Makes a little crooked grin when he makes you smile and laugh, or when he teases you. Raises his eyebrows too the moment you sass him, both amused and challenged by your behavior. Obi-wan trained him well enough to retort a few clever comebacks in return.
Tucks your hair behind your ear then meets your gaze with a soft smile. It was an accident at first, which caused both of you to pause and stare at each other. When you don't pull away, he begins to do it more often until it feels completely normal now.
Always takes you to the most beautiful spots he knows because he knows how much you love the scenery and sunset/sunrise. Also, he has your caf memorized and makes it perfectly well after telling him how to make it once.
Hums a soft tune under his breath when he notices you sleeping against his shoulder. Also wraps an arm around yours to keep you tucked under his chin, and pretends he doesn't see the way your lips curl in your sleep at the sound of his heartbeat.
Random compliments throughout the day. “Look so pretty right now, mesh'la.” “You doing okay, beautiful?” “Thank you, sweet girl.” “That's my girl.” He's sparse with them in public, but he always reserves them for you.
— NSFW
Locks eyes with you from across the room, while he takes a sip from his drink, gaze dark and heavy over the rim. When he's lowering his drink, he makes sure you see the way his eyes drift low down the length of your body. And when you do the same? He raises a brow, then flicks his eyes towards the exit.
Steadies your footing from behind when you stumble, palm grazing your lower back, before whispering low and deep in your ear. “Careful there.” or “Watch your step now.” in that tone you know he uses inside the bedroom.
Hair pulling. Wraps your hair around his fist or threads his fingers through them then pulls. Not to hurt you, but just enough for your head to lift from the pillows so he could hear your cries better. You actually taught him how to do it properly, and since then, he finds any opportunity to do it.
Title kink. It drives him absolutely insane when you use his rank in bed. Sometimes, he reminds you to use it. Other times, you do it willingly. Just hearing the word “commander” while you're breathless beneath him has him fighting all sense of control.
He's rarely pissed, but when he is... Jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, tense and incredibly still, and his voice is controlled yet strained when he speaks to you. Sometimes, you purposefully rile him up just to see him like that because he looks hot. Just know your actions have consequences ;))
REX
Looks at you when you're not looking back, and it's like he's seeing stars for the first time. If only you could see the way his eyes shine and how he melts when looking at you.
But if you catch him, he quickly averts his gaze away. Clears his throat to cover his embarrassment, makes a completely random comment about the day, only to glance back and see you smiling at him knowingly—which makes him even more flustered.
Calls you terms of endearments every time in every tone and mood. Using your name feels foreign ever since you started becoming close. And now, he always calls you a mix of Basic and Mandoan endearments.
His voice softens completely when he's speaking with you. A different kind of softness compared to Ahsoka. With her, he's like talking to a younger cadet—a sibling—and his firmness never really leaves. But with you? Oh, he's a little out of breath and completely in awe.
Compared to his brothers, it's more obvious to see the visible flush on his cheeks. But the thing is he's not even aware of it. Especially when you're around and he's trying to keep himself composed with so much effort, so you try not to embarrass him even more by not pointing out his reddened cheeks and ears.
— NSFW
Oh, he'll never tell you this, but seeing you in control at times makes his sooooo weak. When your tone gets a little firmer and your face morphs into a serious expression, he gets restless for all the wrong reasons. Just pretend you don't notice him adjusting his armor multiple times.
Not as bad as Cody, but hearing you refer to him as “captain” or “sir” in bed is another guilty pleasure. He doesn't want you to feel pressured to use them, but Maker does it sound so good falling past your lips.
LOVES it when you're straddling him down on bed or on the couch. He leans back, meets your gaze under half-lidded eyes, and runs his hands along your thighs. The moment you press down against him and grind, he's gripping your hips and doesn't hesitate to help you move faster.
He's both an EATER and a FEEDER. When he's eating, he's thorough and ravenous. Reads your body language like a map, never takes his eyes off of your face, and smiles against you when he feels your legs shaking. When he's feeding you though, he's much gentler. Doesn't push you down or grip your hair, he lets you control the pace while he watches. The best he could do is roll his hips to signal you, you can take it, while muttering praises under his breath.
Another secret guilty pleasure of his is when you're wearing his top, his blacks more specifically, with nothing underneath. Just seeing your legs bare and marked the next morning has him already hungry for another kind of breakfast that isn't what you're cooking.
WOLFFE
Runs a hand down his face while sighing, cursing, or muttering something under his breath. It always has you pausing in your step just to stop and stare (and listen), and you'd flinch the moment he notices you standing there.
Always packs a spare ration and water for you in case you ran out of any. Automatically volunteers to keep watch of the perimeter so you can get some rest, and steps in front of you when there's danger or if there's someone making you uncomfortable.
Somehow, he's always there at the most convenient (and inconvenient) times. Almost as if he secretly memorized your schedule and just pops out of nowhere. And when he's there, he lingers longer than strictly necessary. Doesn't talk much, but his close proximity and gaze are enough to say everything.
Following that, he stands closer to you, even when it's just the two of you and ESPECIALLY when it's crowded. Finds any and EVERY opportunity to be by your side (like a loyal loth-wolf). He uses “for your safety” as excuses at first, but then they sound less like excuses and more like chances as time passes.
Pretends not to care, when in fact, all the things he's doing are things he won't easily do to others. He's a little less on edge when you're around, he doesn't hesitate to carry your belongings despite your protests, and he has more patience with you than anyone else (aka a secret soft spot for you).
— NSFW
Has a possessive/jealousy streak. When you gather attention from other people, he's okay with that since he knows they're just strangers. But around his brothers? Oh, his composure cracks ever so slightly when he sees them getting all touchy or too close.
Brat taming. It's just so natural to him. When you're acting out of line or when you've done something that went directly against his order, he won't hesitate to correct your behavior—by making you apologize and realize your mistake after hours of being edged.
Purposefully grips your hips tighter so he could see the marks he left behind the next time. Bonus! He gets a little (a lot) proud when he sees you stumbling and shaking after a rough night.
Tracks your movements from across the room with his eyes, never truly leaving you out of his sight. He knows damn well how much his gaze affects you. He purposefully lets it linger in other places, and makes sure you SEE it.
When he's a little rougher in bed, he loves to overstimulate you until you're unable to talk. The only sounds you're making are broken gasps, breathy pleas, and poorly coherent sentences. When he notices, he gives a little smirk and says, “Talk to me, mesh'la. Is this what you want?”
FOX
Always asks what's wrong even before you say anything. All it takes is one look. His intuition is strong enough to sense something was off with just a glance. Especially when it comes to those he cares about. And when it comes to you, he's more attuned and attentive compared to anyone else.
His smoky laughs and low chuckles. He doesn't laugh often, his laugh isn't even loud to begin with unlike his brothers', but when he does, it's deep and rich that it rumbles through you and makes you feel warm.
He's cautious when he sees you handling dangerous weapons, quickly taking them away from your hands or gently guiding you how to properly use them. He uses this opportunity to stand closer, voice softening into an almost intimate tone, while his eyes never stray from your face or hands.
When he's reading reports, he wants you as close to him as possible. He'll make you sit beside him (sometimes on his lap if the hour is late), so he could hold your hand, trace your knuckles, or rest his chin on your shoulder.
He's still so formal and polite even when you're already together. Old habits die hard and they consist of opening the door for you, calling you “ma'am” in public, guiding you through the crowd with his hand on your lower back, and using his elbow as an anchor for you to hold on to.
— NSFW
Ownership kink. Goes absolutely feral when he sees bite marks on your skin—your neck, chest, thighs, throat—anywhere only he gets to see. Bonus! If he could see one peeking through the top of your collar or when the hem of your dress just rides up a bit, he'll stay silent for the remainder of the day thinking about putting more of those later that night.
^^^ He has a habit of pressing down on them while they're still fresh. You could be on top of him, lost in pleasure, when the sharp sting of his thumb where his previous mark blossoms makes you falter. It's both pain and pleasure, and he never gets tired of the look on your face when he does it.
You joked about wearing his helmet while in bed, and he goes deathly silent. Every now and then, it's a recurring fantasy of his. He doesn't vocalize it however, only until he comes out of the shower one and sees you actually wearing it. Nothing else. Let's just say you slept through the next day thoroughly pleased and satisfied.
Loves to do it in front of a mirror. If he's taking you from behind, he'll grab you by your chin and force you to stare at your reflection. Commands you to keep your eyes open or else he stops, and he grins at the way they flutter close or rolls back whenever his thrusts turn a little sharper.
Blindfolds and cuffs. And red ones too.
HOWZER
Messy bedhair. Seeing his hair all ruffled from sleep is so unfair, because wdym he still looks so kriffing pretty even when his hair is a complete mess? And when he tries to fix it by running a hand through, he makes it look even better than before.
When he wakes up, he doesn't immediately wake up. He searches for you in bed, still half-conscious, then pulls you closer to him while mumbling something in his sleep. He doesn't let you leave the bed for another hour, comfortably tucked at the crook of your neck.
Very vocal. When he stretches his arms up, he does a little groan that ends with a ragged sigh. When he's concentrating, he mutters and mumbles his thoughts out loud. When he's distracted, he still answers you instead of staying silent. Like "hm?" "yeah?" "mhm" or "uh huh" and it sounds so deep, raspy, and good—hold me back.
He's such a gentleman. Polite, respectful, a little stiff when you first met him, but you immediately found him endearing because of his gentle mannerisms. He's very, very punctual as well. Never lets you wait for more than ten minutes, unless he specifically lets you know beforehand he might show up late.
Big on playful banter once he gets comfortable around you. He never passes up an opportunity to tease or engage in a debate with you.
— NSFW
Is actually down for whatever you want as long as you communicate your boundaries with him. Other than that, you're free to do whatever you want to him. Want him to get on his knees? Yes, ma'am, he's already down there. Want him under you? He's rolling you over so you could straddle him.
Accidentally confesses to you once that he used to think of you in ways that are definitely not appropriate. As a challenge, you dared him to say everything he's thought about. You expected he'd back out and dismiss it, until he takes a deep breath and confesses every single filthy thing that's been on his mind—doesn't break eye contact the whole time.
Heavily obsessed with the way you smell and feel. He'd bury his face in your neck and just breathe you in. When he's taking you from behind, he'd pull you up until your back is flush against him and burrow his face on your shoulder. "Fuck, you smell so good." "You feel so soft." "Can't get enough of you, Cyar'ika."
Slow and deep kisses. It makes him dizzy. It makes you breathless. It always starts innocent at first. Arms around each other, pressing closer, just feeling each other's warmth and savoring it. Until it gets hotter, deeper, and you're being pinned down while he climbs on top of you, chasing after your lips.
Eye contact. He adores the dazed gleam in your eyes when he's making you feel good. He wants to see everything that's happening. Your expressions, the way your body responds to him, the way you take him so easily the moment he slides right in—
GREGOR
Winks and grins at you from across the room. You know those kinds of grins that tell you he knows something that you don't? Like that. He'd even playfully raise an eyebrow at you while subtly checking you out.
Lets you crack his knuckles, and you let him do the same to you. It's kind of a secret love language he started at the start of your relationship. Now, he does it absentmindedly. He'd take your hands into his and just crack each finger gently, then he'd give his own to you and you'd do the same.
Updates you regularly when he's away. Most of the time they're completely random infos about his day, and sometimes it's him spamming messages saying how much he misses you and can't wait to get back.
Very expressive. Cannot for the LIFE of him hide his expressions. It amuses and annoys you at the same time how he doesn't even try to hide how he's feeling. If you can't get him to talk, just look at his face and you'd see your answer immediately.
When he leans down to hear you better, or better yet, when he pulls you aside to somewhere away from the crowd so it's just the two of you. He doesn't have to do all that, but he just wants an excuse to get you alone so he could have you all for himself.
— NSFW
Condescending praise. He'd be the most infuriating tease out there, and I just know it. He'd grin down at you when he sees you struggling to take him or when you're already too sensitive. He'd say shit like, "Awww, too much? But you can take more, right? C'mon, pretty girl, I know you can take more."
He intentionally grunts out loud while he's doing push ups. It's just him counting to a hundred, but you swear he does it to drive you mad because he knows damn well how much his voice affects you. It goes from steady, to rough, to breathy, to cracked until he's panting from exhaustion and he's struggling to get the next number out.
Wears his pants (and towel) low enough so you could see his prominent v-line and the tattoo of your name along his hip bone. He wears a cheeky smile every time he catches you checking him out, making his way towards the bedroom where he knows you'd follow him into.
Cheeky even inside the bedroom. He'd toss his head back, laugh breathlessly, and taunts you until you're begging for him. He's not afraid to bring a little humor in bed, especially when he's edging you.
Loves restraining you with his hands. Pinning your wrists above your head or behind your back, covering your eyes to block your vision, or clamping a palm over your mouth to muffle your sounds and noises when you're in a place someone could definitely find the both of you in.
MAYDAY
His pet names are so old-fashioned but they never fail to make you swoon. Calling you things like, little lady, my darlin', dove, sweet thing, my girl, pretty angel, lovely, precious, missy, and so many more. And when you're feeling a little mischievous, he fondly calls you trouble.
Always remember the little things. Something you told him once, and he still recalls it months later. A favorite food? He either learns how to make it or finds a way to get it. A childhood memory? He'd bring it up randomly when you're both cuddling. A mindless task you told him to do? It's already done even before you remember what it was.
When he's frustrated about something, he'll quietly walk off to gather himself before coming back and wrap his arms around you. He just needs time and space before he allows himself to properly talk.
Similarly to that, it's the opposite when you're the one frustrated. He'd calmly look at you, wait until you're finally ready, then slowly make his way over and embrace you in his arms. His principle is that you both shouldn't sleep off the problem and wait for the next day. He'd rather sleep with you in peace than apart with the tension still there.
He's soooo good with communication. He wants a healthy and dependable bond between the two of you. You're upset with something? Tell him immediately. When something's bothering him? He won't hesitate to bring it up and talk it through you.
— NSFW
Like the last one, he also talks you through it. "Don't push yourself if you can't anymore, darlin'." "C'mon, breathe for me. That's it." "Look at me, sweet thing. Need you to go slow for me, okay?" "Lift your legs for me. You're close, ain't ya?" "Atta girl. Knew you could take me well."
He's secretly down bad for finger sucking. When he's cradling your jaw while he kisses you, and you take his thumb into your mouth and suck? Oh, watch his eyes darken faster than a ship jump to hyperspeed. It becomes a habit now, and he does it almost every time. Especially when you're making too much noise, he slips two fingers into your mouth and asks you to be more quiet for him.
Expanding on that, he'd stroke your cheek first before trailing his thumb to your bottom lip. He tugs it down, just enough for you to slip your tongue through, then he's fully pushing his thumb into your mouth. After he's satisfied, he'd pull it out and continue his path down the line of your throat.
When he's deep inside you, he places a palm on your lower stomach and presses down. It has both of you gasping in pleasure, and he keeps the pressure there so you could feel every inch of him. Also, he secretly loves seeing the bulge pump in and out of you from the outside—wait, who said that?
Idk why, but I get the feeling this old man is secretly a freak and he just has a MASSIVE amount of self-control. Especially before you got together. You'd catch him with his jaw flexed, eyes closed, fists clenched, arms crossed, and gaze averted elsewhere when you do something to rile him up (accidentally or not).
“their reactions to when someone is staring at you.”
a/n: saw @tanobatcher’s tiktok where she wrote out her own head cannons and i NEEDED to write them out. thank you for giving me permission to write this out pooks. doing the commanders and captains first!
✶⋆.˚ CODY - CC-2224
It starts while you and Cody are waiting in line at a small café on Coruscant—one of those rare, quiet days where the war feels far away.
You’re reading the menu, rambling about wanting to try the new pastry, and Cody is just… watching you. Soft, relaxed, genuinely happy to be here with you instead of on a battlefield.
Then he sees it.. some guy at a table across the room, openly staring at you.
Not a passing glance.
Not polite curiosity.
A full-on, shameless, hungry stare.
Cody’s smile doesn’t even falter, but he shifts his stance ever so slightly—shoulders squared, chin lifting.
His hand rests casually on the small of your back, thumb brushing with a grounding gesture for himself more than for you.
You don’t notice.
But Cody sees everything.
He leans in, voice low, teasing, warm against your ear,
“Look at you… collecting fans wherever you go.”
You laugh, nudging him.
“Fans? Please. He’s probably staring at the menu behind me.”
Cody snorts, soft but incredulous.
“Oh no, cyare. Trust me.. he’s definitely here for you.”
You roll your eyes, amused, flustered, completely unaware that Cody has already mapped out five different ways to remove this man from the room without disrupting lunch.
“He’s harmless,” you shrug.
“Mm,” Cody hums, smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
Inside, his thoughts are a different story.
Stop staring at her. She didn’t invite your attention. Walk away before I make you.
He keeps his expression light, because the last thing he wants is to ruin your good mood over something so small.
You finally decide on chocolate, and Cody orders for both of you—calm, polite, charming.
But while you wait, the staring continues, and Cody feels every muscle in his body coil tighter.
He doesn’t confront.
Not yet.
Instead, he slides closer, arm brushing yours, claiming you without making a scene.
“Careful,” you tease him. “People might think you like me.”
Cody gives you that tiny, sideways smirk that always melts you.
“Oh, they already know,” he murmurs. And I want them to.
When you run to grab napkins, Cody’s eyes flick back to the man.
One single look—sharp, commander-level, utterly lethal.
Stop. Now.
And like magic, the guy’s gaze drops to his drink, shoulders stiffening, suddenly reconsidering every life choice he’s ever made.
Cody exhales slowly, controlled, tension draining from his posture.
Not because he doubted himself, he just didn’t want to escalate and ruin your day.
When you return, completely oblivious to the storm that almost happened, he wraps an arm around your waist, fingers resting comfortably at your hip.
You raise a brow.
“Possessive much?”
He chuckles, brushing a playful but honest kiss to your temple.
“Well, what can I say? My girlfriend’s famous.”
You laugh, leaning into him, and Cody decides, yep, worth it.
He’ll joke, he’ll tease, he’ll keep it light… because your happiness matters more than his pride.
But Maker help the next person who forgets how to respectfully use their eyes.
✶⋆.˚ REX - CT-7567
The 79’s cantina is unusually calm tonight—soft music, dim lights, clones scattered at tables unwinding after long rotations.
You and Rex sit in a booth tucked against the wall, his arm draped behind you, not quite touching, but close enough that you feel protected.
He looks relaxed even though he wore his armor, chestplate reflecting the warm lighting, helmet resting beside him on the seat.
He’s smiling because you just said something that made him forget there’s a war outside.
And then he sees it.
Across the room, a man—civilian, slouched at the bar—eyes locked on you.
Not accidental, not passing curiosity.
Lingering. Bold. Disrespectful.
Rex’s smile fades, jaw tightening just a fraction. He forces himself to breathe slowly through his nose.
Benefit of the doubt, he tells himself. Maybe he’s looking past her. Maybe he’s not actually staring.
You’re too busy talking, unaware, glowing in the low lighting, and all Rex wants is to stay in this tenderness a little longer.
But then the stranger’s gaze drops—slowly, lingering, crawling—and returns to your face with a smirk.
Rex’s patience snaps like a blaster bolt through glass.
His arm moves from behind you to rest firmly on the table—protective, grounding—as he turns his head just enough to confirm what he already knows.
Yeah. The guy’s staring at you.
Controlled yet furious, Rex exhales through his teeth. Maker, keep me from decking this man in front of her.
He really does try to stay seated.
To ignore it.
To be the reasonable, composed captain you deserve.
He lasts maybe a second.
Then he stands, his plastoid armor shifting with the movement. Smooth, silent, terrifyingly calm, and he starts walking.
“Rex?” you ask softly, confused.
He doesn’t answer, because he already knows what needs to be done.
He reaches the bar and stops right beside the man, close enough that the air shifts, close enough that the entire room quiets.
Rex doesn’t yell.
He doesn’t have to.
He leans in slightly, voice dangerously even.
“You wanna tell me what you’re lookin’ at?”
The man startles, eyes wide. “I—I wasn’t—”
Rex lets out a humorless and sharp laugh.
“Oh, you were. And now you’re gonna stop.”
The stranger opens his mouth, maybe to deny it, maybe to be stupid, but Rex raises a brow, and the words die in his throat.
Rex’s posture is relaxed, hands loose at his sides, but every fiber of him radiates do not test me.
The man swallows hard. “S-sorry.”
Rex nods, like this was a polite conversation about the weather.
“That’s what I thought.”
He steps back—not breaking eye contact—until he’s sure the guy gets the message.
Then Rex turns, face softening instantly when he sees you watching him.
He returns to the booth, sliding in beside you again, armor knocking lightly against the seat.
You give him a look mix of concern and affection.
“You okay?” you whisper.
Rex shrugs, arm returning behind you, this time brushing your shoulder deliberately.
“Fine. Just didn’t like how he was looking at you.”
You smirk. “Jealous?”
He scoffs, but his ears turn the faintest shade of pink.
“Protective,” he corrects, voice quieter. “There’s a difference.”
You lean into him.
“Well… thank you.”
Rex pressed a kiss to your forehead. It was gentle and grounding, everything he wishes the galaxy was.
“I’ll always look out for you, cyare. Always.”
Across the room, the man suddenly finds the floor very interesting.
And Rex?
He goes right back to smiling, because as far as he’s concerned, problem handled.
✶⋆.˚ WOLFFE - CC-3636
It’s supposed to be a peaceful night—just you, Wolffe, and a quiet stroll through a small Coruscant marketplace after his shift.
Shops are closing, lights dimming, crowds thinning.
Wolffe stays beside you, hand instinctively hovering near the small of your back. Not quite touching, but always there if you need him.
He’s in full armor, helmet tucked under his arm, hair slightly mussed from hours of command.
He looks tired, but content.
You’re pointing out a vendor selling tiny holo figurines when Wolffe feels it—the weight of someone’s stare.
Sharp. Intentional. Unwelcome.
His expression doesn’t change, but something in him goes perfectly still.
Without a word, his gauntleted hand finds your waist and gently guides you forward, placing you directly in front of him.
Your back meets his chest, solid and warm, as his legs widen just slightly, bracketing yours.
A wall of armor and possessive silence.
You blink up at him. “Wolffe?”
He doesn’t look at you—he’s too busy tracking the man across the walkway, gaze narrowed to a sniper’s focus.
“Nothin’ to worry about,” he mutters, voice low, controlled.
But his arm stays firm around your middle, pulling you closer, tucking you securely into his side like you belong there.. because you do.
The guy keeps staring—pretending he’s not, but failing miserably.
Wolffe’s jaw flexes once. Twice.
He won’t cause a scene… not unless he has to.
You go back to browsing, unaware of the storm brewing behind you.
Wolffe rests his chin lightly atop your head, positioning himself so his body blocks the man’s line of sight completely.
Then the stranger decides to walk past you both—slowly, deliberately—eyes still lingering.
Wolffe doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t warn.
Doesn’t negotiate.
He just moves.
As the man passes, Wolffe straightens, shifts his stance, and shoulder checks him HARD.
Hard enough to send the guy stumbling, nearly losing his footing, making a few heads turn.
“Oh. Sorry,” Wolffe says flatly, tone so insincere it’s practically a threat.
The man looks up, ready to start something, until he sees who hit him.
The armor.
The scar.
The unblinking grey-striped commander staring him down like prey.
Wolffe tilts his head. Just a fraction as he silently challenges him.
The guy swallows, quickly averts his eyes, and keeps walking fast.
Wolffe watches him disappear into the crowd, making sure he’s gone.
Only then does he soften, hand returning to your waist, pulling you gently back against him.
“You good?” he asks quietly.
You turn, confused but smiling, completely oblivious. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”
Wolffe exhales through his nose, relief slipping into something warm, almost fond.
“No reason,” he lies, thumb rubbing absent circles into your hip.
You loop your arm around his middle, leaning into him.
“You’re in a cuddly mood today.”
He huffs. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation.”
You laugh and start walking again, and Wolffe follows—close, attentive, protective—eyes still scanning the area, just in case.
Because if anyone else even thinks about staring?
They’re getting shoulder checked too.
✶⋆.˚ FOX - CC-1010
Coruscant nightlife always felt a bit too loud, too bright, too chaotic, but you liked it.
And Fox liked you, so here he was, escorting you to a late dinner during his shift, armor still on, helmet on, posture relaxed for once.
You’re talking about your day, your voice was soft yet excited, and Fox can’t stop staring at you.
Not in the way others do.
His gaze is reverent. Protective. Home.
Then he notices it.
A man at the bar—leaned back in his stool, drink forgotten—eyes glued to you.
Tracking every movement. Undressing you with his stare.
Fox’s pleasant mood dissolves instantly, replaced with a cold, razor-sharp alertness.
You don’t notice since you’re too busy looking through the dessert menu.
Fox does, though. He always does.
He leans slightly toward you, voice calm but edged with steel,
“Stay here a moment, mesh’la.”
You blink. “Everything okay?”
“Oh, absolutely,” he says with a reassuring smile. “Just handling a little… administrative matter.”
You don’t even have time to ask before he’s already striding across the room—purposeful, predatory, commander mode activated.
The man doesn’t look up until Fox’s shadow falls over him.
Fox crosses his arms—biceps straining against plastoid, posture perfect and terrifying.
“Enjoying the view?” he asks pleasantly.
The guy stutters. “Wh-what?”
Fox smiles dangerously under his helmet. “I said, were you enjoying staring at the woman I’m with?”
The man’s mouth opens and closes like a dying fish.
“I-I wasn’t staring—”
Fox taps the Coruscant Guard emblem on his shoulder plate.
“Right. Because if you were, that would qualify as harassment. Which, fortunately for you, falls under my jurisdiction.”
The man pales, looking around for help. There is none.
Fox leans closer, lowering his voice so only the man can hear.
“Here’s how this goes. You’re going to stop looking at her, finish your drink, and leave. Or I will drag you out of here in binders, and you won’t see daylight again without clearance codes.”
He pauses, letting it sink in.
“Do we understand each other?”
The man nods so aggressively Fox worries he’ll sprain something.
“Good,” Fox says, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”
When Fox turns away, the man grabs his coat and practically sprints out of the building.
Fox returns to your table like nothing happened, sliding into his seat, expression calm, voice soft again.
“Sorry about that. What did you decide on?”
You narrow your eyes.
“What did you do?”
Fox shrugs innocently.
“Public safety is my responsibility.”
You give him a look. “…Fox.”
He sighs, reaching for your hand.
“Alright, alright. Maybe I reminded him I outrank literally everyone in this district.”
You snort. “You love pulling the rank card.”
Fox smirks, kiss-creases forming at the corners of his eyes.
“Why have power if you can’t weaponize it in defense of your beautiful partner?”
You laugh, shaking your head, until your datapad pings.
You glance at the screen.
“Um… Fox? Did you just add him to a watchlist?”
Fox removes his helmet as he pops a bite of bread into his mouth, casual as ever.
“Of course. Can’t be too careful.”
“Fox—”
“What? Saves time later.”
You stare at him in disbelief, and maybe a little awe.
He softens, thumb brushing your knuckles.
“I’m never letting someone make you feel unsafe. Not on my planet.”
You melt, because honestly? You believe him.
And somewhere in a database, a brand-new entry reads:
Subject: Creepy bar guy.
Status: Watched, monitored, and extremely unlucky.
✶⋆.˚ GREGOR - CC-5576-39
The hideout was busy today—more civilians than usual had come to drop off supplies: food, medical stock, blankets, spare tools.
You were helping organize it—clipboard in hand, sorting crates, directing where things needed to go.
Gregor was supposed to be helping too.
He was not.
He was leaning against a stack of ration boxes, helmet on the floor beside him, arms crossed, watching you with that familiar lazy grin—like you were the most entertaining thing he’d ever seen.
Then he noticed it.
One of the civilian volunteers—a young guy carrying a crate—kept staring at you.
Not quick glances.
Not accidental looks.
Full-on, wide-eyed, wow who is she staring.
Gregor didn’t tense.
Didn’t get jealous.
Didn’t even frown.
He just let out a quiet, amused little laugh.
You looked over, brows furrowing. “What?”
He tilted his head toward the civilian, smirking.
“You’ve got an admirer.”
You blinked, confused, until you caught the guy doing that lingering stare again.
Your face warmed instantly.
“Oh Maker,” you muttered, pretending to check your clipboard. “He’s being obvious.”
Gregor shrugged like it was the most natural thing in the galaxy.
“Well, of course he’s staring. Look at you.” He waved a hand at you dramatically. “Anyone with functioning eyesight would.”
You swatted his arm lightly. “Be serious.”
He leaned in, voice rich with playful innocence.
“I am being serious. You’re hot. It’s practically a public hazard.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but Gregor cut you off—eyes sparkling, grin widening.
“Honestly?” he mused, nodding toward the guy, “Maybe you should give him a chance. Poor kid looks like he’s about to faint.”
Your jaw dropped. “Gregor!”
He held both hands up like he was being reasonable.
“What? I’m just saying, good for him. Look at his taste! Impeccable!”
You stared at him, scandalized and flustered.
He leaned closer, dropping his voice into something softer, warmer—meant only for you.
“But…” his fingers brushed yours, just barely, “you’re already taken.”
Your heartbeat stuttered.
His grin shifted—still playful, but undeniably possessive—like he enjoyed reminding you as much as saying it.
Across the hideout, the staring civilian suddenly found something else to carry—quickly, awkwardly, and in the opposite direction.
Gregor chuckled, satisfied, bumping your shoulder with his.
“See? No need to scare him off. Just had to remind the room who you belong to.”
You squinted at him. “You are insufferable.”
He winked, picking up a crate like he finally intended to help.
“Yeah, but I’m your problem.”
And as he walked past you, he added—just loud enough for you to hear.
“Lucky you.”
✶⋆.˚ HOWZER - CT-7569
The two of you are standing in line at a small open-air café on Ryloth—warm lights, soft night breeze, quiet chatter filling the streets.
Howzer’s shift ended an hour ago, but he’s still in his armor—minus the helmet—arms crossed loosely over his chest, hair slightly tousled, expression relaxed.
He’s listening to you talk about your day, nodding along, eyes warm and focused, because when you speak, he always listens.
You’re mid-sentence when he notices someone a few tables over staring.
Not a curious glance.
Not a passing look.
A lingering, territorial stare.
Howzer’s smile fades just a touch, shoulders straightening.
He doesn’t interrupt you—he never would—but his attention shifts, eyes narrowing slightly.
He watches for a moment, giving the benefit of the doubt.
Maybe the guy will look away. Maybe he’ll realize he’s being weird.
He doesn’t.
In fact, he stares harder—eyes dragging over you slowly, disrespectfully.
Howzer’s jaw ticks.
He tries to breathe through it, tries to stay calm because he hates conflict, hates making a scene, hates the idea of ruining your evening.
But he also refuses to let anyone treat you like that.
So he steps forward—smooth, controlled, radiating authority—and positions himself slightly in front of you, blocking the man’s view.
You pause. “Howzer?”
He offers you a gentle smile. “One sec, mesh’la.”
Then he turns and walks toward the man with a calm, steady, and purposeful stride.
The guy looks up, startled, clearly not expecting a cloned captain built like a wall to approach him.
Howzer stops right beside his table, tilts his head slightly, voice polite, but sharpened with steel.
“Can I help you…?”
Not friendly.
Not genuine.
A warning wrapped in manners.
The man blinks. “What? No— I wasn’t—”
Howzer raises a brow, unimpressed.
“Oh, really? Because you’ve been starin’ for a while. Thought maybe you needed something.”
The tone is condescending and just enough to make the point without escalating.
The entire patio goes quiet, all eyes suddenly on the interaction.
The guy flushes, shrinking into himself.
“N-no, sir. Sorry.”
Howzer holds his gaze for a moment—long enough to make sure it sinks in—then gives a curt nod.
“Good. Then keep your eyes to yourself.”
His voice is calm, quiet, but devastatingly firm.
He doesn’t wait for a response, he just turns on his heel and walks back to you.
You’re staring at him, wide-eyed.
“Everything… okay?” you ask slowly.
Howzer’s expression softens immediately as he reaches you, placing a gentle hand on the small of your back—guiding you forward in line again.
“Yeah,” he says, voice warm now, almost playful. “Just helped someone remember their manners.”
You snort. “You didn’t have to do that.”
He leans down, lips brushing your temple.
“I know. But I’ll never let someone disrespect you, not while I’m around.”
Your heart flips, cheeks warming.
You loop your arm through his, and he pulls you a little closer—protective, but tender.
Behind you, the man hurriedly pays and leaves, head down.
Howzer watches him go for half a second—satisfied—then returns his full attention to you like nothing ever happened.
“Now,” he says, smiling gently, “you were telling me about the part with the flowers?”
And just like that, your night continues—safe, comfortable, yours.
✶⋆.˚ MAYDAY - CC-????
The outpost is quiet for once—snow drifting lazily outside, heater humming, you and Mayday sharing a rare moment of peace at his cluttered desk.
He’s half in armor—pauldrons off, chestplate unbuckled, gloves tossed aside—hair slightly messy, scruff framing that devastating smirk.
He looks tired, but lighter with you there, shoulder brushing yours as you flip through supply logs together.
Then he notices it.
Some visiting lower rank officer across the room—pretending to review paperwork—eyes glued to you.
Not subtle.
Not respectful.
Just staring like you’re a warm fireplace in the middle of a frozen wasteland.
Mayday doesn’t tense, doesn’t posture, he just… laughs.
A low, amused, is this guy serious? kind of laugh.
You glance up. “What?”
Mayday tilts his head toward the man, voice dripping with smug amusement.
“You’ve got an admirer.”
You roll your eyes, dismissing it. “He’s just looking around.”
Mayday arches a brow, no he isn’t, and leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest like he’s settling in for entertainment.
But his gaze stays soft on you—never threatening, never demanding—just quietly claiming.
Then the staring continues.
Longer.
Harder.
Bolder.
Mayday exhales through his nose—still amused, still dangerous.
He shifts forward, elbows on his knees, leaning in close enough that his breath brushes your ear, voice low and wicked.
“Wanna give him a show?”
You freeze, pulse tripping. “Mayday—”
He chuckles again, hand sliding to your thigh—not squeezing, just resting there like it belongs.
His eyes never leave yours.
“I’m just saying,” he murmurs, tone playful but possessive, “a kiss would send a very clear message.”
You turn slightly, meeting his gaze—dark, confident, inviting.
“And what message is that?” you ask, breath softer than intended.
His smirk deepens—dangerously slow, smug, sure.
“That you’re mine.”
Not up for debate. Not a question.
A fact.
Before you can respond, he gently cups your jaw—thumb sweeping across your cheek, touch both reverent and territorial—leans in, and kisses you.
Unhurried and certain. Completely unapologetic.
The kind of kiss that says I’ve waited for this and I dare you to look away.
You melt into him, fingers gripping the edge of his pauldron, and he smiles against your lips because yeah—he knew you would.
When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t glance at the staring officer.
He doesn’t need to.
Instead, he keeps his forehead resting against yours, voice soft but laced with smug satisfaction.
“Still looking?”
You peek over his shoulder.
The man is suddenly very invested in a blank datapad.
Mayday laughs—low, satisfied—and presses one more kiss to your temple, thumb brushing your chin.
“Thought so.”
Then he sits back, arm draped over the back of your chair, posture relaxed, claiming you without touching.
“Now,” he says casually, “where were we?”
Like he didn’t just ruin someone’s self-esteem and mark you as his in one breathtaking move.
I just had this idea. I like the hc that for the clones, if their commanding officer calls them by their number = your mom calling you by your full name.
Could you do one when their SO calls them by their number, and they just know they are in trouble 😭🙏
Clones x gn reader: you calling them by their number
warnings: none
A/N: ahhh that's such a fun idea!! i hc that some of them have a really complicated relationship with their numbers so you might be on thin ice with that one xD
comments and reblogs are very appreaciated!! :D
The Bad Batch
Hunter
"CT-9901"
"What?!" Hunter's voice is biting. He hates whenever his number is used. It reminds him that he's supposed to be defective, even if he doesn't feel like it. It has been used against his squad way too many times. But then he notices little signs of your body, how tense you are, your heartbeat that is way too fast, your breathing…
Hunter takes a breath, running a hand through his hair and putting the knife he'd been sharpening down. "Don't," he mutters, more to himself as a warning. He knows he's about to say something stupid, he already did by the looks of it. He doesn't need to make it worse.
Tech
"CT-9902"
"That would be my designation. Is there a reason you are using it instead of my name?" Tech readjusts his googles for the tenth time in the last few minutes. The two of you had engaged in a heated argument about certain comments he was making that he did not see a problem with and he refusea to listen to another perspective.
You think maybe using the number would make him at least pause, let you get a word in, and seemingly it does.
Tech knows something was wrong when you used his number because it sounds so similar to the regs and Kaminoans using it whenever he annoyed them but you are different. You know that and you have never used it this way before so that could only mean one thing; you were pissed. Royally.
Tech put his datapad down, turning his full attention towards you. He cannot undo the words he's said but he can at least listen from now. "Explain my error. I will listen now."
Wrecker
"CT-9903"
Wrecker stops. He hadn't heard his number in a long time. With the batch having numbers this similar, they are rarely used and his name is just something that fit him quite well so for you to use it…
"Oh… I'm sorry. Did I do something wrong?" His voice turns quieter, softer. He drops the crate he is holding. It was fine, nothing fragile anyway. You are more important. Wrecker tries to wrack his brain about what he did wrong. "I'm sorry. I… really am. Uhm, I don't know what I did wrong but— I'm sorry."
Crosshair
"CT-9904"
He snaps to attention immediately, his mouth audibly clicking shut. He hasn't heard his number ever since he defected from the Empire and you know it was something he avoided thinking about as much as possible.
So for you to use it against him, he knows he fucked up but he doesn't know how to react. On one hand, he wants to apologise and make it right but on the other hand, that number triggered him in a way that leaves him unbalanced.
"That's low," Crosshair's voice is razor-thin but there's no anger in his eyes, just something raw and wounded. "If you want me to listen, fine. But don't use their language against me."
Echo
"CT-1409"
Once those numbers left your mouth, Echo froze. The only time it is ever used these days is in medical settings and those always left him hollow afterwards. He stares at the floor for a few seconds, processing.
When he looks up, his expression is tired. Not angry. Just… exhausted.
“Wow,” he says softly. “Okay. I deserved that.” He runs a hand over his head. “I’ll fix it. Whatever it was. Just… please don’t do that again. I hear those numbers in my nightmares enough as it is.”
Commanders
Wolffe
"CC-3636"
Wolffe goes rigid. He's used to being called "Commander" or "Sir" by his men. But for you he has always been just "Wolffe". He scans your expression with narrowed eyes.
"Want to run that by me again?" he growls, but there's flicker of unease beneath the gruff exterior. He crosses his arms, a defensive posture. He knows he’s been difficult lately. He just didn’t think you’d notice — or care — enough to pull this card.
Fox
"CC-1010"
Fox flinches. Actually flinches.
His number was a curse. It’s the number on the report every time a Corrie Guard falls. It’s the number Palpatine’s office used to summon him at 3 AM. Hearing it from your lips feels like a betrayal.
He doesn’t get angry. He just looks… defeated. He pulls his helmet back on, the visor hiding his eyes. “Message received,” he says, his voice flat and filtered through the comms. “Loud and clear.”
Cody
"CC-2224"
Cody stops writing his report. He sets the stylus down with a deliberate click. He turns in his chair, looking at you with that calm, measured gaze that all great commanders seem to have. He’s not scared. You two have had fights and arguments before and have resolved them all just fine.
That you used his number was new, and it made him pause but also want to listen to you more.
"Alright. That serious, is it?" He asks quietly. He doesn't apologize yet, he doesn't know what for yet, but he's giving you his full undivided attention. "Well, talk to me, dear. I'm listening."
501st
Rex
"CT-7567"
Rex blinks once. Twice. He carefully sets his helmet on the table a gesture of surrender. He knows that if you’re bringing out the number, this isn’t a battle he’s going to win with authority.
“Alright, mesh’la,” he says, holding up his hands. “You got me. What’d I do?” He’s trying to keep his tone light, but his ears are slightly red. He hates being reminded that he’s a number to the GAR. To you, he wants to be just Rex.
Fives
"CT-5555"
"Yes, that's my full name, you know you can just say Fives to save time," Fives replies, ever the cocky one. But you don't laugh, don't even smile like usually. You just glare.
His smile falters. Then it dies completely. He pushes off the wall, suddenly serious. “Oh.” He swallows hard. “It’s like that, is it?” He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking very young. “I’ll, uh… I’ll just go wait in the barracks until you’re ready to talk. Or yell. Whichever you feel like.”
Jesse
"CT-5597"
Jesse freezes mid-laugh. He was just joking around with Kix, but the sound of his number, sharp and cold, cuts through the noise like a vibroblade.
He turns slowly, his shoulders tensing. "Is there a problem?" he asks, his voice slipping into a more neutral and respectful tone. He’s slipped into ‘soldier mode’ to protect himself from the emotional whiplash.
Kix
"CT-6116"
Kix sighs. A deep, world-weary sigh that only the medic of the 501st can truly master.
He sets down his medical kit and crosses over to you. He doesn’t look scared or angry, he's wrestled so many delirious soldiers that the difference between his name and number didn't mean much to him on days like these.
He gently takes your chin, tilting your head to check your pupils. “Your blood pressure is up. Talk to me.”
Hardcase
He doesn't get it at first when you say his number, turning towards you with a smile. "Yep, that's my number. Did you memorize it? That's so sweet!"
It takes him a full five seconds to see the look on your face. Then his energetic bouncing stops and his eyes go wide. “Oh. Oh no. I’m in trouble, aren’t I? Is it the explosives? I bet it was the explosive. I swear it wasn't my fault I can fix it tho—"
Dogma
"CT-6922"
Dogma stands up even straighter, which feels almost impossible since he always stands at attention. He responds to his number like a droid to a command. "Yes?"
But then he sees the fury in your eyes, the disappointment and his gaze falls to his boots, realising that it's you he disappointed and that's somehow worse than facing the disappointemnt of authority. "I see…" he says quietly. "What did I do wrong?"
Tup
"CT-5385"
Tup’s bottom lip trembles slightly. He’s so sensitive, so eager to please. Hearing his number from you feels like a physical blow. He sets down the little droid he was tinkering with and walks over to you, his brown eyes wide and glossy.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, not even knowing what for. “I don’t like that. It sounds wrong when you say it.” You already feel bad having ever used the number.
Misc.
Howzer
He pauses with his cup of caf halfway to his lips as you say his number. He doesn't get defensive or flinch. He just sets the cup down and looks at you with those steady, honest eyes. The scar on his cheek pulls slightly as he offers a small smile.
“That bad, huh?” He holds out his hand to you. “Come here. If you’re pulling out the designation, then I deserve whatever lecture is coming. But can we do it sitting down? I have a feeling it’s a long one.”
Pairing: Howzer x fem!Reader / Howzer x mechanic!Reader
Words: 10,292
Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! friends/coworkers to lovers, fluff, smut, first date, awkward flirting, Howzer is both an incredibly smooth ladies man and a nervous wreck, this is basically pwp, more dirty than my usual smut, body worship, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), edging, pinv, dirty talk, this man is a pleaser fr
Summary: You're tired of pretending there's nothing going on between you and Howzer. Armed with a pretty dress and some liquid courage, you decide to finally do something about it. You just weren't expecting him to match your enthusiasm.
A/N: Posting this for @gar-romance-month ♥️ This is the last of my planned reader fics for this event, so I'm going out with a bang. Literally. Like there's barely any plot here.
Previous Work | Next Work | Masterlist
“So.”
“So…” You shift in your seat, unsticking the vinyl booth from the backs of your thighs. The curse of wearing a dress, it seems, for the first time in what’s felt like centuries. Or just a few very long years. “Come here often?”
Howzer snorts into his beer. “Really? That’s what you’re going with?”
“What?” You try for wounded dignity. It probably looks more like a tooka that’s just been caught with its head stuck in a box. “I’m trying to make conversation. In a… a place of social gathering. This is what people do, right? They talk?”
“Yeah, but they don’t usually ask the guy they’ve been working with for two years if he comes to the one decent cantina in town often,” he points out, but there’s no real heat in it. Just that familiar, lazy amusement you’ve come to rely on. He gestures with his bottle toward the room at large. “Besides, you know the answer to that. You’ve been here with us before.”
“Right.” You smooth a non-existent wrinkle in your skirt. Your fingers feel clumsy. “Just trying to get back in the swing of things.”
“The swing of things,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the words. He sets the bottle down with a solid thud on the sticky tabletop. The condensation leaves a perfect, dark ring. “Is that what this is? Getting back in the swing of things?”
“It’s a drink, Howzer,” you say, finally meeting his gaze. “In a cantina. I’m… re-entering polite society.”
That makes him chuckle, deep and rumbling. “Polite society’s a few parsecs west of here, I think. This is more like… slightly-less-impolite society.”
“Baby steps,” you mutter, and take a sip of your own drink. It’s some local fruit wine, deceptively sweet and potent. It curls through your veins like a friendly warning. You’re already halfway to tipsy, a few sips in, and you wonder how long it’s been since you’ve done anything like this.
You glance up at Howzer again and wonder why you invited him. Or why he accepted. Or if he’ll make you go back home before you’re done with this wine.
The answer to all of the above, of course, is that you’re a moron. You’re a moron who’s been staring at the back of Howzer’s shoulders during PT, listening to his laugh over comms when you’re all out in the field, thinking about how he looks when he’s asleep in the back of the transport, the way he’d looked at you that night by the bonfire…
Howzer leans forward, forearms resting on the sticky tabletop, and you swallow hard. The way he’s looking at you now. It’s a lot.
The cantina is noisy, a dull roar of conversation and clanking glassware and the tinny, distant thrum of a jukebox that’s probably older than both of you combined. But it feels quiet, all the same. Just you and Howzer in a dimly lit corner, knees knocking under the tiny table.
You’ve been stationed on Ryloth for the better part of the year now, and the planet has a way of getting under your skin, into your bones. It’s all dust and heat and vast, empty skies that go purple at dusk. But there’s a hardness here, a resilience you respect. And the people… well. They’re survivors. Howzer fits right in. Always has. He seems to take to every planet, every culture, like he was born to it. Like he’s been at home everywhere, all his life. He doesn’t seem like a man who can be cowed.
It’s part of what makes you want him so much.
You slowly mimic his posture, bracing your elbows on the table and feeling a little spark of triumph when the movement doesn’t feel too awkward. His eyes flick down, just for a second, to the bit of skin showing at your neckline. A quick, almost unconscious glance. You feel the triumph bloom into something warmer, brighter.
“Alright then, smartass,” you say, keeping your voice low to match the sudden thrum that’s started up under your own skin. “Your turn. Make conversation. Impress me.”
He grins, and it’s a real grin this time, not just a quirk of his lips. It crinkles the corners of his dark eyes, makes him look younger. More approachable. Less like the stoic, by-the-book Clone Captain you first met two years ago and more like the man who’s come to be a good friend.
“Challenge accepted,” he says. He leans in a little closer. You match him. If anyone were to pass by your booth, they’d probably think you were discussing something serious. Top secret intel. Coordinating a battle plan. But the cantina is nearly deserted this late in the evening, and the few other patrons are either well on their way to drunken oblivion or too busy trying to keep their nuna skewers from falling to the dusty floor to pay much attention to the two Republic soldiers huddled in the corner.
The jukebox clicks, skips, starts playing a slow, lilting melody. The voice that emerges is sweet, a little smoky. A Twi’lek woman, crooning an old ballad in her native tongue. The words are unfamiliar, but the meaning is clear. Your heart beats a little faster.
Howzer is silent for a moment, eyes searching yours. It’s hard to read his expression. There’s a guardedness there, a tension. He’s a soldier, after all. He’s used to keeping his cards close to his chest. But he’s been different with you, lately. Softer. More open. And you find yourself wondering, not for the first time, what it would be like to press your lips to that little furrow of tension that’s formed between his brows.
Finally, he clears his throat. “So… What’s a beautiful girl like you doing in a shithole like this?”
You can’t help it. You burst out laughing before you can catch yourself, nearly spilling your wine in your lap in the process. It’s such a ridiculous line. You can’t believe he actually said it.
Howzer is looking at you like he’s just won some kind of prize. Like he knows he’s got you now. And, oh, he does. He really does. Because you’ve been on the receiving end of his stupid jokes before, but never like this. Never with that look in his eyes.
He’s got you, and he knows it.
“Oh, come on,” you say through stifled laughter. “I said impress me, not make me laugh. That was terrible.”
“It was not!” he protests with a grin. “I thought it was quite smooth, actually.”
“Sure you did.” You roll your eyes and take a sip of your drink. “I bet all the girls fall for that one.”
He snorts at that and leans back in the booth, settling his broad shoulders comfortably against the vinyl. “Please. I don’t need cheesy pickup lines to woo the ladies.”
“And how’s that working out for you?” you quip.
His answering smirk is positively feral.
You’re not sure how you got here. One minute you were sharing a quiet drink in the mess hall, toasting another successful mission. The next you were following him to this little hole-in-the-wall cantina, the kind of place where no one looks twice at a couple of Republic soldiers. The kind of place where no one asks questions. Where no one cares.
You’re not sure when it happened, exactly. When you went from being just another soldier, just another member of his team, to… whatever you are to him now. But it happened. Somewhere between the endless training drills, the late-night planning sessions, the shared cups of caffa, the stolen moments of quiet.
And now here you are, sitting in a dimly lit cantina, with the music of a thousand forgotten lovesongs hanging in the air between you.
“Come on,” you tease. “I bet you can do better than that.”
“Alright, alright. Let me try again,” he says. He takes a long swig of his beer and sets it down with a decisive thunk. His gaze dips again, lingering this time, and when it comes back to yours, the amusement has been banked into something else. Something that makes the hairs on your arms stand up. “You look beautiful tonight, you know that?”
Your breath hitches. It’s such a simple, stupid thing to say. And it’s not something you’d normally go for. But coming from him… it’s different. The way he says it—like he’s noting a fundamental truth of the universe, like he’s just now fully realizing it and the realization is staggering—makes it something more.
You have to swallow before you can answer. “Oh. Thanks.” Your brain short-circuits. “You also… you clean up good.”
It’s not a lie. He’s just wearing the standard issue black t-shirt and cargos, but they might as well be tailored for the way they fit him across the shoulders, the lean strength of him. The sides of his head are freshly shaven, the dark curls on top neat for once. He looks less like a soldier and more like a man. Just a man, sitting across from you in a dingy cantina, with broad shoulders and kind eyes and a stare that feels like it’s stripping you down to the bone.
“Yeah?” He sounds pleased. Pleased and a little smug. You can practically see him preening under the praise.
“Yeah,” you confirm, your voice a little steadier now. You take a sip of your cocktail, the condensation slick against your palm. “Almost didn’t recognize you without the bucket on your head.”
Howzer laughs, and it crinkles around the corners of his eyes. “Funny. Almost didn’t recognize you with… all of that.”
He gestures vaguely with one hand, encompassing your dress, your hair, the whole ridiculous effort. It had been a sudden, desperate idea. A way to force the issue. A way to see if he would ever look at you and see you.
He is looking at you now. He really, truly is.
“I can go change,” you offer, the tease coming out a little breathier than you intended. “Throw on some combat boots and a grease-stained jumpsuit. Make you feel more at home.”
“Don’t you dare.”
The words are immediate, firm. A command. The humor vanishes from his face, replaced by that intense, focused look again. His tongue darts out, wetting his lower lip. Your own lips tingle in sympathy.
“You stay right where you are,” he says, softer this time. “Just like that.”
And in the noisy, crowded, sticky-floored cantina, with the bad music and the worse lighting, everything goes quiet. The world narrows down to the two of you, to the force of his gaze and the frantic, hopeful beat of your own heart. He sees you. He’s finally seeing you. And the look on his face tells you that he likes, very much, what he sees.
Howzer reaches across the table, his movements slow and deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away. You don’t. You couldn’t move if a thermal detonator went off in the corner. His fingers, calloused and warm, brush against your wrist. Your hand lifts, and you allow him to turn it over, to trace the lines of your palm with the calloused pad of his thumb. The touch is light, tentative, but it sends a jolt through you that’s more potent than any jolt of electricity from a malfunctioning droid.
“So,” he starts again, his voice a low rumble that you feel more than hear. “Not a drill.”
The corner of your mouth kicks up. “Definitely not a drill.”
“Good.” His thumb strokes your palm once more, a slow, deliberate circle that feels like a brand. “Because I was starting to run out of excuses to talk to you.”
A bright, startled laugh escapes you. You cover your face with your free hand, overwhelmed, suddenly, by it all. By you, and him, and the endless dance of the last few months, finally, finally culminating in this. This warm, calloused thumb stroking your skin in the sticky vinyl booth of a Ryloth cantina.
“Stars above, Howzer,” you breathe, your voice muffled. “You too?”
His grin through your fingers is a thing of beauty. “Me too. For ages.”
You drop your hand. He’s still holding the other one, his thumb still resting in the center of your palm. He lifts it to his lips, presses a soft, warm kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner wrist. It’s a chaste, almost old-fashioned gesture, but it’s the most intimate thing anyone has ever done to you.
Your entire body goes hot. You feel it from the tips of your toes to the roots of your hair. He watches you, his eyes dark, as he lowers your hand back to the table, but doesn’t let go.
“If I knew all it took was a dress,” you murmur, a bit dazed. “I would’ve worn one months ago.”
Howzer’s answering chuckle is low and warm, and it vibrates through you, settling somewhere deep in your gut. “Well, if it helps, you look damn good in a mechanic’s jumpsuit, too.”
“Flatterer,” you reply with a huff, but you’re smiling, and you can’t bring yourself to stop. You feel bright, and bubbly, and dangerous. Like you could take on the whole CIS with nothing but this feeling humming under your skin. “You’re not so bad yourself, you know.”
“Mmm.” He squeezes your hand, and you squeeze back. The small, simple contact feels more real, more solid, than anything else in this war. “So… what now?”
The noise of the cantina slowly bleeds back in. The jukebox clicks, whirring to life with a new, equally terrible song. A group of locals at the bar starts arguing loudly about the outcome of some podracing bet. Someone drops a glass, and it shatters with a sound like a strike of lightning. Life goes on, loud and messy and exactly as it was five minutes ago. But for you, sitting in a sticky vinyl booth with a warm, calloused hand tangled in yours, the world has tilted on its axis.
This is it. This is the precipice. All the little glances, the near-touches, the easy banter that always hovered on the edge of something more—it’s all been leading to this. You could thank him for the drink, pull your hand back, and go back to the comfortable, aching familiarity of your roles.
Or, you could…
“Walk me home, Captain?” The words are out before you can think better of them, but you don’t regret them. Not for a second. The title is a deliberate choice, a little bit of a challenge. A reminder that you’re still both soldiers, that this isn't just some fleeting cantina flirtation.
His grip tightens on your hand. “It’s Howzer.”
“Alright,” you concede, a little breathlessly. “Walk me home, Howzer?”
You watch him process it. Watch the muscles in his jaw work as he weighs the implications, the risks. He’s a soldier, and he’s always thinking three steps ahead. But the way he looks at you, like he’s starving and you’re the only meal he’s seen in a decade… it’s a fight he’s already lost.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. “Yeah, I can do that.”
He doesn’t let go of your hand as he slides out of the booth, and you follow, your movements feeling both clumsy and impossibly fluid. You’re pulled onto your feet and into his orbit, and you don’t fight it. You don’t want to. He throws a few credits down on the table—more than enough for the two drinks—without looking, a careless, imprecise gesture that’s so unlike the Howzer you know on the field. It makes something in your chest loosen, just a little. He’s as off-balance as you are. He’s feeling it too.
The walk back to the small, prefab barracks they’d assigned you is short. Too short. You find yourself slowing your steps, trying to stretch out the moments. The night air on Ryloth is cool and smells of dust and blooming ghost flowers, a gentle breeze ruffling the hem of your skirt. The sun has long since set, but the sky isn’t black; it’s a deep, bruised purple, streaked with the silver light of the moons. The few street lights that work cast long, distorted shadows that dance and writhe like living things.
You’re walking shoulder-to-shoulder, your hands swinging in a tentative rhythm, pulling and pushing with every step. It’s a ridiculous, juvenile game, and you love it. You’ve never felt more… like yourself. Not the soldier, not the mechanic, not the Republic asset. Just… you.
The silence between you is comfortable. Filled with all the things you don’t need to say. He lets go of your hand only to wrap an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer. You respond without thinking, tucking yourself into his side, your head resting against the solid warmth of him.
And then you’re there. Your building looms out of the darkness ahead, a two-story rectangle of permacrete and reinforced plasteel, all sharp edges and hard angles. A functional box for functional soldiers. You’re one of a handful of natborn officers housed there, a small island of individuality in a sea of identical barracks, and the privacy is a luxury you’ve come to cherish. Even though now, it feels like a very loaded question.
You stop at the base of the steps that lead up to your second-floor unit, and the gravel crunches under your impractical heels as you turn to face him. You have to tilt your head back to look up at him.
The streetlight is a weak, buzzing thing that casts long, distorted shadows. It illuminates one side of his face, carving the hard lines of his jaw, the proud bridge of his nose, the jagged scar that spans across his cheek. The other side is lost in shadow, a mystery. His eyes, though, are bright. Alert. Fixed on you.
“So,” you start, your voice sounding a little too loud in the sudden stillness. “This is me.”
His gaze flicks from your face to the building and back again. He doesn’t let go of your hand. “Looks… sturdy.”
A small laugh escapes you. “It’s not much. But it’s got a roof. And a working shower. And…no roommates. Which is a definite plus.”
You say the last part without meaning to, a slip of the tongue fueled by wine and hope. But the words hang in the air between you, heavy with implication. His eyes darken, and he takes a half-step closer, crowding you, eliminating any pretense of personal space. The gravel shifts under his boots.
“No roommates,” he repeats, and it’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact. A confirmation. He shifts his grip on your hand, intertwining your fingers together. His thumb finds the pulse point in your wrist, stroking it in a slow, deliberate rhythm. “Good to know.”
You look up at him, and the last of your careful control, your practiced composure, just… dissolves. This is Howzer. Your Howzer. The man who’s had your back in a dozen firefights, who’s patched you up when you’ve been stupid, who’s listened to you rant about supply requisitions and faulty droids at 0300 in the mess. He’s here. He’s right here. And he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the entire galaxy. You can't just say goodnight and walk away. You can’t.
“Do you want…” you begin, your voice barely a whisper. “Would you like to… come in?”
The invitation is clumsy. Awkward. The most straightforward thing you’ve ever said to him. The words feel enormous, irrevocable. You hold your breath, waiting.
For a moment, he just looks at you. The silence stretches, taut and thin, pulled to its breaking point. You can hear the distant hum of a speeder bike, the chirp of some nocturnal creature in the nearby desert. Then, a slow smile spreads across his face, transforming it from something hard and stoic into something unbearably warm and real.
“I’d like that,” he says, his voice a low, intimate rumble that seems to vibrate through the very marrow of your bones.
The relief that washes through you is so potent it almost brings you to your knees. You turn and lead the way up the metal stairs, making the final steps between the public world of the barracks and your private haven. You can feel him right behind you, a solid, warm presence. The hem of your skirt brushes against the fabric of his cargos with every step.
When you reach your door, Howzer's hand lands on your waist, and he turns you, crowding you gently against it. His other braces on the wall beside your head. You're trapped. You've never felt safer in your life.
“What changed?” he asks, his voice a low murmur against your temple. “Tonight?”
His breath smells of cheap beer. Your hands, which had been dangling uselessly at your sides, come up to rest on the hard plane of his chest, right over his heart. You can feel the steady, solid beat of it through the thin cotton of his shirt.
“I got tired of waiting,” you admit, your gaze fixed on the worn collar of his shirt. Your fingers trace the frayed edge of the fabric. “I got tired of pretending I didn’t notice the way you look at me. Or the way I look at you. I figured… someone had to do something.”
He cups your cheek, tilting your head up until you have no choice but to meet his gaze. His thumb strokes the curve of your jaw, teasing the edge of your lower lip, and you instinctively part your lips for him.
“I’ve been looking at you for a long time, cyar’ika,” he says, the Mando’a endearment falling from his lips with an easy familiarity that makes your toes curl. “I just wasn’t sure if you were looking back.”
“Oh,” you breathe, the word barely a puff of air. “I was looking. I promise you, I was looking.”
Howzer huffs a shaky laugh and presses his forehead to yours. It’s a simple, grounding gesture, but it feels more intimate than anything you’ve ever done before. You close your eyes, savoring the contact, the warmth of him, the smell of him.
“I know,” he says, a world of relief in those two simple words. “I know now.”
He closes the remaining distance between you, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s surprisingly gentle. A soft, tentative press of lips that is as much about seeking permission as it is about expressing desire. He’s still holding back, still giving you an out. You answer by tightening your hold on his shirt and pulling him down, deepening the kiss. You feel him smile against your mouth, and then he’s kissing you for real.
One of his hands slides into your hair, angling your head just so, while the other presses against the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. You kiss him back with everything you have, winding your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft curls at the back of his head. You part your lips, and he follows suit, his tongue slipping into your mouth to tease and explore. The kiss is both chaste and filthy, a clash of tongues and teeth that leaves you breathless, dizzy, aching for more.
He kisses you like he’s been starving for it, like he’s been dying to taste you for as long as you’ve been dying to taste him. There’s no hesitation, no awkward fumbling. Just the firm, sure pressure of his mouth against yours, the confident slide of his tongue, the way his hands grip your hips like he has every right to be there. Like you belong in his arms.
And you do. You do.
When your fingers tighten in his hair, he makes a low, desperate noise in the back of his throat that sends a fresh wave of heat through you. You bite back a groan of your own, your body arching into his, seeking the solid warmth of him. He responds by tightening his hold, his fingers digging into the fabric of your dress, his mouth moving against yours in a fierce, possessive rhythm. It’s the most perfect, exhilarating, terrifying thing you’ve ever experienced.
When he finally pulls away, you’re both panting, and his pupils are blown wide, his lips kiss-bitten and slick. His hands are still on your hips, and you can feel the way his fingers twitch, like he can’t decide if he wants to pull you closer or put some distance between you. But when he looks at you, it’s not with regret. It’s with a fierce, hungry kind of determination.
“Inside,” he says, his voice ragged. “Can we go inside? I need to—” His hips shift, and you feel the firm press of him against the soft flesh of your stomach for the first time. Your breath hitches. “I need to do that again. Properly.”
You don’t hesitate. Your fingers shake, but you manage to key in the code before you’re stumbling into the dim, cramped space beyond. You don’t bother turning on the lights, or doing anything else for that matter. You’re too busy kissing him again, your mouths slotting together like puzzle pieces, his tongue slick and hot and insistent against yours. He kicks the door closed behind him and presses you up against it, his hands finding your hips again, holding you in place as he rocks against you.
You wrap a leg around his waist, opening yourself to him, and his groan is raw and guttural and so, so satisfying. He rolls his hips again, slower this time, grinding against the place where you’re already hot and aching for him. You gasp into the kiss, and he swallows the sound greedily, his teeth nipping at your lower lip. When you try to pull away, to catch your breath, he follows, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, your neck, the sensitive skin of your collarbone. His mouth is relentless, demanding, and you arch into his touch, your fingers tangling in his curls, holding him close. He kisses you like he’s claiming you, branding you as his own, and you can’t get enough. You never want it to stop.
“Kriff,” he growls, his lips trailing down to the neckline of your dress, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re perfect. You’re fucking perfect.”
You don’t feel perfect. You feel dizzy. Overheated. Desperate to touch and be touched. Your skin feels too tight, and you can’t stop the small, needy noises that escape your lips as he hikes you higher against the door and rocks against you again, his cock a hard, insistent pressure against the place that needs him most. It’s too much and not nearly enough, but it’s the closest thing you’ve felt to relief all night.
“Howzer…”
You try to say more, to demand more, but it’s hard to form words when he’s kissing you like this. With the same single-minded determination that you’ve seen him apply to his work, to the battlefield. He’s kissing you like he’s been thinking about it for a long time, like he has plans for you, and you can’t wait to find out what they are.
But not here. Not up against your front door, still in your heels.
You break the kiss, and this time, he lets you pull away. He’s breathing hard, his chest heaving against yours, his pupils blown so wide you can barely see the brown of his eyes.
"Bed?” you manage, the word coming out in a high, thready whine. You’ve never heard that tone in your voice before, but it seems to work on him. His cock jumps against you in response.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Where? Please tell me it’s close.”
You nod, too dazed to laugh at the sheer, unadulterated want in his voice. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s—” You gesture vaguely behind him. “That way. It’s—”
He doesn’t give you time to finish. He just shifts his grip, cupping your ass and squeezing hard, and then he’s lifting you, pulling you away from the door and into his arms. Your arms wrap around his neck, holding on tight as he carries you through the darkness. He bumps into a chair, curses, fumbles for the lightswitch, curses again when he knocks something off a table, and it crashes to the ground.
You don’t bother to check the damage. You can’t. You’re too busy kissing him, your mouths still locked together in a desperate, messy tangle. You nip at his lower lip, and the noise he makes is a low, primal thing that sends a fresh jolt of heat straight to your core.
“Careful,” he huffs against your lips, but he’s laughing. “I’d rather not crack my skull open before we get to the good part.”
“Can’t have that,” you murmur between kisses. “What would I do with the body?”
That earns you a real, full-throated laugh, and then you’re falling, the mattress rising to meet you as he drops you onto the bed. You bounce once, twice, before he’s on you, caging you in with his arms, his knees bracketing your thighs. The cheap, prefab mattress groans under his weight, but you barely register it. All you can think about is the solid, heavy press of him against you, the sheer, overwhelming reality of him.
He’s still laughing as he looks down at you. His hair is a mess, the dark curls sticking up at odd angles. His pupils are still blown wide, and there’s a faint flush to his cheeks. He looks disheveled. Wild. Unhinged in the best way. And the way he’s looking at you…
It’s a lot.
You reach up to brush a stray curl out of his eyes, and he turns his head to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the center of your palm. His lips linger there, his eyes closing for a long moment as he inhales, taking in the scent of your skin. When he looks down at you again, his eyes are dark with hunger.
“Hey,” you whisper.
“Hi.” He grins, his teeth a flash of white in the dimness. “We made it.”
“We did.” You trail your hand down to the nape of his neck. “Took us long enough.”
“Yeah.” He ducks down to nuzzle at your throat. “Took us long enough.”
He doesn’t kiss you again, not right away. He just explores, his nose nudging at your skin, his lips ghosting over the line of your jaw, the sensitive skin of your throat, the hollow of your collarbone. He’s taking his time, memorizing the landscape of you. It’s both incredibly sweet and incredibly frustrating.
“Howzer…”
He hums against your skin in response. “Patience, cyar’ika.” He shifts, his hands finding your hips again. “I’m getting to it.”
He slides one hand up your side, the calloused pads of his fingers tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your breast. He’s not rushing. He’s savoring. You, on the other hand, are about to combust. You squirm under his touch, arching into him, silently demanding more.
When he finally cups your breast, the cheap fabric of your dress does little to dull the heat of his touch. His thumb finds your nipple, and he circles it once, twice, before pinching, just hard enough to make you gasp. He does it again, and this time, you can’t stop the low, breathy moan that escapes you.
“There it is,” he murmurs, the words warm against your skin. “Like that, don’t you?”
You nod, a frantic, jerky motion. You can’t form words. You can’t think. All you can do is feel.
“Good.”
He shifts again, this time moving to sit up. You follow, rising up on your elbows as you watch him, your breath catching in your throat. He kneels there on your bed, looking down at you, his hands resting on his own thighs. He’s so solid. So real. Like something out of a dream you didn't know you were having.
He reaches down, takes one of your feet in his lap, and starts to work on the strap of your heel. His fingers are long and deft, and they make short work of the flimsy buckle. The shoe falls away, and he repeats the process on the other side, setting both shoes on the floor beside the bed with a reverence that feels disproportionate, and yet, entirely right. You feel a sudden pang of affection for this man, this soldier, who is taking the time to remove your shoes with the same care he would take disassembling a blaster rifle.
When he’s done, he runs his hands up your calves, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin behind your knees. You shiver, and you see a flash of a smile. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you. And he’s enjoying it. The bastard.
“Now, then,” he says, his hands continuing their journey up your thighs, pushing the hem of your dress with them. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”
He pushes the fabric up, over your hips, baring your legs to the dim light of the room. You’d worn your good underwear, the lacy black set you usually saved for special occasions that never seemed to happen. You’re glad, now, that you’d made the effort. From the way he’s looking at you, he’s glad, too.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his hands sliding higher, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties. “Just...fuck.”
You open your mouth to say something, but the words die in your throat as he leans down, his lips brushing against the inside of your thigh. He nips at the skin there, just hard enough to sting, before soothing the spot with a hot, open-mouthed kiss. He does it again, a little higher this time, and then again, until he’s leaving a trail of bites and kisses up your thigh, his mouth getting closer and closer to the place that’s already hot and aching for him. You’re practically vibrating under him, your hands fisting in the sheets.
When he finally, finally reaches your cunt, you think you might actually sob. His tongue drags a broad, hot stripe over the lace of your underwear, and the noise you make is low and guttural and utterly inhuman.
“Kriffing stars above,” you manage. “Howzer—”
He hums against you, his hands sliding under your thighs to wrap around your hips, holding you in place as he teases you through the fabric. You’re already so wet that it’s a useless barrier, and you know he can tell. He’s not being subtle about the way he’s inhaling, breathing you in, tasting you through the soaked fabric. He lingers over your clit, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bundle of nerves in a slow, lazy circle that has your hips bucking up against his face.
“Easy, cyar’ika,” he says, his breath hot against your skin. He glances up at you, his gaze dark and hungry. “Let me savor this.”
He presses a kiss to the front of your panties before finally, finally hooking a finger under the fabric and pulling it aside. Your cunt is wet and glistening, and he makes a low, appreciative noise as he runs a finger through the slick, spreading it over your lips, your clit, your entrance.
“Beautiful.”
The first drag of his tongue against your bare flesh is enough to have your back arching off the bed, your hands fisting in the sheets. He takes his time, exploring every inch of your cunt, his tongue dipping inside before dragging up to your clit, where he swirls slow, tight circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves.
Your head falls back, your eyes closing, your mouth falling open in a silent cry. You’ve been eaten out before, sure. But never like this. Never with the kind of single-minded focus and determination that Howzer is bringing to the task. It’s like he’s studying you, cataloguing every sigh and moan, every twitch of your hips, every clench of your fists in the sheets. He’s learning you.
He’s still fully dressed, and the fabric of his shirt is rough against the backs of your thighs as he pulls you closer, throwing your legs over his shoulders and wrapping his arms around your waist to get a better angle. You’re completely at his mercy, and you’ve never felt so safe.
One of his hands moves down to press against your lower belly, pinning you in place as he starts to really work your clit. The other slides lower, his fingers tracing your entrance in slow, deliberate circles. When he finally presses one inside, you nearly come off the bed.
“Kriff, you’re tight.”
There’s a note of awe in his voice, and it sends a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. You can feel yourself clenching around him, the way your body is already aching to keep him inside.
“Been a while,” you gasp as he starts to move his finger in and out, curling it up to hit that spot that makes your toes curl. “Not since— oh, fuck— not since before Ryloth.”
“Really?” He sounds genuinely surprised. His lips brush against your clit as he speaks, sending little jolts of pleasure through you.
“Mm-hmm.”
It’s all you can manage. You’re too busy focusing on the way he’s working your clit, the steady slide of his finger inside you, the way your entire body is already starting to tense up, to coil tight like a spring.
He adds a second finger, and your hand flies to his head, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding him close. You can feel his smile against your skin as he starts to fuck you in earnest, his fingers pumping in and out of your slick heat as he works your clit, alternating between slow, lazy circles and fast, hard flicks that have you gasping. Your hips buck up against his face, and he follows your rhythm, letting you grind against his mouth, letting you use him.
That’s what it is, you realize with a jolt. You’re using him. You’re taking your pleasure from him. And he’s letting you. He’s encouraging it.
You lose all sense of time. All sense of space. The world shrinks down to the feeling of his mouth, his fingers, the solid weight of him pinning you to the bed, the desperate, needy sounds you’re making. You can hear the soft grunts he makes when you pull his hair, the little hums of pleasure he lets out when you grind against his face. He’s enjoying this. He’s enjoying you. And that knowledge is almost as powerful as the pleasure he’s giving you.
“I’m—” you gasp, your heels digging into his back, your thighs starting to shake. “Kriff, Howzer, I’m—”
He doesn’t let you finish. He just doubles down, sucking your clit into his mouth and swirling his tongue over it in a hard, fast rhythm that sends you over the edge. A high-pitched keen tears from your throat, and you come, your cunt clenching around his fingers as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you, so intense it’s almost painful.
He doesn’t stop. He works you through it, drawing out your orgasm until you’re a writhing, whimpering mess beneath him, until you’re begging him to stop, your hands pushing weakly at his head.
“Howzer, please,” you breathe, throwing your head back against the pillow as his tongue slides from your dripping entrance back to your overly sensitive clit. “Please, I can’t—”
He lifts his head, and his face is slick with you, a look of pure, unadulterated triumph in his eyes. He’s grinning, a wide, feral grin that makes your cunt ache all over again. Your soaked underwear is still pushed to the side, and he runs his fingers over your puffy outer lips, spreading your slick over the flushed, tender skin.
“One more,” he says, his voice a low, commanding growl that sends a fresh jolt of heat straight to your core.
“What?” you gasp.
“One more.” The hand on your belly presses down, a clear, unmistakable order. “Stay still for me. Let me make you come again.”
You’re helpless to do anything but obey. Your body is a live wire, every nerve ending firing at once. You’re so sensitive that even the gentle brush of his breath against your cunt is enough to make you twitch.
He’s methodical now, a conqueror mapping out the territory he’s just claimed. He licks you clean, his tongue dragging through your folds, gathering your slick before delving inside, fucking you with it in slow, shallow thrusts. The two fingers he had inside you return, but he doesn’t fuck you with them this time. He just holds them there, a solid, grounding presence, as he mouths at your clit, his tongue soft and wet and impossibly gentle.
It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s a slow, deliberate kind of torture that has your toes curling, your hands fisting in the sheets again, your head thrashing back and forth against the pillow. You’re caught in a state of suspended animation, hovering on the knife’s edge of another orgasm, so close you can taste it, but unable to fall. Not until he lets you.
He’s watching you, you realize. Through it all, through the relentless press of his mouth, the insistent curl of his fingers inside you, he’s watching. Those dark, intense eyes are locked on your face, studying you, learning you. Cataloguing every twitch, every moan, every plea.
You try to beg again, to plead with him to let you come, but the words won’t come. All you can do is lie there and take it, your body coiled tight, your breath coming in short, ragged pants. You can feel the sweat trickling down the back of your neck, the ache in your thighs from where they’ve been pressed against his ears for so long. You can feel everything. Every single nerve ending in your body is alive and singing.
When he finally, finally lets you come, it’s like a bomb going off. Your vision goes white, your back arching off the bed, your hands flying to his head, holding him in place as you ride his face through it, grinding your cunt against his mouth, your hips moving in a frantic, desperate rhythm. You think you scream, but you can’t be sure. All you can hear is the rush of blood in your ears, the thundering of your heart.
He lets you come back down this time with a gentleness that belies his earlier intensity. His fingers slide out of you, and he kisses your clit once, twice, before laving his tongue through your folds one last time, cleaning you up. He kisses the insides of your thighs, your hips, your belly. The warm press of his lips continues up and up along with the hem of your dress, and you’re pliant in his hands as he sits back and pulls it over your head, tossing it aside.
There’s a pause as he looks at you, laid bare and still panting. You can see him, too. You can see his chest heaving, his lips swollen and slick, his eyes dark and hungry. You can see the clear evidence of his arousal pressing against the front of his fatigues. You can see him.
You reach for him, and he comes to you, his lips meeting yours in a soft, sweet kiss that’s a far cry from the desperation of before. His mouth still tastes of you, but you don’t care. You kiss him back with everything you have, your hands sliding into his hair, holding him close. He’s solid and warm against you, a comforting weight.
“Kriff, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his nose bumping against yours, his breath hot on your skin. “That was… you were… fuck, I don’t have the words.”
“You’re telling me,” you say with a breathless laugh that has him grinning. “That was… that was…” You shake your head. “Yeah, I don’t have the words either.”
He huffs a soft laugh against your mouth as his hand slides up your spine, and you take the hint, arching your back so he can undo the clasp of your bra and toss it away. Your soaked underwear is quick to follow, leaving you entirely naked under his appreciative gaze.
“You’re perfect,” he says, his voice a low rumble that you feel in your bones. “Just… perfect.”
Your hands slide to his shoulders, tracing the muscles of his back over his shirt. It feels unfair, suddenly, that he’s still dressed. That he’s seen you entirely and you’ve only gotten glimpses. You want to know him, too.
You tug at his shirt. “Off.”
He smirks, but he doesn’t object. He sits back on his heels and pulls his shirt over his head, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, the hard planes of his stomach. There’s a dusting of dark hair across his pecs, a trail of it leading down to the waistband of his fatigues. He’s not the most chiseled man you’ve ever seen, but he’s solid, muscular in a way that speaks to functionality rather than aesthetics.
You reach out and run your hand over the hard-packed muscle of his stomach, and the skin jumps under your touch. You trace the lines of his abs, the ridges of his hips, the little valley where his thigh meets his groin. You can feel the tension in him, the way he’s holding himself back, letting you explore.
When your fingers brush against the button of his pants, he inhales sharply, his eyes fluttering shut. You work the button open and slide the zipper down before slipping your hand inside. You can feel him through his underwear, hard and hot and straining against the fabric. When you cup him, his hips jerk, and he lets out a low, choked-off groan.
“Howzer,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper.
“Mm?”
“Are you clean?”
His eyes snap open, and he looks at you for a long moment before nodding. “Yeah. Medics run regular tests on all the troops.”
“Implant,” you say, a non-sequitur, but he gets the point.
He exhales slowly, his hands coming up to cover yours. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” You nod, looking down to where his cock is tenting the front of his underwear. “Yeah, I’m sure. I want to feel you.”
He doesn’t need any further encouragement. He kicks off his pants and briefs, his cock springing free and slapping against his belly, leaving a trail of wetness. It’s big, bigger than you expected. The head is flushed a deep, angry red, the shaft thick and veiny, the tip already dripping with precum.
He gives himself a slow stroke, biting his lip as he does it, his eyes never leaving your face. You watch as he gathers a bead of moisture from the head and spreads it over the shaft, the skin glistening in the dim light.
“Like what you see?” he asks, a note of teasing in his voice.
You nod, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
He moves back up to kneel between your spread legs, his cock bobbing heavy and thick between his thighs. He runs his hands up the insides of your thighs, spreading them even wider, and a cool draft of air whispers across your cunt. You’re so wet that you’re dripping, the sheets under you damp and sticky with it. He notices, too. He trails a finger through the mess and raises it to your mouth. You don’t hesitate. You suck his finger into your mouth, tasting yourself on his skin. His breath hitches, and you can see his cock jump, a fresh bead of moisture welling at the tip.
He slides his hand down your stomach to settle on your belly again, a silent request. Stay still. Let me do the work.
You nod.
He lines himself up, the thick head of his cock nudging at your entrance. You can feel him there, hot and heavy and so, so ready. But he doesn’t rush. He doesn’t force himself inside. Instead, he rubs the head of his cock up and down your slit, gathering your wetness on the tip before dipping inside just a fraction.
He does this again and again, teasing you with the head of his cock, getting it nice and slick. It’s maddening. You’re so wet that every motion makes a filthy, lewd sound, and the air is heavy with the scent of sex. You’re aching for him, your cunt clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled. You want to beg, to plead, but the words won’t come. All you can do is lie there and let him have you, let him take his time, let him work you up again. You feel like you’re going to burst.
When he finally, finally pushes inside, you’re so ready for him that you take it all in one long, smooth slide. The stretch of him, the weight of him, the sheer, overwhelming fullness of him inside you is almost too much. You can feel him in your throat, in your teeth, in the tips of your fingers. You can feel him everywhere.
You cry out, your eyes screwing shut, your hands fisting in the sheets. He grunts, his hips jerking forward in a quick, reflexive thrust that has his balls pressing against your ass.
“Kriffing stars above,” he breathes, and you can hear the strain in his voice, the effort it’s taking him to hold himself back. “You feel— you’re so— fuck.”
You open your eyes to look at him, and the sight is almost enough to make you come right then and there. His eyes are squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration, his mouth hanging open. He looks lost in it, lost in you. You reach up to cup his face in your hands, and his eyes flutter open. He looks at you, and there’s so much in his gaze that you can’t even begin to unpack it.
“Hey,” you say, your voice shaky. “You good?”
He huffs a breathless laugh, his hands flexing where they grip your hips. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”
“Good.” You tilt your hips up, just a little, and he groans. “Because I really, really need you to move.”
He doesn’t need any further encouragement. He pulls out until just the head of his cock is inside you, and then he slides back in, his hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm that has you seeing stars. He’s so deep inside you that you can feel him in your throat, and every time he bottoms out, the impact sends a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. You’re so full, so impossibly full, that you can barely breathe. You can’t think. You can only feel.
It doesn’t take him long to find a rhythm that works for both of you. It’s a slow, deep grind, his hips circling as he pulls out before snapping forward to bury himself inside you again. Every thrust hits a spot inside you that has your eyes rolling back in your head, and every time he bottoms out, the impact of his hips against yours is a bright, sharp burst of pleasure that makes you gasp.
You’re so wet that every thrust is a slick, messy glide that makes the most obscene sounds. You’re dripping, the sheets beneath you soaked with it. And still, he doesn’t stop. Still, he doesn’t rush.
He’s fucking you like he’s got all the time in the world, like he’s content to spend the rest of his days right here, buried inside you, making you feel good. And you, for your part, are more than happy to let him. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your heels digging into the small of his back. Your hands slide up and down the slick, sweat-sheened muscles of his back as your body rocks with the force of his thrusts. You cling to him, an anchor in a storm of sensation.
This is what you wanted. This is what you’ve been craving. Not just the pleasure, though that’s a part of it. It’s the connection. The feeling of being known, of being seen. The feeling of being wanted, of being desired. The feeling of being cherished. That’s what you see in his eyes, in the way he touches you, in the way he’s holding himself back, even now.
It’s overwhelming. It’s too much.
It’s not enough.
You arch your back, pressing your chest against his, and Howzer’s hips stutter, a soft groan escaping his lips. He ducks his head, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his mouth hot and wet on your skin. His hands slide down to grip your ass, lifting you off the bed and changing the angle of his thrusts, and you nearly sob when the head of his cock hits a spot inside you that has sparks dancing at the edge of your vision.
“Kriff, there,” you gasp, your nails digging into his back. “There. Right there. Please. Harder.”
He doesn’t hesitate. He snaps his hips forward, pounding into you with enough force to shake the bed, to knock the wind out of you. His hands grip your ass tight enough to bruise, and you know you’ll have his fingerprints on you tomorrow, a tangible reminder of this night. The thought is enough to make you clench around him, and he groans, his teeth scraping against your skin.
“You close?” he asks, his voice rough, strained.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m—” You swallow hard, struggling to find the words. “I’m close.”
“Good.” He nuzzles against your neck, planting hot, open-mouthed kisses on your skin. “Want to feel you come. Want to feel you come on my cock.”
“Keep talking like that, and you will.”
He huffs a breathless laugh, his hips losing their rhythm, his thrusts becoming more erratic. “You like that? You like it when I talk to you like that?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, your nails raking down his back. “Yeah, I do.”
“I can’t believe this is happening,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper, a secret shared between the two of you. “Can’t believe I’m here, with you like this. Can’t believe you— fuck, you feel so good. You’re so beautiful.”
You can’t respond. You can’t do anything but hold on as he pounds into you, the headboard slamming into the wall. He’s babbling now, a litany of praises and filthy promises falling from his lips, but you can barely hear him over the rush of blood in your ears. Your entire world narrows down to the heat building in your core, the weight of him inside you, the slide of his cock.
When you finally, finally fall over the edge, it’s with a high-pitched keen that you can’t contain. Your body arches up off the bed, pressing against him, clenching around his cock in a desperate attempt to keep him inside. You feel your legs kick out uselessly, your toes curling so hard it almost hurts. Howzer grabs for them and pushes your legs back, bending you almost in half, and your eyes roll back in your head as he fucks you through your orgasm with short, hard thrusts that have you sobbing.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Just like that. Just like that.”
When it passes, you slump back against the bed, boneless, your vision blurry, your body still twitching and spasming around his cock. His pace slows, but he doesn’t stop, not until the overstimulation becomes too much and you push at his shoulders.
He pulls out, and the sudden emptiness has you gasping, your hands flying to your stomach. You feel hollow, aching, your cunt still fluttering weakly around nothing. You can hear the slick sound of him stroking his cock, the wet slap of his hand, and you look up to see him kneeling between your thighs once again, his fist flying over his cock.
“I’m close,” he says, his voice tight, his face twisted in a pained grimace. “Where do you want it? Where—”
You don’t even think about it. You pull your knees up to your chest, exposing your dripping cunt. “Here. On me. Please.”
He grunts, and his hand moves even faster. You can see the muscles of his abdomen tense, the veins in his neck stand out. He’s right on the edge, and you can’t look away. You can’t stop watching.
When he finally, finally tips over the edge, he does it with a guttural moan that has heat pooling low in your belly. His cock jerks in his hand, a thick spurt of cum painting a line across your cunt. He strokes himself through it, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as he wrings every last drop from his cock. It lands on you, hot and thick, coating your cunt, your stomach, your chest.
You’ve never felt so claimed.
It takes a minute for him to come down from his high. His chest is heaving, his skin shiny with sweat, his eyes glazed. When he finally opens them again, he looks down at you, at the mess he’s made of you, and his breath hitches.
“Kriff,” he says, his voice hoarse.
“Yeah,” you agree, your own voice sounding faraway and dreamy.
He leans down and presses a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. Then to your forehead, your cheek, your nose. It’s a gentle, unhurried exploration, a quiet apology and a promise all in one. You respond in kind, your hands sliding up and down the slick, sweat-sheened muscles of his back as you kiss him back, your mouth soft and pliant under his.
When he finally pulls away, it’s with a sigh. He pushes himself up and off the bed, and gives you a long, slow look. His gaze is heavy, possessive, and it sends a fresh jolt of heat straight to your core.
“Don’t move,” he says, his voice still rough.
You watch him walk into the ‘fresher, his muscular back and firm ass on display, and you can’t help the surge of affection that wells up inside you. You can’t believe that this is your life. You can’t believe that this is real.
He comes back with a towel, and you spread your legs to give him better access. He’s gentle as he cleans you up, his touch firm but careful, and you can’t help but be reminded of the way he handled your feet earlier. He’s thorough, too, making sure to wipe away every last trace of him from your body. When he’s finished, he tosses the towel in the general direction of the ‘fresher and climbs back into bed with you.
You shift onto your side, and he spoons up behind you, his arm wrapping around your waist. You can feel his chest hair tickling your back, the soft swell of his belly, the hard line of his cock nestled between your ass cheeks. It’s a solid, comforting weight, and you sigh happily as you relax into him.
He presses a kiss to the back of your neck, and you hum, your eyes closing. “This okay?” he asks quietly.
“More than okay.”
“Good.” He yawns, his breath warm on your skin, and nuzzles into your neck. “I don’t know if you had plans for the rest of the evening, but I was kinda hoping I could spend the night.”
You snort. “You think you’re leaving after that? I’m keeping you. Forever.”
He chuckles, a low, sleepy sound, and tightens his hold on you. “Yeah? Forever’s a long time. You think you can handle me?”
“I handled you tonight, didn’t I?”
“You did,” he agrees. “You did. And it was… it was everything.”
You reach down and lace your fingers with his where they rest on your stomach. “Yeah. It was.”
“You should know,” he says, his voice already thick with sleep, “that I have no intentions of letting this be a one-time thing. I plan on taking you to dinner tomorrow night, too. Properly, this time. No cheap cantina wine for you.”
“Are you asking me on a date, Howzer?”
“Mm-hmm.” His lips press to the crook of your neck. “So? What do you say?”
“I say,” you say, grinning into the darkness, “I’d like that. A lot.”
“Good.” He yawns again, and this time, he’s out. His breathing evens out, deep and steady, and you can feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest against your back.
You lie there for a long time, just listening to him breathe. You can feel the drying stickiness of sweat and sex on your skin, the ache in your muscles, the tender throb between your legs. It’s a pleasant ache, a reminder of the pleasure you just experienced.
You think about the last few months, about the slow, gradual shift in your relationship with Howzer. The lingering glances, the casual touches, the easy banter that always hovered on the edge of something more. You think about all the wasted opportunities, all the moments you could have said something, did something, but didn’t.
You don’t regret it, though. You don’t think you could have handled this sooner. You had to be ready. You had to be sure. And you are. You’ve never been more sure of anything in your life. You close your eyes, and for the first time in a long, long while, you’re not afraid. You’re not worried about the future, about the war, about what comes next. You’re just… happy.
You fall asleep with a smile on your face, wrapped in his arms.
Warning: Poor writing below lol (Suggestive) also, the next chapter for His Favorite General should be out 6/27
Imagine you’re a senator or Jedi on a diplomatic mission with your clone escort — the same man you have a secret relationship with.
Imagine the diplomat you’re speaking to starts getting suggestive with their words. You see your partner’s helmet snap to the person from the other side of the room, but you quickly shut it down before it escalates.
Imagine the diplomat doesn’t take a hint, so — of course — your partner has to use their big scary dog privilege. You see the diplomat visibly shrink as your man moves to stand behind you. You have to stop yourself from leaning back into his chest, and you know he’s stopping himself from touching you.
Imagine the diplomat excuses their self, leaving just you two alone. Only then, do you feel your partner’s hands find their usual place on your hips, pulling you into their chest.
Imagine you hear that familiar modulated voice saying, “I don’t like them.” A giggle escapes you as you cover his hands with your own and teasingly coo, “My protector.”
Imagine he spins you around to face him, and he lightly grabs your chin in between his index finger and thumb, making you look into his visor — however, he knows you need no guidance to find his eyes.
Imagine you barely hear his whispered words, “I wish everyone could know you’re mine.” His thumb gently strokes your chin before he takes a step back. He knows how riled up you can get, and he sees it in the way your hand twitches to reach for him.
Imagine he tilts his helmet to the door with a reluctant, “Let’s get this over with. I got plans for you afterwards.”
Imagine the heat you feel in your cheeks and how quickly you turn towards the door. You think you hear a soft chuckle from him at how obediently you followed his words. You don’t care though, not if it gets you alone with your partner quicker.
(content : smut obv, pussy eatin, fingering, keeps the armor on, he gets off too ! google doc link with bigger text at the bottom ♥︎)
firm believer that this man is a MUNCH and PROUD.
he begs for it. as a captain, his work is hard and stressful. even more now that the empire has risen to power. spending his time with is face buried between your thighs is exaaaaactly how he likes to unwind.
you don't even really get a chance to ask him how his day was (you wouldn't really like the answer anyways). once that door slides open to his quarters, to where you've been hiding out for the day, he drops his helmet on the ground, not even bothering to remove the rest of his armor while he crawls over to you.
"turn over f'me," he mumbles, forgetting his manners and not even saying hello to you.
he would gladly eat it from the back, and he has before, but for right now, he wanted to see your face. no, he needed to see your face.
"howzer-" you try to say, still rolling over onto your back. your words are quickly cut off once he yanks your sleep shorts down, causing you to drop the holopad that was in your hand onto the mattress.
"'t's ok," he mumbles.
shamelessly, he leaned forward to dig his nose into your panties and inhaled deeply. it was gross and filthy, and you really shouldn't be turned on by it. but with the way his brown eyes glance up at you like he was genuinely possessed by the smell of you, it felt like your stomach was doing backflips.
"give me just a few minutes," howzer says while lazily pulling your panties down with his pointer finger.
it was moments like these you started to question if this was for your pleasure or his. the moment his tongue dove in and your mouth hung open, you could hear the moans begin to escape him. he got off on this as much, if not more, than you did.
"oh my god," you gasp out once his lips wrap around your clit, sucking hard. your fingers fly down onto his sweaty hair, lacing through and tugging him closer gently. the action made him buck his armored hips into the mattress.
"taste so good," howzer groans, his voice muffled.
you feel one of the hands that was on your thighs leave, but quickly find a new home as his middle and ring finger slowly enter your dripping hole. every single movement he makes is planned and specific. he knows your body and he knows it well. he's perfected the art of making you fall apart under his touch.
you can hear him growing louder as you begin to grow closer. the noises he's making are obscene, like he's making a nasty porno. the wet sounds of his fingers ramming into your hole combined with his filthy moans are enough to bring you closer to the edge just on its own.
and he can see it in your eyes as you watch him.
"give it t'me, c'monnn, baby."
you're almost sure he whines the last word out, but he doesn't give you too much time to think about it before his lips wrap around your clit again, his tongue circling around the swollen bud. it was all too much, and he could feel the grip on his dark hair tightening.
"fuck- howzer, i-" you nearly try pushing him away from the overstimulation but quickly succumbed to the pleasure, your vision and mind turning fuzzy. the sound of him was like he was underwater as your body shook and trembled, howzer letting you ride out your high on his face.
once you started to calm down, he gave you a few seconds to breathe before removing himself from your lower half and sitting up. he looked a whole lot more relaxed than how he did when he first entered the room. it made you giggle a bit, watching him lick his lips of you, wiping the excess off with the back of his hand.
looking him over, you admire his bulky form with the added white and teal armor on. but once your eyes travel down to his crotch, you notice the big wet stain seeping through his blacks.
furrowing your brows, you look back up to meet his dazed expression.
"did you seriously cum just from that..?" you ask.
"course i did," he shrugs like it was obvious. "you know it soothes me."
Free, thanks for doing this! This is Carol (@clonethirstingisreal)
It ended up not taking as long as I thought it would to decide...
Instead of going with my usual predictability of asking for a Hunter fic, I will ask for an only slightly less predictable Howzer fic!
"Side lying" was so dang tempting...but it didn't work with the other thing I wanted included, so instead I would like:
"Watching you masturbate (vibrator included if possible)" with a healthy dose of "breast play"...perhaps a he's helping up there while she's busy down there kind of thing. An "It's Shake 'n' Bake, and I helped!" situation (I don't mean to include that in the fic, it's just something I always say.)
But only if that works. If not, feel free to change it how it would be best for you!
Thanks again but no pressure!! If it doesn't work or if you get too many requests, that's ok!
Much love,
Carol
I'M BACK BITCHES! 😂 Not you, Carol, you're a saint. WHO WANTS SOME SMUT AT 11AM ON A THURSDAY? 🤣
Anywayyyy, I was in a *mood* last night, so here we are. I apologize in advance cause I'm rusty AF but I thought you'd be the most deserving (aka forgiving) recipient of my first request in ages, LOL. So... fifteen months later... here you go! 😜 And I didn’t proofread it cause I’m feelin wild and free. 🤣
Howzer x F Reader - 1.8k words
Content: breast play, a whiff of brat taming, a whiff of dom!Howzer, fingering, vibrator, did I mention breast play? ;)
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He dragged his tongue up the side of your neck, and what might otherwise tickle or repel you now sent a wave of electricity through you, straight between your legs. You arched your back, nestling your butt closer against him where you both lay naked and spooning, and shifted against his erection in no subtle way. An enticingly breathy sigh escaped your lips as you felt its length pressing against you, but it faded into protest as he drew away, tucking himself out of reach of your nefarious ass. He grinned, one hand propping up his head while the other glided along your side toward a breast. Teasing fingers barely grazed back and forth along the bottom of its curve before continuing up your shoulder and around your neck, ever so gently.
“Not yet,” he rumbled against the side of your face as he brushed a thumb along your jaw.
“Not fair,” you groaned.
“Not my fault,” he returned with the flicker of a smile at the corner of his lips where they pressed against your cheek, your temple, your neck, your collarbone…
* * *
You’d known he was coming for you from the moment he walked in the door that night. A mission debrief had kept him late, and the two of you had spent the better part of the day exchanging increasingly spicy comms, the last of which was sent while you idly stirred the creamy soup you’d been keeping warm on the stove for him. You knew the potential when the spark of novelty met the depth and familiarity of old love in bodies entwined, and you found yourself shifting in your silky pajamas, a craving ache in your core. The dim evening light made his eyes look darker, and his lips had brushed against yours a second longer than usual in greeting, softer and heavier.
“What’s this?” he smirked, giving your camisole a playful tug after cleaning up and changing into a thin t-shirt and the soft sweatpants he knew you liked.
“Proper cooking attire.”
“Hmmph.” He didn’t argue, rather fitted his form along your back, hands slowly reaching around your hips.
“Hungry?” you asked, turning off the burner and leaning into his touch.
“Yes.” He pulled you tight against his chest, one hand sliding straight up the middle of your front to hold you close, fingers splayed across your collarbone.
The soup was the last thing on his mind as you squirmed around to face him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and burying a hand in the hair on the back of his head before pulling him down and kissing him hard. He almost whimpered.
Almost.
Instead his hands were on you immediately – sliding up a thigh, cupping your ass with a firm grip, resting between your shoulders. You writhed against him and he pressed into you, as though the two of you could become one against the kitchen counter. Kisses grew messy. Cheeks reddened. Lips swelled. A trail of kisses down the side of your neck stoked the fire ever further.
“Bed. Now,” you demanded, pushing him back. He chuckled, normally the one to obediently follow your lead, but he wasn’t feeling that tonight. Instead he came right back, grabbing your thigh and lifting it around him as he kissed you again. His tongue flickered against your own, and you arched your back to grind against him as he dragged his teeth gently across your lower lip.
“You don’t always get to call the shots, princess,” he murmured, releasing your mouth to kiss your jaw and nip your earlobe. “It’s about time someone stood up to you, I think.”
“Oh really?” you laughed, equally aroused and indignant. Any further retort died on your lips as he pressed his erection against your thinly-clothed sex; the thick fabric of his sweatpants increasing the friction. He was in a mood, and it was insanely hot.
That was ten minutes ago.
Ten minutes of making out. Being lifted onto the counter and ravaged within an inch of your sanity. Kissing and sucking and nipping and caressing. Your top was gone, shorts hanging on by a thread as you writhed against his front. You wanted to beg. Gods, you wanted to beg. But you were not one to beg. So you’d get your way…
Or so you thought.
He’d lifted you against him, soldier muscles taut as he relished your weight in his arms, then carried you to your bedroom. He’d tucked you under a soft sheet, pulled your shorts to your toes where you kicked them off, and laid against your backside, naked and radiating heat. And now he was teasing you, drawing every last miserable second out into an eternity as his deft fingers glided along your skin. You didn’t know what he was waiting for, and he seemed to be quite enjoying your flustered impatience.
You shifted your ass against him again, grinding against his cock as you grabbed one of his hands in your own, guiding it toward your chest. But he pulled it back, scolding you in your ear with a sinful whisper before grabbing both your wrists in one hand and drawing them over your head, rolling you onto your back as he pinned them there. You felt exposed and electrified, nipples pebbling in the cool night air as he gazed down at you.
“Stubborn, aren’t you?”
“Goddamnit,” you breathed, insanely turned on but yes, stubborn as hell.
He moved down a bit, keeping your hands pinned as he trailed kisses down your neck and chest until they got to a breast, where he paused with a warm, open-mouthed exhale across it. You bit back a whine, settling instead to give him your best “fuck me” look when he glanced up at you, mouth hovering over a nipple. You’d never seen such a fiendish grin on his face in response, and he lowered his lips slowly. You arched your back again, aching for contact, and he flicked his tongue across the tip, sending a shock to your core. Your little gasp provoked him further, and he shifted his thighs around his cock, leaking and swollen between them. He licked a circle, once, twice, three times with more pressure each time, then without warning took as much of your breast into his mouth as he could, sucking and running his tongue along it.
You were too lost in the sensation to notice his hand gliding up the inside of your thigh.
That was five minutes ago.
Five minutes of his masterful fingers enticing your pussy. Feather-light tracing grew into firmer strokes. A finger inside drew out a full moan from you, and a sinisterly slow rub around your clit had you squirming. He’d released your wrists to prop himself up further, dragging his tongue across a breast before sucking hard enough to make your toes curl. The stimulation from above and below was echoing through your core as he sank two fingers in, groaning against your sternum as he felt your slick walls around him. It took all he had to keep from thrusting his cock into you right there, but the helpless whine it elicited from you set him on his course. Fingers in and out. Slowly. A thumb against the clit. Fueling the fire. Cool air across a nipple before careful teeth and a warm tongue. You were coming completely undone.
“You want something?” he asked, and you were suddenly aware that your stubbornness had flown out the window at the first finger.
“Please,” you whispered, aching in the best way. Gods, there was never such desperate need in your voice. And to know he’d been the one to do it to you…
He began to rub your pussy, broad strokes alternating with devastatingly accurate circles of your clit, and you could feel the waves building from deep inside. Your breathy praise encouraged his every movement, and he pressed his face against your neck, hot breath tickling your collarbone as his deft fingers wrote a symphony of sensation between your legs. But then he slowed.
“Oh hell no–” you began, smothered indignation melting into laughter as he covered your mouth with a hand. He rolled away for a moment, then came back brandishing your vibrator.
“So impatient,” he chided, replacing his hand with a kiss to your mouth as he passed the vibrator to you. He didn’t have to ask; you knew what he wanted. And you loved it.
“Gonna last like 13 seconds…” you murmured, smiling against his lips at the faint sound of a chuckle in his chest. He didn’t reply, but kissed you more deeply as you switched it on and dipped it between your legs, biting your lip immediately at the crash of sensation where you’d already been primed to the slightest touch. He sat up a bit, watching you move it from front to back, teasing your pussy as you squirmed, and thought he would explode. The sight of your furrowed brows, heaving chest, and glistening sex was driving him mad, and he closed his eyes for a moment, grasping one breast and kneading it firmly.
You pulled the vibrator away for a moment, absolutely spinning as nerves went off across your body like fireworks, His scent, his heat, his mouth, his hand… The desperate little sounds that he made to match your own as you pressed it against yourself again… He’d worked you into a near frenzy, and you clutched his arm, further aroused by his muscles as his hand ravaged one breast, then the other – cupping, pinching, caressing, squeezing… As he felt your response growing, he lowered his mouth once again, dragging his tongue across a nipple before taking it in his mouth, knowing it would drive you over the edge, and when your body tensed as moans turned into mewls, he buried his face, licking and sucking you through your climax. White hot electricity rocked through your body as he continued, slowing only with the movements of your hand as your unhindered gasps and whines sang his praises and slowly quieted.
When you closed your legs to the side with a huge exhale, basking drunkenly in the orgasmic glow, he grinned, pulling back to tuck himself neatly along your back again. A million pert comments ran through his mind, but none were strong enough to break through his thick haze of contentment. You shuddered, one residual wave of bliss, and started to roll to face him, murmuring something about his turn as you made a feeble grasp for his cock. He laughed, tucking you back neatly where you’d been, and kissed your shoulder blade.
“You just enjoy that,” he offered.
“I’m recharging for round two,” you said in mocking sternness.
“If you say so,” he conceded, a knowing grin softening his handsome face.
And the dynamics were back in play.
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