehead kisses from you. will reciprocate via pressing his mask (where his lips would be) to yours and smooths a talon along your jawline softly
his force presence is much lighter when he’s around you and fellow jedi notice, resolving to find ways to keep you both around each other as much as possible bc plo deserves as much light and love in his life as he can get
physical affection and words of affirmation are his love languages, both giving and receiving but loves any kind of love he can get, and when you hold him close, smoothing a hand along his skin as you whisper your love to him, he purrs. it’s a low rumble at the back of his throat and when he’s content enough to purr, you know he trusts you and wants nothing more than to love you and be loved by you
literally the most devoted s/o you could ever ask for. he’s so thoughtful and compassionate and is literally made of the finest husband material one could find.
and did i mention head scratches?? he could give the best head scratches this side of coruscant and he enjoys them almost as much as you bc he’s able to comfort you and give you that same love and devotion you show to him
he’s also a v fierce protector. after everything he’s lost, he refuses to lose you to his own mistakes and shortcomings as a living being. he thought at times he was selfish for loving you like he did, for letting you into his heart, but he would rather die than see you in any sort of pain.
tries his best to not coddle when you suffer a minor injury (like a stubbed toe or paper cut) but anything worse than that he’s gonna try and shepherd you away to a medic if you’re close enough, or into his lap so he can force heal you yes he can force heal you without you being in his lap but why would he deprive himself of holding you?? answer is he wouldn’t
if you have anxiety/trouble sleeping/any sad feelings whatsoever, he will tell you stories of old in that deep rumble of his as he holds you tight, giving head scratches if you like them
he’s going to give pet names. so many. “darling” “little one” “my sweet” “lovely” “my dearest” “sweet one” “my flame” “starlight” “flower”
tells dad jokes. i will never not believe this. have fun convincing me otherwise.
areudirty
blakekathryn
kianamaiart
