Plot Summary: While the rest of the Bad Batch go out on a supply run, your boyfriend, Tech decides to take you on a little ride in the cockpit of the Marauder 😉
Spicy Contents: Spice with Little Plot, Mutual Masturbation, Mentions of Sex Tapes, CMNF, Riding
🔞MINORS DNI🔞
The Marauder had landed on the port where it will receive some fuel while the squad goes on their supply run. "It's about time," Wrecker said. "I'm starvin'!" You shook your head at that. Of course Wrecker was thinking about food, though you can't say you blame the guy, rations were low, and he had to hold back to conserve said rations. Hunter turned to you and Tech and asked. "You two comin'?" "Actually, we will be staying behind to run diagnostics on the ship to make sure everything is running properly." Tech replied, receiving a curt nod from the Sargent. "Alright, let's head out, boys." Hunter and the rest of Clone Force 99 stepped out of the ship, leaving you and Tech alone in the cockpit.
You glance out the window and watched the squad disappear out of the port. Once they were truly gone, you turn to look at Tech. You both took a moment to gaze into each other's eyes before you went over and crashed your lips against his. He groaned in response and wrapped his arms around you tightly, trying to catch up with your hungry kisses. It had been quite some time since you two had some time alone together, and this was a perfect opportunity for you guys to play catch up. You broke the kiss and pant heavily, Tech's goggles were a tad askew from the sloppy kiss, to which he adjusts them while panting as well.
"Apologies, Darling..." he huffed out. "...I know we haven't really gotten the chance to-"
"I know..." You reply. "...but that doesn't matter now, what matters is that we're here, and we better jump on the opportunity while we have it." Tech nodded. "Right." He begins unbuckling his utility belt while you got to work on removing your trousers. "Guess the Marauder isn't the only one getting filled right now." You quip, earning a slight grin from Tech. He unlatches his codpiece and allows it to drop to the floor with a loud CLACK, before lowering the bottom half of his blacks down to his knees. He sits down in the Pilot's seat, while you sat in the Co-Pilot's seat across from him, completely naked and with your leg hiked up on one of the armrests, revealing your pussy to Tech.
Tech's breath hitched as he watched you slide your hand down to rub your clit in tight circles with your middle finger. He reached down and began stroking his cock while continuing to watch you. You were both getting turned on just by watching each other touch yourselves, you both discovered that you both had a thing for mutual masturbation after Tech suggested it one night. He wanted to keep record of how you pleasured yourself as a reference of how you liked to be touched and how best to stimulate you. He still has that recording in a locked file, along with many other private recordings of your lovemaking sessions.
It didn't take long for you to be wet and ready for him, you were biting your lip at the sight of Tech's now hardened cock, its beautifully curved shaft pulsating with need, as if begging you to come over and fuck yourself on it. Thankfully it didn't have to wait long, you got up from the Co-Pilot's seat and began to straddle Tech, resting your hands on his shoulders for support. He held your hip with one hand, while still gripping his cock with the other, slowly guiding it into your slick pussy with a groan. "Oooohhhh Darling~" He had almost forgotten how good you felt wrapped around him. His cock fit right snug into you, as if it was made just for you. You let out a slight gasp, followed by a soft moan upon feeling Tech slide inside you. You took a moment to adjust and savor the feeling before you slowly began to bounce.
Tech held onto your hips and guided you up and down his shaft, panting and groaning softly. "Ohh Tech..." You moaned, locking eyes with him as you found your rhythm. Your faces were dangerously close to one another, noses barely grazing, your breaths mingling as you both panted and moaned. You finally cupped his face in your hands and began kissing him hungrily. Tech kissed you back almost desperately, Maker knows how long it's been since you got together like this.
The cockpit was now filled with the sounds of your pants and desperate gasps, along with his groans and whimpers of pleasure, not to mention the wet, sloppy sounds of sex, and the rhythmic slapping of skin against skin. You were now resting your head on Tech's shoulder, your face buried into the crook of his neck while he had you locked in place, thrusting upwards into you, eyes squeezed shut and teeth gritting. He was getting close, but he wasn't going to let himself climax until you've done so first. He always let you come first, even if you told him that he could go ahead and come before you. To him, it felt selfish to achieve climax before his lover did. Sex is supposed to be about giving pleasure, not taking it.
These sessions were more than just the both of you scratching an itch, it was about connecting, both physically and emotionally. That was one of the many reasons why you loved Tech so much, he always made you a priority, especially during sex. While he too gets a kick out of it, he is primarily focused on you and your pleasure, hence why he makes those recordings, so he could study them and come up with better ways to please you. Needless to say, sex with Tech is never dull, each session is better than the last, and he's always trying new things, which makes it all the more exciting. While riding him in the Marauder's cockpit is nothing new, it's still very exciting, especially when there's the risk of getting caught by his brothers involved.
"Teeecch!!!" You cry into his shoulder, indicating that you were getting close too. He presses your hips against his, and moves you in a way that allowed your clit to grind against his pubic bone. "Fuck, I'm gonna come!" "Agh, I'm not too far behind, Darling!" Tech groaned, thrusting up into that one spot that is guaranteed to make you come undone. It didn't take long before your walls clamped down hard on his cock, and you let out your cries of ecstasy. As he stated, Tech wasn't too far behind, he gave you a good few hard thrusts before finally releasing deep inside your womb. You tremble on top of him as you felt rope after hot rope getting pumped out and filling you oh so deliciously.
You both catch your breaths as you come down from your highs. Your face was still buried in the crook of his neck, and Tech had loosened his grip on you. You both remained connected on the Pilot's seat, utterly spent, until you felt Tech pat you on the back, reminding you that you needed to get dressed quickly before his brothers came back. You both hated that you couldn't enjoy the afterglow, but you knew that Tech would make it up to you tonight with a nice hot shower together, and an evening of kissing, cuddling, caressing, and talking on his bunk. He always took care of you in any way, shape or form he can.
The ship's door opened, and the rest of the Bad Batch came aboard with a full set of rations and supplies. Tech was in the Pilot's seat on his datapad, while you were pretending to put the toolbox away. "Just in time," Tech said. "the diagnostics are complete, and we are good to go." He began to start up the ship while Hunter just looked at him with a look of suspicion on his face. He glanced over at you and noted the big smile on your face, not to mention the stench of sweat and the mix of your scents filling the air.
Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! established relationship, fluff, a little hurt/comfort, smut, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), pinv, dirty talk, rough sex, cum play?, who knows, Cody is an acts of service king, you are so married
Summary: At the end of another miserable week, you're looking forward to curling up in bed and shutting out the galaxy. The sudden return of your clone commander boyfriend throws all those plans out the window.
A/N: Posting this for @gar-romance-month ♥️ I've never written for Cody before because at my core I'm a Codywan truther, but I've received quite a few requests for him so I decided to give it a shot! And as a PR professional myself I couldn't resist doing something for the GAR's only PR trained clone.
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“Watch where you’re walking!”
“Sorry, sorry!”
You duck under a man’s arm as he tries to hail a speeder, the damp sleeve of his trench coat brushing against your cheek. The city breathes around you—exhaust, steam from grates, the sweet, greasy air from a nuna stick stand on the corner. Your boots, already slick with an unnamed grime, slip on a wet spot on the pavement. The evening traffic is a river of light and noise, and you are a fish swimming against its current.
You pass the bright holographic signs flickering in the twilight, promising exotic vacations, droid companionship, and the finest Corellian ale this side of the Trade Spine. They paint the rain-slicked duracrete in shifting shades of blue and magenta, and you have to shield your eyes against the white light of a particularly obnoxious Zippozi energy drink ad. It seems to follow you down the street, its mascot, a grinning blue alien, winking and thrusting a can toward you with manic persistence. Behind it, the real skyline of Coruscant claws at the perpetual twilight, a thousand spires of light and steel piercing the smog.
Most days, the surface world of the ecumenopolis boasts shining buildings and sparkling sunlight, a perfect utopia for the perfect citizen. Its weather systems are carefully controlled and calibrated to the second. The city was a machine, and everything within it—from the traffic patterns to the atmospheric pressure—ran on a precisely tuned schedule. Rain was a rarity, a controlled event meant to clean the grime from the upper levels.
This was not that kind of rain.
It falls in fat, heavy drops, smelling of rust and metal, and the wind carries it on sharp, unpredictable gusts. A perfect punctuation mark to a dreary day spent pouring over the latest sentiment report on GAR troop morale—down three points from last quarter—and arguing with the procurement droid about the cost of new ink cartridges. You're trying to forget the whole mess.
A crackle of thunder rumbles overhead, so deep you feel it in your bones. The sky dumps a fresh torrent of water, and the crowd rushes for cover. There’s no point in following them. You’re already soaked through to the bone.
It's just one more thing to add to the growing list of grievances that constitute your life right now. Coruscant’s endless churn, the soul-crushing work of spinning words for the Republic, the messages gone unanswered on your datapad, the neighbors who think 3 AM is an excellent time to recalibrate their sonic scrubber, the creeping, gnawing certainty that you are a tiny, insignificant cog in a galaxy-spanning machine that is slowly, deliberately grinding itself into dust.
And to top it all off, you've just remembered that you forgot to buy caf-pods.
You finally reach the narrow steps that lead down to your sublevel apartment, and the sweet scent of damp soil and mildew replaces the exhaust of the upper levels. Your boots squeak on the stone as you descend, the ambient glow from the street above fading with each step, replaced by the dim, humming phosphorescence of the corridor lights. Three doors down, on the left, is yours. The lock is a fussy antique, a real tumbler mechanism that requires a heavy, ridged key, not a scan or a code. It jams, as it always does, and you have to jiggle it just so, muttering under your breath as you do.
The teeth finally catch just as you hear a muffled rustling from the other side. You freeze, key still in the lock, and hold your breath.
Then you hear it again. The sound of something—or someone—moving around inside. And it's not your neighbor's malfunctioning droid this time. You hear something metal, clinking against ceramic. The faint scrape of a chair against the floor. And then, a soft, almost inaudible cough.
Your hand drops from the lock. You are suddenly, painfully aware of your heartbeat, of the cold sweat prickling the back of your neck. You look back up the stairs, at the rain-slicked street. The distant wail of a siren is the only answer you get.
Every instinct screams at you to turn and run, to retreat up those steps and melt back into the anonymous flow of the city. But your legs are rooted to the spot, the damp chill of the corridor seeping through the thin fabric of your trousers. Your eyes dart left and right, but the hallway is empty, the only light the sickly yellow glow from the flickering lum-panel overhead.
You reach slowly, carefully, into your jacket pocket to close around the familiar, reassuring weight of your comlink. You could call the authorities. Coruscant Security. They’d send a couple of droids, maybe a trooper if you were really lucky. They’d sweep the apartment, file a report, and you’d be left to deal with the aftermath. The violation. The paperwork.
Your hand loosens its grip, drifting from your pocket to your bag, and finds the safety of the vibroblade Cody had given to you. ‘For emergencies only,’ he’d said, with the kind of serious look that made your stomach flip.
This feels like an emergency.
You take a deep breath, the musty air catching in your throat. You make your decision.
The key turns with a final, grudging protest, and the door swings inward on silent hinges. You’re immediately hit with a wave of warmth and humidity, and the familiar, comforting scent of your own space—old books, burnt incense, and the lingering hint of the caf you'd brewed that morning. But beneath it all, there’s something else. Something new. The faint, metallic tang of blaster oil, and the clean, sterile scent of bacta.
The main room of your small apartment is exactly as you left it this morning: the holovid screen dark, the blanket you’d been using on the back of the sofa a rumpled heap, the half-empty mug of caf from yesterday sitting on the end table. Your small street-level windows are covered in raindrops, distorting the neon glow of the city outside into an abstract, watercolor painting.
But there’s something else. A small, compact travel bag, made of scuffed dark leather, sitting on the floor next to the sofa. It’s not yours.
And the sound of that soft, metallic clink—it’s coming from the kitchen.
You transition from the worn carpet of the living area to the cracked linoleum of the kitchenette. Each step is a calculated act of defiance against the instincts screaming at you to flee. Your boots, still wet from the rain, make soft, sucking sounds against the floor, and the vibroblade in your hand vibrates with a secret thrum against your palm that feels both dangerous and somehow comforting.
The kitchen is illuminated by the harsh, sterile glare of the overhead light. The chrome faucet, usually dull and spotted, gleams with a recent polish. The half-eaten protein bar you abandoned on the counter this morning sits there, looking even more desiccated than when you left it.
And then you see him.
Leaning against your counter as if he has every right to be there, dressed in a pair of soft grey sweatpants and a black shirt that hugs his frame just a little too tightly. A datapad rests in one hand, while his other curls around your favorite mug.
His eyes lift from the datapad, finding yours across the small kitchen.
He doesn't flinch. He doesn't startle. He simply takes a slow sip from your mug, his gaze unwavering over the rim.
"About time you got home," Cody says, his voice a low, familiar rumble that sends shivers down your spine. "The caf's getting cold."
The vibroblade slips from your nerveless fingers, clattering against the linoleum. The sound echoes in the sudden, overwhelming silence of your tiny apartment.
"Cody?" you breathe, the name barely a whisper on your lips.
He pushes himself off the counter, setting the mug down with a soft click. He looks… different. Tired. The edges are worn away. The crisp uniform of the GAR is gone, replaced by the soft, civilian clothes he keeps in your—his—dresser drawer. But it’s him. The same sharp, intelligent eyes, the same set of his jaw, the same way he stands, as if he’s carrying the weight of a galaxy on his shoulders. Maybe he is.
He takes a step toward you, then another, and you're frozen, a statue of disbelief and shock. He stops just short of you, the space between you crackling with a thousand unspoken questions. He reaches out, not to touch you, but to pick up the vibroblade from the floor. He weighs it in his hand for a moment, then deactivates and places it on the counter with a heavy, final thud.
“You actually remembered to carry it,” he says, a hint of something like pride in his voice. “Good.”
You close the distance in two strides, throwing your arms around his neck. Cody catches you easily, as he always does, one arm banding around your waist, the other coming up to cradle the back of your head. He smells of soap and clean laundry and something else, something metallic and sharp that you can’t quite place. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in, the damp wool of your coat pressing against him.
"You're here," you mumble into his skin, the words muffled and thick with unshed tears. "You're actually here."
“I’m here,” he confirms, his lips brushing against your hair. “I told you I’d come back.”
You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands coming up to frame his face. His skin is warm to the touch, his hair damp and curling at his nape, and there's a new scar, thin and silver, that cuts through his left eyebrow. You trace it with your thumb, and he leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief, unguarded moment.
You pull back and slap his chest. Hard.
“You didn’t answer my messages,” you chide, though your heart’s not in it. You’re well aware of the cost of dating a clone soldier during a war by now. “You're a real piece of work, you know that? I was about to ask Admiral Kilian to forward my complaint straight to the Jedi Council.”
Cody doesn't flinch. He just takes the punch, his body swaying a little with the impact. His eyes are warm, crinkling a little at the corners, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. You're hit with the sudden, overwhelming urge to slap him again. To do something, anything, to break the spell of unreality that's settled over you.
He catches your wrist before you can land another blow, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss.
“My comlink was fried in the last engagement,” he says, and he turns your hand over and traces the lines on your palm with his thumb. “Had to requisition a new one. By the time we got back to the Negotiator, they’d already rotated us out for shore leave.”
You feel a fresh wave of guilt wash over you. “Oh. I... are you okay? Was it…?”
He cuts you off with another kiss, this one to your forehead.
“It's fine,” he says, and you know he's lying, but you also know you won't get any more out of him. For now. “We’re all fine. A little singed around the edges, but nothing to worry about. The important thing is, I’m here now. And—“ He presses another, more deliberate kiss to your lips. “—I’m on leave for the next two weeks. Two whole weeks.”
The anger, the guilt, the anxiety of the past few weeks—it all melts away, replaced by the warm, fuzzy feeling of hope. Two weeks. Two weeks of having him to yourself, of not having to wake up in the middle of the night with the cold dread that you'll never see him again. Two weeks of him.
"Are you serious?” You’re suddenly grinning like an idiot, the tears welling up in your eyes. “Two weeks? Here?”
“Here,” he confirms, and he’s smiling too, the expression transforming his face, making him look younger, less burdened. “Assuming you’ll have me.”
“Don't be an idiot,” you say, and you pull him in for another kiss, this one deeper and more desperate, your fingers tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck. He responds with equal fervor, his hands roaming down your back, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.
The world outside your little apartment, with its rain and its grime and its endless, soul-crushing work, simply ceases to exist. You’re floating, adrift in the familiar, comforting warmth of him, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, you feel safe.
You’re the one to break the kiss, gasping for air. Cody makes a noise of protest, chasing your lips for another quick peck before letting you go. He looks you over, and his smile fades slightly as he takes in your soaked clothes, your messy hair, the dark circles under your eyes. His thumb comes up to brush away the moisture on your cheek, and you’re not sure if it’s rain or tears.
“C’mon, get out of those wet clothes,” he says, his tone shifting from lover to commander in an instant. He presses a kiss to your forehead and steps back, patting your hip. “I put your pajamas in the ‘fresher. They’re warm.”
You look down at yourself, at your soaked jacket and dripping trousers, the boots that have tracked mud all over your clean floor. You look back at him, at the perfect picture of domesticity he makes in your kitchen, and you can’t help but laugh. It’s a slightly hysterical, breathless sound, but it’s a laugh nonetheless.
“You broke into my apartment, made yourself some caf, and did my laundry?” you ask, shaking your head in disbelief. “Commander Cody, you’re turning into quite the househusband.”
He snorts, but you can see the hint of color creeping up the back of his neck.
“I didn’t do your laundry,” he protests, and he crosses his arms over his chest, trying for stern and missing by about a parsec. “I just put your pajamas in the dryer to warm them up. And I didn’t ‘break in.’ You gave me a key.”
“A spare key,” you correct. “For emergencies.”
“This is an emergency,” he says, deadpan. “I haven't had a decent cup of caf in weeks.”
You roll your eyes and swat at his chest again, but your heart is singing. You head for the refresher, shrugging out of your wet jacket and letting it fall to the floor in a damp heap as you go.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” you warn over your shoulder. “I’m still mad at you. The list of grievances is long, and I plan to go over every single one of them in excruciating detail.”
“I look forward to it,” he calls after you, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll make some food. You must be starving.”
You are. You hadn't realized it until he said it, but you're ravenous. You shut the door to the refresher, leaning against it for a moment as the adrenaline of the last few minutes finally wears off, leaving you feeling weak and shaky.
And once again, you’re met with the undeniable reality of Cody’s presence in your space. The leftover humidity from his shower fogging the mirror, the hum of the dryer unit, the neatly folded towels and your favorite pair of pajamas waiting for you. The scent of his soap lingering in the air. On the small shelf above the sink, next to your own messy collection of bottles and jars, sits his kit. You’d left space for it, just in case, and to see it finally back where it belongs fills you with an ache that is both painful and sweet.
You peel off the rest of your wet clothes, leaving them in a sodden pile on the floor. The warm spray of the shower is a welcome balm against your chilled skin, and you stand under it for a long moment, letting the water wash away the grime of the city and the lingering anxiety of the day. You close your eyes, focusing on the sound of the water, the feel of the heat on your skin, the faint sounds of Cody moving around in the other room. The clatter of pans, the hiss of the stove.
You try to remember the last time your apartment felt this much like home. You can’t.
When you finally emerge, wrapped in a thick towel, the smell of something wonderful hits you. Something spicy and savory, a world away from the bland, synthetic taste of the quick meals you make for yourself. You dry yourself quickly and dress yourself in your warm pajama shorts and oversized shirt, and you follow the scent out into the main room.
The holovid screen is on, but it’s muted, playing some mindless travelogue about the crystal beaches of Zeltron. The small table in your eating nook is set with two mismatched placemats, two forks, and two glasses of water. And Cody is standing at your stove, stirring the contents of a pot with the focus and intensity of a general planning a battle, a datapad in his hand.
You lean against the doorframe, content to just watch him for a moment. He’s so focused, so utterly absorbed in the simple domestic task of making dinner, that he doesn’t notice you at first. He moves with an economy of motion, every action precise and efficient. He’s donned your favorite apron, and the sight of him, this legendary commander of the GAR, with the words “Kiss the Cook” emblazoned across his chest, makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time.
“What are you doing?” you finally ask, your voice soft.
“Reading a recipe,” he answers without looking up from the datapad. “This kublag curry is surprisingly complicated.”
You cross the room and peer into the pot. The aroma is intoxicating, and your stomach rumbles in interest. "You’re cooking? From a recipe?”
He finally looks up, and his look of intense focus melts into something softer as his eyes sweep over you. He takes in your flushed cheeks, your damp hair, your ridiculous pajamas covered in little tooka-cats, and the corner of his mouth quirks up into that half-smile you love so much.
“I have a lot of free time on the ship,” he says. “And the mess hall gets… repetitive. I’ve been practicing.”
You step close, wrapping your arms around him from behind and resting your cheek against the solid warmth of his back. He’s tense, the muscles in his shoulders tight and knotted, and you can feel the faint, constant tremor of exhaustion that seems to vibrate through him.
“It smells amazing,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the spot between his shoulder blades.
“It’s not ready yet,” he says, but he’s leaning into your touch now, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. He sets the datapad down on the counter and places one of his hands over yours, lacing your fingers together. “Give it another five minutes.”
“Can I help?”
“No,” he says, and it’s not unkind, just… final. “You’ve had a long day. Go sit down. I’ve got this.”
You want to argue. You want to stay right here, to anchor him to this moment, this reality. But you know him. You know that this simple act of making you dinner is more than just dinner. It's a ritual. A way to recalibrate, to transition from the cold, brutal logic of war to the messy, uncertain warmth of peace. It’s his way of telling you he’s home.
So you do as he says. You let him go and retreat to the table, sitting down on the worn, cushioned bench. You wrap your hands around the cool glass of water, watching him as he moves around your kitchen, retrieving bowls and utensils with an ease that speaks of countless nights just like this one, even if they’ve all been in your imagination until now.
He works in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the soft clink of ceramics and the rhythmic scrape of the spoon against the pot. He moves with a quiet confidence that’s both reassuring and heartbreaking. This is what he does when he’s not fighting. This is what he becomes.
“General Kenobi’s been teaching me,” he says, breaking the silence.
You look up, surprised. “Teaching you what? To cook?”
“To appreciate it,” he corrects, and he turns away from the stove, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms. He looks tired, but it’s a good tired. A settled tired. “He says that in the midst of chaos, it’s the small, deliberate acts that keep us sane. The things we do with our hands. The things that nourish us. He’s right.”
You think about General Kenobi, the Jedi you know more from carefully curated holovids and propaganda reports than from any real interaction. You’ve always pictured him as a serene, almost untouchable figure, a bastion of calm in the storm of war. The idea of him in a kitchen, teaching one of his most trusted commanders how to make curry, is so absurdly normal it makes your head spin.
“I always thought Jedi just… absorbed nutrients from the Force,” you say, only half-joking.
A real, genuine smile breaks across Cody’s face, transforming him completely. It lights up his eyes, makes the new scar on his eyebrow fade into the background. He shakes his head, looking down at the floor for a moment before meeting your gaze again.
"Only when the rations are particularly bad," he jokes, and his smile widens as you laugh, “but he says it lacks… character.” He opens the oven, peering inside, and his next words are slightly muffled by the rush of hot air. “He also says that the ability to cook for another person is one of the most basic forms of love there is.”
The words linger in the air between you, heavy with meaning. Love. It’s not a word either of you uses lightly, or often. It’s too dangerous, too fragile in the face of your respective realities. But here, in the warm glow of your kitchen, with the smell of exotic spices filling the air, it feels true. It feels right.
“Does he…know about us?” you ask, the question barely audible.
Cody closes the oven and straightens up, wiping his hands on the apron. He doesn’t answer right away. He looks at you, and his gaze is so open, so vulnerable, it takes your breath away.
“He knows,” he says finally. “He’s known for a long time.”
Your mind races, trying to process this revelation. General Kenobi knows. And he’s okay with it. He’s teaching Cody how to cook. You suddenly feel like you’ve stepped into an alternate reality, one where the war is still raging, but the lines are blurrier, more human.
“He doesn’t mind?” you press, needing to be sure.
“He trusts my judgment,” Cody says simply. “And he likes you. He thinks you’re good for me.” He turns back to the stove, giving the curry one last stir before turning off the heat. “He thinks we’re good for each other.”
And just like that, the last of your reservations melt away. The fear, the secrecy, the constant, gnawing anxiety that your relationship with him is somehow wrong, or doomed—it all evaporates. You’re not just some clandestine affair, a brief distraction from the war. You’re… something else. Something real.
He ladles the curry into two bowls, topping it with a sprinkle of fresh green herbs you’re not sure you’ve ever seen in your pantry. He pulls a pan of flatbread from the oven, the crust golden and puffed. He arranges it all on a tray, along with two small glasses of a deep red wine you didn’t even know you had, and sets them down with quiet precision. The spread is so thoughtful, so perfect, it makes your heart ache.
Cody finally takes off the apron and hangs it on the hook by the door before sitting down opposite you. The small table suddenly feels impossibly intimate, the space between you charged with an unspoken current of emotion.
For a moment, you’re both silent, just looking at each other across the table. The muted holovid plays on, the light from the screen catching the planes of his face, the warmth in his eyes. You feel like you could sit here for the rest of your leave, just looking at him, memorizing every line, every detail.
"Eat," he commands gently, nudging one of the bowls toward you. "It’ll get cold."
You pick up your fork and take a hesitant bite. The flavors explode in your mouth—spicy and sweet and savory, all at once. It's so delicious, so perfect, you actually moan a little, your eyes fluttering shut as you chew.
“It's good,” you say, your eyes wide with surprise. “Really, really good.”
A genuine, unguarded smile lights up his face. You hadn’t realized how tense he still was until you see it fade, replaced by an expression of pure, simple pride. He looks younger like this, less burdened. More like the fresh-faced trooper you met on Kamino, before the war had carved its harsh reality into him. More like the man he might have been.
“Told you I’ve been practicing,” he says, and he finally takes a bite of his own. He eats with a quiet, focused intensity, clearly analyzing every mouthful.
You eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the scrape of forks against ceramic and the distant hum of the city. You can feel the tension in your own body finally starting to uncoil, the anxiety of the past few weeks replaced by the simple, comforting reality of the man sitting across from you.
“I was thinking,” he says, breaking the silence. “We could go away for a few days.”
You pause, your fork halfway to your mouth. “Go away? Where?”
“Anywhere,” he says, and he leans forward, his elbows on the table, his gaze earnest. “There’s a transport leaving tomorrow for Naboo. The Lake Country. We could get a small house, somewhere quiet. Just… be. For a little while.”
Naboo. The name conjures images of rolling green hills, cascading waterfalls, and serene, blue lakes. It's the kind of place you see on the holoboards at the metro terminal, the kind of place that feels like another galaxy entirely from the grimy, neon-drenched canyons of Coruscant. The kind of place that feels impossible.
“You want to go to Naboo?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper. “You and me?”
“Why not?” he asks, and he reaches across the table, taking your free hand in his. His thumb strokes your knuckles, the calloused skin sending shivers down your spine. “We have two weeks. We deserve it. You deserve it.”
You want to say yes. You want to shout it from the rooftops. But the practicalities, the realities of your lives, intrude. The cost, the logistics, the risk. “Cody, I can’t just… my job. I can’t just take off. I’d need to put in for leave, and I don’t know if they’d approve it on such short notice—”
“I already took care of it,” he interrupts, and his grip on your hand tightens. “I spoke to your supervisor this morning.”
Your fork clatters against your bowl, the sound echoing in the sudden, shocking silence. You stare at him, your mind struggling to process what he’s just said. “You… you spoke to Director Pello? My Director Pello?”
“I did,” he says, completely unfazed by your disbelief. “I may have… implied that it was a matter of Republic security. A request from the GAR for your… particular expertise. For an off-books consultation.”
A disbelieving laugh escapes your lips. You can just imagine it: your stuffy, by-the-book superior, with his perfectly pressed suit and his datapad full of tedious memos, getting a direct communiqué from Marshal Commander Cody himself. You picture him stammering, sweating through the collar of that perfect suit, trying to reconcile the mundane reality of your job in the Sub-Administrative Office of Public Affairs with the high-stakes world of Republic Intelligence.
“You didn’t,” you breathe.
“I did,” Cody confirms, and the corner of his mouth ticks up in that familiar, self-satisfied smirk. “He was very… accommodating. Said he’d process the paperwork immediately and wish you the best on your… assignment.”
You’re speechless. You’re also, you have to admit, deeply impressed. And more than a little turned on. The sheer audacity of it, the way he just… moved heaven and earth, rearranged your entire life with a few well-placed words. It would be concerning, if you didn’t trust him so implicitly. It would be terrifying, if you didn’t know that he did it for you.
“That’s quite the spin, Commander,” you manage to say, and you squeeze his hand, hard. “You were paying attention in my classes after all. All that fluff I write about strategic communication really is good for something.”
“You’re a brilliant writer,” he says, and the sincerity in his tone is so disarming it catches you off guard. “And a brilliant strategist. Don’t sell yourself short. You could be running that entire division if you wanted to.”
The compliment hangs in the air, warm and heavy. You’re still not used to this, to someone seeing so much potential in you. To someone seeing you. You’ve spent so long feeling invisible, like your words just disappear into the void, that having him look at you like this—like you matter, like you’re important—is almost too much to bear.
You look down at your plate, at the half-eaten curry, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. “Naboo,” you say, testing the word on your tongue. It feels foreign and wonderful. “What are we going to do in Naboo for two weeks?”
“Absolutely nothing,” he says, and the finality in his voice is music to your ears. “We’re going to sleep. We’re going to eat real food that doesn’t come in a silver packet. We’re going to walk by the lake. We’re going to sit on the grass and do nothing but breathe the clean air. No comlinks, no datapads, no GAR, no Republic. Just us.”
It sounds like heaven. It sounds like a dream you’ve had but never dared to speak aloud. A world without deadlines, without fear, without the constant, crushing weight of expectations.
“Okay,” you say, and you look up, meeting his gaze. You can feel the tears welling up again, and this time you don’t even try to stop them. “Yes. Let’s go to Naboo.”
The relief that washes over his face is palpable. It’s like watching a dam break, the years of built-up tension and exhaustion finally receding, leaving behind something raw and vulnerable and so incredibly beautiful it makes your heart ache.
He pushes back from the table and rounds the corner, pulling you up from your seat and into his arms. He holds you tightly, burying his face in your hair, and you can feel the unsteady rhythm of his heart against your cheek. He’s just as scared as you are. He’s just as hopeful. He’s just as desperate for this little pocket of peace.
You stay like that for a long moment, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world fading away. The holovid continues to play its silent, colorful story, the remnants of your dinner grow cold on the table, and the storm outside rages on, but in here, in this small circle of light and warmth, there is only the two of you. And the promise of two weeks.
He finally pulls back, but he doesn't let you go. His hands cup your face, his thumbs gently wiping away the tears you hadn't realized were falling.
“Hey,” he says softly, his voice thick with emotion. “No tears. We’re on leave.”
“I know,” you reply with a watery laugh, and you lean into his touch, closing your eyes for just a second. “I’m just… happy.”
“Good,” he says, and he kisses you, soft and deep. It's not the desperate, hurried kiss of two people about to be torn apart, but the slow, deliberate kiss of two people with all the time in the world.
When he finally breaks away, you're both breathless, your heart pounding in your chest.
“You're amazing, you know that?” you murmur, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “The things you do for me.”
“I do what I have to do,” he says, and there’s a shadow of the old commander in his tone, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. “Now, let’s clean up this mess and go to bed. I have two weeks of lost sleep to catch up on.”
You don't argue. You help him clear the table, the simple domesticity of the task feeling more intimate than anything else you’ve done all night. He insists on doing the washing up himself, shooing you away when you try to help. You watch him from the doorway of the small kitchenette, leaning against the frame, content to just soak in the sight of him. The way the muscles in his back shift under the thin fabric of his shirt as he scrubs the pans, the quiet hum of the sanitizer unit, the occasional splash of water. These are the sounds of home.
While he finishes up, you turn your attention to the rest of the apartment, seeing it through new eyes. You tidy up the stack of datapads on the end table, fluff the blanket on the sofa, and finally turn off the silent holovid. The sudden quiet is unnerving at first, but it’s quickly replaced by a profound sense of peace.
You dim the lights until the room is bathed in the soft, ambient glow of the city beyond the window, and when you turn around, Cody is standing behind you.
“Ready?” he asks, and he holds out his hand.
You take it, lacing your fingers together, and he leads you toward the bedroom.
It’s the smallest room in the apartment, barely big enough for the bed and the two small dressers on either side. You’d spent your last salary credit on the mattress, splurging on the top-of-the-line model with memory foam and temperature regulation, and it’s the best investment you’ve ever made. You sink into it with a sigh, the familiar softness of the sheets a welcome relief.
Cody doesn't join you right away. He moves with purpose, retrieving the spare datapad from the top of his dresser and plugging it in on the nightstand. He checks the locks on the window, even though you both know they're flimsy at best. He turns off the main light, leaving only the small reading lamp on, casting the room in a warm, golden hue. He’s securing the perimeter, you realize. A final, ingrained habit from a life lived on the front lines.
“Do you want to check under the bed for monsters, too?” you tease as you settle back onto your hands, your feet dangling off the side of the bed.
He gives you a wry look, one eyebrow raised in that way you’ve come to know so well. You watch as he makes his way around to your side of the bed and drops on one knee, hand braced on the mattress next to you. He makes a show of looking under the bed, peering into the dusty darkness with a mock-serious expression, before looking back up at you.
“No monsters,” he confirms, his voice soft. He takes one of your dangling feet in his hand, his thumb gently rubbing the arch. “But I did find some dust bunnies that could probably stand to be dealt with.”
You laugh as you wiggle your toes against his palm, but the sound gets caught in your throat as he leans in, pressing a kiss to the inside of your ankle. Then to your calf. Then to the sensitive skin behind your knee. Each kiss is slow, deliberate, and so full of reverence it makes you shiver.
He continues his upward path, his hands tracing the curve of your legs as he goes. He pushes your shorts aside, his lips following the line of your hip. He’s not in a hurry. He’s mapping you, reacquainting himself with the geography of your body, and every touch is a confirmation that he's really here.
“Cody,” you breathe, your fingers tangling in the sheets.
“Shh,” he murmurs against your skin. “I’m on leave. I have two weeks to do this properly.”
“I hope you’re not planning to spend all two weeks doing this,” you reply, your voice hitching as he nips at your hipbone.
He looks up at you, and the look in his eyes is so full of love and desire it takes your breath away. “Maybe not all of it. But a significant portion. I made a list.”
“A list?” you manage. “You made a list of things to do on leave?”
“A very detailed list,” he confirms as he pushes himself up, his body hovering over yours, one arm braced on the bed beside your head. Slowly, deliberately, he lowers his hips to meet yours, the thin layers of your clothing suddenly feeling like nothing at all. “I have to be efficient with my time off.”
You laugh despite yourself and the heat building in your core. It’s so like him, to approach lovemaking with the same tactical precision he applies to everything else in his life. And you know from experience that he’s very, very good at making the most of his time.
“I expect nothing less than peak performance from my Commander Cody,” you say, running your fingers through his hair, the short, soft strands tickling your palm. “I’ve seen your evaluations. I have high expectations.”
His answering laugh is warm against your cheek. “You should lower them. I haven’t slept in three days.”
“Then maybe we should postpone the efficiency exercise,” you murmur, your fingers tracing the lines of his face, the new scar above his brow, the old one on his temple. “I’d hate to ruin your record.”
“I’m not that tired,” he replies immediately, and he shifts, pressing his thigh against the growing heat between your legs. “I have priorities.”
You roll your eyes, but you can’t deny the flutter of anticipation that runs through you at his words. You can feel the tension in him, the way his muscles quiver with the effort of holding himself up, the way his breath catches when you run your fingers down the side of his neck.
“What’s on the agenda, Commander?” you ask, your voice barely above whisper. “What are your priorities?”
He doesn't answer. He just leans down, capturing your lips with his own. The kiss is slow, unhurried, as if he’s trying to imprint the moment on his memory. You can taste the faint, smoky flavor of the wine on his tongue, the lingering heat of the curry. His hand slides under your shirt, his fingers splayed possessively over your ribs, and you arch into his touch, your body craving the contact.
He breaks the kiss and lifts himself up just enough to pull his shirt over his head, tossing it aside with casual grace. The sight of him, half-naked and braced above you, sends your heart into overdrive, and you can’t help the way your hands immediately go to the hard planes of his chest, the lean, chiseled muscles of his abdomen. He’s still got the edge of that youthful, Kaminoan perfection, but the war has left its mark on him, too. The new scar, the faded one on his side, the faint lines of tension around his eyes. You trace each one with your fingers, mapping the story of his body as he mapped yours.
He lets you explore for long moments, his eyes closed, his breath coming in soft, measured gasps. You can feel the weight of his trust, his willingness to be vulnerable, and it fills you with an almost unbearable tenderness. He’s so strong, so powerful, and yet he’s given himself to you, completely and without reservation.
Finally, his hand catches yours, his fingers intertwining with yours. He brings your hand to his lips, kissing the palm before pinning it above your head, his eyes locked on yours.
“Now you,” he says, his voice low and rough with desire.
You comply willingly, lifting up just enough to help him remove your shirt. The cool air of the room pebbles your skin, and you shiver despite the heat of his body. But Cody is back on you before the chill can set in, wasting no time in wrapping his lips around one nipple while his thumb toys with the other. The sudden, sharp spike of pleasure has you gasping, your back arching up off the mattress, your fingers tangling in his hair. He’s not teasing, he’s not playing—he’s claiming, marking his territory again, and you’re only too happy to be claimed.
He lavishes attention on your breasts, alternating between gentle suction and soft, teasing licks. It’s enough to have your head spinning, your body already throbbing with need, but he’s not done. He moves down, trailing kisses along the sensitive underside of your breast, the curve of your waist. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your shorts, pausing to look up at you, as if asking for permission.
You nod, your breath coming in shallow gasps, and he pulls the shorts down your legs, taking your underwear with them. You’re completely bare before him now, but you’ve never felt more safe, more protected.
He places his hands on your knees, gently coaxing them apart, and you comply, opening yourself to him. The first touch of his lips against your inner thighs has you trembling, and when he finally makes contact with your clit, you nearly come off the bed.
He’s slow at first, his tongue exploring your folds with deliberate care. He teases your clit with soft, feather-light strokes, and when you whimper, he gives you more, his tongue circling and stroking in the patterns he’s spent the past year learning by trial and error. The patterns that can make you fall apart in minutes, if he so chooses.
Tonight, he does so choose. It’s been too long, and you’re both too keyed up to go slow. His tongue is relentless, his hands pinning your hips to the bed, keeping you from squirming away from the intense pleasure. You can feel the orgasm building inside you, the pressure of it, and when he adds two fingers, curling them just so inside you, you shatter. Your back arches, your hands scrabbling for purchase in the sheets, and Cody’s name on your lips.
Cody is still between your legs as you come down from your high, his lips and chin slick with your release, his eyes dark with desire. He presses one last, lingering kiss to your clit before sliding up your body, dropping soft, chaste kisses on your belly, your breasts, your collarbone. He hovers over you, his arms bracketing your head, and you can see the hunger in his gaze, the barely restrained need.
But he waits, giving you time to recover. He’s always been that way, always putting your pleasure before his own. And it only makes you want to give him more, to give him everything.
“I missed you so much,” you whisper, your hands framing his face. “I missed this.”
“Me too,” he says, his voice strained. “Every day, I—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I need to feel you. Please.”
You reach between you, your fingers tracing the length of his erection through the thin fabric of his sweatpants. He hisses, his hips jerking forward at the contact, and you feel the dampness where he's already leaking against the fabric. You can't resist the urge to press your thumb against the wet patch, feeling the heat of him through the cotton, the way he throbs under your touch.
“Tell me what you want,” you say, looking up at him through your lashes. You may have been the one to teach him the art of dirty talk, but he's become an expert practitioner in his own right. He knows just what to say, how to say it, to send shivers down your spine. To make you wet. To make you want. “Tell me what you want to do to me.”
His eyes flash at that, and you watch the struggle play out across his face, the battle between his natural reserve and his desire to tell you everything, all the filthy, desperate things he's imagined while you've been apart. He swallows hard, his throat bobbing, and you can't resist the urge to lean up and suck lightly on his pulse point, feeling the rapid beat of his heart under your tongue.
“I want to fuck you,” he says, and the raw hunger in his voice has your toes curling, your nails digging into the meat of his shoulders. “I want to fuck you until you forget your own name.”
“That’s not very specific,” you tease, but you can't keep the breathlessness out of your tone. You reach for the waistband of his pants, tugging them down just far enough to free his cock. You take him in your hand, stroking him slowly from root to tip, feeling the way he swells in your grip. “How are you going to fuck me, Commander?”
He groans, his eyes fluttering shut for just an instant. “Like this." His hips jerk forward, his cock pushing through the circle of your first to slide against your clit. You're both sensitive, and the sensation has you gasping, your hand stilling. “Just like this. Deep. Slow.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want?” you ask, your thumb sweeping over the slick head of his cock, smearing the fluid there. You know him too well, know that there’s something else he wants, something he’s holding back. “Are you sure that’s how you want to take me, Cody?”
The sound that rips from his chest is almost feral, and he suddenly pulls back, his hands grabbing your hips and flipping you over onto your stomach. You let out an indignant squeak, but it quickly turns to moan as he drapes himself over your back, the hot, hard length of him pressed against the cleft of your ass. He’s heavy, his solid weight pushing you down into the mattress, and you feel completely surrounded by him, consumed by him.
“This is what I want,” he growls in your ear, his hips rocking against yours. “This is how I want to take you. Hard. Deep. Until you’re begging me to stop.”
You moan again, your hands fisting in the sheets, and he takes that as his cue. He lifts himself up, his hand sliding between your bodies, and you feel the broad, flared head of him pressing against your entrance. He doesn't enter you right away, just teases you with shallow thrusts, pushing in just an inch or two before pulling back. You can feel yourself dripping, practically sobbing with need, and you try to push back, to take him inside you, but his hand on your hip holds you still.
“Cody,” you gasp, your voice muffled by the pillow. “I need you. Please."
"I intend to," he says, and he punctuates his words with another shallow thrust, and you feel the thick head of his cock breaching you. It's not enough, not nearly enough, but it's something, and your inner muscles clamp down on him greedily, trying to pull him in deeper. He groans, his hand flexing against your hip. "Fuck."
“Please," you beg again. “Cody, please.”
And finally, finally, he relents. With one sharp snap of his hips, he buries himself inside you, and the force of it jolts your whole body forward. The stretch of it, the fullness, it's almost too much, and for an instant, the line between pleasure and pain blurs. You gasp, your fingers scrabbling for purchase in the sheets as your body struggles to accommodate him.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice tight with strain. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, I’m good,” you reassure him. “I just… I forgot how big you are.”
He laughs, and you can feel the vibration of it in his chest. “You didn’t forget. You just like to complain.”
You huff in indignation as he pulls back, and his hands find your hips in the darkness, lifting your ass up and back towards him. He slides back in more gently this time, letting you feel every ridge, every vein, every inch of him. His hips press flush against your ass, and he grinds in deep, his cock nudging that spot inside you that has you keening against the pillow.
“Fuck," he grits out, his hands gripping your hips so tightly it’s almost painful. He holds you still, keeping you trapped on his cock as he grinds against that spot again, harder this time. The pleasure of it makes you clench, and he hisses, his hips jerking forward. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”
“I wonder why," you gasp as he grinds in again. “Maybe it’s because someone left me alone in this bed for weeks on end.” You manage to rock back against him, even with his firm grip. It's awkward, uncoordinated, but the friction is delicious. “Maybe it's because I missed you so much, and I—” Your words cut off in another moan as he gives you another sharp, short thrust.
“Don't talk like that," he growls, and you can hear the strain in his voice, the way he's struggling to hold back his own pleasure. “I can't think when you talk like that."
“Then don't think," you challenge. “Stop thinking and just fuck me, Cody. Stop being so damn gentle and just take me the way you said you would."
His fingers flex against your hips, and for an instant, he's motionless. You can practically hear the gears turning in his head as he wars with himself. He's always been so careful with you, so mindful of his strength, of the damage he could do if he lost control. He's never taken you like this before, never truly unleashed himself on you, and you're not sure he's willing to do it now.
But he is. With an animalistic growl, he pulls back, the flared head of him tugging on your entrance, before slamming back in. His hips slap against your ass, the force of his thrust jolting you forward, and you let out an involuntary yelp. He freezes, his cock pulsing inside you, and you can feel the tension in him, the fear that he's gone too far, that he's hurt you.
But the pain is fleeting, and in its wake is only pleasure. You reach back, your fingers finding his hip, and you pull him toward you, urging him to continue.
“Don't stop," you beg, and that's all the encouragement he needs.
He withdraws again, only to thrust back in, harder this time. Your fingers scrabble for purchase in the sheets, your knees slipping on the soft mattress, but it doesn't matter. You're not going anywhere, not with Cody's hands on you, holding you still for his punishing pace. His hips slam against yours, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the walls, and the sound of it, the primal, animalistic rhythm, has your head spinning. He's not being gentle anymore, he's not holding back, and it's everything you've ever wanted from him. Everything you've ever needed.
“You feel so good," he groans, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass. He spreads you open, his thumbs pressing against either side of your stretched pussy as he fucks you, and the sensation has you sobbing into the pillow. “So fucking perfect. So tight for me."
You want to respond, to tell him how good he feels, how full, but you can't. You can't do anything but take it, to let him pound you into the mattress with wild, frantic thrusts. He's fucking you like he's trying to break you, like he's trying to split you in two, and it's exactly what you wanted, what you need.
Your climax catches you by surprise, slamming into you like the thrust of Cody's hips. It's sudden and intense, and you're not even sure what does it, what finally pushes you over the edge. All you know is that you're clenching around his cock, your entire body trembling, and he's still fucking you through it, his cock dragging against that spot inside you that has you sobbing into the pillow.
“Fuck, you're beautiful," he says, his voice low and ragged. “You're so beautiful like this.”
He shifts, leaning down to press his chest against your back, his lips finding the nape of your neck. He sucks at the soft skin there, his tongue tracing the bumps of your spine, and the sensation is almost too much on top of the rest. You're sensitive, overstimulated, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. It's too much and not enough all at once.
“Cody, I can't," you gasp, even as you're pushing back against him, trying to take him deeper. “It's too much. I can't.”
“You can," he grunts, and his hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, pushing you down until your breasts are pressed against the sheets. The new angle has him hitting even deeper, the head of his cock nudging your cervix with each stroke. “I know you can. You were made for this. You were made for me.”
The words should infuriate you. They’re possessive, they’re presumptuous. They’re the words of someone who believes they own you, body and soul. But all you feel is heat, pulsing through your core, and the truth of them rings through you, undeniable.
So you take it. You take his cock, his words, his love. You let him pour himself into you, and you give yourself back to him, all of you, everything you are.
It doesn't take much longer. Cody's stamina is legendary, and he can keep going long after most men would have collapsed into an exhausted heap. It's one of the many, many benefits of being with an enhanced soldier of the GAR. But even Cody has his limits, and you've pushed him to the brink.
"One more," he grits out, his hand sliding down between your legs. He finds your clit, and the rough pad of his finger against your swollen, sensitive flesh has your hips jerking forward, trying to escape the intense sensation. “Just one more. Come on."
“I can't," you whimper, even as your inner muscles flutter around him. You're exhausted, spent. Your body feels like it's made of lead, heavy and boneless. But he's relentless, his fingers working you even as he slams his hips into yours. And against all odds, against all reason, you feel it building again. That familiar, insistent pressure. The tightening in your core.
“Cody, please," you beg, not even sure what you're asking for anymore. Release, mercy, relief from the overwhelming pleasure that's threatening to tear you apart at the seams. “Please."
“That's it," he coaxes, his fingers relentless. "That's my girl. You can do it. Just one more. Give me one more."
“Oh, fuck," you moan, burying your face in the pillow as your whole body tenses, as you hover on the edge of oblivion. “Fuck, Cody, please."
“Now," he demands, and there's no mistaking the order in his tone this time. It's the voice of Marshal Commander Cody, the man who's led armies, fought battles, won wars. And you obey, because you always obey. Because you're his.
Your orgasm hits like an avalanche, wiping out everything in its path. You're dimly aware of Cody cursing, of his hips stuttering, but all you can focus on is the way your body is spasming around him, the way your pleasure is pouring out of you, drenching his cock and the sheets beneath you. It's too much, too intense, and you're pretty sure you're going to pass out from sheer sensory overload.
But you don't, and Cody doesn't stop. He keeps going, pounding into you even as the last waves of your climax roll through you. His hips are erratic, his breathing harsh, and you can tell he's close. You can tell he's hanging on by the thinnest of threads.
So you give him what he needs, the same thing you've always given him. The thing he can't find anywhere else. The thing that's kept him coming back to you, time and time again.
You give him permission to let go.
“Do it," you urge, reaching back to grasp his forearm, digging your nails into the meat of him. “I want to feel you come in me. I want you to fill me up, Cody. Please."
And that's all it takes. With something that's half roar, half sob, he slams his hips forward one last time, and you can feel the hot, wet rush of his release deep inside you. His cock pulses, throbbing against your inner walls, and you can feel every twitch, every spasm. You're so full of him you feel like you might burst. Like he's marked you in the most primal, most basic of ways.
His climax seems to go on forever, and when he finally collapses on top of you, his weight pinning you to the bed, you can't stop the satisfied smile that curls your lips. This is what you've been craving, what you've been missing in the long weeks apart. And by the way he's still inside you, the way his cock is still pulsing weakly, you know he's missed it too. Missed you.
“Thank you," he whispers, his voice ragged and raw. “Thank you for that."
“I think I should be thanking you," you reply, shifting your hips, and he groans at the sensation. “I forgot how good it was. How much I needed this."
“I didn't," he says as his arms slide around you, pulling you close. He's still inside you, still half-hard, and you're pretty sure he has no intention of pulling out anytime soon. “I've been thinking about it nonstop."
You laugh, and the movement has him twitching inside you, his cock giving another weak pulse. “I could tell. Peak performance indeed, Commander. Very efficient."
He snorts at that, his breath fanning against the nape of your neck. “I have my moments.”
“You have more than moments," you assure him, running your fingers along his arm. You can feel the hard, corded muscle there, the strength that could snap you like kindling if he chose. But he never has, and he never would. He's always been so careful with you. So gentle. “You have everything I need."
He doesn't respond, but you feel him smile against your skin, his lips pressing against the curve of your shoulder. His arms wind around your waist, and he slowly turns on his side, bringing you with him. His cock slides out of you in the process, and you can't stop the little mewl of protest that escapes your lips.
“I'm sorry," he whispers, kissing the back of your head. “I didn't mean to hurt you."
“You didn't," you reassure him as you snuggle back against him. “I just… I wanted you to stay."
“I know," he says, and you can hear the regret in his voice. “But I have to get cleaned up, and I have to take care of you. I don't want you to be sore tomorrow. Not on our first day of leave."
You want to argue, to tell him you don't care if you're sore. That it's worth it for the pleasure he gives you, for the intimacy. But you know he's right, and you don't want to make his job any harder than it has to be. So you let him go, rolling onto your stomach and letting him climb over you, padding off to the bathroom to fetch his supplies.
While he's gone, you take the opportunity to stretch, your body feeling deliciously loose and pliant after the intense workout. You're sticky and wet between your thighs, and when you reach down to touch yourself, you can feel his seed leaking out of you. It's dirty, filthy even, but you can't deny the thrill of satisfaction that runs through you at the thought.
When Cody comes back, carrying his familiar white box, he stops short at the sight of you, your fingers lazily exploring your tender folds.
“You're killing me," he groans, setting the box on the nightstand before settling on the bed beside you. “I'm not sure I'm going to survive this."
“I think you'll manage," you reply, and you spread your legs wider, giving him better access. “Get to work, Commander."
He does, of course. He's nothing if not obedient. He opens his kit and takes out his supplies. Cleans his hands first, as he always does, before cleaning you, as gently as he can. You wince, your flesh still sensitive and swollen, and he murmurs apologies, pressing kisses to the back of your thigh. And when you're both cleaned up to his satisfaction, he covers the bruises on your hips from his frantic fingers with bacta and massages your tired muscles, working the knots and tension from them until you're practically boneless.
By the time he's done, you're almost asleep, your eyes heavy, your body limp. He covers you with the sheet, and you're dimly aware of him moving about the room, picking up the clothes strewn on the floor. You hear the sound of water running, and when he comes back, he's wearing nothing but his briefs, and his hair is damp.
“Come on, baby," he says, kneeling beside the bed and smoothing the hair back from your face. “You need to drink something. And I need to change the sheets."
“S'fine," you murmur, burrowing deeper into the pillow. “Don't need sheets. Just sleep."
“You'll be sorry in the morning," he says firmly, and he scoops you up in his arms, carrying you bridal-style out of the room. “You can sleep on the couch while I clean up."
You're too tired to argue, and the truth is, you don't want to let him go, not for one second. So you let him carry you, let him set you down on the couch, wrap you in your fluffy bathrobe, and press the bottle of water into your hands.
“Drink," he says, tapping the top of the bottle. “All of it. Doctor's orders."
You scowl at him, but you comply, taking small sips. You watch him move back toward the bedroom, and even in your exhausted state, you can't help but admire the view. The way the muscles in his back and shoulders flex as he strips the soiled sheets from the bed. The way his briefs cling to the tight curves of his ass, and the way the dimples just above them seem to be begging you to run your fingers over them.
He's gorgeous, there's no doubt about that. But it's more than his looks that draw you to him. It's his heart, his soul. It's the way he cares for you, the way he loves you. The way he sees you, not just as an object to be desired, but as someone to be cherished. To be protected. To be loved.
“I love you," you say suddenly, and the sliver you can see of him through the doorway freezes, the clean sheet clutched in his hands. “I really, really do."
“I love you, too," he calls back, and you can hear the smile in his voice. The wonder. The awe. “Now finish that water and get some rest. We have to get up early tomorrow if we're going to make our flight to Naboo. I'm not losing the deposit because you were too tired to get out of bed."
“Bossy,” you grumble, but you can't help but smile as you take another sip of water. This is the Cody you love. The Commander. The lover. The man who's already planning your vacation down to the last detail. The man who, for the next two weeks, is all yours.
“I have to be," he says as he appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “If I'm not, you'll sleep all day, and we'll miss our flight. And I've been looking forward to this for months. I’m not letting you sabotage it with your laziness."
“My laziness?” you protest, indignant. “You’re the one keeping me up all hours of the night. A girl needs her beauty sleep.”
Cody grunts. “You don’t need beauty sleep. You’re already perfect.”
"Flattery will get you nowhere, Commander,” you say with an eye roll, though you can feel the heat rise in your cheeks.
"I disagree," he replies with one of his rare, genuine smiles that still have the power to make your knees weak. He crosses to the sofa, crouching down in front of you, and takes the half-empty water bottle from your limp hands and sets it on the floor. He leans in, and you think he's going to kiss you, but instead he presses his forehead against yours. "It's gotten me here, hasn't it?"
He has you there. You close your eyes, soaking in the feel of him. The warmth of his skin, the gentle puff of his breath against your cheek, the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. You could stay like this forever, in this small, perfect bubble of peace. In this apartment on the grimy, lower levels of Coruscant that feels more like home than any place you've ever known because he's here with you.
“Yeah,” you whisper, tilting your chin to kiss him again. “It has.”
SHUT THE ACTUAL HELL UP ROY THIS WAS FREAKING GORGEOUS
I am also a Codywan truther at heart but GODDAMN. I fear this is the best Cody fic I’ve read. You nailed his characterisation. It’s just so uniquely him and now I’m in yearning mode
If your gut reaction to this is "no it's not" I swear, I promise, that disappointing people, particularly disappointing people who have unrealistic, outdated, manipulative, or just plain wrong expectations of you, or versions of you in their head, is better than continually disappointing yourself. Signed, an inveterate people pleaser who FINALLY realized this and made my life almost immediately more authentic and fulfilling by acting upon it.
Sometimes when I go hundreds pages deep into people’s Tumblr archives, I find really funny posts and I weigh the pros and cons of liking/reblogging them.
Pros: I’ll have access to them later because they’re fucking hilarious
Cons: They might think I’m creepy. Despite the fact that it’s public and on the Internet, it is not socially acceptable to let anyone know the extent that you creeped their archives.
I hereby extend blanket permission for anyone to creep on my archive, and to like and reblog posts from it if they want to. It’s really quite flattering.
Yeah, this isn’t a Tumblr thing. Everyone here loves it when they wake up to 97 notifications and they’re all likes and reblogs from the same person of shit you posted five years ago.
“I asked ChatGPT…” Well I asked Tech and he infodumped for 93 minutes about how hyperdrives work despite hyperspace not being bound by the laws of physics.
Clonemas Day 5 - Piercings / Body Modifications - December 10th
Notes: On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me, the worshiping of my body!
(I didn’t go too crazy with the body mods just because I don’t want to over step in my writing. I have tattoos and some face piercing but no shame or judgement to anyone who has more. I love the self expression!)
18+ MINIRS DNI
Kinks: Piercings / Body Modifications
Warnings: SMUTTT, oral f! receiving, piercings, body modifications (tattoos) slight insecurity, minor body worship, Echo is a great lover
Words: 1.0K+
Echo pushed you up against haul of the marauder, kissing you ferociously and with a passion he hadn’t felt since his cadet days. His hand was tangled in your hair, holding you close while his scomp link rested against your hip. You hiked your knee up against his hip, wrapping your foot around him and pushed your heel into his plump, firm butt. It brought him closer to you, causing his codpiece to grind against your core and a certain new accessory that Echo had yet to see.
“Missed you sweetheart,” he whispered in the split second that you parted for air, a cheeky smile on his face as let your head tilt back and touch the wall you were up against.
“Missed you too handsome,” you breathed out as Echo attacked your neck with kisses mouthing at the lobes of your ears. Your hands found the nape of his neck, smoothing down his body while being careful of the ports along his back.
Echo had taken a while to warm up to you touching him, afraid that the change made to his body by the Techno Union would frighten you off. But you had taught him how to love his new body, even if he still had moments of doubt, you showed him he was still that young, spry arc trooper from before the citadel.
Since he had joined the team, you and Tech had helped him adjust while also doing what you could to bring back on some of his body fat and muscle. It was a work in progress but you could see that progress in the way he behaved nowadays. Happier, more confident, more of an appetite and the list goes on.
Echo mouthed at your collarbone, enjoying the way to body arched under his touch. He pulled away to yank your shirt off, up and over your head to expose your sinful body to his eyes. His eyes were immediately drawn to the new art added to your body, black and red ink stretched from one side of your chest down your body to the top of your thigh. It was an intricate vine of roses, with other small details added in to represent Echo and each member of torrent company.
Echo stared at the piece for longer than you expected, causing you to grow self conscious of it. It was something you had gotten done while they had been on their mission, your own solo operation splitting you from them. But you had finished early and decided to treat yourself to something you liked.
“Echo-“ you were cut off as Echo slammed his lips against yours again, this time lifting you up against the wall, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. The kiss the was desperate, hungry but there was also an air of love to it, of thank you for keeping his brothers memory alive.
He ground against your lower half with his, codpiece catching just the right spot to make you gasp. He moved back to your neck, sucking a mark into the base of your throat. You moaned, hands grasping at his shoulder for purchase, rocking your hips back into his as he did to you.
“Echo, take it off,” you grunted out. Your feet hit the floor and your back pressed against the wall as Echo disrobed at lightning speed, armour hitting the floor with far less grace than usual. His clothes followed not long after, exposing his body to you, scars and all making him look even hotter. You pulled him back to you once his lower blacks hit the floor, but he instead went right for yours, pulling them down, following them down your body. He took your panties with them and in doing so, exposed your crown jewel to himself.
Echo once again couldn’t help but stare at your body, eyes locked onto your core and the new piercing he found there.
“W-when did you-“
“Do you like it?”
He didn’t even respond, just pulled your legs over his shoulders and went to town, sucking on your labia and clit, pulling your piercing between with lips. The moan you let out could rival that of a holofilm star, loud and unhindered. Your hand gravitated toward his head, placing it on top while still minding the ports. Your other hand scrambled to hold of the wall above you, head thrown back again as Echo ate you out like a man deprived of the good things in life. And he was.
“Echo please,” you let out as he lapped at your core, delving into your walls and tongue fucking you like his heart depended on it. He brought his fingers into the mix, pushing them into you and curling them insistently.
“So pretty cyare. Love your body so much.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Even with all the changes?”
Echo looked up at you through hooded eyes, staring into yours as he, once more, took your clit between his lips, never breaking eyes contacts as he sucked on it. Your eyes almost closed but you forced them to stay opened, locked with Echo’s and never leaving. He pulled away with a slight pop and looked into your eyes, his hand and stomp running parallel to each other up your body.
“I love everything you’ve done to your body. You have always been and will always be the sexiest woman alive and I love everything you’ve done do,” he said with conviction and list, eyes shining with determination. You just smiled and pushed off the wall, making Echo fall backwards into the ground. He caught himself in time only for you to plot down with your thighs bracing his head, a smirk on your face.
“Show me just how much trooper,” you said ready for Echo to eat you out like a five course meal. You gave his own smirk and dove right back in, ready to show you just how an Arc trooper gets the job done.
You threw your head back with a moan, hands finding a home on his stomach as you leaned back, ready to no be able to walk tomorrow
Thank you all for reading and I hope you enjoyed this! If you read this and wish to be tagged in the next story, please comment below!
If you have any requests, please feeling free to reach out to me and give me ideas!
Checkout my page for more fluffy and smutty content!
Main MasterList
Clonemas MasterList
Next Fic: Glory Holes / Breath play - Wrecker x Reader (Scheduled for December 12th) - Take it All
Tag List: @scribblesofshadow @fiction-is-the-new-reality @fivesmybelovedclone @cosmoacrosscosmos @obiwansito @iluvoaldmen @cw80831
Clonemas Day 4 - Spanking / Marking - December 8th
Notes: On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me, a spanking so fun and lovely!
18+ MINIRS DNI
Kinks: Spanking / Marking
Warnings: SMUTTT, spanking, marking, biting / hickeys, Dom/Sub implied, p in v sex, cock warming, pet names (just a short and sweet one). The force works the way I need it to lol.
Words: 1.0K+
You had been a bit naughty and this was your punishment; a welcome one that you were relishing in. Another firm slap to your ass had you moaning again, trying to push your behind into the feeling.
“Not so fast ad’ika. You’ve been a bad girl. A very bad girl, projecting those images to me during a briefing. There were others jedi present,” the Captain’s voice was low and chiding, displeased with her display during a meeting that was attended by more than just them. You couldn’t help the smirk on your face but it was soon wiped off as another two swats in quick succession hit your behind, making you moan.
You had purposely projected unsolicited, dirty images to Rex during a briefing between you, him, General Skywalker, General Kenobi, Ahsoka, and Master Plo. It was a fun little game you were playing but Rex didn’t appreciate it all that much, the obvious strain of his cod piece making it difficult.
Which is what led you here; the two of you locked away in your room, you bent over Rex’s lap, ass in the air, cherry red from his hands. Rex was still encased in his armour, the only thing gone his gloves and helmet, the dark look in his eyes promising pain and pleasure wrapped in a neat bow.
“Please Rex-“ you started but were silenced by another two spanks to your right ass cheek.
“That’s not my name right now ad’ika. What do you call me right now?” He asked, leaning toward your face as he rubbed one of his warm hands across your reddened behind. You visibly swallowed, trying not to push back into his warm palm, knowing that you would only prolong your punishment. And you didn’t want that. You wanted to get rail, right now.
“C-captain.” The use of the correct title earned you a groan of approval, Rex grabbing a handful of your ass instead of spanking it.
“Good girl. I knew you could be,” Rex said in a mocking voice, chuckling as you whined. He knew you were desperate, wanting him to fuck you. And he wanted to, but he needed you to do one more thing first.
“Almost done sweetheart, then you’ll get what you so desire. Just need you to be good for me for a little longer,” he said, pulling your body to sit in his lap, a wince leaving you lips as the cool plates of his armour made contact with your heated bum.
“Captain please,” you whimpered, desperate for him, craving his touch, him body, his love. You were at your breaking point, ready to use your power to get what you wanted but that would be crossing a line that you would never cross. Rex reached between your bodies and unhooked his codpiece, tossing it to the side before returning and pulling himself free from his blacks.
You groaned as it brushed against your lower lips, rubbing against you, a reminder that you needed to have patience. Rex kissed your chin as he teased your folds with the head of his cock, using your fluids as lube. He groaned against you, lips finding your neck, latching onto it and sucking a hickey on the junction between your shoulder and neck. You let out a lude noise, a louder moan leaving you as Rex slowly and carefully slipped inside your pussy.
“That a girl ad’ika. Want you to keep me nice and warm for now,” Rex grunted, eyes struggling to stay open as he sank into your waiting walls. You bit your lip and nodded, mouth opening in a silent gasp as he sheathed himself completely inside your heat.
“Fuck, you feel amazing ad’ika,” he said and shifted his legs a little to support you better. You whimpered as plates on his thighs rubbed against your cherry red cheeks once more.
Rex dove into your neck and attached his teeth to your shoulder, biting and sucking mark after mark onto your skin. He felt you clench with each one he left, your body a masterpiece of his art work, claiming you as his.
“So pretty. Covered in my marks, reminding everyone you’re taken,” he growled and bucked up in to you. You moaned and nodded, arms wrapping around his shoulders for support as your legs shook, refraining from taking your pleasure and riding him. You’re pretty sure you came while he was marking you and you were sure you’d have to cover the hickeys when you finished but you didn’t care.
“I’m all yours captain.”
“That’s right,” He ex said as he bit another mark into your neck before pulling back to admire his collage, “all mine. And everyone will know it.”
You whimpered as he pulled you into a heated kiss, flexing his cock inside you to remind you he was there. It wasn’t a hard thing to remember especially when he was pressed oh so deliciously against your g-spot. You moaned a little louder as he used his legs to jostle you around, move you along his length before settling on your back down.
Your hands moved on instinct, grabbing at his chest armour and pulling it away, wanting to expose his neck to you. Rex helped you, releasing the clasps on his chest plate and unzipping the top of his blacks. Once his skin was exposed you dove in, nipping and mouthing at his tanned skin, making your mark on him just as he had done to you. He grunted as your teeth connected with his neck, hands tightening their hold on your body rock his hips against you. You pulled away to admire your work, noting that you still had plenty of skin to work with. You looked into Rex’s eyes as he gazed into yours, pools of amber locking with (e/c).
“You’re mine ad’ika.”
“And you’re mine Captain.”
Thank you all for reading and I hope you enjoyed this! If you read this and wish to be tagged in the next story, please comment below!
If you have any requests, please feeling free to reach out to me and give me ideas!
Checkout my page for more fluffy and smutty content!
Main MasterList
Clonemas MasterList
Next Fic: Piercing / Body Modification- Echo x Reader (Scheduled for December 10th) - Scars to Your Beautiful
Tag List: @scribblesofshadow @fiction-is-the-new-reality @fivesmybelovedclone @cosmoacrosscosmos @obiwansito @iluvoaldmen @cw80831
CONTENT: Starting your morning in bed with the boys (set in Pabu because this is how I cope and Tech lives).
RATING: NSFW
VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED!
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HUNTER
Oh, waking up next to Hunter is always a special moment.
Everyday, you'd hear his steady breathing—a quiet, comforting rhythm behind you—and you'd feel his arm tightening around your waist the moment you stir awake.
Normally, you'd find him still asleep when you turn over to check. But you know he'd wake up immediately once you pressed your lips against his. A little morning routine of yours that never fails to make him smile.
However, today feels different. It seems Hunter was the first one to wake, and you could feel why.
It must be one of those rarer days where he'll rouse himself from sleep with a kind of need only you can fill. A kind of need you can feel pressing up against your lower back, his hips flush on yours, and his ragged breaths hot in your ear.
You'd feel his hands, rough and large, grip your hips firmly. You'd feel his lips ghost your nape. And you'd immediately wake up the moment you hear him say, “Need you right now, mesh'la.”
These kinds of mornings with Hunter always had you skipping breakfast, because the moment he braces himself above you with that hungry look in his eyes, you knew you didn't need to eat in order to be satiated.
He'll take you slowly at first, with a kind of rawness that has your back arching off of the mattress. You'd feel him kiss your neck, growl dark praises against your skin, as he enters you in one slow push—making sure you'd feel every inch through the torturous drag.
He'll start off with a gentle roll, not creating much distance, just grinding himself back into you. Eventually, he'll get impatient. Hungrier. Then, he starts moving faster. Deeper. Rougher. The kind that makes you call his name louder, two syllables broken between choked gasps, but it also means the neighbours can probably hear you.
His strokes become longer, farther, until all that was left inside you was his tip before he's thrusting himself back in. His hands would never leave your hips, and after you've come, he'll turn your lax body over until your spine is arched and his hands are back on your hips.
Then, he'll start again. The first round was for breakfast, the second is for lunch.
Hunter takes you apart in a way you'd forget your duties for the day. Because you knew, you won't leave your room until the sheets are in need of a wash and the room smells like the sin you've just committed. He doesn't stop until you're sobbing into your pillow, hushing you in that smoky rasp of his.
“One more, mesh'la. Just one more for me.”
After the last round—blankets low on his hips, scratchmarks on his shoulders and back—he's watching you try to walk out of bed with that smug grin on his face.
“Need any help, mesh'la?” You'd hear him ask, but his only response was a weak glare you threw at his direction.
“Your fault,” You'd tell him, and watch as his gaze darkens at the way you stumbled again. Something flickers in his eyes, something that shook your legs even more than they already do.
“My fault, huh?” He'll quip, before he's rising from the bed and walking towards you with that predatory gait. “Let me apologize for that.”
Mornings with Hunter will stretch into afternoons if you're strong enough to keep up.
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ECHO
With Echo, your mornings with him are always gentle. The kind that lingers in bed, too lazy to get up yet, just basking in each other's warmth even after the sun has long risen.
Sometimes, you'll be the one hugging him from behind. An occasional shift in your sleeping position, he'd be the big spoon on night night and you'll be the next on another. Right now, your front was pressed against his back, and you could feel his body rise and fall.
You kiss the area between his shoulder blades and feel him tense from the contact. Right after his time in Skako Minor, there are areas in his body that are still sensitive upon touching. That included his spine, so you made sure you're always careful with your touches.
You kiss him there again, softer his time, and he relaxes immediately.
“Morning, cyar'ika.” You hear his voice, low and raspy from sleep, then he takes your hand over his chest and places a tender kiss on your knuckles.
You mumble the same greeting into his back, trailing your kisses up to his nape where you knew he was most sensitive. Most of the time, he’d laugh—claims he’s ticklish there—but right now, his breathing starts to get heavier.
The hand he was holding gets dragged down from his chest, slipping beneath the covers where he places your palm over him—half-hard and throbbing.
You smile, proud of him for expressing his needs. It took him a while to get there, afraid to make you uncomfortable and he was still hesitant for any kind of intimacy. But now, he starts to be more open with his desire and encourages you to be the same.
So, you covered him with your palm and set a languid yet firm stroke through his pants. It immediately makes his hips buck forward, grunting your name quietly, while he strains those two words, “Please, cyar'ika.”
And that was your cue to turn him over. You throw a leg over his hips, straddling him down on the mattress, as you steal his sounds away in a deep kiss.
His hand and scomp are on your thighs, he's leaning up to chase more of your lips, while you start to grind down against him. To hear him groan brokenly, to feel him throb beneath you, to see those lovely eyes of his flutter open—half-lidded and pleading—until you begin to undress yourselves.
Making love with Echo always changes depending on who wants to take the lead. Some days he'll be the one in charge, pleasuring you in more ways than one. And on other days, like this one, he's perfectly content laying back and watching you pleasure yourself above him.
But that didn't mean he wasn't enjoying himself. You could tell the way his pupils expanded, the way he thrusts up into you to match your movements, and the way he praises you through breathless groans.
When he feels you getting tired from how your rhythm falters, he won't waste a second to take charge and roll you over until he's the one above you.
Then, he’ll push himself back inside. Praising you even more for your efforts, kissing you lovingly while he picks up the pace, until the gentleness from the early morning melts away into desperation.
He always makes sure you come first before him. He tells you it's the right way to do it, but you know deep down he loves the way you feel around him when you come undone, because when you do, he releases this strangled noise from the back of his throat before he's following right after you.
When the two of you descend from your high, you'll gaze into each other's eyes and share another kiss. Slow, deep, and full. Like you're pouring your heart into every tilt and sigh.
Then, he'll ask you to stay in bed while he goes up to make the both of you breakfast. When he returns, it's a whole breakfast in bed moment with him by your side, flushed smiles on your faces as the two of you eat.
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TECH
You'd always expect Tech to be up before the sun is awake. You'd wake up to find him leaning against the headboard, datapad in hand, reading current news all across the galaxy.
And you're right, you roll over to find him reading something in his datapad. Thoroughly engrossed as well, as he always was. But there’s something different today. He seems too transfixed with whatever's on his screen.
When you murmur his name, curious and soft, his eyes snap towards you. And you’re mildly surprised at the intensity behind those fogged lenses.
“Oh, good. You are awake. I discovered something quite fascinating, and I wish to test it.”
Without another word, he tosses his datapad aside, slips beneath the covers, and places himself between your thighs—you’re already wide awake and gaping at his sudden action.
Acts of intimacy are a rarity for Tech. Due to his different functionality and processing, he often struggles picking up cues. Especially when it comes to sexual advances. But now, something in him switches, and whatever it was he found on his datapad must be the cause of it.
You were about to ask him what he discovered, when his fingers hook inside your waistband and he was pulling your bottoms off with an indecipherable glint behind his goggles.
“Trust me, my dear. It will be very enlightening for the both of us.”
So, here you were, struggling to breathe properly while Tech expertly pleasured you with his mouth despite being his first time. But the way he did it made you wonder if it truly was.
Every lap of his tongue was thorough. Every harsh suck made you see stars behind closed eyelids. Every time he pushed himself deeper into you, you swore he was going to kill you from his mouth alone.
All it took was his tongue, talented despite his lack of experience, to get you over the edge and chant his name like a prayer. When you finally open your eyes, you're again surprised to see him now hovering above you. And he has the audacity to ask, “Was that adequate?” Even after sending you to another dimension without any prior experience.
The only response you gave him was a smile, before you pushed him aside and placed yourself between his legs as well. The shock on his face quickly vanished the moment you decided to return the favor and took him down your mouth—the sweet breathy exhale of your name was both a reward and fuel for you to continue.
You made sure to give him the same thorough treatment, not stopping until one of his hands was pulling off of him by your hair and he was tugging you upwards until you were seated right above his lap and he was leaning against the headboard once more.
“I do not wish to finish yet,” He states, gaze darkening as he lines up into you. “At least, not in your mouth.”
Chests pressed close, lips molded together, while your hips moved up and down on his hard length. You support yourself with your hands on his shoulders, and he uses this opportunity to grasp your neck in one hand and grip your thigh with the other.
And oh, Tech becomes very vocal when he's close. He doesn't even realize he's babbling nonsense, speaking both praises and pleas. Until his sounds turn needy, half-formed sentences fading into strangled gasps.
When you both fall apart, he pushes you down completely on his lap—letting you take every spend he can release inside—with his face buried in your neck and his arms around your waist.
“That was–” He panted, grunting softly. “An enlightening experience.”
You smiled, kissing his temple and agreeing. “I know more enlightening experiences we can test. If you want to learn more, that is.”
He was already twitching back to life inside you, sealing your fate of a late breakfast.
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CROSSHAIR
Crosshair rarely sleeps for long hours, always the first one to wake and start the day before you, but this morning seems to be one of those rare moments.
But this morning, you stirred awake to him still in bed. You assumed he was still sleeping, except you’re wrong. He's already awake, his breathing isn't steady, his hands are hard on your hips, and his teeth are tugging the shell of your ear.
And oh, the realization startled you awake. You hear his voice, dark and serpentine, trailing after his teeth in a fervent hiss.
“Had a nice dream? I hope so. You were saying my name in your sleep.”
Then, you'd recognize the hard pressure behind you. The unmistakable length of him pressing against your back. You feel him take his rake along your nape, him tugging you flush to his front.
You didn't even realize him slipping your bottoms down, until the cool air hit you and the undeniable arousal between your thighs told you he was telling the truth about your dream. Whatever you were dreaming of, it must've been that good to have you this aroused.
And whatever he heard you say in your sleep must've been the reason why he's growling harshly beside your ear and he's freeing himself from his confines in that instant.
He lifts your leg in one hand, and you shiver at the dangerous drawl of his voice next to your ear. “Don't worry. I plan to make it come true.”
Then, he's sliding himself into you. Inch by inch. You both sigh shakily, and you clutch the sheets in a weak grip. Crosshair pushes himself further until he is flush behind you. You expect him to start moving immediately, but he didn't.
He caresses your hip instead, humming against your neck. “Maybe I should just stay like this. Doesn't it feel nice?” But you don't want nice. You want him to move, but he stays still. Of course, Crosshair would pull something like this.
In retaliation, you simply shrugged. “Yeah, it does. I could fall asleep like this.” You ignore his growl, settling back to sleep again wearing a small smirk. But then, he pulls out of you and slides in deep in a single thrust.
“Don't think you could sleep again,” He continues moving now, and you’re back to clutching the sheets. “Maybe you could. After we're done.”
And so, Crosshair turns your body over completely. Shifts your hips up, slides a pillow underneath, and leans over you with his forearms beside your shoulders.
He enters you again and sets a pace that has you clenching around him immediately. One of his hands covers your mouth, suppressing every high-pitch moan and choked gasp you make.
But he didn't seem to mind his own sounds. Panting harshly besides your ear, cursing through gritted teeth, and biting your shoulder when he gets too loud himself.
These kinds of mornings with Crosshair always leaves you voiceless for the entire day. Being a sniper, he knows damn well which areas to hit in order to neutralize the enemies. In bed, he's no different.
The way he takes you is sharp, precise, and swift. Hitting that same spot again and again, rhythm never faltering, and making sure to change his angle every now and then to bring you closer to the edge.
He doesn't stop to give you a break even after you came the first time. He knows perfectly well how to get you to a second, bringing your hips up and straightening himself to take you faster—one hand on your hip, the other between your shoulder blades.
Right after you come the second time, he turns you over so he can face you and take you again. And only after the third time, Crosshair lets your body melt into the mattress and melts along with you.
“I’ll start lunch,” You hear his voice—raw and hoarse—pressing a tender kiss against your temple. “I promised you sleep. So, sleep. I'll wake you up when it's ready.”
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WRECKER
Oh, mornings with Wrecker always means waking up first to loud snoring, a wall of hard yet warm muscle cuddling up against you, and the occasional mumbling in his sleep.
The space in the bed barely fits you both, but it's perfect since you can hug him closer and feel his warmth radiate from his body.
But this time, Wrecker awakens first and he knows the reason why. He sees you still fast asleep, laying peacefully on top of him, arm and leg thrown over his front. But that isn't the reason why he woke up.
The reason is the big problem under the covers, and how your leg keeps on brushing against him every time you shift. He grits his teeth, cursing quietly so as to not wake up, and wills himself back to sleep replaying mantras in his head.
You move again, mumbling something in your sleep, and your leg presses against his problem which makes him clench his jaw. He's half-tempted to wake you, but decided not after seeing your serene state. After all, he did tire you out after last night.
But it seems like his body is not yet done, aching for you once more. He knows he should let you sleep, so he sighs and closes his eyes to focus on something else.
What he didn't know is that you're awake. You've been awake since you felt him twitch against your leg. You assume it was him flinching in his sleep, a habit he still hasn't gotten over yet since his time as a soldier, but you felt it again.
And now you're just listening to him mutter “don't move, you'll wake her” over and over again. Sweet, strong, and lovable Wrecker. Too pure for his own good.
“Too late for that,” You feel him flinch now and you quickly make a move to straddle him. “You hungry yet?”
Wrecker's eyes widen comically, and you barely suppress your laugh. “Uh, not yet. I mean, kinda, but– How about you?”
You give him an impish grin, tracing a finger from his chest down to his stomach. “I could eat.”
He didn't stop you when you slipped underneath the covers. He didn't make any complaints when you freed him from his confines. He didn't do anything but watch you taste him, touch him, and take him into your mouth. And he didn't contain the groans and curses spilling from his lips the moment you moan around him.
“Stop,” You immediately obey, and freeze when you see the hungry look on his face. “Get up here.”
You haven't even more yet when he hauls you upwards, settling you over him with your legs besides his face. You brace yourself on the headboard, breath hitching as you stare down at him. The last thing you see is his predatory grin, before his mouth connects with you and your eyes fall shut.
Wrecker loves to eat, being the biggest foodie out of all of his brothers, he could finish an entire feast by himself. That isn't any indifferent when it comes to you. The way he does makes your thighs shake terribly, makes your lungs hurt from panting, and makes stars appear behind your eyelids each ravenous lap of his tongue and pleased growl from his throat.
He doesn't stop even when your hands barely have any strength to hold onto the headboard, drawing out your climax after you come hard on his mouth.
Wrecker catches you just in time, dazed and lightheaded, before you fall over the bed. He switches positions, bracing himself above you with his large hands holding your thighs apart.
Still shaking from the intense release, you feel his warm breath kiss your neck and a blunt sensation teases your entrance.
“Hope you're not hungry yet,” Wrecker grunts, sliding himself into you slowly, pinning your legs to the mattress. “Cuz we're gonna be skipping breakfast.”
By the time he’s done, it's already lunch and the others are wondering why you're stumbling into the kitchen and almost tripping on your feet.
Plot summary: You discover that you have a gear kink while watching Tech, your boyfriend, work. This only leads to your first intimate encounter in the Marauder’s cockpit.
Warnings: NSFW, 18 + only. Explicit sexual content), Oral sex (first time receiving, f!reader), Fingering, Mild dom/sub dynamic (Tech as attentive/controlling), Armour/gear kink, Public-ish location (cockpit, though isolated) explicit language & sexual dialogue, established relationship.
Authors note: thanks for the request @crischem ♥️
The Marauder is unusually quiet this afternoon which usually means you should be doing something productive. Maybe you should be sorting tools, cleaning a crate, checking your weapons or even assisting Tech with one of his little tasks.
But the only thing you’re doing is watching your boyfriend work.
He’s bent over a console, tightening a bolt with a satisfied little hum, armour shifting and clinking softly every time he moves. And he’s fully kitted out today: chest plate, harness, holsters, gloves, helmet, the whole collection.
You should be helping him… You should at least pretend you’re not staring directly at his arse.
Instead, you lean back in your seat and sigh, trying and failing to tear your eyes away when he adjusts the panel and the muscles in his back shift beneath the armor.
He glances over his shoulder. “You are unusually quiet.”
You blink, caught. “Am I?”
“Yes.” He turns back to his console. “Normally you ask at least six questions while I perform maintenance.”
“I do not ask six—”
“You average nine,” he corrects without looking up. “Sometimes eleven.”
You flush. Then again, you couldn’t be surprised that he took note of your behavioural patterns. “I’m just… giving you space.”
He pauses again, just long enough that you know he’s assessing something. Then he resumes tinkering with a small component, the movement drawing your eyes downward to the way his gloves flex around the tool.
“What are you doing right now?” he asks mildly, though there’s an edge in his tone that makes your chest tighten.
“Watching you work,” you admit.
“Indeed,” he says. “I noticed.”
“What—” you hesitate, embarrassed, “—what gave it away?”
“You have not blinked in approximately twenty one seconds.”
You snap your eyes shut, mortified. “Well, maybe I was thinking.”
“Thinking,” Tech repeats. He sets the tool down and slowly, deliberately stands up straight. “Would you like to specify about what?”
His voice isn’t teasing or accusing, just gentle and intrigued. Tone warm enough to almost liquefy your spine and turn your legs into jelly.
You swallow as you shift in your seat, crossing your legs over one another… tightly. “About you.”
He steps away from the console and faces you fully. He looks so composed. So steady. And so impossibly confident in all that gear.
Maker, you’re in trouble.
“What about me?” he asks softly.
“You look…” you trail off, fighting the burn rising to your ears, “…really good in your gear today.”
Something flickers behind his tinted lenses. “Good?” he repeats.
“Yeah,” you answer, throat tight. “It’s just… there’s something about it today. I don’t know. You look…Put together.” You laugh nervously. “It’s stupid.”
Tech tilts his head slightly, studying you quietly. “It is not stupid,” he starts. “It is arousal.”
Your breath catches. “Tech—”
“It is,” he continues matter-of-factly. “Your voice has lowered in pitch. Your pupils are dilated. You are shifting your weight in a way that suggests warm fervour.”
You nearly choke. “Warm fer— Tech!” You sit up straighter than before and look around in case someone, anyone could hear or see you both.
He steps closer, “Don’t worry, we’re alone.” He then leans over you, tilting his bucket. “I’ve seen the way you look at me in my gear, just like today. You are having a physiological reaction to my armour.” His tone changes in a way that sends heat straight through your belly. “Are you aware of that?”
His words made you swallow hard. “I… wasn’t. Not until now.” A gear kink? This was news to you and honestly, you were not mad about it.
“And now?” His hands move to your hips, gloved fingers tightening in your shirt.
“Now I’m very aware of it.”
Tech inhales sharply, a sound that slides right beneath your skin. “I would like,” he says quietly, “to explore this new information.”
Your heart leaps. “Explore how?”
He gestures toward the cockpit behind him. “If you will follow me.”
You follow, heart thumping with every step you take. He lifts his hand to tell you to halt and you do with a small stagger and watch him in curiosity as he detaches the whole steering stick from the pilot's seat. “What are you doing?”
“Ensuring you are comfortable for what is about to happen. Also, this area demonstrates the best area for this activity.” He explains but you don’t quite follow.
Tech notices your confusion and with a flourish, you are lifted into his arms and placed exactly where the steering once was, practically sitting on the control board. “Woah-” you say breathlessly, eyes widening as Tech flushes up against you.
But instead of touching you, he reaches up to the side of his helmet and ever so Tech, says: “I cannot perform oral stimulation with this on,” he says simply. “And my intention is quite clear.”
Your breath leaves you entirely. “You want to— here?” you whisper.
Tech’s voice drops to a low heat. “I want to pleasure you. Thoroughly. Immediately.”
He then adds, almost shyly, “And repeatedly, if you are willing.”
Your stomach plummets in the best possible way. “Yes,” you breathe. “Take it off.”
He removes the helmet with practiced ease. The moment it’s off, he pushes his goggles up, revealing warm brown eyes already darkened with desire.
He sets the helmet aside before returning his attention to you. His mouth parts and your sex burns as you watch him inadvertently lick his lips. “Spread your legs for me,” he murmurs. “I would like to see all of you.”
Your breath stutters, but you obey. Your legs spread, but your whole being feels excitement as his hands gently guide your legs further apart, gloved palms warm against your thighs even through the fabric.
His voice softens. “You’re trembling.”
“Because you’re looking at me like that,” you whisper.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re starving.”
His jaw tightens. “I am.”
Then he takes a seat directly in front of you, lowers himself until he’s between your legs. The sight of him alone is enough to make your core clench. He glides his hands up your thighs and pauses at your waistband. “May I?”
“Yes,” you say instantly, voice meek.
Tech pulls your clothes down with carefully, panties included, setting them aside neatly before settling back between your thighs. The shift of his armour and the way it frames him sends a bolt of heat straight through you.
He exhales shakily, leaning in until his breath brushes sensitive skin. “You are already so warm,” he murmurs, voice thick. “I wonder if you taste as good as I imagine.”
“Tech—”
You don’t get to but in another word as his mouth covers you with a single, devastating stroke.
Heat explodes through you so fast your body jerks against the console, hands flying back to brace yourself but you barely manage to stay upright when Tech groans softly against you. The vibration shoots straight through your core.
You gasp, “T-Tech—”
He’s already looking up at you from between your legs, eyes molten, goggles fogging at the edges.
“This,” he breathes against you, lips brushing your swollen clit, “is far better than I predicted.”
You whimper, thighs trembling around his head. “You predicted this?”
“Of course.” He drags his tongue up the length of your sex, slow but deliberate, like he’s savouring data. “But the reality is significantly more intoxicating.”
Your fingers curl into his hair, and he groans at the pull before burying his mouth back against you. Maker, he’s thorough and hungry. It’s like he’s been waiting for permission to do this since the moment you started dating.
And maybe he has.
Your relationship is still new. Sweet and careful with kissing and nights curled into each other’s arms.
But nothing like this. The pair of you hadn’t gotten this far yet. And you definitely hadn’t imagined your first time with his mouth on you would happen on the Marauder’s cockpit console while he’s still half in armour because it was your kink.
He pulls back just enough to speak, voice ruined with want. “I have wanted to do this for weeks.”
Your breath catches. “Weeks?”
“I did not want to… assume your comfort level.” His thumb strokes your inner thigh gently. “But today, when you looked at me in my gear, I was left with no doubt.”
You let out a shaky, embarrassed laugh only to be cut off immediately by a sharp gasp as he licks your pussy again, firmer this time.
“You taste,” he murmurs in reverence, “extraordinary. Such a sweet pussy.”
You’re about to melt into the console just by his words alone.
Then, his gloved hand slides up your thigh, higher this time and pauses right between your legs.
“Tech,” you whisper, hips lifting instinctively at the loss of his mouth.
He raises his head a little. “I would like to use my fingers,” he says. “But these—” he wiggles his gloved fingers “—are hardly ideal.”
You blink down at him, dizzy. “Then take them off.”
He hums. “My hands are occupied.”
Before you can ask what he means, he brings two gloved fingers to your lips.
“Remove it for me.”
Your stomach drops yet your mouth opens before you can think. Most likely the heat, instinct, and want of this. So you bite down gently on the fingertip seam. He pulls back slowly, letting you drag the glove off with your teeth, sliding it free.
The way he watches you through it with an expression so focused, aroused and with breath uneven… nearly sets you on fire.
He repeats the process with the second glove, your mouth tugging it off while his gaze burns into you like he’s memorising the moment.
When both gloves are discarded, he leans in again, this time cupping you with bare, warm hands.
You shudder violently at the difference.
“Oh,” Tech whispers, voice tight with awe. “You react even more strongly to direct contact. Fascinating.”
Then one slow finger slides through your slick, just once, collecting you.
“And you are…” He breathes hard, pupils blown huge. “Stars above, you are exceedingly wet.”
You make a broken sound and he moans in response, actually moans, the sound vibrating against the inside of your thighs.
He brings his glistening finger to his mouth and tastes you.
And that’s what undoes you.
His lips part, his lashes flutter, and a shiver runs down his spine so obvious you feel it. “I need more,” he whispers.
You barely have time to inhale before he’s on you again. His mouth hungry and eager, tongue stroking deep, hands spreading you open so he can press in closer to devour you properly.
He licks like he’s noting down every single reaction, every twitch of your hips, every gasp that tumbles out of you. His fingers slide against you again, this time circling your entrance in sync with his mouth, building heat with devastating efficiency.
You’re already shaking. “Fuck- you’re so...”
“Let me,” he murmurs into you, voice thick before placing a sweet kiss to your clit, “please let me.”
Then he pushes two fingers inside you.
Your head slams back against the bulkhead, a sharp cry leaving your throat.
He gasps at the sensation, at the way you clench around him, his rhythm faltering for half a second as he processes the reaction of you wrapped around him for the first time.
“Oh,” he says, breathless delight spilling into his tone, “you are… perfect.”
Then he moves.
Slow, deliberate thrusts of his fingers paired with long drags of his tongue over your clit, down your folds, sucking, circling, mapping you with ruthless rigour.
Your thighs clamp around his head and he groans like that’s exactly what he wanted.
“T-Tech— I’m gonna—” you pant, one hand still holding the back of his head as if to guide him, the other one palming your breast just for that extra touch.
One of his hands tightens on your hips, anchoring you against the console as he looks up briefly, lips shiny, and voice ragged. “Then come for me,” his tone almost pleading. “Please. I want to feel you cum on my fingers.”
That does it.
The orgasm hits you like a blaster round—fast and overwhelming—your cry echoing off the cockpit walls as your back arches and your fingers clutch harder in his hair. Tech moans into you as you ride his mouth, pinned beneath your shaking thighs, eating every shudder like he can’t get enough.
You don’t realise tears have formed until you blink them away.
He doesn’t stop, even after you are done seeing stars when you close your eyes. He keeps going with soft, slow licks until the last tremor leaves your body and you sag helplessly against the console. His fingers twist and pulse slowly and leave you devastatingly empty when he pulls them out.
Only then does he finally lift his head. His lips are wet, cheeks are flushed and his goggles have slipped down his nose.
He looks wrecked.
And proud.
He rises slowly, placing both palms on either side of your hips, leaning in until his forehead nearly touches yours.
“You,” he breathes, voice shaking with controlled hunger, “are extraordinary.”
You reach for him, pulling him close until his mouth brushes yours.
“Tech,” you whisper, still panting, “can we do… more?”
He smiles softly like he was utterly in love and leans in. “With pleasure.”
Please reblog to boost this story if you enjoyed! Requests are currently OPEN.
— A miniseries where you play 7 minutes in Heaven with the Bad Batch! Each round can be read individually, and is not connected to the previous/next one.
NEXT ROUND: ECHO
RATING: MATURE
VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED!
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It was Wrecker's idea really to play this game, a post mission activity to "get rid of the tension from battle" but Hunter knew he was taking this chance to have a moment with you, their assigned medic. And to be honest, any one of them wanted to as well, they just didn't want to compromise anything with you. Especially since you were the first natborn assigned to them, and they cherished their friendship with you.
So, safe to say, Hunter was a little concerned when his brother suggested this. It could potentially ruin the dynamics of the squad, and their relationship with you. But as he looked at you from across the circle, he felt his worries slowly slipping at the sight of your smile and the sound of your laughter.
He didn't even notice the bottle was already spinning, didn't focus on Wrecker's excited giggles or Echo's disgruntled murmurs, until the bottle slows.
Hunter only realized it stopped spinning when the sound of your breath hitched, heartbeat skidding to a jump, only then he tore his gaze away from you and glanced down.
Oh.
"Aw, no fair! Hunter always gets to be the first." Wrecker pouted, crossing his arms as he sulked in the corner. Meanwhile, the rest of his brothers tensed—eyeing each other—before you quickly stood up with a small laugh.
"Rules are rules," You shrugged, too casual for the situation. "Up and at it, Sarge. Let's get this over with."
Before Hunter knew it, he was following you inside the Marauder's small storage closet.
"Remember, kids. Seven minutes only!" Wrecker yelled from behind, and then the door hissed shut.
You have to blink to adjust to the darkness, faintly aware of Hunter's presence beside you. He didn't step closer, not yet, settling for the other side of the wall. But with little space in the storage closet, your chest could almost brush against the front of his armor.
You leaned back, directly in front of him, trying to calm your nerves and think of other things than the heat radiating from his body. But you knew he could pick up everything from you, nothing escaped him. In here, surrounded by darkness and warm air, you could almost feel the palpable tension between the two of you.
Meanwhile, Hunter could barely concentrate himself.
Not when you were so near, pressed up so well against his front. Not when the distinct scent of your perfume reached his senses, clouding every thought in his head with nothing but how good you smelled. Not when he could hear the uneven rhythm of your heart, the pulse beneath your neck, tempting him to close the distance and sink his teeth into your skin—
Hunter cleared his throat, shifting in his spot, but it was futile given the lack of area to move around.
One minute.
"Doing okay there, Sarge?"
He gulped, shutting his eyes to avoid your questioning gaze. If he looked at you, really looked at you, he'd lose all sense of control and patience he vowed not to break.
But kriff you just smelled so good, you look so soft, and your body was right there in front of him.
If he reached out, if he crossed the line, what would you do? He was aware of your feelings for him, kinda hard not to notice when you're all confined in the same ship for months, and he has his enhanced senses to pick up on all the signs from your body. So, this was a test for you as it was for him—to see who'd break first.
"Fine," He heard himself saying, rasped and strained. "And you, mesh'la?"
He heard a shuffle, felt your chest brushing even more against his front, and he prayed to the Maker to give him more strength. He's faced countless battles, won many infiltration missions, and spent grueling hours on many planets fighting against armies of clankers.
But nothing could prepare him for this.
It's only seven minutes.
He thought to himself, collecting his own breath and regaining his composure.
I can survive.
But then, your voice. That sickeningly sweet sound called out to him again.
"Hunter?"
"Yes, mesh'la?"
"You look. . . uncomfortable. Should we stop the game?"
"No, it's– I'm fine. Just need to. . . Focus."
You raised an eyebrow, though he couldn't see it, but he heard the slight movement of your lip twitching.
"Focus?" Your voice dripped with playful cadence, teasing him even now. "On me? Or from me?"
This time, he allowed himself to crack his eyes open, peering down at you through the dimness.
Thankfully, his enhanced vision granted him the ability to see clearer in settings like these. However, he almost wished he was as blind as you were in the darkness. Then, he wouldn't be able to see your flushed cheeks. He wouldn't be staring at your parted lips. He wouldn't be looking at your neck and feel an indescribable urge to mark it. He wouldn't be thinking about kissing you senselessly until you were—
Two minutes.
"You're making it hard," Hunter found himself admitting, slowly losing the war with his self-control. "Just don't move. Don't talk. Don't even breathe too loud, or else–"
"Or else what?" You pressed closer, leaning up on your toes to level your face with his. "What are you gonna do, Hunter? What are you afraid of?"
Stop.
Hunter turned his head away, but regretted it immediately when your warm breath ghosted over his neck. He shivered, hands clenched at his sides, physically fighting himself not to grab you—whether to pull you or push you away, he didn't know which he wanted more.
But then your lips glided over his pulse, just beneath his jaw, and his restraint cracked even more.
"We still have five minutes left," The moment you whispered on his skin, his pupils blew out and his breathing stopped. "Five minutes with me, Hunter. Play the game. Play with me."
When you finally planted your lips on his neck, Hunter growled low under his breath.
"Kriff it."
One moment you were trapping him against the wall, and the next he was pushing you back with a kiss that devoured your being.
Wild, hungry, and all-consuming.
The dull thud echoed around the storage closet, the others surely heard the sound, but all Hunter could focus on was the tiny gasp you let out and the small whimper you made. He swallowed it all, groaning at the taste of your lips as you kissed him back, and the scent of your arousal hit him like a brutal punch in the gut.
Three minutes.
Hunter kissed you hard, like a man who's tired of being patient. Large hands gripped your hips, possessive and greedy, squeezing the plump flesh through your scrubs. You responded by raking your nails against his scalp, tugging on his strands, and Hunter almost lost it.
He produced a low growl, a warning, but you only repeated the action from it.
Kriff, he's been dreaming about this for so long.
He's been wanting to kiss you ever since you greeted him during your first introductions.
He's been so curious about what you'd sound like when he's taking you apart, and now he'll make sure to use every second of his chance to find out everything he could.
He groaned into the kiss, trailing his hands down underneath your thighs.
"Lift your legs for me."
You barely processed the command, too lost in a lustful trance, until he was hitching up your legs himself and pinning you against the durasteel wall. You wrapped your arms around his neck, clinging to him like a lifeline, moaning his name quietly like a forbidden secret.
The kiss only grew hungrier from there, and Hunter forgot all his restraint and protocols within that second. He invaded your mouth with a frenzied desperation, a ruined need to dominate, and he growled—pleased—when you surrendered to him. His mind was focused on the way you moved, sighed, and whimpered. His hands never stopped exploring every inch of your body.
His senses were scattered, but everything was tuned on you. On your scent. On your taste. Your touch. Your sounds. And if he opened his eyes, he was sure the last thread of his control would snap if he saw the pleading look in your face.
Four minutes.
He smelled your arousal wafting over him like a tidal wave, causing him to buck his hips up into your clothed center.
You whimpered, shamelessly grinding over his codpiece with the same desperation and need that fueled his body. He would've torn the damn armor piece in an instant if it weren't for the fact he only had a few minutes remaining. He would've taken you right here if you asked. But he was quickly starving for more.
"So sweet, mesh'la." Hunter began kissing your jaw, mouthing hungrily at your skin. "Been wanting to have you like this. Always knew you'd be so good."
You released a soft whimper, giving him more access to your neck. "Hunter, kriff– They could hear us."
"Let them," The Sergeant continued rolling his hips into yours, as though there weren't any layers of armor and fabric separating you. "I know they're jealous. I can smell it from here. They want you like this too."
When he returned to kissing you, taking all the air from your lungs, you let him—completely at his mercy—and his hunger only grew more possessive.
"Too bad I had you first."
He felt your body shivering, but not because of the cold. No, because of the heat his words carried. Hunter hummed in satisfaction, knowing how much effect he has on you. He hasn't even done anything yet besides kissing you, and already he knew you wanted more. The way you gasped and whined into his mouth made it more difficult to focus on the game—that there were only seven minutes of this.
But Maker, he wanted more.
Five minutes.
Hunter could get addicted to this.
He could spend all day and night trapped in this closet, getting lost in the feeling and taste of you. He memorized every miniscule reaction from your body, just to know what would make you tremble and beg for more. One of his hands travelled up to your breast, massaging the flesh, before it went back down to your hip—using your lower body to move you along his thrusts.
He could feel himself twitching beneath his codpiece, continuously rubbing against your center to relieve the aching want to be buried in you. It only worsened as the smell of your arousal heightened each minute that passed. It drove him crazy, he could almost taste it in the air. He was almost tempted to lock the door completely, seal you away until he could have all of you to himself.
But the seconds were ticking, and he knew they would stretch into hours if he gave in.
"Another time, I'll have you like this again."
The Sergeant grunted in your neck, panting harshly as his hips thrusted up. You moaned, high and needy, nodding along to his words, grinding back on him with your hands on his pauldrons.
"But next time, there won't be a time limit."
He sucked your skin, claiming his mark on you—a reminder to his brothers that he had you first—and you belonged to him now.
"And I'm gonna make sure you won't get to sleep either."
Six minutes.
"Oi, one minute left! Start dressing, lovebirds!"
Wrecker's booming voice erupted through the other side of the door. He could hear the others outside, Tech's faint tapping on his datapad, Echo's hushed whispers, and Crosshair's annoyed grumbling.
Hunter sighed, laying his forehead beside the wall as his fingers flexed on your thighs.
You were panting, eyes still shut, halting your movements on him. The ache still throbbed between your legs, mind swimming in hazy lust and pleasure as you both attempted to recompose yourselves.
But Hunter wasn't finished yet, and he went back to kissing you. Only this time, slower, softer, more grounding than consuming.
As if he wanted to drag the time longer.
You moaned quietly, cradling his jaw, before parting away.
"Promise?" You whispered, lashes fluttering open.
"Promise." Hunter uttered back, low and heavy with a carnal vow, laying his forehead against yours.
You smiled, before you pressed another kiss on his lips and patted his shoulder.
"Alright, Sarge. Let's fix ourselves before we ruin our dignity even more."
Hunter chuckled, settling you back down and smirking to himself when you stumbled in your footing.
"That's not the only thing I'm ruining next time."
In the darkness, you tossed him a pointed look, but he didn't miss the adorable flush coloring your cheeks.
"Very funny."
"Glad you think so."
"You're lucky I like you."
"I wouldn't have noticed. Thanks for telling me."
Rolling your eyes, you playfully pecked his cheek. "Come now, soldier. I'll move out first, so they won't see your little problem there."
Hunter blinked, glancing down to see the problem blocked by his codpiece. Good thing he didn't remove it prior to the game, or else he would've gave in the urge to fuck you right there or hide the fact that he almost tried to after time's up.
When the door slid open, you exited first with a small wave to his brothers.
Wrecker bellowed a loud laugh, pointing at the state of your hair while Echo blushed at the sight of your colorful neck. Tech's gaze quickly dropped to his datapad, ears reddening.
And Crosshair merely clicked his tongue, but his eyes lingered for a second too long on you.
"You survived, congratulations."
"Of course I did," You rolled your eyes, taking a seat on your previous spot. "I'm a medic. I've had worse."
Hunter raised an eyebrow at that, mildly amused as he returned to his seat.
Oh, if only you knew.
The worst has yet to come.
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Next Round: Echo
Taglist: @skellymom
Comment if you want to be tagged in the next round ;))
i love that star wars comic where padmé's surviving handmaidens hold a last stand against vader but honestly if i were them i would have dedicated the rest of my life to the most comprehensive and inescapable fake haunting in the history of the galaxy. man should not be allowed two successive heartbeats without seeing his dead wife's face gazing soulfully at him across the room and slipping away before anyone sees. literally what else is the point of being a highly trained operative capable of perfectly imitating your best friend if not to torment her husband for decades after she's gone.
people who dont experience it cannot comprehend how awful executive dysfunction is. I WANT to do the task, i have the resources TO do the task, i will feel better having DONE the task
but i cant fucking do the task
Daisy May Amelié @originalcollectionartistry - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
