contents (nsfw): Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!reader, omegaverse AU (Alpha!Dunk x beta!reader). Canon divergence: Dunkâs already a knight (allegedly) but Iâm extending the pocket of time between Ser Arlanâs death and Ashford. Reader impersonates a man. Switching POVs (indicated with dividers), not-really unrequited affection, self-loathing thoughts from Dunk, mentions of smut (not the main pairing), mentions of ruts and knotting, masturbation (but sad and bitter), yearning, mutual pining, horny thoughts, misunderstandings, a smidge of scent kink, tending to sick (protective!Dunk), charged physical restraint in a heat of the moment, angst.
part two -> (soon)
synopsis: Dunk struggles enough with his predicament on his own. When his accidental travelling companion turns out not to be who they said they are it gets worse.
word count: 9K
a/n: Banner is by me, dividers by @honeyluvsw! We are the point where (to quote someone with wonderful brain) not even king Arthur could pull him out of me (it's bad). Lemme know if you want to be tagged for part two!
Dunk wakes to one side of his face being warmed. He squeezes his eyelids hard through a stretch until the crust in them pokes his thinnest skin. Yawns. When he turns, the fireâs already kindling. Youâre crouched above faint flame, hands trembling, trying to lace a glove in the morning chill.
He stills and stares. You have your cloak thrown round you and the hood half up, all that cloth and leather making you into a bundle of angles by the fire, but your hands are bare for once. For a moment, before the buckskin comes back on and seals everything shut, save for the face.
Long hands. Quick when they are warm enough for it. Not soft hands, neither. He has seen the nicks over your knuckles, the little white seam near the thumb where some old cut healed badly, the dark half-moons of cold under your nails on mornings like this. You keep the rest of yourself put away as close as any maid in a sept, though no maid ever rode so hard or slept with boots so near to hand. High throat, gloves, sleeves, hood, all of it. Even in heat you do not loosen much. A queer little habit, he had thought at first. He lingers on it more than he means to.
You are quiet too. Unlike Ser Arlan, who used to get drunk and chant and dance round the fire in naught but his tunic till he fell over face-flat, arse-out. Dunk misses the noise, sometimes. The menacing joy of Arlanâs madness. Your silence is sparing and words seem to cost you something.
Heâs had near a month of your company and still knows the sound of your boots in the leaves better than the sound of your voice. He tells himself he is looking now for no more reason than that you are there and awake before him, and because a man will always look hardest at what is least shown to him. Yet his eyes go where they always go of late: to the bend of your head over some small task, to those clever palms worrying laces and buckles, and the patch of skin at your wrist when your sleeve rides back and you are too cold to mind it quick enough.
Mild things. Fool things. Still they have grown familiar in him. Stranger than that, he cannot rightly call to mind how the road felt before there was another pair of footsteps with his. Another shadow across the fire, another body breathing on the far side of camp. Ser Arlan had been dead only a little while when he first took to riding alone, yet those days seem barer to him now than all the long years before him.
Under his eyelids, it replays. He meets you just after one of his bouts has wrung him near empty. Duncan has taken himself off beneath a great elm and let the storm break over him, too dazed to ride farther, sore to the bone and fever-hot in all the thick places of him. His size turns against him at such times. More muscle to cramp, more skin to burn, more weight to drag once the worst passes.
The rain comes a mercy. It beats the heat from his face and neck, soaks his tunic through, turns the ground beneath him to cool mud. He might have slept there longer if Sweetfoot, good girl that she is, had not started at the thunder and pulled free.
You are leading her back by the reins when he finds you, or else when the horse finds him first and you after. A boy, Dunk judges, from the swagger you wear and the smooth face that has never yet wanted a razor. Squireâs armour, cloak plastered dark with rain, hair tucked out of sight. Sweetfoot comes willing with you, which is recommendation enough in itself. Dunk thanks you, rough and short for ignominy of the state you have seen him in, and you nod as if there were nothing strange in a half-sick hedge knight losing horse and wits in the same afternoon.
You might have parted there. Only when he asks where you are bound, it turns out your road and his run one and the same a good ways on.
âDâyou mind a companion?â Dunk asks.
Your eyes are on him. He shifts his weight. âIâm a hedge knight. Carrying on after Ser Arlan of Pennytreeâs passing. I was his squire. He knighted meââ He puts a hand to his chest, then thinks that foolish and lets it drop again. âI can build a fire, hunt a bit when thereâs aught to catch, and keep watch well enough. Might be of some use to aââ
He breaks off, not knowing what to call you. Squire, mayhaps. Some lordlingâs boy run lean on the road. Or just one more hard little scrap of a lad with no business being out alone.
A look askance. âYou ill?â you ask after a beat. Your voice is softer than the sight of you proposes.
Dunk scrabbles for something to say that is neither lie nor truth entire. âN-no. Just worn some.â
âFine,â you say. That is all. His hand, held out for yours, stays where it is a moment before Dunk takes it back.
Right before that, well. Dunk knows what he is, though the world has a dozen names for it and half as many fool notions besides. Old women mutter of moon-pull and bad blood and such. Dunk knows only the misery of it. He feels it coming when he does and dreads every hour till it has done with him. It burns him through, leaves him sore, stupid, and mean with the ache of it, and cursing his own good nature for not being the sort to toss silver at a whore and use her to help himself. Make her his for a moment, if only by that queer bit of business that comes after he spillsâhis cock swelling thick in the girth, hard and ugly as a bruise, more than any soft flesh could welcome easy, he reckons, and fouler still when it has nowhere to house itself, which is most times.
He was taken pity on twice. Once, before he knew any better, there was a barmaid at a place so mean and low he cannot now call the sign to mind. Sweet-faced girl, broad in the hips, easy with a laugh, and kind to him for no reason that he could see beyond that he was young and big and grateful for a smile.
Dunk had thought it was Ser Arlanâs ale turning in his gut that night. Thought the heat in him came of bad drink and worse stew, and the way his skin would not sit right on his bones.
She kissed him first. He remembers that. The surprise of it and how hard he answered, near ashamed of himself even then for wanting so fast and so much. She took it for flattery, and opened for him.Â
Her thighs spread on their own. Her shirt unlaced and yawned open round her waist because she wasnât bothered to shrug it off completely. He kissed her ineptly and wedged himself between her legs, gasping like heâs dying and there was a kind of death ahead of him but not the ending kind. It was the boy in him dying so the man in him could learn the burdens.
Her mouth, full of blissful sounds, called his name and him a pretty boy, and soon enough Dunk felt his relief coming like it was going to shred the skin off him, and he came grunting like a man. Then came the rest.
The odd growth, thick and merciless, too much all at once. Her face changed under him. Hurt first. Then confusion. Then something worse, as if he had played some sly trick she had not agreed to. Dunk frightened at that near as badly as she did. He got off her in a clumsy rush when he finally could, with apology and no sense to it, and left before she could speak plain on what he had done. After that, when the feeling came over him again, he took himself off alone. Better the hedges, better the mud, better to sweat through every loathsome hour of it by himself than have a person look at him like that again. Ser Arlan never marked the pattern, or else did and had no mind to ask where his squire vanishes to. He was drunk more often than not, and kept the boy at armâs length even sober.
Only once after did someone stop him on his way to the trees. That was near a tourney, when Ser Arlan lay foxed in a ditch and Dunk had a horse to see to, arms to polish, harness to mend, and that old sick feeling already licking up his spine. He thought he had hidden it well enough. Kept his hands to himself. Spoke to no one. Ate little. Sweated plenty.
Still a woman older than him caught him at it, one who had been about the tourney grounds long enough to have an eye for all sorts. Not pretty in any way songs bother with, but handsome yet, with smart hands and a plain face that did not waste kindness on cooing.
Dunk tried to shake her off out of politeness. Said no, stumbled over it, went red as a beet. She only looked him over and told him there were three more like him inside the lists already, and if he meant to suffer in the hedges like a kicked dog, that was his own foolish business, but he need not think himself cursed for it. A mutual favour, she called it after, and mayhaps it was.
She knew what to do with him in ways he had never guessed a body could know. Told him plain to stop fretting. Told him where to put his hands. Bent for him because she thought he would like it, and he hated how right she was. Talked him through the worst of it in a low voice that made him burn harder. Told him to take her, keep her, stay where he was once his body had fastened and would not yet let go. Most of all she did not flinch. Not at the size of him, not at the force of it, not at the animal part after.
When it was done, Dunk was sick with shame for how much ease there had been in submitting to it, and sicker still for wanting every bit of it again. Yet he learnt something there all the same. That he was no lone monster hatched wrong under a bad moon. Only rare, perhaps. And blind in the matter, for he could no more tell one of his own kind at a glance than name every bird in a rookery. Since then he has borne it mostly by himself, same as before. Only now he knows what it is he is bearing, and that there are bodies in the world that would welcome such foulness, though he cannot think on it long without feeling mean for wanting one.
Ser Arlan gave him a clout to the ear and a smack across the head for disappearing during a tourney, and for once it felt like a welcome reprieve from all the thoughts in Duncanâs head, which otherwise are not too many.
So, right before thatâthe horse and the meetingâDuncan has done what he always does. Taken himself off where no one need look at him. The linen on his back is sweat-soaked before the storm breaks, and when he fists himself it is with contempt more than want. His cock throbs and jumps in his hand. Set right enough to Dunkâs eye, though only because Ser Arlan had long since spoiled his measure for such things.
First he sits with his palm clamped round the root and breathes through the shudder of it. Spits on himself for want of a better thing, and even that comes thick and tacky, not near enough to cover him fully. The skin of him is so little used otherwise that Duncan hisses when his calluses catch at the crown. He slides a thumb through the slit and winces to find the half-moon under his nail gone dark with wet. He shuts his eyes against the sight and waits for the next throb to pass through him, hard enough each time to make him feel for one foolish moment as if his heart has dropped there instead and means to beat itself to death.
There is a brief moment, usually, when Duncan forgets where he is and what he is doing. His not-too-many thoughts prove useful then, because it is easier to find a thing in a mind that is not all clatter. There, he fishes for images to ferry him through it and make it as sweet as bile can be sweetened. He thinks of that first girl then, her thighs and her mouth, and her hair between his fingers when he leans over her. He imagines her unfrightened. Imagines her with the voice of the woman from the tourney, saying good, calling him a lovely lad, telling him he is bigger and feels better than any man she has ever had before. Then she says fuck me harder, because not all parts of Dunk are innocent. He wishes, ardently, that there were a body with him he could touch and kiss during, and hold onto after, instead of shivering alone and wiping the cum from the creases of his belly.
He comes like he is fighting it, because he knows what follows. The skin drawn over the knot shines with the strain. The swell steals so much blood it leaves him woozy, and for a moment he can do nothing but sit and breathe and wonder whether the others like him are fated to the same loneliness, the same loveless wanking in the dirt. Then the thunder breaks, and the rest is history.
âTo hells with it,â you mutter at the glove.
Dunk opens his eyes. He is back here. His first thought is to help, and his second knows better. Weeks on the road have taught him that much. You would rather climb for your own apple than let him pluck it down for you, and rather wash alone in a freezing stream than suffer so much as his back turned nearby. He tries not to mind it. Tells himself he does not. A man may have company by accident and still not be wanted close.
âWait till your hand warms,â he says instead. âIâll put more wood on.â
Dawn brings you the usual misery: stiff bones, clattering teeth and cold that gets into the joints and sits there mean till even drawing breath feels like work your body resents. You wake with your shoulders locked and your fingers curled stubborn into your palms, as if they have spent the night trying to hide from the rest of you. For a little while you lie still under your cloak and hate the world in a quiet, practical way. Then you get up before it can wake him.Â
The fire takes sulky. You crouch over it, feeding it patience and little else. No point knocking wood about and rousing Duncan before there is warmth enough to justify it. Sparks catch at last in the old ash. The faintest orange stirs. You hold your hands near, close enough to know how little help there is to be had. The cold has you viciously this morning, a deep kind. It seems to freeze thought midway to action. Your body feels half-stalled with it. Even the glove in your hands turns contrary, fingers of leather refusing fingers of flesh. Makes you angry before the day has properly begun.
The lace slips. Your hand trembles. You mutter at it under your breath and glance back: he is still asleep then, or near enough. This is the only time you can look at him plain.
Duncan softens in sleep. That is a shocking thing about him, and the one you keep discovering anew. Awake, he is size and rough usefulness, made of shoulders and knees and hands too big for neat tasks till suddenly they are not. Sleeping, the strain goes out of him. The lines pressed into the corners of his eyes smooth themselves fine. His mouth, so often set stupidly brave or awkward with whatever thing is about to come out of it, rests easy. Even his lashes change under your eye. In the first blue light they are colourless as old straw. Then the embers wake and a little warmth finds his face, and there it is againâcopper-brown hidden in them, as if he keeps small hoards of summer in ridiculous places.
You look too long. As usual.
The first time you saw him the softness sat wrong, as if he was wrung down into it. He had looked beaten half to death by storm or fever or both, mud to the thighs and rain flattening him into the earth like the world meant to reclaim him. Sick to the gut, you had thought. Or foxed on bad wine. Too big to be thrown there with such obvious want of strength. Men that size are not meant to look used up. There had been something ill-bred in the sight of himâsome private ruin brought out into the open. His horse found you first, and then he did: all long limbs and soaked wool and that face, honest as a church wall and twice as weathered.
You had helped because there was no sense not to. That is what you told yourself then. A skittish horse was worth helping. A man in no fit state to keep hold of one, too. And he had taken the help, which surprised you more than the rest. Most men would have put pride before sense. Duncan had shame enough for three men in that moment, you saw that at once, but not so much he would let it kill him.
When it turned out you were headed the same way, he had askedâofferedâyou still do not know which it was, only that he stood there with his heart beating plain in his throat and his hand held out and his size bent inward, trying somehow to make itself smaller for your sake. That was the moment you should have thanked him and gone the other road. Instead you stayed.
Useful, you told yourself after. He is huge. He can swing a sword. He can lift what needs lifting and frighten off the sort of men who see a small traveller alone and start counting the ways to profit by it. All true. Only not the whole truth.
There was something in him that snagged at you. Beyond gentleness exactly, though there is that. Not beauty either, though the gods know that part has grown into a nuisance. Something exposed. A queer sense that he had been found in a moment when he ought by rights to have been hidden away from every eye, banked up somewhere warm, tended and tending in turn, not left to stagger with rain in his face. You had no words for the feeling. Still have none. Only that the sight of him had struck you as wrong in a way that made you want to cover him up, and that wanting frightened you nearly as much as he did.
The fire gives a soft spit. Behind you, Duncan stirs.
And thereâyou can feel it before he says a word. A fact of him waking, entering the air like another weather. Your own body answers with its usual treachery: a jump low in the gut, a tightening through the chest, the sharp foolish wish to look again when you should be busy with the glove and the fire and all the other safe things in front of you.
He is both easy to be around and not. Keeps the distance as if it is no strange thing to travel with someone and never brush nearer than need requires. Fills the silence with tales of Ser Arlan who, by your reckoning, sounds half old fool, half madman, and not overburdened with kindness beneath either. It leaves you wondering whether he knighted his squire at all, if what Duncan had of him was mostly clouts to the ear, hard ground for a bed, and a head full of cobblers about honour. It explains a good deal besidesâwhy he is so used to want of warmth in other people that he takes your hums and grunts for proper company and your silences for no insult at all.
Truthfully, even the sound of his voice is hard to bear. In the mornings it comes rough with sleep, hoarse in a way thatâs too intimate. Private as a sort of sound that belongs to lovers or people who wake in the same bed more than once. His lips smack before he fully wakes. Sometimes he talks in his sleep, and most of what comes clear enough to catch are apologies of one sort or another. After drink, he snores. In a cheap inn room he snores louder still, and it warms something foolish in your chest to hear it and know he is comfortable for onceâright alongside the irritation of his endless insistence on hedges and ditches when there is a roof to be had.
Such trouble to have about for a woman driven by dreams unfit for her and all the stubbornness of an ox to see them through. You remind yourself daily, past counting, that you are on the road to learn and flee the fate of a brood cow, not acquire all manner of fuzzy feelings for an alleged knight and certain overgrown boy-man.
âWait till your hand warms,â Duncan rasps. âIâll put more wood on.â
With that he sets about rising from his bedroll, not half so stiff as you. You watch him lengthen and broaden through the chest when he takes his first full breath of the day, and with it comes an audible exhale, deep and manly and dragged up from the throat. You reckon it smells of sleep and catch yourself wondering absurd girl things, like what it would be to have it wash over your neck.
Thereâs an odd ritual with him: thinking things first, only so you can never say them. They want out all the same, so you catalogue them for the never when you might be able to tell him.
Wait. Do it for me. Lace it for me. Touch my hand and forearm and tie it up, or better still, hide my hands in yours and breathe on them in a cradle, the way mothers do for children frozen stiff.
All you say is, âMm.â
He comes round the fire half-awake, consisting of creak and wool and big careless palms that are never truly careless, and he crouches to feed the embers. The simple business of it should be equally simple to watchâit is only a man with kindling in his hands. Just Duncan, rough-haired and sleep-marked, pushing life back into the morning. Yet your thoughts go running, tripping over one another for the privilege of never reaching your mouth.
His hands first. Always some woe with them. Too big, you think, till they are not. Thick fingers made for reins and hilts and hauling wheels from ruts, and then he does some neat quiet thing with the wood: sets the pieces just so, shields the spark with his palm, coaxes the little flame up without smothering it, and you have to look away as if the sight were vulgar.
Which it is. Not the fire. The competence. The ease of him. The fact that he can be blunt force one moment and then mend a strap finer than you can, set stitches neater than some wives, talk a beast through skittishness as if it were a child with bad dreams. You do not trust men who surprise you kindly. It feels like the start of losing ground.
The fire catches better under his hand. Heat licks a little nearer. You ought to be grateful, and you are, in the stupid furious way one is grateful for rescue one did not ask for and badly wanted all the same.
Then, he looks at you. Worse than merely a glanceâone of those horrendously plain Duncan looks that land full on a thing and stay there till he has done thinking about it. You lower your eyes to the glove and hate that you have done so.
âWhat?â you ask.
His brow goes a little pinched. âYou look pale.â
I am pale, you think. I am cold. I am trying not to think about your mouth. I have slept badly for a month because every time you breathe near me my body takes it for an omen. You have no idea what pale is.
You say, âItâs morning,â which might have passed for wit in a warmer person. From you it comes out flat as a shut door, and your stiff shrug doesnât help it in the slightest.
Duncan only squints at you harder, as if daylight were not explanation enough. âYouâre shivering,â he taunts.
I have been shivering since birth. I shall die shivering and be buried with my teeth still trying to knock sense into one another. âItâs cold.â
A pause. The fire pops between you. He reaches for another bit of wood, snaps it across his knee, lays it on. Show-off, a mean inward part of you says, though the uglier truth is that the ease of it makes something in your belly turn over.
âYou were warmer yesterday,â he says.
Intolerable. And that only adds to your plateâbeing watched so carefully that he can tell yesterday from today when there isnât much difference at all. Being taken for a boy is work that can never be set down. It lives in the wrists, the throat, the way you sit, sleep, take food, laugh, reach, swear. The reserve is labour, and harder one the more he stares.
On that list, bathing is too. It is another matter entire. Privacy has little to do with it by now, or not the sort Duncan likely thinks. From his face the first time, you reckon he took it for prickliness. Some weird little road-boy habit. A desire to be difficult for the pleasure of it, and you let him think so. Better that than the truth, which is nastier and far less simple.
For you, washing is campaign work. Strategy. A thing to be won by inches. Knowing where he is, where his eyes are not, what can be got off and on again quickly, how much river-water your body can bear before the cold takes your wits out at the knees. Every bath asks something of you: keep your shirt close, turn half-away, be quick with the laces, never bend wrong, never let wet cloth cling where it ought not. Never let your voice go soft with the shock of cold. Never look hurried, because haste breeds notice, and notice is death to such arrangements as yours.
When it came to a point, he had meant nothing by it. âIâll keep watch, if you like,â heâd offered. Useful and decent.
âNo.â
Your refusal came quicker than you could dress need as preference. It made him stop and look at you in perfect stillness that carried no asperity, nor offence, only a yawning question to explain yourself.
âNo need,â you had added, and managed to make that no better. âIâd sooner wash alone.â
A perfectly ordinary wish, save for the way you said it, as if he had proposed something filthy rather than pragmatic. Heat prickled your neck and shuddered you down to the heels at him seeing it prickling and, being Duncan, mistaking it likely for sullenness or shame of the common, harmless sort.
âAye. All right,â he said after a beat, and stepped back as if you had put a hand to his chest.
You washed in misery. Half crouched in the shallows with your jaw rattling and your wet shirt trying to cling traitorously where it ought not. One arm forever at your chest and the collar, at the fall of the cloth. Your skin tightened to the chill till you felt skinned alive by it. The body becomes all edges at such times. Shoulder first, then wrist, then the small hard points of yourself you pray no eye ever learns too well.
When you came back, Duncan was sitting with his back turned broader than a door and his eyes very firmly on the horses. So he had kept watch after all. Only in the one shape you could bear.
Once, you let yearning get the better of you. Only once, and that was enough to make a coward of your conscience for days after. He had gone to the water in the heat of afternoon, stripped with the same blunt brightness he does all things, and waded in as if his body were no more notable than a horseâs flank.
You saw him in pieces first. A pale back between the reeds. One broad shoulder. The blunt jut of an elbow. Then all of him. Naked as day and near white in the sun, like some overgrown fae thing dragged out into the honest world by mistake. His hips flexed when he bent, catching the light on the curve of them like a dint in beaten metal. Enormous thighs. Great square shoulders broad as a barn door. Flesh enough through the belly to wrinkle when he moved, and sparse hair fuzzing his chest so fair it nearly vanished unless the light struck right. Torso with tits that would have made many women envious. His back kept its muscles for certain turns and certain light; otherwise it only looked what it wasâlarge. All of him large. So large it made something feeble in you go warm. Your cheeks heated where you crouched hidden like a creep, and your legs crossed of their own accord in the grass.
He had stumbled on the pebbles coming out, too. That was where the wanting turned tender. The size of him had been plenty. The nakedness more than enough. Still, it was the graceless ordinary part that stayed. Him hissing under his breath when the stones bit his feet, scrubbing water from his face with both hands, blinking round as if the world had never once thought to look at him. You had turned away then, too late by far, sick with guilt and with the stirring need for him taking a seat on you.
A blink. You huff at him. Scramble up so soon blood rushes down your body in a wave so ice-cold your toes become numb. What youâve meant to only think comes out. âMaybe I was warmer,â you grunt. âMaybe not. Whatâs it to youâohââ
The meadow tilts before you have so much as taken a proper step. For one instant you think the chill has won entirely at last, driven you hollow as a reed. Then the opposite declares itself. Beneath the frozen shell of you there is heat, rank and sudden, boiling up from somewhere deep enough to feel borrowed. Your joints flare. The fire jumps sideways, and the ground with it.
You pitch forth. Duncan catches you before your face can find the ash. One moment there is earth and fire and indignity rushing up together, the next there are his arms, quick as a gate swung shut. He makes a rough low sound and hauls you back between his knees so your shoulders come up against his chest.
His body is a wall with a heartbeat in it. It receives you whole: his thighs bracket yours, one arm bands hard across you under the ribs, the other at your shoulder, holding you with an ease that makes your own weight feel paltry and treacherous. Fever makes a mock of distance, and suddenly there is no guessing left in size. He had always looked vast. Like this, kept in the cradle of him, you feel the full measure of it. There is so much Duncan to lean against that your body seems to go loose with relief, as if it has found something built to bear it.
âYouâre burning,â he says. Not alarmed yet, only plain with it. âSince when?â
âI donât know.â The answer sounds thin to your own ears. You stare up at him, or where he ought to be, his face blurring and swimming at the edges. There is so much heat in him it seems wasteful not to reach for it. Your palms nearly lift, wanting his cheeks, his throat, any part of him that might give itself over warm. Instead he lays the back of one hand to your forehead and sucks in a breath.
âFever,â he mutters. His palm goes from your brow to the back of your neck, lower then, finding the sweat under your layers. His frown deepens. You can feel it without seeing it proper. âWeâve to cool you down,â he mutters, âget these things off you and see what the feverâs made of.â
A whine of protest catches in your throat. âNo.â
âYes.â
You try to twist away and manage hardly anything. His hold changes into a firmer thing, one that means he has handled frightened animals and relentless burdens and knows the shape of resistance well enough.
âDo not fight me,â he says, and there is something new in his voice, steel under all the sleep and roughness. âYouâll kill yourself for foolishness, and Iâll not have it. Do you hear me? I do not want a dead boy on my hands.â
Boy.
That ought to help. Instead it hurts strangely.
âI canât die yet,â you whisper. Your eyes glass over. The world keeps slipping. âIâve too much left to tell you.â
His arm tightens, involuntary as breath. âWhat dâyouââ
You do not hear the end of it. Darkness comes up soft and black and merciful, and takes you before the sentence can.
Dunkâs seen stubbornness in humans and beasts alike, and in himself only when he believes it truly matters. Which is seldom where other folk put the weight of things. Theyâll make a whole fight of pride, of manners, of who stood where and who said what sharp. Dunk has no great use for such things.
He had let your own stubbornness pass for the same sortâfiled you away as distant, odd in your habits, close with yourself and no real harm in it (only a small one in him). Now though, the distance can cause absence, and this is where Duncan draws a line, because now you seem weak and innocent enough to him for the knight to step up. Whatever anger you mean to hold after, whatever secrets you think worth keeping, he will have you living first.
He takes your bedroll back out and spreads his own atop it for thickness. The grass underneath has a spring to it that will do little good, though it feels better than bare ground. He lowers you there as careful as he can, flat on your back, then bunches a burlap sack under your neck to lift your head a little. Your lashes flutter. Mouth moves.
âDuncan,â you mumble.
âHush now. Wee thing, hush. Donât spend.â
Your head turns weakly at the sound of him. He gets more wood on the fire first, enough to make a steady heat of it, for there will be a soaking through before the day is done and he will have to get you dry after. Then he goes to Thunder, takes the blanket from his back, and brings it over ready. Your sack comes next. He rummages through with quick, guilty hands and finds what looks nearest cleanâa shirt, a spare pair of hose, a piece of linen.
Then, the stripping. He goes for the gloves first. The laces are mean with cold and your fingers lax inside them. His own hands shake some from hurry and vexation. On the second knot he mutters, âBugger you,â under his breath and gets it loose with his teeth. One glove. Then the other. Your hands spill out damp and chilly, the knuckles blanched with it.
Your boots next. He has to brace your calf under one arm and tug. The first comes with a wet little sound. The second fights him harder. When it gives, he sees the bruise spread across the top of your foot, brown with old blood, ugly as rot under the skin.
âSeven hells,â he says. âHow long have you been walking on that?â
You say nothing. Your breath runs shallow and quick.
He gets the cloak from under you with a gentle wrench and sets it aside. The leather comes after. Buckle at the throat. Straps at the side. His fingers know harness and tack well enough; even shaking, they find the order of things. He works you out of it inch by inch, lifting your shoulders, drawing the weight free. Your body lolls with every touch of his hand, and each time something in his gut drops lower.
By then your shirt is soaked through and sticking to you in ways that turn Dunk queasy with the knowing of it. He reaches for the hem already half-certain, and that half-certainty nauseates him worse than surprise would. Suddenly it hits him how stupid he has been. A dozen little things his mind had taken for other things because he had let it. Your soft face. Your round mouth. The smallness he had put down to youth. Your weirdness over bathing and dressing and every small touch between. All of it there to be read, and him reading every bit wrong.
He pauses with the cloth in his fists, feeling his gorge lift. Then, he pulls the shirt up.
No boy.
A woman. And a grown one.
Dunk stares, sick with the force of his own stupidity. He had looked straight at you for weeks and seen only what he had been told to see.
He sits back on his heels with the linen bunched in his hands and feels the whole road behind him shift its shape. Relief hits first and strange with it, quick as light under a door. So there was a reason. So all your flinching and distance and refusals had a body to them after all. Then the hurt comes up hard behind it. A lie this large. Carried under his nose for four weeks and more. The old sore place in him opens; one that says people keep truths from him because they take him for slow, or simple, or too oafish to spot what is before his face.
âYou stupid little wretch,â he mutters, voice gone rougher still. âInsolent thing. You ought to have said. You ought toââ
You do not hear him. Your head rolls weakly on the sack. Sweat beads along your lip.
Dunk swallows all the rest.
The binding has to come off. He fumbles with the knots, cursing them too, cursing you, cursing the day, until at last it loosens enough for him to unwind it. The cloth peels back slow, and what it has held down rises dark-pressed and marked with its pattern, skin ridged where the weave bit deepest. Gooseflesh prickles you all over. The cold has tightened you, made you firmer to the eye.
Dunk is a man that denies himself, but a man all the same. Hidden things gather force in hiding. Beauty does too. He stares a beat in a kind of dumb astonishment, then lets his knuckles graze the side of your ribs as if they might tell him what his eyes have missed all this while. Pressure is under the surface and he tries to not indulge it. How in Seven hells did this escape him. You draw one thin, freer breath even insensible, and that alone steadies him to the work.
He reaches for the water. There is no art to him beyond what any man on the road knows. Cool the body. Shade the head. Get the wet things off. Keep the breathing easy. He soaks the strip of cloth and wipes you down as decent as he canâforehead first, then throat, under the jaw, the wrists, the hollows under your arms where the heat gathers fiercest. The cloth comes away warm almost at once. He rinses it and does it again. Your skin flinches under the touch though your eyes stay shut.
âAll this and walking on a bruised foot besides,â he says, quieter now. âMadness. Pure madness.â
He dries what he can with another scrap, gets the clean shirt over you with clumsy care, lifting you by the shoulders to work the sleeves through. The blanket from Thunder he tucks round you after, close but not smothering, leaving room for the heat to leave. The damp rag goes on your brow. Another at the back of your neck. He pours a little water onto his fingers and wets your lips when they dry.
Lingering. This is the most you have ever let him touch of you, though letting has nothing to do with it now, and the thought sours in him even as his hands stay careful. For one beastly moment he wonders whether he ought to be so gentle when you have hurt him plain. He goes about with his heart beating out through his ears to every soul he meets, and still you did not trust him. Not to do what? To force himself on you? To laugh in your face? To turn you off the road? The more he thinks on it, the more cross he gets. When he blinks and looks down, he finds his thumb rubbing across your mouth, as if to quiet words you are not saying.
By then the gut-wrench has settled properly in him. It sits low and stern. Part fear for you. Part anger. Part the new knowledge of your body under his hands, and the shame of having learnt it this way.
Dunk sits and looks at you. âYou wait till you wake for this,â he says. âIâll have words out of you if I have to drag them one by one.â
Your mouth moves again. He leans in before he can help it. âMy Duncan,â you murmur.
He stills. Fever has pared your voice down to almost nothing, but that little scrap of it catches under his ribs and stays there. His hand plants by your head. For one moment he lets himself have the nearness of you and bends till his face rests to yours, cheek on cheek, close enough to breathe you in proper. The sickness is thick on you, sharp with sweat, yet under it your own scent runs steady. He knows it. Has known it these weeks past on wool, river-water, the inside of your gloves, and let it pass without once understanding why he liked it.
He drags in a breath and lets it out against your skin. âDonât you dare die,â he says to your cheek, rough and low. âNot before Iâve told you off.â
For the rest of the time, Dunk exists in a purgatory of thought and touch. You have a body on you that would be perfect to quench him when he is taken by his own sort of fever. Kinder than his hands. Kinder than the others he has had too. He is reminded of it every time your mouth parches and the linen pales on your forehead. The whole of the last month has rewritten itself in his head.
Heâs compressed with itâfeels the ire in him fermenting, changing shape fast from exasperation through outrage till it lands in the sore scorn of hurt. The cycle closes and opens again. He keeps the cloth damp. Coaxes a little water into you. Watches for the fever to break. Thinks too much. Looks too much. Feels guilty for that. Gets angrier because guilt and hurt tangle badly in him.
Then the sickness eases a little. He knows it first by the change in your scent, the sweet acrid tang of fever giving ground. There comes a shift in your breathing after, and then the flutter of your eyelids. Dunk braces, though when you move at last he finds something in his chest lighten. He comes nearer.
At first your face is soft with waking. Then it twists. You gasp and sit bolt upright, kicking the blanket off as your eyes drop to yourself. âWhat have you done?â you rasp.
His mouth goes hard. He looks down between his legs where heâs sat on bare ground, wedges his heel into dirt, and mutters, âKept you living.â
Your hands fly to your chest, grasp the shirt. You pull at the collar and peek under, where Duncan knows you will find nothing but skin. He watches your face move through shock to horror to repulsion and, like a plague, it infests him too. âYou undressed me,â you say, right when he is already more fixed on your ingratitude than on how frightened you must be.
âAye. You were burning through your clothes.â
âWithout my leave!â
Duncan stands so abruptly his knees creak. Furious, though he does not know with what exactly. With how oddly you are behaving. With the fact that your voice is raised at him when he has done nothing wrong, and it is all you that did the wrongs. âYou were near witless with fever,â he tells you, his throat straining not to shout outright.
You stand too, clench your jaw, and bark, âYou had no right.â
He takes a step forward and straightens, letting his size hold him up rather than undignifying himself with screaming. âI had every right to stop you dying.â
Your face twists. âBastard.â
âAye!â And there he loses hold of himself. You are ungrateful. Half-naked, saved by him, and ungrateful, speaking to him as if he were some dog that had fouled your shoe. The fever seems to have passed its worst work, but you are still witless. Weak too. Your chest heaves unevenly and your thighs tremble beneath you as if anger alone is keeping you upright. Duncan knows trembling thighs on a woman from other times, and the thought sickens him with its own untimeliness. After it comes one of Ser Arlanâs old lessons on what a man does with insolent little things such as yourself. Before the hand he imagines can fall and meet flesh bent over the knee, his voice raises instead, full-force, and heâs spitting onto his own face. âThat bastard hauled your boots off, found you walking on a foot black as rot, cooled your skin, changed your shirt, and sat by whilst you sweated half the fever out. You may curse me now only because of that!â
âI did not ask you to touch me.â
âNo,â he says. âYou only lied to me.â
Your eyes sharpen. âWhat?â
âYou heard.â
âI was sick,â you say, eyes down.
Duncan lets out a hard, hollow breath. âYou were lying long before that. You think this some little thing. A jest. A queer road trick,â he says. âIt is not. You travel with a man, sleep by his fire, take his food, ask his sword between you and trouble, and say nothing of what you are. I ought to have known. I gave you no cause to mistrust me.â
âMistrust you?â you say, and the weakness in you only makes you more ferocious. âWhat should I have done? Told you plain, and then what? Trusted in your good knightâs heart? Let you take me by the hair and drag me back where I came from?â The shape of your voice turns his knighthood into mockery, and the rest of it goes where you must know he will feel it most.
Dunk jolts at that. âNo.â
âNo?â You laugh once, grisly and breathless. âNo sermon? No noble duty? No returning stray women to their proper stalls?â
âIâd not have dragged you anywhere,â he argues.
âHow would you know what youâd do?â
âI know myself.â
âYou know yourself.â Your voice goes sharp as flint. âYou do not know what it is to live in a body men think they may use. You do not know what it is to have no road open that does not end in someone elseâs hand shut round your neck. You do not know what it is to be a woman. You do not even know what it is to be ordinary.â
âAye,â he says, bitter as gall. âWith that youâre right. I know little enough of ordinary.â
And some of the little he does know sits wrong in him now. Any other man he has known would have let anger carry him simpler. There would be shouting, mayhaps a shake, mayhaps worse. Instead here he stands feeding both of you through the quarrelâkeeping your fever from climbing, taking your spite, feeling the hurt of it and, to his own disgust, something hotter mixed through. The danger of that turns his stomach.
âI hope youâre proud of it,â he says. âA fine feat. Fooling a big thick oaf like me. A badge to pin up somewhere.â
âYou fooled yourself,â you tell him. âSaw what suited you.â
All right. He can bite a little too. âWhat is this then?â he says. âSome womanâs fancy? The boy they meant for you not to your taste, so off you run with a head full of nonsense and lies for every man you meet?â Then, he turns his back on you as if that might keep his temper in bounds.
You grunt and take a step. âSay it again, Dunk.â
âIt is Ser Duncan for you.â
Something cold and slimy strikes the side of his neck and dribbles under his collar.
âSer Duncan.â
âYou insolent wenââ He wheels round and the word dies as another handful flies. âAhââ Mud catches him across the jaw. He throws up a hand against the next. âEnough. Get back under the blankets, you stupidâcover yourself, else youâll be sick again.â
âMake me!â you screech, feet sliding in the grass. âYou undressed me just fine.â
He gets through the barrage by brute patience more than grace. One throw he ducks. Another bursts against his shoulder. A third spatters his chest in brown streaks. You are backing away all the while on those wonky legs, fury holding you up where strength cannot. The shirt swings long on you, catching between your thighs as you stumble. He spares it one glance, then sees your muddy feet about to tread straight onto his bedroll and takes one long step in.
His hands close on your shoulders.
Your fists hit him at once. Dirty and small and bitter all the same. They land in his chest, his arm, once at the point of his neck. Each one finds him sore already. He ought to hate that. He does hate the shame of answering to it. Blood jumps in him, quick and humbling. The old bodily knowledge comes up with it, foul as warning: heat beginning where no heat should be, his skin too tight, his temper turning bright and blinding. Duncan feels the start of it and recoils from the feeling even whilst it is his own.
âStop it.â
You do no such thing. You strike again, breath rattling in your throat, and he gives over trying to catch your wrists one by one. He closes his body round yours instead. His arms shackle yours and pin them to your sides, gathering you in till you cannot swing proper. Still you fight. You stamp at his feet. He grunts when your heel catches bone.
âCease.â
âLet me go!â
âNot till youâve got hold of yourself.â
You writhe against him. The closeness spreads in him like bad drink. He feels every point of contact too keenly. Your ribs working. Your knees knocking his. The weight of you shifting in his arms. A feverish woman and a quarrel ought to make for pity, anger, common sense. Instead his body gives him this. A hateful stirring low in him, the threat of ache and solitude and pain if it takes hold. He huffs once through his nose, effort cloaking disgust.
âI do not understand you,â he grates.
What comes next hits him worse than any fistful of mud or otherwise bared hand could. Your brazen mouth on his. A contemptuous little jest of a kiss, yet he takes it like a haggard fool. Your lips are softer than they look. Your tongue, nowhere near as bitter as he had expected, and the worst of it is that he knows now he has been expecting it. He stammers into it. His whole body staggers and unwinds and mistakes it for kindness where there is none, only because he has gone so starved for a touch like this. Starvation makes an idiot of him. The places you struck burn brighter. Unaware of it, he cinches you in tighter. Crowds you. Devours you.
Until you decide to devour him back.
Teeth, cruel and sharp, sink in his lower lip and clamp until he tastes blood. Duncan feels like heâs been set on fire. His bodyâs logic is crude and opportunistic. It tells him to bite your tongue off and claim it for his own. He is at the point of real hurt when he realises he is holding you so tight your chest has no room to rise. The knight steps back in.
He shoves you off and you go down hard on your arse. Your lips are reddened with him. Even when he shuts his eyes he is not rid of the sight. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, turns, and walks toward the stream.
Despite the gradual (yet quite quick, in retrospect) increment of your feelings toward the skilled soldier, you do, in fact, notice the blunt sexual appeal of Hunter when you first meet Clone Force 99.
Itâs difficult not to; with his long hair you canât quite place how the Kaminoans allow him to have, the striking skull tattoo, his toned body, and discernable shape even through the heavy armor, you canât help but flutter your eyelashes and rock your feet back and forth like youâre a schoolgirl all over again. Hunter is the Bad Batchâs essential leader, the closest in appearance to the rivaled âregs,â leading them as their Sergeant and CT-9901, and he stands out more than any other clone youâve interacted with.
His warm, welcoming, yet slightly wary smile is just as firm as the handshake he gives you when you first meet him, leaning down a little to your height (youâd think clone defects would be the same height, or maybe even shorter than a veritable trooper, but instead you feel enveloped by his vertical. Not that you donât enjoy the feeling, of course) and nodding firmly.
Then you hear his voice.
Itâs only a short sentence; a brief introduction and warm gratitude for joining them as their medic before you acquaint yourself with the rest of the squad. But your ears wrap around the waves of his rough, musky baritone like a magnet. Everything feels as though itâs finally clicked into place and created the perfect picture of your desired man.
Your mind immediately begins to create dreamy rhetoric, wondering silly things to yourself.
Had your mind been aimlessly wandering the galaxy for this long, circling like materials until you finally found an opposite âAn opposite so charmingly rugged?
The feeling that rushes through you feels so destined.
Lucky for you, Hunter seems to express his commands frequently with his voice; sometimes hushed through a link, the vibrations of your comm humming pleasantly between the soft undersides of your fingers as he talks.
It always during the times when youâre deep past enemy lines, taking down clankers more efficiently than a Starfleet. Initially too, as you were still trying to memorize their master list of designated plans and being weighed down by the extra weight of regulation armor.
âDonât go through there yet. Squad of clankers waiting for us.â
âYou sure, Hunter? I donât hear any steps.â
âTake it from the person with enhanced hearing, little medic. Just wait for me.â
Other times when he speaks to you, itâs thunderous commands; ones that he yells out across a field or war front. It frightens you at first, your shoulders jolting and hands instinctively clamping over your ears to deafen the noise, but you quickly realize heâs ordering you to act. Once you get used to the intensity, you come to equally enjoy and indulge how his voice takes on a new edge in fleeting moments of urgency and demand; a once blissful burning of wood turning into threatening crackles, and from there a bleeding forest fire.
Itâs incredibly embarrassing how something as simple as his voice can leave you this breathless. Even from the snide comments he canât seem to help himself from saying when Wrecker retells stories to you, either from their days as shinies and cadets to missions where you stayed back on the Marauder. Between Techâs rambling and Wreckerâs enthusiastic narration, the sound of Hunterâs voice becomes even more of a calming sedative to you.
Though it equally arouses you in other moments.
How his morning voice is somehow even lower and raspier than his regular tone is a study that must be researched and conducted by only the galaxyâs best scientists. It seems just so impossible, unbelievable; none of it is inauthentic eitherâthe grogginess is always equally spread through his body, from his tired slouch and ruffled hair, lolling eyes, the unkempt composition of the clothes hung over his broad shoulders and slim waist. Itâs unspoken the things you might do if you felt there was even the slimmest chance of starting your every day with that sound so deep and lovely right in your ear.
When he addresses you directly before you both allow yourself the time to sleep, asking you to check on old injuries or patch up new ones he got on the last mission. He always manages to get hurt in the most menial yet bothersome ways, and youâre once again forced into close proximity; youâre beginning to consider paying a few scientists and investigators to study the sexy phenomenon that is Hunter. But either way, you sit legs crossed at the ankles in the cockpit, forcing yourself to zone out on anything he might be saying every few minutes so you donât have to squirm and change your position in your seat every so often and prevent showing how damn flustered and hot he makes you; in more places than just your cheeks and ears.
In flitting moments you get time to relish in his conjured wavelength, take in the scene you can create with just the sound of his voice; he transports you to a world of the dark morning fog, the red of his bandana the most vibrant sight in your nearest vision as he takes you on the forest floor just like that, no civil thoughts daring to come to each of your minds as he finally gives you the relief you crave for in real life.
Your depraved fantasy of Hunter is all you can dream of when you sit yourself on your fingers, holding back as many of the impoverished whines you wish to let out due to your true desperation for such an attractive man.
And the sweet indulgences you luxuriate in make you selfish. You want more, need to know how heâd sound grunting, moaning your name while his cock lay on your tongue. Or how the oscillations of his words feel on your inner thighs, against your clit when he pushes his fingers past your tight barrier. Thereâs much more you could learn, could explore if you could attempt an advance. Or simply given something more than slight moments of suggestion that he might have the same deviant desires as you to allow the green light.
Youâve yet to receive such signals. And flimsy fantasies, the work of your fingers to chase unattainable pleasure, and insistent memorization of his voice can only keep you quenched for so long.
-
âHunter,â The inadvertent, pathetic whine crawls up your throat the moment you feel his breath on your neck, lingering over your skin even as he pulls back after hearing the noise you make.
âJust a little more,â He reassures you. The hand not firmly gripping your wrist pats your shoulder, and your cheeks flush at the passing fondness. âLetâs try to get one more shot on target and weâll call it quits, how does that sound?â
With the warmth of your flushed face spreading to the rest of your body, you mutter,
âSounds good,â
and try to softly shake off your arousal, eyes zeroing in on the middle of the tree, the finger hovering over the trigger surprisingly still. Youâre about to take the shot before he starts instructing you again.
âFix your foot stance,â Hunter gently guides your legs apart with one of his own, fixing the positioning of your feet planted onto the dirt and you take in a deeper breath than you intend to. The fire kindle of his voice and the fire kindle of your core are equal matches now; the husk of his chunked honey tone will certainly turn you to mush if he continues any further, it feels.
Really, how does this oblivious, heart-seizing bastard expect you to keep your focus on this pointless shooting practice when heâs got you this compromised?
âTry again now,â he says after heâs got you in the position he wants. You huff again, letting the fiery stimulation fall to your diaphragm, and breathe down your arousal. Just one hit on the target and youâll be free of this torture.
But as you lift your arm again, eyes narrowing closer and closer to your prize, the imminent feeling of his leg between yours rears its head. You become so incredibly, annoyingly aware of it, and grimace, biting your lip softly and knitting your eyebrows together to fully get him out of your mind and body. You tug on your bottom lip and pull the trigger.
The bullet lands left side.
A deep groan of frustration leaves you; it sounds much quieter with Hunterâs rumble and grunt in your ear. You gently pull away from his grasp, handing him the blaster, and turn to face him directly. And when you catch that damned expression you promptly decide that you donât like to see him disappointed; at least, it looks as though heâs disappointed. Eyebrows pinched together with the smallest frown, his chin curled into himself as he looks down at you (Maybe you should look into research for lawyers in the case of when you sue Hunter for the neck pain heâs caused).
âItâs alright,â He assures you, but it doesnât feel right. And from the way he looks at you, itâs not alright.
âNo, it isnât,â You tell him exactly that, your fingers curling and interlocking together by your stomach. His eyes dart down for a brief moment of scanning, and they donât linger too long; Maker, you wish you had the power for your eyes not to glue to him and his absolute stature instantly when you enter a space. âI should be better at this by now.â
Hunter clicks his tongue and turns away, as if deep in swirling thought. His gaze comes back to you before you know it.
âYou should be,â He agrees, but nothing is degrading or critical in his voice. In his eyes, the wave of gentleness that cascades and shifts his expression, thereâs unconditional empathy that you do not deserve and he wouldnât grace you with if he were to know what you beg him to do to you in your dreams.
âWe can try again,â You then insist, but Hunter quickly shakes his head.
âWeâve been working on this for an hour,â He tells you, slickly spinning the blaster back into his holster. He sounds tired as well, a new jaggedness in the smoke tendrils of his voice. âThatâs more than enough practice.â
âBut I just want toââ
âI know.â
Somehow, those words are more devastating than anything else heâs said. You look back and catch the mysterious glint in his eye, almost as elusive as his words might connotate on a foggy day.
âTrust me,â He continues. You donât even realize his hand has wandered and softly taken your chin between two fingers until you feel the soft pads brush against your skin; your jaw slacks. He pinches your chin a little tighter to ensure your eyes are fixed on him. âYou just want to prove yourself.â
Well, of course, you think to yourself vindictively. Itâs enough that you feel ever-so-slightly out of place in a squad of clone troopers, let alone defective ones; not being able to properly handle a blaster in the mere presence of your crush is even more embarrassing. How juvenile.
âWe can try again another time. But youâre tired. I can feel it,â He continues. Thereâs the slightest hint of gentleness you only pick up on because of how you hone all your focus on dissecting and admiring every single crevice of his articulations. Suddenly, he drops your chin, and your head lolls back into place, rather sloppily, and you look up through your eyelashes. âTime for us to sleep, I think.â
With that, Hunter whips around and heads toward the ramp to the Marauder. Youâre left there with a smarting jaw, discreetly trying to rub your legs together and take the heat out of the area.
âAlright,â You sigh, glancing around before trotting after him, the white noise keeping your thoughts off of the man in front of you.
Yet, you still picture what his knee had felt like parting your thighs open only half an hour later. Attempting to recreate it with your arm and then your pillow, you give yourself a foggy release and whimper a jumbled version of his name into your pillow before drifting off, body still buzzing with frustration.
-
The next week, as if the weeks and months before werenât as excruciating, is pure sexual torture. Not to say itâs entirely filled with frustration and dull aching, however. When you and Hunter have a moment of silence, alone by the cots or the engine or the cockpit together, you both relax into the same, comfortable silence that fills the time.
Itâs better to have him not running his mouth off, for sure. You still have to deal with it on deployments and missions, but itâs manageable when youâre knocking down clankers or trying to listen to Techâs very confusing instructions on how to fly the plane to a certain location to pick them up. But heâs allowing the silence to fester between you two. All the better to preserve the actual sweet, steady relationship you have aside from your fiery attraction, you think.
Hey, it could be worse.
But then the dumbass decides to get himself injured. Get pushed into and dragged against hard durasteel, leaving a gash across his stomach that could challenge Wreckerâs spiderweb scars in its damage. Your jaw practically drops when they return and you see the wound out in the open; you canât stop yourself before you lurch forward with worried eyes and grasp his wrist around your fingers, pushing him down onto a bench.
As Tech pilots the ship off the planet, the rest all recline and lick their minuscule wounds beside him, while you and Hunter remain cramped in the back, avoiding his gaze and praying to the Maker that he keeps his voice to quiet rough grunts of pain as you try to unclip each different plate of his armor and lay them neatly beside him, tutting when more of his wound is revealed to you.
âOh my goodness, oh my goodness ohmygoodness,â You stammer to yourself, more and more strained with each breath you take, peeling off the tarnished fabric of his blacks.
âItâs not too bad,â He argues with a soft grin, which slowly fades away when you glare.
âDonât,â You retort, firm and simple, flashing a genuine look of empathy, and even a drip of fear. If you didnât know any better, you might think Hunter practically melts under your look with how he slumps and his expression droops. But heâs still an oblivious, sexy fool, you remind yourself.
You donât even have the energy to fawn over how incredibly attractive he sounds with the rough baritone and anguished sigh-like tone he wears; you instead scramble to open the first aid kit. You can feel his gaze set selectively on you and it doesnât help. In the corner of your eye, he tilts his head.
âIs everything alright?â
You nod automatically.
âEverything is fine.â
The Marauder jostles in rough air; the ship tilts, your stomach dropping with the altitude change, and youâre unwantedly yanked onto Hunterâs lap with a yelp.
You still for a moment, waiting for the ship to steady again before you become acutely aware of how your chest is almost completely pressed up onto his face. And how your knees are caged over his thighs, your pelvis way too close to his wound for each of your comfort. And pressure against your waist, not too firm but still weighting you to his bodyâwait, is Hunter holding you to him?
Your eyes widen and you stumble off, stammering nonsensically and afraid to gaze upon his face. You donât for a long moment, before grabbing the disinfectant and pouring it onto a cloth.Â
Silence festers between the two of you. When Hunter does speak, itâs not to you.
âTech! Get her steady, would you?â He yells across the ship, vexed and evidently not in an ideal mood. Tech immediately retorts in his typical, inappropriately casual, intellectual tone,
âThat is not a light request, Hunter. I am already trying.â
Hunter scoffs and you finally get the gall to look at him. He exchanges a mutual look of annoyance and manages to grin wider for you. The sight soothes your frayed ends ever so slightly, and you stare down at his stomach again at the wound, biting your lip as you inspect the damage.
Your hands come to the hem of his blacks and you give him a silent ask with your eyes.
âIs it alright if I take this off?â
He hums, which you take as a yes, and you slowly peel it off of his skin, trying very, very hard to ensure your stare doesnât linger. He looks at you with a mysterious gaze that's too hard to place for your liking. But you just try and shake it off as you slowly dab his wound with the bacta-dipped cloth, pressing it firm against the injury.
When he hisses, you perk up with wide eyes.
âDid that hurt?â
Hunter clenches his teeth and nods slowly, and you pull away with shaky hands. His arms reach out, encircling his fingers around your wrist, and guides them back tenderly.
âItâs alright,â He says, his tone dropping down an octave as your hands tremble again in his grasp. You gain the courage to look up at him, biting your lip softly. The grin he wears manages to soothe your nerves, just a little. âIâve got you, girl. Just let me guide you so you donât hurt me.â
You let out a shaky exhale of relief, and he sighs, dipping his chin down, but keeping the intense eye contact.
âHow does that sound?â
âGood,â You squeak, the rise and fall of your chest the only constant managing to soothe your fried senses. After a couple of breaths, you finish your thought. âBetter.â You press onto a side of his wound, softly spreading the bacta onto it; your eyes donât separate from his once. âHowâs that?â
He huffs, not of frustration or annoyance, but more a comforting relief.
"Fine. Keep going."
The rasp stirs between the space between the two of you, and you take a deep breath before you can do anything else.
With the firm grasp on your wrists and the low tendrils of his voice softly directing you, you continue to tend to his wound, your hands moving deftly over his skin. The thick, intoxicating tension in the air is palpable; the lingering silence between you weighs heavy despite your best attempts to snap yourself out of it and take care of him like you're supposed to.
It's not your fault he just sounds so damn sexy all the time.
"Careful, careful," He tuts when you're stitching up a particularly bad spot, pressing your fingers around the skin and holding it there as you thread the stitch through. "Just a little gentler, please."
Then, "Avoid that spot, please. I can't even-- shit -- breathe without it hurting. Just stitch around it. Yeah, just like that. Good job, little medic," As you're finishing up.
Once you finish wrapping the bandage firmly over the wound and around his waist, taping it firmly to him, he dislodges his fingers from where it's wrapped around your wrist, bringing it to your chin and manhandling you slightly to get a better look into your eyes.
"See, âwasn't so bad, was it?" He flashes you a grin, obviously masking the pain etching into his limbs, all to calm your nerves. The fact that he's making such a constant effort to make you feel better despite his state makes you positively soft. "You did great."
You grin back, nodding and averting your eyes.
"Thank you."
There's a pause before he bludgeons you with his next sentence.
"You enjoy getting instructions."
Your eyes widen; you almost drop the first aid kit; everything stills, your chest tight as you process his words. Shit, what the fuck?
What the fuck?
"Wh--What?" You stammer, taking a small step backward and tilting your head to appear more confused and insulted by the accusation. Maybe if you appear offended, heâll take it back. "Who said that?"
"You donât need to say it. I can feel it," He continues, gaze thoughtfully fixated on you. He doesn't even falter when you seem to panic. "I can see it." You try to gawk at him to make him feel stupid, make him retract what he's saying, but either he's so certain or you don't seem very convincing.Â
No matter; you're still fucked.Â
"You like getting told what to do."
Your heart pounds, and Hunter just sits there, legs spread leisurely, his eyebrow slightly raised in expectation. Seriously, what does he expect you to answer with? Does he want you to fess up and admit how depraved and desperate you are for his touch, then run off mortified to never speak to him again? Surely he doesnât expect you to take.
Defeated, you sigh and softly run your hands over your work again, avoiding his burning gaze.
"Only from you," you mutter, then immediately pray devotedly to the Maker he doesn't hear. Hunter hums, a tone of question in his voice, then you proceed to figuratively jump off a cliff as you remember this fucker has enhanced senses.
"Whyâs that, meshâla?" He asks. Instinctively, your eyebrows knit together when the new nickname graces your ears.
"What does meshâla mean?"
Hunter doesn't seem very phased. Can't you just throw him off his rhythm once?
"Donât worry about that," He quickly excuses your question as a distraction from the question at hand. "But tell me why you only enjoy getting instructions from me."Â
There's something smug to the way he talks, hidden behind insistent concern and curiosity.Â
"Whyâs that, tell me."
Your hand comes up to hide your face, but he takes it and keeps it away from disfiguring his view of your expression. You want to babble; you can feel your face heating up. Instead, you frown.
"I, uh," You try to discreetly rub your thighs together languidly, easing the tension and buildup of heat in between them. A huff leaves his lips that sounds oddly close to a chuckle.
"Come on," You lift your head, perplexed for a split moment, but then he pats the top of his thigh. You blink once, then twice, then another time for good measure, just to make sure you're seeing correctly. Is he... what's he even implying?Â
"Sit down. On my lap."
Oh. Thatâs what.
Your mouth opens, a strange sound bordering on a choke leaving your throat as you try to retort or deny him. He only raises his eyebrows and dips his chin down, gesturing toward his lap again.
You huff, eyebrows knitted, and take a small step toward him, slowly, and you envelop his figure, trapping his legs between your knees and careening slightly, hands still meeting at your stomach, unsure of where to move. He nods encouragingly.
âGood job, just like that,â He praises you, hands slowly rising to rest on the handles of your hips, fingers tracing your waist. You take a sharp intake of breath, eyes drifting down to where your bodies meet, and look back up at him again. Hunterâs wearing this oh-so-innocent, deer-in-headlights expression you know is bantha-shit. âWhatâs got you so hot and bothered?â
You sough vindictively, averting your eyes.
âStop teasing me.â
He laughsâ though itâs more of a snarky, yet affectionate chuckle. You feel so naked in his presence, given such focused, vehement attention.
âIâm not teasing. Just concerned,â He tells you. The problem is, Hunter does well making you think heâs actually this clueless when he does know and just wants to hear it from your lips.
âMhm,â You hum sarcastically with a pout.
He manages to grin at you, the corners of his eyes scrunching up as he looks at you. You let your eyes come back to him.
âI can do both, canât I?â He offers.
âSure,â You retort.
Squinting his eyes, he casually rubs his hands up and down the sides of your body.
âIâll figure it out, one way or another,â He affirms, ending the sentence with a wink; you take a deep breath, letting your jaw slack. Hunter keeps talking like thereâs nothing thick in the air between you.
âPut your hands on my shoulders.â
You furrow your eyebrows; he pouts like an upset child. Chastising, you huff and do as he says. When your hands shake slightly, he continues giving you instructions. They are so simple, yet they seem so alluring and nuanced in this context. In his voice.
âSteady yourself. Yeah, like that. Good.â
You wiggle your hips slightly, and something boils in his stomach slightly, something bordering on a groan. Your legs are warming up but you have no way to close them and satiate yourself. So all you can do is squirm.
Hunter perks up in concern.
âAre you comfortable?â
You take a moment to respond but then nod.
âGood.â Hunter grins softly, patting your left hip. For a moment, he decides to rake his eyes over you appreciatively, almost in the same way you do when you assume he isnât looking. âIâm glad.â
Offering a civil smile of mutual understanding, you wiggle your hips, trying to find a better position if youâre going to be compromised on his lap.
âTrail your hands down for me.â
It's hard to deny or disobey him with a voice like that, especially when you know itâs directed toward you. So you slowly let your hands slip from his shoulders and descend his chest and torso.
âYeah, down,â He encourages you when you reach the top of his wrapped wound. âMaybe try to avoid the gash.âÂ
You lift your hands and let only the pads of your fingers place feather-light touches over the wrapping. When your hands begin to tremble again the further you descend, reaching his pelvis, he tuts to stop you. âThatâs a good place to stop.â
You look up again with wide eyes, trying to stop your erratic (embarrassing) trembles and tilt your head. Thereâs more heâs going to say. At least it seems so.
âWhenever youâre ready, put your hand over my crotch.â He gives you a soft look of reassurance, making sure youâre completely comfortable in this position, before finishing. âI want you to feel me.â
Gasping softly, you pull your hand away, fingers curling into your palm and gripping tightly. A shiver runs through you, and you canât seem to figure out if itâs from shock or pleasure.
âWhat?â You begin, eyes flitting from his face and back. âH-Hunter, I shouldnât.â
âIâm asking you to.â Polite insistence is the game he plays. If this truly is a trap, you might happily fall if it means you get to touch him. He runs his hands over your curves again. âI want you to.â
You tense further, something bordering on fear in your eyes. Hunter notices and frowns while he clarifies:
âUnless you donât want it. âCause then⊠we can stop. No hard feelingsâŠâ
You can see how heâs getting lost in his thoughts. For a split moment, that perfect composure he holds in your presence fractures; he seems insecure and nervous; anticipating inevitable rejection because heâs pushed you too far.
That isnât the case.
As you finally press your palm to his bulge, you contain your gasp. Heâs big. And so hard.
âFuck,â He groans, head tilting back. âFeel that?â
Oh kriff, that rumble. Itâs warm and smooth yet rough all the same, creeping its way over your skin until youâre forced to keep the faintest whimper from leaving your throat. You string your lips tight and nod.
âMhm,â Is the only thing that manages to leave your mouth, whiny and soft. You palm him further, as if the fabric would simply tear away and you could finally feel his skin on yours. He hums again, and youâre left looking doe-eyed in his direction. âShit, Hunter.â
He throws a heavy statement onto you.
âItâs my voice, isnât it?â
You tilt your head up, containing the urge to gasp.
âWhat?âÂ
âWhatâs making you so hot and bothered,â He continues. You want to look away, hide your face in your hands with humiliating embarrassment, but youâre trembling so much on top of him that you canât even flit your eyes away. âYou like my voice. And you like it when I tell you what to do.â
You gasp lightly when you feel his warm hand on your thigh. Your cunt twitches and it really shouldnât. Heâs barely doing anything.Â
âWell,â he continues, raising an eyebrow. âAre you going to deny it?â
The answer is delivered non-verbally. You relax into his lap, palm pressing further to his bulge, and then you squeeze oh so gently. That heavenly groan graces your ears and you devoutly catalog it into your mind for later recollection.
His chin dips down to catch a glimpse of your hand before he meets your eyes.
âMeshâla,â he says; even without knowing what it means, just hearing how he speaks with such beguile and worship tells all that you need to know. âMeshâla⊠can you do something for me?â
âYeah. Of course. Anything,â You stammer out with a slack jaw, far too enthusiastic. Hunter doesnât seem to regard it as anything distorting the absolute utmost respect that he must feel while he has you in his lap with your hand on his dick.
âSlip your pants off.â
Itâs practically instinctual how efficiently you gingerly push yourself off of his lap and follow his order. With your hands chastely placed above your waistband, you let your thumbs push past, then await Hunter to grant you to pull them off. His eyes dilate with the view, and he nods.
The pants find their way to the ground clumsily, and you cringe internally at your lack of grace, but when you finally catch sight of Hunterâs expression, perhaps itâs nothing to worry about.
He looks⊠starved. Hypnotized by the splendor in front of him, for his eyes and his hands and his body only to touch, feel, hold, take.
âYouâre⊠fuck,â he sighs, sounding out of breath, as though youâd just swept his leg and taken him off his feet. His hand methodically strokes up and down his thigh, only lightly grazing the tent in his pants as he takes his eyes over how you look, over and over again.Â
âYouâre stunning,â he finally manages to say. His hand stops stroking to pat his thigh lightly, and his voice simmers in a way you know is on purpose. âCâmere, sit on my lap again.â
âAre you sure?â You ask for permission despite rocking your feet back and forth to shimmy your way back. As you gesture toward the bandages wrapped around his middle, Hunter huffs and frowns with miffed frustration. âYouâre still injured.â
Hunter gripes to himself as he pushes himself up, placing his hands on your hips and pulling you to the free space between his two hard, firm thighs. His dexterity surprises you. The warmth radiating from his body does even more.
âIâve never been so sure of anything in my life.â
Oh.
Shit.
He looks the part, certainly; you only try to feel the faintest tremble of his fingers when his hands float away from your hips to sit on the top of his legs again,Â
âOkay,â You mutter aimlessly, reaching up to your face to brush your hair away in a measly attempt to look more presentable. Your voice is just a squeaky little thing, and itâs so incredibly humiliating. âOkayâŠâ
âItâs alright,â Hunter tries to soothe you, and you breathe shallowly.
âI know that.â Your tongue runs over your bottom lip and you heave. âI justâŠâ
Before youâre able to process whatâs happening, Hunterâs reaching a hand out to cup your face. Despite the coarseness of his skin, his callouses fall on your cheek, itâs so tender, and you melt into his touch.
âDo you need some guidance, little medic?â
With a slight whine, you nod, letting your lashes flutter. Hunter lets his thumb swipe over your bottom lip, and your mouth parts. He grins at your unprompted compliance.
âThen let me tell you what to do. Let me tell you how to touch yourself and make you come from that, and my voice too.â
A depraved noise is choked out of you.
âFuck,â your head careens to the side, but his firm hold on the side of your face keeps your gaze on him. His grin turns more into a cheeky smirk.
âHow does that sound?â He asks. You nod adamantly before he tries to change his mind, so worried that heâll push you away at any moment. As though he can read your mind, the hand that was still on the back of your thigh takes a gentle squeeze before trailing up your body, taking appreciative feels of your ass and hips before settling on your waist again.
âMmâŠâ You hum, reveling in the sensation. âReally good.â
Hunter gives you a half-crooked smile, and you want to cuss him out, or yourself, youâre not sure who to be fed up with.
âCome on, little medic,â He urges you on, patting your hip. âSlip your hand down your panties.â
Wordlessly, you let a trembling hand descend down your body. You have little dignity left in you to try and make yourself appear more seductive, but you hope your image isnât so repulsive. The moment your fingertips make contact with your heat, your fingers grazing over your mons and clit, your mouth falls open in a silent gasp.
Hunter tilts his head.
âHow does it feel? Are you wet?âÂ
He should know already, smug bastard.
âYeah,â you nod, keening further into his touch when he tilts his chin down, leaning toward your ear.
He takes a gentle lick, so light that if you werenât in his grasp you wouldnât have noticed.
âHow wet?â
Your hips instinctively buck to rub yourself over your hand, a rush of arousal washing over you.
âReââ You swallow a wad of spit sitting on your tongue. âReally wet.â
Hunterâs lips are gentle when they undulate as he speaks oh so close to your ear, quiet and warm, words just for you.
âJust from my voice?â When he asks this time, you donât detect much smugness; he wants the confirmation and credibility for a foundation of fact heâs built for himself.
You nod, but add on more.Â
âNot just that.â
âHm?â His dark rumble travels down your spine and you squirm with pleasant upheaval. Your hand is still awkwardly lodged down your panties with nothing to do.Â
âTell me more,â he demands with an assuasive croon. With one last kitten lick that lingers on the shell of your ear, he allows his lips to wander, mouthing against your skin, leaving delicate kisses on your temple, your jaw, and any moles and freckles in his nearest vicinity while he awaits your answer.
âI, uh,â you begin, awaiting to land on a coherent stream of words loosely strung together to fall on your tongue. âyourââ
Just as you feel something begin to tie, your gaze drops down. Hunter palms his full erection over his blacks, languidly as though without a care, and the thought of him being aroused by this, aroused by you, slaps your mind into a render less zone.
ââfuck.â
He chuckles right in your damn face, and Maker heâs just too pretty not to kiss. But you resist the temptation with the festering worry of crossing the barrier past simple attraction into affection.
So you swallow slow and hard and try to compose a sentence.
âYour, faceââ
Yeah, real eloquent, idiot.
ââThat skull tattoo, itâs, well, shitâŠâ
Your tongue wraps around itself again, words becoming more and more hard to piece together the longer you think about it. All that your primal mind begs you to think of is the olympic man presented under you, and the heat that radiates off the both of you.
âAlright now, you donât have to continue,â Hunter huffs with no real malice contained in his words. It still makes you cringe nonetheless.
âThat bad?â You ask with a clenched jaw.
A simple head shake is all you receive, but itâs more than enough to sedate a growing burn in the pit of your stomach. The hand not pressed to his crotch gently holds your hip, thumb swiping over your panties and bare skin; he even dares to let it slip past the waistband. The accurate awareness of your hand pressed to your pussy returns to you.
 âDonât want you to focus your energy on that,â he clarifies, eyes looking into yours with a softness youâve never associated with Hunter. Youâd find it peculiar in a regular conversation, but everything about this interaction has been anything but normal.
You suddenly realize youâre at a loss again. âSo what do you want me to do?â You ask because you feel humiliated just straddling him like this.
Hunter puffs out his chest and you prepare yourself for the worst.
A coarse hand presses to your navel, trailing up underneath your shirt to sketch an image of your body underneath, stopping right where âRub your pussy for me.âÂ
Itâs worded like a demand, but he voices it as though itâs a request. Your body wants to tense and retract, but the palm spread over the expanse of your stomach prevents you.
âYou can do that,â Hunter encourages you, almost as though you were a creature heâs saddled on to ride. Though in this instance, youâd much rather be the one to ride. âCanât you? For me?â
With a huff, you look away and nod bashfully. Itâs wordless when you begin to move your hand, let your fingers get soaked as they rub up and down, up and down⊠youâre almost too tense to really feel the sensation, but Hunterâs doting gaze and his firm hand on your stomach keep you grounded. As you collect slick, running your fingers through your folds, it takes heavy petting for you to relax your jaw and let out the most pleasantly pathetic whimper.
Hunter groans, adding fuel to the flame flourishing in your pants, a dark sound of thunder rumbling in the sky, forewarning something much more devastating.
âYeah, just like that,â he encourages you in that same husky tone following the groan. âRock your hips too.â
You do so diligently, using your palm to press against your clit as a foundation for the rest of your hand to move leisurely while you rock your hips into himself. Hunterâs hand retracts from your stomach, fingers curling into his palms as he lets his knuckles graze against your skin. When you shiver, he takes it as an invitation to shush you gently against your temple, before his hand falls to your waist again.
The moment you glance down, you have to tip your chin back with an ascendant sigh. Heâs got his hand over his clothed erection, palming it with a firm hand, almost absentmindedly as he keeps his eyes on you.
âFuck, HunterâŠâ The desperate, embarrassing whimper comes out of you far more loud than you intend. Hunter shushes you gently.
âKeep quiet for me,â he commands; how are you meant to be by him when he speaks like that?Â
âGood?â He then asks, seemingly seeking approval good enough for him to continue. âDo I sound as good as you imagined?â
You want to say yes, declare it to the entire galaxy, and tell him just how wonderful this man is, but youâre far too overwhelmed by all the pleasurable sensations disrupting your thought process. So instead you nod.
That seems to satisfy Hunter, and the smallest smirk curls on his lips as he watches you squirm and rock your hips into your hands.
âDonât you as well.âÂ
With a hum, you try to dismiss the comment. But only as you let it sit does the implication of his words sink to your stomach. But he doesnât allow you to dwell on it for too long, it seems, as he continues,
âI want you to keep touching yourself. Do whatever you need to for me. Whatever makes you come.â
He pats his incredibly intimidating bulge as though itâs an invitation.
âRight here, on my lap.â
You resist the dizzyness that threatens to overtake your senses, but as you steady your breaths, you suddenly feel so exposed. Far too exposed compared to Hunter.Â
So you try to level the playing field.
âWould you⊠erâŠâ
If only your words could come out correctly. Hunter raises an eyebrow, perked with a cheeky glint in his eye.
âHm?â He hums.
You grunt and attempt again to tunnel out the words. Like a plow shoveling out snow or sand.
âItâIt feels unfair that Iâm the only one here getting off.âÂ
You wince as you finish the sentence. Maker, you sound so clunky and awkward. So much for being seductive.
But Hunter hums with total compliance, letting his hand trail up to where his bottoms cling to his skin.
ââGuess youâre right.â Slowly, oh-so-slowly, Hunter peels back the waistband of his blacks, letting his hand slip through to free his cock from underneath the garments.
You think youâve been knocked out for a healthy minute when you get a proper look. Youâd never imagine describing a cock as pretty, but just like everything else, Hunter may become an exception. His fingers curl around the base with rather ease, before reaching up with it to his chin. He opens his mouth, letting a wad of spit collect and drop onto his palm, allowing him to stroke his cock with a more slick movement.
Maker, heâs so⊠soâŠ
No, that canât be right. His cock is far too thick for his hand to wrap around it so easily. But then you remember his proportions, especially compared to yours. A small chuckle leaves you when you imagine how you might try to wrap a full hand around his length.
Hunter leisurely strokes himself, eyes set on yours with an intensity that makes your stomach leap bounds up to your chest.
âNow itâs more fair, little medic,â he says. âDonât you think?â
You nod adamantly with no hesitation.
âYeah, yeahâŠâ Your fingers deftly move to trap your clit between your index and middle, your mouth falling open when you feel the pressure hum over you. âShit.â
Hunter huffs with a smugly saccharine look, his hand slowly stroking up and down his cock, lingering at the tip before he returns down again.
âYou look really good like this.â
You tilt your head and grunt in disbelief. Itâs hard to believe him when you feel simultaneously so powerful and so humiliated. Even though heâs just as physically exposed as you, you still feel more vulnerable.
âDo I now?â Despite being sarcastic, you try not to come off too mean.
But then Hunter sighs out the most exasperated, â Fuck yeah,â his chin tipping upwards as he gathers his breath, tongue darting out to lick his lips, eyes half closed while he squeezes the tip of his dick, and youâre left render less to your own attraction again.
He seems to see the disbelief in your eyes.
âDonât you believe me, meshâla?â He asks. You remain still. âYou really need me to spell out just how hot you look right now? How sexy .â
âHunter,â you whine.
He continues without regarding you.
âIâm trying so hard not toâ fuckââ he tenses his stomach as he tries to compose himself. ââjust blow my load right now. Youâre just soâ so pretty and pliant and so damn obedient .â You tremble slightly, and Hunter reaches to hold the back of your neck; not before tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, of course.
âListening to my every order,â he continues, oddly affectionate.Â
A rush of confidence flows through your veins. You try to smirk, but instead it comes out toothy and bashful.
âThatâs my job, sergeant.â
Hunter groans, his fingers curling into your neck, one pressing to your pulse point so purposefully.Â
âFuck, donât say stuff like that,â he says, shaking his head, though he doesnât seem too displeased. âOr else thisâll be really short.â
You giggle, trying to look away, but Hunterâs grip on your neck keeps your head in place. You blink rapidly, suddenly overwhelmed by his stare. But you canât. Move.Â
You whisper out a weak, âKeep talking,â before your eyes shut close. You press your palm to your clit, whining softly. Hunter uses the grip on your neck to bring you in closer, whispering slow and softly into your ear with purposeful oscillations of his lips,
âI wonder how youâll feel around me.â You sigh out the faintest hint of his name in surprise, just as you begin to press a finger into your entrance. âI bet youâre so tight youâll squeeze me out. Warm, and hot, and loud .â
âFuck,â you swear, both in response to his words and to the feeling of a single finger pumping in and out of you. Youâve done little to stimulate yourself and cum, but somehow youâre already feeling an anticipated crawl up of an orgasm.Â
The things Hunter does to you.
âI want your mouth on my cock too.â
You clench involuntarily o over your finger, bucking your hip so your clit catches against your palm. Oh. He isnât done.
ââThinking weâd both have fun if I tried a hand at commanding you around, fucked your face a little.â
Hunter tilts his head. as though expecting a response, so you nod your head â or tilt your chin down, youâre unsureâ and he grins in deep settled approval at your compliance.
âHow does that sound, hm?â
In a split moment of respite, while he awaits your response, you gaze down, watch his hand wrap around his cock with more insistence than before, stroke at the same rate you move. The hand on your hip drifts down to hold your hip again, rocking you with more fervor. Inadvertently, the movement forces your fingers in a new direction that grazes your g-spot just so perfectly, and youâre sighing again.
â Oh⊠â
The silence becomes too long for Hunter to bear, and he grunts.
âAnswer me, meshâla,â his tone is commanding, yet not overbearing. You appreciate it considering the sliver of shame remaining in your stomach. âWould you like that?â
âIâdâIâd like it,â you stammer out, slowly rubbing a second finger down your folds before pressing in slowly to meet the other. âA lot ⊠fuck.â
With a tilt of his head, Hunter leans in closer, lips dangerously close to yours and for a split moment you consider pulling away.Â
âSomething the matter?â He asks, but he knows the answer. Hunter can damn well see how your legs begin to twitch and shake more rapidly, the unsteadiness of your breathing as you simultaneously calm yourself and try to bring about your high.
âYou fucking know whatâs the matter, Hunter,â you bark back.
âI donât think Iâm sure exactly,â he responds dismissively. âCould you say it clearly, just in case?â
Something you hope sounds like a playful growl leaves you, but in reality, it probably sounds like a moth cat purring.
âYou bastard .â Thereâs no real bite to your insult, and Hunter knows it, so he grins.
âI do my best.â
Your pleasure overtakes you and a shiver runs from the top of your spine to your legs, your thumb moving to properly rub your clit.
âOh, fuck, Iâm close,â youâre moaning out before you know it, voice dwindling so youâre not too loud.Â
âAh,â Hunter hums, affectionately rubbing your hip. âThatâs what I thought. âWas just making sure.âÂ
His strokes have become more erratic and frantic, but his composure doesnât give it away. If you werenât to gaze down, youâd have no tell how aroused he truly was. Though perhaps thatâs how he wants it to beâ youâre a pretty mess while heâs the foundation to keep you upright.
Suddenly, heâs talking again, using the hand on your hip to encourage you to keep rocking.
âCome on, you pretty thing,â he rumbles. âCome for me and Iâll come for you.â Then youâre remembering what brought you to this attraction in the first place; that damn voice of his. Truly, and you mean truly, never saw yourself being in this position; situated over Hunterâs lap, touching yourself for him while he gets off to you and only you.Â
With one more curl of your fingers against your g-spot and your thump insistently rubbing your clit, youâre over the hill, and youâre twitching and rocking your hips over and over in arches of your back, jumbled syllables vaguely making up Hunterâs name spilling from your lips like sticky sweet sugar.
Thatâs when you hear it. When you glance down to catch his spend start to spill on his bare skin the bandages of his, he groans out the most pleasant incantation of your name youâve ever heard. The moment the noise graces your ears, youâre certain that you never want to hear anything else. Or at the least, any other version of your name.Â
A few moments pass where you remain panting in each other's presence, his hands remaining render less at your side, rubbing up and down in uncoordinated patterns, while your hands grip his shoulders. You only start to pull away from him as you catch your bearingsâ and your dignity.
Hunter interrupts you by grabbing the wrist of the hand you had stuffed down your panties. He leans in closer, tongue darting out like a teasing little offer.
âCan I get a taste, meshâla?â His voice is slow, and warm, like honey pouring into a pot of teaâin any other situation, it would sedate your nerves. But those words ignite that fuel inside you. You press your fingers still coated in slick to his lips, and he opens his mouth graciously, letting his tongue swirl around your digits with a gracious hum that vibrates your skin. Your other hand drops to his chest just before where the gash begins and holds onto it with a tremorous touch.
Hunter pulls away with a resounding âpopâ that makes you cringe, but not pull your eyes away.
âDelicious,â he remarks.
Your face is hot again and Hunter is smiling wide, but youâve figured out by now he means no malicious intent with his mannerisms. His hand reaches out, cradling your faceÂ
âArenât you a sight for sore eyes,â Hunter admires you with a glint in his eye youâve never seen before. Sure, youâve seen affectionâ plenty at this pointâ but thereâs a tenderness to his words as he continues. It still doesnât feel fair to not return the compliment, however.
âYouâre one to talk.â
The only response you get is a scoff.
âHave you ever seen yourself?â He asks, posing the rhetoric as if youâd go out of the way to compliment yourself. Itâs hard to feel anything more than pretty when you have the most handsome man trapped between your thighs.Â
Hunter doesnât budge â states it like a fact, as though he truly believes it. âI always get ravenous just looking at you.â
âOh,â You reply dumbly. âI⊠I didnât think.â Your ability to talk to Hunter improves after getting off for him, it seems.Â
âYou thought wrong,â he replies, shaking his head slightly with a smile. He leans his head down, looking better at your face before reaching with his palm to hold your cheek with hands so calloused they feel soft.Â
âYouâre a capable woman, a great addition to the batchââ Your cheeks heat up, and he smiles. â--And I think youâre beautiful. Meshâla. Thatâs what that means.â
Your hand crawls up slowly against his arm, unknowingly following the pattern of his skeleton tattoo before your much smaller hand is placed against his.
âHunterâŠâ You whine.
He tilts his head, that goofy smile still stuck on his face. âWhat?â
âYou flatter me.â With a shake of your head, you unpeel yourself from his lap, and Hunter whines so, so soft as you do to the point you almost leap back onto his lap again.
âIâm being honest,â Hunter insists, lazily using the underside of his blacks to clean his spend off his skin and the bandages. Youâre standing idly, stupidly, and you know heâs waiting for you to say somethingâ and you do, you do, but you donât know what.
âWell, thank you,â you finally answer, attempting to compose yourself. You awkwardly place your feet back into the holes of your pants, pulling them up in a swift motion that leaves you put away wet, but you care very little at this point.Â
You look up at Hunter, appreciatively looking over his features, before a forlorn feeling fills your stomach when you gaze down at his lips. You felt them delicately graze against your ear, wrap around your fingers to gently suck and lap at the spend coating them, yet you havenât felt them against yours once.
He notices the look on your face.
âSomething up?â He asks.
In retrospect, it mustâve been a rush of confidence through your veins after having him in such a vulnerable state only a moment ago, but you truly donât know where your next words come from.
âCan I have a kiss?â
You expect, hope even, for Hunter to be thrown off his rhythm so he can be on the same level as you for once. Rather he takes a step closer to you, his hand methodically wrapping around the back of your neck again, thumb pressing the juncture between your jaw and throat for that extra leisure, feeling your pulse as he pulls you in for a kiss.
In your dreams, Hunter's kisses are wholly devouring. But in reality, itâs warm, tender, brimming with an underlying passion you least expected. As his lips press against yours, you can feel the velvet caress of his skin, the exchange of breath between the two of you that makes you hum into him.
His other hand rises to gently stroke your back before pulling you closer, and you feel so enveloped in his embrace that neither of you will be harmed again. You press your foreheads together and pull away, each taking slow, savoring breaths.
Truly, you never expected to be in this situation.
â...I donât want this to be a one-time thing,â you mutter shyly, a bashful look on your face. Itâs that little smile, that damned voice of his, that delivers the final blow, sending you back into his striking orbit.
âOf course,â Hunter tells you, smooth as ever. âI still havenât gotten to be inside you.â
Warnings: Language, WarPrisoner!Reader, Toxicity, Weaponizing Hux, Humiliation, God Complex, Jealousy, Possessiveness, Smut +18 (Minors DNIA, DEAD DOVE FIC, Dark fic, Sadism, Masochism, Inexperienced!Kylo, Ownership Kink, Dry humping, Forced sex, Spitting, CNC, Dubious Consent, Massive Degradation Kink, Inappropriate Use of Force, Choking Kink, Size Kink, Impact Play, Groping, Breast Play, Premature Orgasm, Controlled Orgasm, Dom/Sub themes, Dom!Kylo, Sub!Reader, Brat Tamer!Kylo,;Bratty!Reader, Slight!Exhibition Kink, Humiliation Kink, Inappropriate Mind Reading, Overstimulation, Dirty Talk, Mentions of Rape, Fingering, Rough Sex, Dacryphilia, Gagging, Subspace.
Do not read this if you're incredibly sensitive to violent imagery. If this doesn't make sense don't say anything or i'll cry <3
As Hux walks diligently ahead of you, you could not tell by his tense shoulders and his palms clasped behind his back that he was following the duties of a madman.
While he escorts you, Hux thinks back to his slip-up with Ren.
The way he shouldn't have mentioned your name in a comprehensive report about the overall running of the Starkiller. The way he should've known how dangerous Kylo is when it comes to anyone taking even the vaguest of interest in playing with his toys.
"Despite having the accolades of an established pilot for the resistance," Hux had said moments earlier when Kylo was pacing up and down his private chamber, "Your prisoner refuses to put any of her skills to use aboard the Starkiller. She's essentially useless dark matter," He uttered his words rather clumsily. As if forgetting he was reporting to a beastly excuse of a man.
Hux only realises his mistake when Kylo stops his various pacing to turn slightly. His unmasked head tilts to the side as he advances on Hux in a low, large gait. Everything about the boy being so unnaturally large.
"My prisoner?" He steps closer, "Or the First Order's?"
Kylo's laugh appears unnatural without the mask. Not any less intimidating but certainly, frighteningly human.
"You act as if my will is not synonymous with that of the First Order, general," Kylo's blood runs fucking cold at the thought, "You insinuate that I keep her here out of my own free will,"
"Well, we all know how much a boy fancies his toys," Hux's degradation causes Kylo's Adam's apple to bob and a deep frown settles over the boyâs face. Whatever weakness Hux was accusing him of, it rattled the foundations of his already fragile ego and Hux smirked.
"Go tell her I wanna see her," the first command left Kylo's lips in a fairly controlled and monotonous manner. The second however... "FUCKING NOW!"
Robotic inclination bleeds from the mask of the stormtroopers âYes Sir-â
Without sparing the stormtroopers so much as a single glance, Kylo spat, "Not you, fucking degenerates," Kylo stares Hux down as he steps towards him. His voice is ice cold. "I want you to summon her," he takes immense pleasure in the way Hux's smile drops.
Kylo has observed the glances Hux throws your way and it makes his fucking stomach turn. He's seen the uncomfortable leering and the lecherous thoughts. Kylo was nothing if not a sadist. Humiliating Hux using the object of his desires.
He wants you and that makes Kylo want you even more... Violently so
"Where are you taking me?"
You could feel the rest of the crew watching your every movement as you trailed behind General Hux like you were compelled to do so by some unseen leather leash. You cannot help but feel as though you have done something very bad and very naughty.
You try to rid yourself of these thoughts immediately.
Perhaps he was taking you to see the vermin underneath the mask.
That thought should not sprout such a deep desire within you. Kylo was your captor and yet, he fascinated you more than anything ever could.
"At least slow the fuck down," You breath out, trying by all means to evade all eye contact with curious onlookers.While you walk you try to keep your head high and appear unaffected by their piercing glares. Every stormtrooper, navigator, pilot- even down to the measly technicians all keep their eyes trained on you and you glare back. Leering your head forward with narrowed eyes because being held captive on the Starkiller was punishment enough. You would never allow yourself to be intimidated by the judgemental stares.
"Do you ever plan on disclosing our destina-"
You're interrupted by a sharp and loud hiss before two doors part. Your eyebrows furrow before you're dragged into the chamber, quite literally against your will. You did not wish to get acquainted with any more rooms on the Starkiller. Hoping that one of your comrades in the resistance might have saved you long before you ever had to make this ship your dwelling place. But you've only crawled deeper into the Starkiller's core and you find yourself here, standing before him in his black cowl with his hands clasped behind his back.
The room is as lifeless as the rest of the vessel. The bed, colourless and hard. The only signs of vibrance is the east window depicting a slab of stars in hyperspace.
"I am told you've made yourself fiercely unlikable in the flight deck.â Kylo says, completely ignoring your slightly shocked experience at seeing him without his helmet.
âThat's what this is then?â You turn briefly to make eye contact with Hux before turning to Kylo with one arched brow, âI'm being scolded now?â
âYou're insolent when given any orders,â he oaces before you while Hux stands behind you by the door, âYou disobey at every given turn and you're resistant. Vexingly so.â
âHow clever of you, it seems as though you'd only just discovered a key characteristic from a member of the resistance.â You say with a smirk, âClever, Clever boy."
âIt's that mouth of yours that's gonna get your head slain from your very shoulders.â Kylo advances you like a midnight storm and you fight to stand your ground.
âI have grown terribly bored of this place,â You say, âPerhaps even death might be more eventful then whatever you are, Kylo.â
Before Hux is able to make his escape Kylo grabs at your throat, encircling his hand around your skin like a vice until he is forcing you to look at Hux ahead of you.
"This is what you want?" He isn't speaking to you but to Hux, pushing your cheeks together in a painful display of humiliation. "This is what's been plaguing that mind of yours-"
"I've no time for this-"
The very last thing Hux is able to see before he leaves Kylo's quarters, is your frightened eyes and Kylo looming behind you. A mere mouse being imprisoned by a God.
You make the mistake of thinking that Hux's absence might soften Kylo's resolve, but your time as his captive should have let you know that there was nothing soft about this man. Nothing at all.
"You should be grateful, you know that?" His lips graze your head and you're suddenly hyper aware of his proximity.
You're hyper aware of the closed metal doors that were probably being guarded by a pair of heavily armed stormtroopers. There is no escaping the clutches of this monster behind you.
And yet; you still find yourself scoffing, "I should be grateful?" You ask, hoping to assimilate every shred of confidence you had left, "I should be grateful to be your prisoner-" you wince when his grip on your jaw tightens and he's wrenching your face until you're craning your neck backwards to face him.
Large, looming, and completely fucking livid.
"You should be grateful that you're still fucking breathing, you brat-"
And then, a very strange thing occurs.
Since the moment Kylo had wrangled you off your home planet, you had sworn to be nothing but defiant. In honour of everything you stood for, you would never let him see you weak and yet here you are, carelessly allowing the faintest of whimpers to slip through quivering lips.
The sound confuses Kylo initially. In fact, he cranes your head back further, not caring whether you were comfortable or not as he bends down, appearing to inspect your mouth for that peculiar sound further. He squeezes your cheeks lightly, prodding the round tissues of fat as if fervently trying to search for whatever button might allow for that little sound to spill from your lips again.
"How completely and utterly curious-"
"You're fucking hurting my neck-" the fire returns and with it, comes your will to wrench your face out of his grip. You're only able to get free because he lets you and you know this.
"What..." Kylo bends even lower towards you and you turn your head to face the blank wall ahead of you. Evading eye contact with this man was nothing if not crucial. "What was that sound you just made-"
"It appears as though hearing nothing but the cries of utter doom and damnation has defamiliarized you to the sound of pleasure, Ren-"
Your breath is wiped clean from your throat not even a second later when you steal a look downwards at a gloved hand interlocking itself around your throat once more. Seemingly his favourite place.
"All the praises that could fall from your mouth..." Kylo drawls before pressing himself firmly against your backside, "All that you could say to worship the hand that feeds you and you still choose to be insolent-"
You try to escape his death grip but he doesn't let you out this time around. All you can do is be thankful that he had the decency to allow you to breathe.
"That's all you fucking know how to do right," Kylo's lips are at your ear and your knees buckle. "Insolence. Insolence. Insolence." Your legs give out, but before you're able to topple to the ground in a puddle of your own lustful perversions, his other hand curls around your waist, keeping you firmly pressed against his front.
âToday's the day you fucking obey," he whispers, "Understand?"
"I-I-â
Kylo is not sure how he does it, or why he does it, or where he got the understanding to do it, but his hand makes its very slow descent from your collarbone, to the spot right above your pillowy breasts. Clad in nothing but your knee length tunic, a garment stitched with fibres indigenous to your homeplanet, you suddenly feel incredibly naked and incredibly exposed. What was once an act of rebellion, is now your undoing.
"There is a way to make you disobey isn't there?" You can hear him becoming excited. "Every cattle has their price. What's yours?" Before you're able to turn and possibly beg for some sort of mercy, he's already in there. The stuff Kylo sees digging around in your mind, is enough to have him staring off into hyperspace. His eyes are trained on nothing at all as he rapes your most memories and most private desires. All while drawing you impossibly closer, until his mouth was buried in your hair and his hand was closing around your left breast. You squirm underneath him until finally, he's released from your stupor.
You did not dare turn around to look at him, in fear of seeing his dark eyes dilated with enlightenment.
"How barbaric." He whispers. "That's what I have to do in order to get you to listen to me,"
"I-I don't know what you're-"
"Open your mouth." Before you're ever able to interject even a single word, Kylo's hand is digging into the skin of your jaw, "Do I have to do it for you- open your mouth-" He wrenches your mouth open and cranes your neck back once more.
"That's it," You're absolutely frightened to see the violence that has darkened those irises. This is the look that's shielded behind the mask during times of battle. This is that look no one got to see.
Yet here you were.
"You're so fucking filthy, you know that?" You're nodding before your brain is aware of it, "You're a filthy, perverted little creature," one by one, your inhibitions slipped away from you until you could feel yourself become completely and utterly dumb for him. Your mind becomes a tabula rasa as Kylo bends his heavy frame downwards, spitting directly into your open mouth. There it is. That whimper he wanted to hear so badly.
You're not even aware of his hand reaching around your front until he's parting your legs with determination. "Is this where you want me?" Your mouth hangs open and you look up at him glassy doe eyes as he cups your drenched heat. Kylo locks his full lips and presses his front impossibly closer to your backside. "This whole time I've needed to get you in line, and the answers been here this whole fucking time?" A gloved hand swipes your underwear to the side and the wind is completely knocked out of you when Kylo pushes his fingers in immediately. He fucks his fingers into you with zero restraint and zero preparation, and the roughness has your eyes nearly rolling to the back of your skull as you grow limp in his grip. Lucky for you he's so large, lucky for you he might as well be a stone wall behind you, letting you lean against him with your long legs spread wide for his absolute assault.
"Look at me." He says, holding you against him by your throat while his index and middle finger violate your soaking cunt. Despite his orders you're still a drunken, blundering mess with half lidded eyes, promising to keep you locked away in your pleasure.
"If you don't fucking look at me, I'll stop and you'll suffer." He squeezes your clit quite painfully, immediately bringing you out of hedonistic stupor-
"FUCK- WHAT THE FUCK-"
"Do you want me to stop?" He asks, with a note of cockiness that had your brows furrowing.
"Are you stupid?! Of course I don-" before the curse could even escape your mouth in its entirety, Kylo's blocking out your airways. You fight to scratch at his gloved grip around your throat but his grip is fucking metallic.
"Look at how docile you look when you're not running your mouth,"
Your insides were screaming for oxygen, yet your hips rut against his hand. Kylo slyly adds a third finger inside your slippery cunt. "What a whore," he whispers, causing you to fuck forward against his hand, nearly humping yourself to completion as the blood flow to your brain seems to stop completely. You need oxygen and you need to cum. You just don't know which you need more.
"You're nothing but fucking filth-"
Your mouth opens to let a moan escape but it never does, and Kylo watches your struggle with a pained expression of his own.
"F-Fuck, I've never seen anything so vile-"
You were slipping. Whether it was into unconsciousness or an orgasm you couldn't tell. "If you pass out I will fuck you," he whispers, "There's not fucking escaping me-"
And in that very moment, Kylo unlocks the invisible grip on your airways and suddenly you can breathe and cum. Almost immediately you're slipping into a violent, damn near supernatural orgasm that has you seeing every star in the known galaxy.
"F-FUCK- oh my-" You're rutting against his hand, tongue lolling out all while Kylo continues to fuck his fingers into your cunt.
"That's it," He whispers, "Cum for me, you useless fucking whore-" Every vile sliver of degradation causes a fresh wave of pleasure to roll through you until the first droplets of tears are rolling down your cheek.
"Don't fucking do that," he whispers, pulling you closer than ever, "Don't fucking do that unless you want me to fuck you right now-"
He watches the tears roll down your face and absolutely loses it. Now suddenly aware of his own cock aching in his pants.
"K-Kylo please-" You try to push his hand out of you but to no avail. "It's too much-"
But his eyes are shut, and your body is overcome by wave after wave of electrifying shivers. The pleasure quickly bleeds into the pain of being so heavily overstimulated but Kylo is lost in his own world now. He clutches you impossibly closer, mumering obscenities into your hair as he ruts against your ass and you fucking pray for it to be over. Your pussy is fucking spent and yet he's still keeping his hand there, as if driven by his own need to cum.
"You stupid fucking slut- look what you made me do-" He's rutting against your ass, eyes squeezed shut as his hips stutter, "F-Fuck-" the whimper that breaks his voice is utterly intoxicating and you find yourself slipping into another dry orgasm as Kylo pushes against you, cumming in his pants with various expletives falling from his pillowy lips. When your orgasm falls you beg him to let go of you and when he does, you topple to the floor.
Never in your life have you felt so weak. So spent. So utterly used.
Kylo does not spare you a glance when he turns around. "This is where you will reside from now on," he says with finality. Careful to let his voice relay how utterly broken he feels. Just as broken as you.
The way to a droid's heart (Cal Kestis x BountyHunter!Reader)
Based on this wonderful request. Always open to hearing more ideas!
Summary: Cal demonstrates what happens to those who mess with you.
Warnings: Implied and explicit threats, that's about it
Word count: 2.9k
In all the years youâd known him, youâd never understood how Cal Kestis was still alive. When you had met him 6 years ago, youâd been just as idealistic and adventure-seeking as he was. The years that followed, however, had changed you and shaped you for survival. Dreams didnât get you very far, not in the galaxy like this one.
Youâd quickly lost hope of ever becoming a fighter pilot when youâd realized the few rebel cells were dropping like flies, all at the Empireâs hand. One lone pilot wouldnât make a difference out there, youâd concluded, and from that moment youâd just tried not to end up as space rubble like your parents. Youâd ended up as a bounty hunter instead, a damned-good one, and you took what joy you could while chasing bounties all over space.
Cal, on the other hand, never seemed to lose his ambition of defeating the Empire. Not that heâd ever told you thatâs what he was doing, of course, but only a space slug couldâve been so blind as to not see it. He wasnât exactly being subtle, making no effort to conceal the weapon at his side and giving his real name to anyone who might have asked. His ever-growing collection of scars didnât portray him as a man who sat around waiting for change, either.
Perhaps youâd ask about them, one day.
--
You watched from the far end of a bar youâd never tried learning the name of, as a stoned-faced Pantoran you didnât recognize spoke with Cal. You couldnât quite hear their conversation but, with the way BD-1 had whizzed in boredom for a good 10 minutes before scurrying off to scan whatever he could find, you could deduce they werenât exactly talking about their latest game of holo-chess.
You turned back to your drink, flipping up your hood and shaking your head softly at the manâs persistence. On the move, as always.
You were starting to come to terms with the fact that your contact wouldnât be showing up. Youâd already sighed watching your watch more times than you could count, annoyed at the inconvenience of flying so far into the outer rim for nothing. It had been a pain negotiating your meeting too, the contact insisting on you being alone with no weapons. Youâd eventually faked giving in, choosing to keep your rifle and pistol on board your currently broken down S40K and instead hiding vibro-blades inside your boots.
The ship was already on its last legs when you got it, the only reason why youâd been able to pay, but the years had caught up with it in the last two months. You spent almost all of your money on maintaining it in the air, and you were running out of funds fast. Â The anticipated need to buy another cheap but more reliable hunk of metal was what had caused you to pick up another bounty only a few days after your last.
Normally, you liked to spread out jobs over a few weeks to enjoy the credits you made, but the sputtering of your engines when youâd crash landed into this cityâs landing dock had made clear you couldnât afford the luxury this time.
You were nearing the bottom of your drink, trying to plan a way off this planet without mounting any more personal debts to anyone, when you felt a small nudge at your right foot. You looked down, expecting to see some rodent or pest trying to eat through your sole, but were instead met with a little red and white hyperactive droid.
You scanned the room quickly to make sure no one was looking, and stretched a hand in his direction so he could haul himself up onto the cushioned booth. He didnât hesitate to scramble up your arm, emitting a few whizzes and beeps of thanks on the way.
âHey, beedee,â you greeted him flatly. âThought I finally managed to evade your scans this time; guess I was wrong.â
A low whistle and a trill.
âI know, I know, you see everything. Itâs hard to forget when you always choose to remind me at least twenty times every time you find me.â
He emitted a series of approving noises, and you rolled your eyes at his cockiness. Where heâd gotten that attitude wasnât a great mystery. He jumped on one foot, nudging at your coatâs pockets with the other, his eyes going in and out of focus audibly as he searched for god-knows-what.
You tsked. âWill you stop that!â you chided and swatted him away like you would a cat. âYes, I brought you something from my last job, stop assaulting me for a minute and let me find the damn thing. And you better not tell your dad, Iâm not letting him think Iâm a softie just because I keep entertaining your crow tendencies.â
Suddenly the picture of good manners, the droid sat and wiggled his legs as he sent you a sweet melody. Manipulative little shit, you thought affectionately. He was annoying as could be, but the little guy was cute.
You fished out a shiny piece of silver metal from your breast pocket. You had made sure not to lose the small leaf-shaped brooch, the perfect gift for BD-1. Your last bounty had necessitated infiltrating an Imperial event, and youâd found the piece while snooping through an officerâs desk. Youâd never been so happy to have preemptively messed with the camera feeds.
The droid whistled in excitement and bathed your hand in a green light. You tried and failed to fight the smile that braced your lips as you watched him dance around your palm. He scanned the object from every angle he could find.
Too focused on his reaction, you failed to notice the individual looking over your shoulder until his shadow dimmed the wall you were facing. Too late to react properly, you shut your hand as quick as you could and turned to look at the man. Kin Fobam. Another bounty hunter, a Pauâan, one that always found a new way to piss you off. Today would apparently be no exception. BD beeped in annoyance at your movement before noticing you had company.
âWell, well. It would seem our little bounty hunter has a penchant for jewels after all.â the man sneered at you.
You rolled your eyes and did your best not to flinch at the lack of personal space, his two-meter height trapping you without much breathing room. You could smell the alcohol he had consumed, but you didnât need it to know he was intoxicated. At this time of night, he always was. You were already almost pressed to the wall of your booth with only enough space to keep BD behind you, so you stood your ground and straightened up as best you could. You kept the droid in place as he spat angry threats at Kin, unwilling to let him make the situation worse.
âKin, donât you know women love shiny things?â you mocked with an arched brow, âMaybe if youâd known that earlier, that lovely Iridonian wouldnât have spat at you again for your advances last week. Howâs your attempt at courting her going, by the way?â
You subtly held the metal pin in pinched fingers behind your back as his white face somehow turned even paler in anger, desperately hoping BD-1 would understand what you were trying to tell him. You almost sighed in relief when you felt him swiftly slide it out of your hands into his stim container.
Kin moved even closer to you, forcing you to lean over BD in a desperate attempt to gain some personal space. Your free hand instinctively reached for your hip but only found the weathered leather of your empty holster. Shit, youâd left your guns on the ship! You didnât have the space to reach for your blades either, so you had no choice but to do it the old way.
You tensed, ready to headbutt the towering Pauâan out of your space, but you stilled when you felt cold metal brush against your skin in the small gap where your shirt and pants met. A blaster. Fuck. This is why you never left without a firearm.
âI wonder, if that piece of metal is worth so much to someone like you,â he growled, âthen maybe youâd accept payment in other forms⊠as thanks for sparing your life today, hm?â
You cringed at the implication of his words but took a steadying breath. Youâd insulted this guy in more ways than you could count over the years and you knew he could pull that trigger without a second thought, but youâd fought bounties that were bigger, angrier, and certainly more skilled. He wasnât the first to try and extort sexual favors from you, nor would he be the last.
Your brain spun in circles, trying to come up with a plan that didnât involve blaster fire passing through your right kidney and BD-1 in one fell swoop. You didnât have to think for long, though.
Before you could make a move, a blinding orange light flashed between you and Kin, floating just underneath his chin. You could feel the heat from where you were, could imagine the pain its power wielded. The way the manâs white flesh turned pink at its proximity didnât go unnoticed.
âHow about I gift her with the loss of your life as an apology for letting her endure your dirty ass, Kin?â a smooth voice drawled, the speaker invisible to you with your still-focusing eyes, but you didnât need to see him to know who it was. As if the lightsaber wasnât already enough to identify him, but youâd know that voice anywhere too. You werenât the only one, if the cheering beeps you heard behind you were any indications.
A smirk braced your features as the Pauâan gritted his sharp teeth, hesitating a second before raising his hands in a defeated manner. He demonstratively holstered his pistol to make sure his head wasnât cut off at the movement and he slowly stepped back a few feet away. The lightsaber didnât stray a single millimeter from him. His brows pinched in anger, and he looked expectantly towards you. âIt was just a little bit of fun, right?â he said as he hissed in pain. âNothing to get upset about.â
You chuckled at the attempt. âI donât know, Iâm thinking your head on a platter sounds pretty great right about now. Maybe I can find someone out here whoâd enjoy some barbecued Pauâan. What do you think, Cal?â
Your heart skipped a beat when your gaze met amused grey eyes over Kinâs hunched shoulders. He winked at you, and you couldnât help but bite your lower lip.
âIâm pretty sure that violates too many health codes,â he said, âyou know, quality standards and such.â
BD whistled in agreement, scampering up onto your back and nudging the side of your head when you got up to lean against the side of your table.
âToo bad,â you sighed, crossing your arms, âmaybe it couldâve bought me some new earrings.â
Cal laughed loudly, warmth spreading through your chest at the lovely sound before he closed a hand on the sweaty neck before him and brought his blade even closer to his chin. âThe next time you even come within 20 feet of her,â he stated casually, loudly enough for the entire bar to hear and turn the heads of the few who werenât already watching, âyou wonât live long enough to say âwomp ratâ. Are we clear?â
Well, if your heart hadnât been beating fast before, it sure was now. Never had a threat sounded so attractive before. You diverted your gaze. Get a grip, you reprimanded yourself.
BD-1 only encouraged him, a crackling sound buzzing entirely too close to your ear for your liking. When did he get a taser? You didnât even want to know what he used it for, finding trouble with his new gadgets was a special talent of his.
Kin, now wide eyed, muttered an affirmative and a long line of fearful apologies, eager to escape the Jedi. Cal flicked off his saber and forcefully shoved him away. The Pauâan bolted out the door of the bar, running for his life, and you couldnât help but laugh at his fear. BD reprimanded Cal for acting so late, beeps and squeals echoing through the room after the patrons returned to their usual business, but the red-haired man was only focused on you. Your skin heated at the attention.
âI couldâve dealt with him myself.â
He gave you a wide smile and stepped closer, no Pauâan separating you anymore. âOh, I know. Wasnât this much more fun though?â
The corner of your lips twitched, and you shrugged, softly shaking your head at his ever-lasting upbeat attitude. You uncrossed your arms, placing them behind you on the rusty table to comfortably lean back. âStill couldâve knocked him out faster without alerting every possible person of a Jediâs presence here.â
âGive me a break,â he said almost sheepishly, reaching up a hand to scratch the back of his neck, âis a guy not allowed to show off to a pretty girl every once in a while?â
Your breath hitched on a single breath, caught off-guard. Sure, the two of you joked around all the time, but heâd never gone so far as to straight up flirt with you. You tried not to react, probably failing miserably at doing so.
âSmooth.â
He threw his head back in laughter, his reddened freckled cheeks showing more embarrassment that he let on. âI try.â
âNext time,â you said, striding past him, âif you really want to show off, perhaps you shouldnât wait until thereâs a blaster pointed at me before making your move.â Â You had no idea how you kept your voice steady, and you couldnât help but hear the rare softness of it. You were thankful that he couldnât see how wide of a smile you currently wore.
He jogged to catch up, keeping pace with you as you headed for the docking bay. âIâll keep that in mindâ he chuckled.
You glanced back at the bar over your shoulder, and BD started emitting alarm noises from your other side, indignant at still being ignored. You patted his head, quieting him for a moment. âWhere did your informant go?â you asked Cal. âWouldnât want to hinder your next side quest.â
âThat was anything but a quest,â he said, âJust a boring old trade. Wouldnât be so boring if you were there, though.â
A loud whistle of approval sounded above your shoulder.
âHey, calm it, up there!â you exclaimed, using another opportunity to escape from answering. âIâve only got two eardrums, letâs not break one of them.â
BD whistled again at a lower volume, followed by a barely audible series of sounds.
âYeah, weak organics my ass,â you muttered. âWeâll talk about how great being a droid is the next time you bend your antennas and come running to me.â
Calâs soft laugh caught your attention once more. He was watching you both with such a fond smile... Your heart squeezed at how soft he looked, for once not rushing towards something and instead enjoying the moment.
As you neared your ship, small tendrils of smoke still escaping the upper vents, he looked at his watch when it suddenly started beeping, and he made a face. âIâd love to hear the rest of your arguing, but we have to go. A revolution doesnât fund itself.â he said. He looked up at the droid sitting on your shoulders. âYes, beedee, that means you. Hop on.â
Cal held out an arm, BD begrudgingly taking his usual spot on his shoulders, spitting menacing sparks at the jedi along the way. The latter looked towards you with a flicker of hope as he stepped backwards towards the back of the hangar where the Mantis stood. âCan I convince you to join me this time? Still got an extra bunk if you want.â
âI donât think you want me and beedee on the same ship 24/7, Cal. Anyways, Iâve told you before, I canât just discard my old one.â
He stared at your smoking Hawk-Class before he turned to you unimpressed. âThat thing canât even fly.â
âIt can! I just need to fix the cooling mechanism and-â
âAnd the hull, the reactors, the hyperdrive, the-â he continued, amused at your stubbornness.
âOkay, okay,â you scoffed, âyouâve made your point. Might as well drop it here, I guess. I could hitch a ride, if youâre heading towards the inner rim, but Iâve got approximately nothing to give in payment for the fuel.â
BD startled you with a burst of binary, so fast you couldnât hear him. Cal looked at you sharply.
âYouâve been giftinghim things?â he exclaimed.
âYou utter snitch, beedee!â
The droid whistled at you disapprovingly and loudly shot the brooch from his stim compartment right into Calâs hands.
âI canât believe you,â you continued, âthe one thing I told you-â
You fell right back into your argument with the droid.
Cal tilted his head back in loud laughter and threw an arm around your shoulders as you whisper-yelled at BD-1, leading you towards the Mantis. âWeâre going to have so much fun.â
Getting side-tracked by BD1? In my supposedly Cal-centered fic? It's more likely than you think.
This was pre-realtionship like my last Cal fic because tbh i have trouble setting up the change from friends to lovers without writing a whole novel, but I have some ideas roaming around my head I'd like to write. We'll see how that turns out!
Tell me what you think, and check out my masterlist!
I have a silly headcanon that the Wolfpack does a thing where every time one of them enters 79âs, they howl, and any other 104th members present in the club howl back. Other battalions find this varying levels of amusing or obnoxious but nobody else (not that many actually try) can howl and get a responseâexcept for the 501st's Echo, who figures out that thereâs a trick to it.
Addendum to this is that 104th shinies are encouraged to come up with their own personal howls as part of bonding with the battalion.
Second addendum to this is that howling has also been used as both a rallying cry and an intimidation tactic in battle.
my personal theory is that force-sensitivity is kind of a spectrum. some people are more or less force-sensitive, and there's a certain cut-off point at which you are considered truly force-sensitive, but there's variation on both sides of that point. anakin and yoda are up on the highest possible end. obi-wan sits squarely in the middle of the true force-sensitivity range. cody is force-null but so close to the cut-off that he's almost borderline force sensitive. it just manifests as really, really good instincts/intuition. satine kryze is one of the most force-null people in the galaxy and obi-wan thinks it's hilarious.
Summary: If thereâs one thing worse than being stuck in a snow storm, itâs being stuck in a snow storm with your least favourite squad mate - Crosshair.
Pairing: Crosshair x gn!Reader
Word count: 2.6k
Tags: Enemies to friends, Huddling for warmth, Snow storms, Arguments, Bickering, Sleepy cuddles, Touch starved.
Notes: the recent episode got me THINKIN. yeah, i wanna cuddle this man, but⊠what if we hated each others guts? and we HAVE to cuddle for our own survival? mwahahah
jacobvanloon
stormborns
tangentwithtanner
discoholicmusic
janainaart
baratheonpilled
snowghoul
theartofmadeline
