ICEBREAKER: a Crosshair x Reader x Hunter fanfic with multiple endings
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It was nothing more than an assignment in the beginning. You were only doing your duty - it was never meant to end up like this, with you caught between the fiery sergeant and the icy sniper. There's no going back now, and the only way out is forward... what will you choose?
Complete work of 12 chapters (24.4k words)
3+1 endings dependent on your choices in the end
Explore an angsty love triangle
Experience what it's like to be part of the squad
Author's note: To celebrate the release of the last season of TBB, I finally finished one of my biggest writing projects. Warmly recommending it to those who enjoy love triangles, Star Wars, and angst! Head below the cut to read a snippet from the first chapter.
Warnings: listed in tags on AO3, please check them out before reading
“But Hunter yelled at me for being reckless for a solid hour. And Crosshair said he didn’t care if I wanted to get myself killed, but I should do it in a way that didn’t interfere with the mission. Seriously, what an asshole.”
“Nevermind what they actually say,” Tech waves his hand in mild annoyance. “Hunter was worried sick. Crosshair almost went after you. And they’re both too pigheaded to admit the real reason why they’re so worked up.”
“Which is?”
“Obviously they both view you as a potential romantic partner.”
There’s a moment of pause as you two stare back at one another before you snort and chuckle, shaking your head and crossing your arms over your chest as a futile attempt at staying warm. “Tech, you need to work on your sense of humour.”
“And you need to work on your observational skills and situational awareness.”
“My observational skills are exceptional,” you defend yourself, a finger held up in the air defiantly. “And my situational awareness is-”
“Lacking, as you didn’t seem to notice the whitefang return. I suggest we head back to the safety of the Marauder.”
Sure enough, the wild cat is there lurking amongst the ice dunes, its eyes glowing in the dark as they reflect the light of the ship. It shouldn’t pose a threat to you as it is alone, and relatively small, but you still consider wrestling with it instead of returning to the ship and facing the rest of the squad - somehow, even that feels like a fight more fair than the ones that await you upon your return. So you hold its gaze as it curiously inspects you, wishing to swap bodies and run away and avoid any more conflict. Before you can even think of returning to the ship, you hear quiet footsteps catching up to you.
Summary: Your wife promises to see you again in a minute before the time heist, only she doesn’t return afterwards when everyone else does.
There will be no grand funeral. No crying on each other's shoulders. No embellished gravestone to commemorate her life and heroism. Hell, there isn't even a body left of her to bury. There is nothing, just a sentence that keeps echoing in your ears, uttered by your late wife as she had hugged you encouragingly before the Time Heist.
"I'll see you in a minute."
But then you didn't. Natasha never came back. And thus the longest minute of your life began as you realized that you will have to live on without her.
You fought hard and well afterwards. You knew she would never have forgiven you for giving up, and you had no intention of letting the rest of the Avengers down. You sacrificed your every thought and surge of energy for the cause so you didn't have to think about your wife having to die without you. Or about how Nat had begun to plan your future together, your marriage giving her an edge of hopefulness she never had the luxury to possess before. You didn't sleep, didn't even go back to your shared room in the compound afterwards because you just couldn't. Nat was gone, and you sorely wished for your memories of her to die with her, but in more ways than one, she stayed almost vividly alive in your heart and mind. You could feel her arms around your bare form when you took a shower, shivering as you cried and wrapped yourself in layers of towels to kill the phantom touch of her skin on yours. You heard her voice and her laughter everywhere, and as if she lived on in your mind, you could almost know for certain what she'd say or think in different situations. She guided your hands every time you picked up a weapon and fired at an enemy as if she was trying to keep you alive even from beyond the grave. And surprisingly, you made it. You survived Thanos, you survived the deaths around you and you helped reinstate the world to how it was before. The only problem is that you never planned to survive yourself.
You wanted to die. Planned on dying. Imagined death to wear the face of your dead lover. Death seemed like an old friend, like a relief to a neverending ailment. But for some cruel reason, you were spared. Sentenced to life instead of death.
Clint is glued to your side as you attend Tony's funeral. You don't know whether it's because he feels guilty or because he feels sorry for you. Probably both. You down your champagne and call it lunch, feeling like your stomach is half the size it should be. You want to excuse yourself and get lost in the bucolic little forest and lie down in a ditch and be forgotten.
"I'll step outside for a moment. I need some air."
"(Y/n)," is all Clint says as he draws you in for a long, stiff hug. When he pulls back, an unfamiliar weight in the pocket of your black blazer demands your attention. "Go get some fresh air." The look he is giving you is very meaningful and demanding. You step outside. Manoeuvring the grieving people, you sit down on a bench by the lake where Tony's old heart had drowned not long ago and reach into your pocket. A cheap phone in a red case finds itself in your confused and hesitating fingers. Unlocking it is all too easy, and the phone has nothing on it except for a video. You almost don't want to open it because you know what you're going to find on it.
You play the video anyways.
She looks tired, but young - oh so young with her creamy skin and fiery hair. Her hair is straightened, parted down the middle neatly, and she's wearing that leather coat you always found so foxy. She proposed to you when SHIELD collapsed in on itself, and you almost end up laughing hysterically when you realize that you can tell the years apart by your late wife's hairstyles. This video is old - made probably in 2014. She's so real though that you want to cry, and she hasn't even started talking yet.
"Hey baby."
Now you're crying. Unashamed, fat tears fall from your eyes, blurring your vision up to a point where you only wipe your eyes so that you can continue seeing her. Natasha, trapped in that tiny rectangle of a screen you're clutching so desperately, sighs before smiling slightly.
"I've given this message to Clint for safekeeping in case... well, in case I ran out of all my nine lives. SHIELD is gone and compromised, and I'm helping Steve shut down Hydra, but I can't guarantee that I'll come home. I wish I could. If you're watching this, I'm gone and the mission probably went horribly wrong, which is of course not my fault. Remember how I couldn't promise you to always come back? Well, I want you to know that despite not having made it, I did everything in my power to do so. I just probably drew the short straw or something. But you don't have to, (Y/N). Wherever I am, and whatever might have happened, I want you to keep going on. I know you'd want the same, should our roles be reversed. I'm hoping you never have to see this..."
Her voice trails off as she tears up. You almost forget that it's a recording as you want to console her. But dead men need no consolation.
"... Even now, I'm hoping to delete this one day as you're making coffee for the both of us one morning when we're old. But luck runs out eventually, and we all have to go one day. If there is one thing I know, it's the inevitability of death. I always knew it would come for me too. And sometimes I wished it would because of all the terrible things I've done. ... But you changed that, you know? You made me want to live and you made me a better person. Clint turned my world upside down when he spared me, but it was you who crystallized that change in me, (Y/n). Your love saved me in more than one way and now I want to save you too. I know you. I know you want to be reckless now and you want to take risks, but I'm asking you not to. If you've ever loved me, baby, then you'll do one more thing for me, okay? The world needs good people like you, so do everything in your power to stay alive and continue protecting it. Save people, as you did me. And forget me. Keep going while you have to. Fight your battles. Love those you care about. I'll be waiting for you in the end. A lifetime is a small amount of time to pass if it means I'll get to see you again. Because I will. I know I will. It will all be over in the blink of an eye, in but a minute. I promise. Now get out of here and live. I have to put on my best set of afterlife lingerie before you get here, and you know how long it takes for me to get ready."
You watch the video one last time. It's been years since you last did, but you finally feel like you're ready to let go. Despite tearing up, you even laugh at Natasha's silly joke in the end. Deleting it feels good. It feels like she can finally rest. And you can finally breathe. Hallelujah.
"What's that?" your wife asks you, sinking down on the bed next to you as she glances at the old phone in your hand. "What, this old piece of junk? Just a memory, Wanda. One I'm willing to let go of now."
"Well, good. I need you in the present."
"That's uncharacteristically romantic of you, Mrs (Y/l/n)."
Wanda grins. Hearing you call her your last name always makes her giddy.
"Sam called. He's got a mission for us."
"And here I was, expecting a candlelit dinner or something."
TWC Secret Santa @wayhavensecretsanta ❄ - Happy holidays, @ejunkiet!
It was an absolute pleasure to create for you, I love Lizzie and Ava so much!!! 🩵 I couldn't decide whether to draw or write, so enjoy a bit of both. (BTW I seriously recommend @ejunkiet's fics of their detective OC Lizzie Quail, they're so good.) Happy holidays again! xx P.s. If you saw me accidentally post a draft of my gift to you a few days before... Shhh no you didn't. 🥲
Summary: After Unit Bravo's holiday dinner with Detective Lizzie Quail, Felix realises all the photos he took with his polaroid camera are botched.
Wordcount: 835
Warnings: smoking, Fuzzy Holidays Feels™
Too blurry. Too crowded. Mason is holding up his middle finger. Not focused on the subject. Ava appears to be sneering?
The polaroids scatter on the floor as they’re being dropped, Felix’s frustration seemingly travelling through his fingertips and into the botched pictures as they skitter across the parquet. He had such high hopes for this holiday dinner they’ve panned - he even volunteered, much to Nat’s suspicion, to help decorate the warehouse to prepare the background for his perfect winter photos. There doesn’t seem to be a single wall or piece of furniture without strings of fairy lights or garlands hanging off them - and yet somehow, he managed to mess up all the pictures he took.
“I should have just used my phone, not this stupid polaroid Nat gave me,” he grumbles, as he sinks to the floor dramatically from the sofa. He turns his head to the left, expecting a response from Mason, but aside from the shrug of a shoulder, and a puff of smoke, he’s as disinterested as always. Felix allows his head to loll right now, and peeks through the open doors into the dining room, but his other team members are too far to share in his misery. Lizzie is in the middle of a story, which has Nat’s full attention, and Ava’s full, well, everything? Attention, adoration, respect, senses, everything. They’re cute, the way they hold hands over the table, how Ava squeezes Lizzie's hand encouragingly when she trails off or gets embarrassed by her own rambling. Felix hoped he would capture a moment between them, something candid, something like right now, but he’s missed his windows of opportunity - like for instance when Ava finally allowed herself to be dragged under the mistletoe with Lizzie, but their picture was ruined by the detective spilling her drink all over herself.
“Felix?”
“Leave me alone,” he replies, but he also cracks one eye open to make sure Nat, who’s just entered the room, doesn’t lose interest in his pity party on the floor. But she’s already retreating, so he starts flailing his limbs as if he were making a snow angel in the sea of polaroids. “Please don’t leave me alone. Mason won’t talk to me and I’m embarrassed. I messed up all the pictures. I tried taking them like you showed me but I messed up.”
“They’re not so bad,” Nat says kindly as she sits with her friend, plucking the odd semi-decent pictures from the ground. “See? This is lovely.”
“Yeah, but Lizard has hot chocolate spilt on her sweater in that one.”
“Don’t call her that,” Mason grumbles, as he sweeps some polaroids off his lap - the by-product of Felix’s snow angel performance - and flicks his cigarette into the flames of the fireplace. Nat pretends not to see, but the pain flashing across her features has already made Felix feel a little better. They spend the better of the next hour going through the pictures and sorting them out, while Mason sits close-by, smoking, lost in his thoughts. All that breaks their peace is Frank Sinatra’s drawling voice coming from the record player, and the occasional laughter from the lovebirds still camped in the dining room. By the end of it, they’re left with a handful of decent-ish photographs, and Felix wastes no time sticking them into the photo album he got from Lizzie for Christmas.
There was a moment today, a moment worth capturing, one that was befitting of the old silver screen movies Nat made him and Lizzie watch, between Ava and their beloved detective. Naturally, Felix - a rotten romantic at heart - is pissed that he wasn’t able to capture it. It was a moment far better than the forced kiss under the mistletoe, a moment of intimacy, when the pair thought they were away from prying eyes. A hand under Lizzie’s jaw, Ava’s eyes fixed on the prize, wanting to kiss but being unable to take their eyes off of each other… Obviously the shutter of the camera ruined it, causing the pair step away from each other, and Lizzie to hide her blushing cheeks behind the curtain of her frizzy hair, but that’s beside the point. They were happy. Maybe happier than he’s ever seen them. Things are often so fucked up, with the odds always stacked against them, that Felix sometimes lives in the comfort of these moments. He lives in his family’s happiness, in his friends’ laughter, in Lizzie’s tight hugs, in Ava’s pats on the shoulder… If he could, he’d capture all these moments in a jar and keep them very close always. Photographs are the next best thing - which is why he’s bummed out the picture he took of this moment must be so unrecognisable that it was swallowed by his sea of botched photographs.
He’s lost in thought when Mason nudges his shoulder, a polaroid of Lizzie and Ava in his hand stretched towards him.
“Found this under the sofa. Not too bad, if you’re into this lovey-dovey shit.”
Summary: You're afraid to go all the way with Crosshair because of your previous bad experiences. But maybe you shouldn't have been...
Warnings: +18 (minors dni), cursing, fingering, implied oral (giving), bad experiences with ex, orgasm delay
He’s kissing a line up your neck from behind you, taking his time, filled with veneration and need for you, waiting for your defences to finally crack and crumble and collapse under his sweet siege.
You’ve tried this before, the two of you, alone and in no rush, but he never got past the hem of your pants and you never got past your own insecurities and bad memories. It really only takes one asshole, one inattentive and bad partner, and now you’re afraid you’re forever going to dread making love. It’s not that you don’t trust Crosshair. But every time you want to let him in and deepen the already significant intimacy between you two, you retreat. You never should have let that other man make you his – you were inexperienced and naïve, and he was easy on the eyes and dangerous. You were so young, you thought you could change him, and absolve him of his sins through your love, and make him see the light. But you know better now, you know these men can’t be fixed, and letting them close will only allow them to bring you down on their level.
He left you feeling wrong and broken, and he went back to work for the Hutt Cartel while you stayed you, the little broken hearted Jedi. But despite your best effort, you soon turned bitter, and sour, and guarded, walls built so high it was no wonder you felt like no one would ever love you again.
That was until Crosshair came along, of course. And the rest is history.
But you two might turn into nothing more than a failure too if you remain unable to overcome your inhibitions. He understands, you broke down the first time you couldn’t go all the way with him despite wanting it, wanting him, and he listened. And he hates that man, and the way he blundered between your legs when he should have fucking worshipped you softly like the living, breathing god you are. And yet you two haven’t been able to move on, not even slightly, always getting stuck on the same spot, when your anxiety outgrows your lust and you change your mind before anything could happen between you.
And you’ve reached that point again today, he can feel the way you tense up in his arms, fingers gripping his wrists, subconsciously trying to restrain him. As if he ever did anything against your wishes, anything you wouldn’t enjoy…! He can feel his temper flare, but it melts into a mellow ache in his chest when he sees the way your eyes shine in the dim light, unshed tears threatening to spill down your beautiful cheeks. You self-consciously bring up an arm to cover your exposed breasts as he tightens his embrace around you. You stay seated on his lap, back pressed against his chest, not feeling threatened at all, even though you’re embarrassed. Because you want him, you really do, you need him, but it isn’t him you feel on your skin whenever you lose yourself in the moment.
You feel his nose press against your neck as you apologise quietly, lower lip quivering. “I’m sorry…”
“Don’t.”
Your body language – apart from your teary eyes – still sings with carnal need, and Crosshair’s heart breaks a little. He hates the thought of you having to take care of your arousal alone, ashamed that you can’t love him the way you so obviously want him. He honestly has no idea how to handle this situation, how to make it better, but he knows he doesn’t want you to take your suffering to your quarters alone when you go back to the Jedi Temple; he wants you to shudder in ecstasy when you come, not in shame. Driven by his spur of the moment decision, he places his hands underneath yours, and you press his palms flat against your stomach, the warmth radiating from his skin filling you with pleasant tingles.
“Why don’t you just use me? Use my hands as if they were yours. Use me, I’ll do whatever you need me to do. Just let me help, sunshine.”
The offer catches you off-guard, but he knows it excites you by the way you squirm in his lap in anticipation. It takes a lot of willpower on his part to stay still and wait for your hands to tighten on his fingers before you give a small, unsure nod.
“But if I ask you to stop…”
“Is there anything I wouldn’t do if you asked?” He aims to hit a joking tone, but his voice is almost embarrassingly soft. You seemingly needed it though, because you’re twisting your head back, eyes begging him for a kiss that he grants almost too eagerly. He’s slowing down for your sake, restraining his eagerness to show you he’s different, he’s on your side, he’s respecting your boundaries. It fans the flames in your belly that threatened to run cold not long ago, and the sensation of his soft lips on yours stirs something deep in you.
You move his hands to cover your breasts, guiding his gentle caress to your already erect nipples. You whimper into his mouth, and he encourages you by slowing his movements down almost impossibly. You break the kiss, head rolling back against his shoulder as your spine curves. You push your chest into his hands even more, while letting a knee to fall between his legs as you grind down on his thigh. You’re so lost in the security and the pleasure of the moment that your hands fall away without you noticing, and you steady yourself by holding onto the armrests of the chair. A lump forms in Crosshair’s throat at the sight of you, so sweet and undone and needy. He loves you, he knows that, and he hasn’t been shy about it either, but he’s also been wishing to show you just how much he really means it. He’s been wanting to have you, to make you his, to show you you’d never need anyone else because he’d take care of you always, in every way possible.
He knows he’s not there yet. But tonight, in the seclusion of the cheap motel room you’ve rented for yourselves on Coruscant, he’s closer to realising his wish than he’s ever been.
“Are you sure?”
He holds your hand in his, not letting you move it until he’s heard you ask for it.
“Yeah.”
And soon Crosshair’s hand is sliding down your belly slowly, and you’re shuddering as you guide him all the way to the hem of your pants. You’ve imagined this already so many times in the privacy of your room, your fingers being his, that the anticipation of what’s to come has your breath hitch in your throat. Fantasy fuses with reality, and somehow it feels right, like it’s just the two of you, rewriting the bad memories nestled in the back of your mind. You urge him to go further down, and you close your eyes, sighing when his fingers softly brush against the skin of your inner thigh. He draws it out, works you over gently, repositions you so that your legs are on either side of his thighs.
And only when you’re a gasping, writhing mess on his lap does he let his fingers find that sweet, sweet spot between your legs, while his other arm curls around your midsection to hold you in place. He’s excited too, eager to please, to make you see stars. His parted lips linger just above your ear as he leans in close, middle finger slipping down your folds to dip into your slick. His breath is warm, fanning the side of your face as he speaks.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“Please keep going.”
It’s sinful, it really is, he shouldn’t find this moment so touching for all the wrong sentimental reasons, but he does. You’ve trusted him in every possible way before but this, and though you both know sex isn’t the most crucial part of the connection you share, this moment feels heavy with importance.
However, all sentiments are forgotten once his middle finger finds your clit. He watches your face almost constantly, skillful fingers playing you just how you want to be played. He’s good at this, at catching up on all the things you like, and you let him explore you. Your building pleasure prevents you from worrying too much, it wipes your mind clean of all thoughts until there’s just you, and him, and his hand down the front of your pants.
“I think I’m… I think I’m going to…”
“You think you’re what, sunshine?”
He almost chuckles when your eyes go wide at his fingers stilling completely. He’s leaving sloppy, wet kisses behind your ear as you try to buck your hips against his hand, but his arm is firm around you, preventing you from getting that much needed friction on your clit.
“Please make me come. Oh god, please.”
There will be other nights, he promises himself. Other opportunities to tease you, to drag out his honeyed torture for as long as time allows. But tonight, he doesn’t want to stretch you too thin, he doesn’t want you to suffer even in pleasure. So he puts his fingers to work again, making sure to apply just the right amount of pressure to drive over the edge smoothly. You get so eager your hips move along with his hand encouragingly as your orgasm hits you, and he lets you ride it out as you hold onto his arm around you. You shudder, moan caught in your throat as your chin drops to your chest. Crosshair’s lips are on you, trailing kisses along your shoulder as he rubs your dripping cunt gently. You’re still unable to speak, stunned by how smoothly he pleasured you, how naturally your bodies worked together.
“Fuck, that was… That was really good. I could get used to this.”
“Oh, I can make you feel even better than this, I promise.”
“Something to look forward to then.”
“Would you like a preview?”
You sigh and shudder again when he slips a finger inside you. You’re wet and clenched and spent, and yet as he gently strokes your walls, your body reacts, and you’re already getting ideas for the next time you’re going to let him pleasure you.
The thought is so natural that you almost miss its relevance.
Once you trust your legs to function again, you shift in his embrace and lift his hand to your mouth, sucking on the finger he’s just removed from inside you. When you look at him from under your lashes, lips around his finger, he honest to god moans. He’s pulling you in for a deep kiss, needy, tasting you on your lips, wanting you even more if that’s even possible. Which is why he knows he has to stop, he needs to get you off his lap soon, or else.
But you’re not budging, and even when you do, you’re sinking down on your knees between his legs, emboldened by your newfound trust in your abilities and your shared trust. It’s like he broke a dam in you, and while you may need more time to warm up to him completely, the water is already trickling through – it may not be much now, but it promises to drown you in desire for one another.
Yeah, you still have bad memories. But maybe making new, better ones is how you get rid of them. And you’re sure as hell not letting that bastard win, not when you have this new life now, this new love, this man who’s so worthy of your love.
When you push his knees further apart, he sucks in a breath sharply, a hand making its way below your chin to tilt your head up.
“You sure about this?”
“I am,” you whisper, keeping eye contact with him the whole time as your fingers dig into the soft flesh of his thighs. “You’ve been so good to me. Is there any way I can repay the favour, sunshine?”
Hello there! Hope you're doing well. Are you stll taking microstory requests? If yes, may I request 24.(tender) with Ven Zallow? If not, no worries 🥰
24. tender
"Focus, Aryn."
The lanterns in the temple gardens paint the potted plants and the steep, angular walls of the courtyard a warm orange, which is in stark contrast with the deep blue of the evening sky. Like master and padawan, the light wrestles with the dark - Aryn tries to read her master's mind, Ven tries to resist her.
Aryn - despite her young age - is all talent and concentration, brows furrowed, eyes squeezed shut, lips set in a tight line. She's a prodigy, and of course that means teaching her comes with equally intricate challenges. And yet Ven is proud, prouder than he's ever been of a student, and he wonders if she can sense that, that despite the setbacks, the hardships, the failures, she is still the greatest thing he's had the privilege to help create. As she's scratching at the door of his consciousness, yet again failing to read her master's mind (not like she's ever had a chance, but the lesson here is persistence anyways) he's thrown off balance when the little girl sticks out her tongue in concentration, and suddenly there's another feeling beside pride now that swells in his heart, rearing to give in to Aryn's will prodding his mind - tenderness. He's never particularly wanted a family, or a child, but then again he never had the luxury to entertain such fancies.
And now there's this child, and he calls himself master. But in his mind, he calls himself father too. However, Aryn doesn't need to know. And he's not ready for her to know either.
...
When the temple burns, and the flames rage against the starless abyss of the night sky many years later, Ven welcomes Aryn into his mind one last time. And amidst all the warnings of a dying master about the Empire and Darth Malgus, Aryn also finds tender thoughts fading fast.
“How eloquent. I thought Jedi were supposed to be graceful.”
“And I thought you were supposed to be a good shot! And yet all you’ve fired so far are insults at my direction!”
The soldier lines up his next shot, the barrel of the sniper rifle resting cockily on his pauldron, his stance appearing relaxed despite the great number of droids advancing towards you. He honest to god chuckles then, clearly unbothered by your nervous fidgeting, the snappish undertones of your words, or the way you slot yourself cautiously between him and the wall. You briefly remember your solo mission that originally brought you to Nar Shaddaa, and you want to give in to your frustrations when you think of how you fucked up. You’re a Jedi, true, but it’s difficult to outfox an entire smuggler’s moon when the whole planet is gunning for you. Fuck, it was supposed to be so simple. And now you’re stuck with a single Rep trooper who’s been separated from his special unit.
To put it eloquently, you’re in a difficult situation with a compromised position and zero chance of backup due to Nar Shaddaa’s supposed neutrality. To put it simply, you’re royally fucked, and the Separatist droids are nearly up your ass. You grip the hilt of your lightsaber tightly, ready for anything.
“I am a good shot. And apparently I’ve hit a sore spot,” the trooper snarks, and aims, readjusting his position to face the speeder bikes between you and the droids.
Speeder bikes against which several Black Sun gang members are leaning.
One well-placed shot is all it really takes to ignite a power cell and incite a conflict between the droids and the Black Sun thugs. The flames and the flashing lights of blaster fire mix with the neon lights of the Nar Shaddaa night, and the concrete jungle is lit up like a Life Day tree. Not that you’ve ever seen one in the Jedi Temple. But you’ve been living through the Holonet for far too long, and this is as close to the real thing as it comes for someone like you.
The soldier slings his rifle over his shoulder before brushing past you.
“Coming, General? Or are you planning on getting yourself captured again?”
You turn and follow him and the two of you melt into the darkness.
2.
You narrow your eyes.
The old air conditioner hums, its constant buzz unravelling your anxiety. Or is it the Corellian whiskey? Anyways, you’re safe now for the time being, even though your future is still unknown. But you’re a Jedi, and Crosshair is a soldier, and uncertainty is all you’ve ever known. You’re comfortable. You reach for your tumbler and take a sip and melt a little even more.
He’s good. Too good. And you’re pure, too pure to try to read his mind.
You play the cards you’ve been dealt, and you lose.
He has a nice smile, almost lazy and cat-like as he rakes in the bets you’ve placed – a few credits, the privilege of sleeping on the small bed, the best bits of the roast gorak. Seems like you’ve got the floor and the ration bars again.
His eyes are on you as he leans back and refills your glasses, curious and assessing. His unreadable façade is seemingly unshakable. If you don’t figure out what to do soon, you’ll both be dead. Instead, you’re here getting drunk and playing Sabacc.
“You’re really bad at this game,” he settles on saying eventually as he unsheathes the vibroblade strapped to his thigh and cuts into the gorak. It’s a straight cut, right down the middle, slicing through the paper its wrapped in before pushing one half over to you.
You feel the same way a little under his heavy hooded gaze, parting wherever he wants to open you up.
So you speak. You tell him how there’s barely any opportunity for a Jedi to let loose, to relax – especially since the war broke out. The words come spilling out of your mouth like it's fucking confession, and he listens, and you eat.
“Well, we know which vendor never to visit again,” you sigh, pushing away your unfinished meal, closing the topic now. You feel like you’ve said too much, but he’s looking back at you with the same stoic eyes, the same indomitable, cool tranquillity.
He nods eventually, and finishes whatever you’ve left behind anyways. You spend the rest of the evening following his nimble fingers with your eyes, wondering whether he would cheat at Sabacc.
3.
Crosshair respects your personal space for a while, until he doesn’t one day.
You have the coordinates of the nearest Republic-aligned planet punched into the navicomputer of your stolen ship. and hyperspace surrounds you once more as this nightmarish disaster of a mission is coming to a surprisingly successful end. You’ve got the intel you came here for, with the sniper’s help, of course. And you’re both back to your old lives. No doubt the Republic would be anxious to push the both of you back to the frontlines, and while you’ve accepted that as your reality by now, it still feels difficult to return. You don’t want to go back, you don’t want to stand in line again. You were in grave danger these past weeks, yes, but you were also a person.
And that, well, you haven’t felt like that in a long while. Maybe the Order isn’t to blame, maybe it is. But it’s just not working for you and you’re not ready to accept that.
You’re in the cockpit, feet drawn up to sit cross-legged as you watch the stars blur into lines of light. Hyperspace travel used to soothe you. But now, as you’re trying to meditate, it just reminds you of the neon lights of Nar Shaddaa and somehow that fucks you up.
You sense him more than you see him.
He’s deathly silent as he creeps up on you, his hands landing on your shoulders with practised certainty. You know what he is going to offer, and a part of you wants to say yes to him, and to the continued feeling of being alive.
“I could help you relax.”
A sigh breaks free from your throat as his fingers give your shoulders a good squeeze, your muscles and bones singing in relief. You’re so touch starved, and it’s so good to be wanted and caressed and held and – no. No. You can’t. You stop him when his hands slide down to caress the curve of your breasts, and you just mutely shake your head. You’ve had enough one night stands to know you crave something else. You crave something that stays even after carnal pleasure fades, something that belongs to you even when it’s beyond your reach.
Crosshair was the first in months to see you as just another person. Somehow if he walked away after having you, it would break you a thousand times over.
“I can’t,” you say, finding your voice.
“I thought only attachments were forbidden,” he huffs, but removes his hands entirely as he plops down in the seat next to you and props his feet up.
“Yeah. What a load of bullshit,” you swallow thickly, fists tangled into your robes.
He doesn’t say anything. But after a while, his head lolls to the side, and he starts watching you again with those eyes, silent for the rest of the flight.
Then you follow him down the ramp after landing and you think what a pity it is that you will probably never meet again.
4.
You were taught to allow your thoughts and feelings to exist and flow in the confinement of your mind, that is true. But you were also taught not to allow them to distract you from the present. Let them keep humming in the back of your mind like a static-y holoprojector, but your focus should always be in the now, in your breathing, in the Force.
But it’s not working tonight.
There’s a deafening silence around you, and heat, and heavy clouds rumbling with thunder that erase all your willpower to continue meditating. Coruscant is dark, and soon there will be rain to wash away all the pent-up vibrating energy. Not yours, unfortunately. But definitely Coruscant’s.
You put on regular clothes and go out into the night, leaving the Temple behind. You’re going for a walk, you tell the Temple guards on your way out, which isn’t practically a lie, but it’s a far cry from what you have in mind. You don’t really want to remember, or feel, or return any time soon to be honest.
The underworld reminds you of Nar Shaddaa a little at least, rekindling your thoughts of that mission with Crosshair that you’ve tucked away into your heart. It’s dangerously addictive, like spice, a guilty pleasure you hide but indulge in all the more when you’re alone. It’s been months, and you’re still thinking about how he made you feel, and it’s pathetic, but you want to be in that state of mind or else you’ll go crazy.
You’re leaving for another mission in less than a week.
You wonder into a bar mindlessly, and order, and you don’t know why you’re here but it felt like the right choice anyway. The music is loud, and the Mirialan circling the single stripping pole looks bored, and the air is stuffy, and the crowd is building steadily. But it’s still better than what’s inside your mind. You lean over your drink at the bar like some loser, knowing you’d never in a million years be recognised here in this dump.
The bartender taps your shoulder before sliding you a Corellian whiskey on ice. Mediocre, but far better than the shit you ordered yourself. “Compliments of the gentleman in the corner.”
You twist in your seat and then you see him, surrounded by a handful of other clones who look different from the regulars in many ways. It’s a loud bunch, they’re clearly celebrating, and then there’s the silver haired devil of your dreams looking at you so intently it almost cuts through the flashing lights of the bar. You raise your glass and you drink deep.
And then you get up and leave because it’s jarring to see him again, it’s fucked up to see him so content and okay when you’ve done nothing but falling apart ever since you two parted ways.
“You weren’t planning on leaving without saying hello, were you now?”
He’s leaning against a wall, arms crossed over his chest, the right corner of his mouth tugged up into a lazy half-smirk.
“Thanks for the drink.”
“Damn, they didn’t teach you any conversational skills at the Jedi Academy, did they?”
“I guess I forgot to pick them up on the way.”
For a moment, he considers the sorry state you’re in – your shoulders rounding forward, your sunken-in cheeks pale in the city lights, the dark circles under your eyes telling tales of your insomnia. He doesn’t understand why, but he’s still drawn to you, like a moth to a flame, unable to shake off the influence of this irresistible attraction. You’ve rejected him once, plain and simple. And he feels angry at himself for trying so hard, but he puts on his best nonchalant expression anyway before speaking.
“I know a better place not far from here. Smaller. Less crowded.”
“Next round is on me,” you bump your shoulder into his before following him down a dark twisting alley.
5.
His quiet moans are a lullaby you use to put your aching heart at ease. He’s around you, inside you, in your thoughts. The Jedi Order could collapse in on itself now and you would barely feel a thing other than Crosshair. He forces out the buzzing thoughts in your head and replaces them with that gaze filled with desire only for you.
You used to think he only wanted your body. But you’ve come to recognise that as a half-truth. He needs you in all the other wonderful, dangerous, desperate ways you need him too. You don’t make each other’s problems go away. There’s still a bloody war to fight and win, and there’s still shackles holding you back, but it all feels less shit when you two are together. You both feel human and that’s that. You don’t call it love, you don’t call it anything. You just are, gravitating towards each other always just as surely as the sun rises every morning over Coruscant.
He’s grinding into you slowly and deeply, and you don’t ask him what’s wrong because you know everything is. You let him, you welcome him in, holding onto his shoulders tightly, ankles crossed above his hips.
You’ve already come, and yet you let him keep going, stretching your senses to their limits, tears of overstimulation pricking at your eyes. He buries his nose in the crook of your neck as he chases his own release.
He repeats your name over and over again and you block out the world. This is what you want, after the war ends, and you will figure out the rest. As long as he’s there, your first real friend, your lover, you know it will be okay.
You lay side by side afterwards, catching your breath, your fingers tangled together between your bodies. You stare at the cheap motel room’s ceiling and wonder how best to phrase what’s on your mind.
“What is it?”
That gaze, those eyes are on your face again, and you abandon all ambitions to dance around the subject any longer. “I think I’m going to leave the Order.”
There’s a stretch of silence as he mulls over your words, but he just nods because he trusts you enough to take care of yourself. Maybe that’s what you need, to take charge of your own destiny, to forge your own path and make your own decisions free from everyone. And Crosshair was just the first step down this road, he knows that.
The words terrify you, but as soon as you say them out loud, you realise how little power they really hold over you. It’s your choice. You can make it, should you choose to. You could leave at any time and never once look back.
It’s not their fault, it’s not their fault, you repeat in your head over and over as you think of all the perfect Jedi you know to whom you could never really measure up. Crosshair is already asleep, his back tucked against your chest as you hold him close, and you focus on his breathing instead.
And you follow him into a dreamless black slumber.
+1.
Ord Mantell is a real shithole, but you had to come, you just know you did.
The dust catches on your boots and you take a sharp turn down an alley. Cid is still here, the old bat, you can hear her crooning as you round up on the door to her bar. You’re in real fucking danger, you know it’s no joke to expose yourself so recklessly. And to be fair, you’ve been good at keeping your head down since Order 66. But things have changed. Throwing caution to the wind has potentially life-threatening consequences to you, and yet there’s no way around it. Not if you want to learn Crosshair’s fate.
You slide inside and find a dark corner to brood in. You’ve changed so much that Cid doesn’t even recognise you when you order. Probably better this way. She would have sold you out even before the Order was still standing strong. You’d hate to imagine what she’d do if she realised just who’s really sitting in her bar right now.
But Cid is not important. The Order is not important either, no matter how much it breaks your heart to remember what it felt like to lose everyone.
You’ve already left before it all happened, you remind yourself. You weren’t a Jedi anymore when Order 66 was carried out.
Maybe you never truly were one. But you know who you are now, more than ever. Crosshair was there to help you come to this realisation, and he was there to help you through the change. It is time to repay that favour.
You know he’s not going to be there with them. And yet when his old squad walks in side by side with a kid, your heart lurches, and you so desperately want to imagine seeing him amongst them.
But he isn’t here.
You hesitate for a split second, wrestling with the misery of missing him. And then a strange sense of tranquillity overcomes you, one you’ve rarely felt as a Jedi, but feel more and more every day since walking away. You’ve followed him so many times already, without question, without remorse or second thought. What’s one more going to do?
So you knock back your drink, stand, and make your way over to the Bad Batch.
But the tracking beacon planted on your ship worked like a charm. And maybe for the first time ever, it is him who’s truly followed you.
Part 1 | Part 2&3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7
Pairing: Crosshair x Reader x Hunter; Tech x Reader (platonic)
Wordcount: 2389
Summary: Tech watches on helplessly as his brothers' affection for you threaten to ruin the squad.
Warnings: cursing, yearning
You’re just as cold on the inside as the ice is under your boots. It crunches with every step you take, and your heart seems to beat along with the fall of your boots, aching. You feel unsteady, almost enough to miss the tracks running in the snow right in front of you. You pause and crutch down, gloved fingers dipping into the indentations as you grumble to yourself. It’s not even your turn to scope out the area where you’re setting up camp, and besides, there is a literal tracking genius in your squad - it really shouldn’t be you who’s out here in the snow and ice, eyes straining against the blinding white of the planet, fingers freezing off as you set up perimeter alarms. And yet you just volunteered for the less than ideal task without explanation, not understanding your own decision either.
At least Tech offered to tag along, but you suspect he’s simply had enough of his brothers for a while. Not that you can blame him.
“Fascinating.”
You sigh, internally begging him to stop talking as you stand, abandoning the tracks after deciding they most likely belong to a lone whitefang. You have enough on your plate right now, with Hunter still being pissy and Crosshair avoiding you like the plague, and silence would be much more preferable right now to listening to one of Tech’s rambles.
“Did you know that this moon’s surface is almost entirely composed of water?”
“No.”
“Despite the subzero surface temperature, there are subsurface oceans underneath the ice that are warmed by the moon’s internal heat.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I wish we could stay long enough for me to study the subsurface flora and fauna. There might be plants underneath the ice that-”
“Tech.”
“-that use chemosynthesis-”
“Tech!”
“What?”
He has the decency to look flustered, one hand gripping the datapad tightly, the other flying up to adjust his goggles as he peers up at you. You didn’t mean to sound so harsh, but sometimes you just can’t help it. Sometimes, the confinement of the Marauder is enough to turn you into a ticking time bomb, irritated by the slightest seemingly innocent things. And you’ve had more than just mere sparks to flare your temper as of late.
...
His rifle is spotless, and yet he’s still scrubbing it as if his life depended on it.
Maybe it does, because if he jumps up and lowers his guard for a second, he’s out the ship and off to find you and Tech. Maybe you’re a fool sometimes, a god damn nuisance, a person he still couldn’t grow used to, but you belong with them now, you’re theirs, you’re his, and that means something to him. You frustrate him beyond reason, and he often grows callous and agitated because he refuses to allow himself to feel the emotions you elicit from him whenever you’re near him.
Even now, on an ice planet, the mere thought of you infects him with a sweet, sweet jungle fever that knocks him off his feet.
And he’s supposed to be angry now, Crosshair reminds himself. After all, you almost gotten yourself killed on Bracca, and almost broke him in the process.
“They’ve been gone for too long,” Hunter grumbles as he paces up and down like a caged nexu craving to run free. But lately Crosshair began to suspect that he craves something else, someone else, and the thought has his throat tightening in jealousy. He’s been watching, and he convinced himself that he’d misread the signs until he saw the same agitation reflect in his brother’s eyes that he himself has to wrestle with every day.
If it ever came down to your choice, he knows he wouldn’t be it, and he hates living with this knowledge.
Hunter has all the things you seem to like - unlimited kindness, longing looks, smirks that turn a little too soft when directed at you, broad shoulders he caught you staring at more times than he can count. Deep down, he’s still hoping it will never come to you having to choose, but it’s impossible not to wish to be in the centre of your attention. You drive him insane, but you also make him want to commit and stop fighting and lay down his weapons for once in his god damn life.
“Relax. They’re probably fine.”
The screen to their left lights up, and Hunter rushes across the ship in long strides before exhaling in relief. “The proximity alarms are online. They should be heading back soon.”
Crosshair sucks in a breath, worried about seeing his own emotions sitting behind Hunter’s eyes as well.
...
You were assigned to assist the Bad Batch for an unspecified period of time some months ago. You’re a versatile field agent, specialising in both stealth and combat casualty care, one of the few volunteers who were qualified enough to join the GAR. Oh, and you’re also clearly mistrusted by your new squad as they flip out the very moment you risk yourself in the line of duty. You’re not stupid, you weighed the risks carefully, and you trusted your abilities to see you through the job unharmed.
But ever since the incident on Bracca, you’re given the cold shoulder by most on the squad, and for once, the scenery matches your mood.
And yet Tech deserves better than to be cut off like that. He deserves to be listened to, and appreciated as the good man he is. You’re friends, but in moments like these, you think you don’t deserve his friendship.
“Look, I’m... I’m sorry, okay? But right now, I have too much on my mind to think about, umm, chemo...”
“Chemosynthesis?”
“Yeah, that.”
“I think I understand,” he nods, satisfied with your half-assed apology for the time being as he goes back to scanning the vast icy desert stretching as far as the eye can see. The Marauder’s lights blink in the background, orange against the dark blue of the growing darkness that surrounds you. It’s like a beacon, a sign that promises warmth, and you gaze at it longingly until you remember that you’ll have to go back to Crosshair’s scowl and Hunter’s disapproving frown and Wrecker’s awkward little smiles. Somehow, the ice is preferable once more, and the snow that just began to fall in soft flakes is little more than a mild annoyance.
“Well, aside from a few distant life forms-”
“Whitefangs.”
“Yes, most likely whitefangs - aside from those, we should be quite safe inside the ship for tonight.”
“Yeah,” you sigh. “You might be. I’m not the most popular with the squad right now, remember?”
“You are a valued addition,” Tech declares, and the certainty in his voice releases inside you the emotional equivalent of a sucker punch. All you can do is stand, and fight the sting of tears in your eyes. You’re confident, but you never in your wildest dreams imagined how difficult it would be to live up to the expectations of a special unit. You also know your worth, but it’s hard to keep on believing in yourself steadfastly when the rest of your squad doubts your every move. “Which is why the prospect of losing you elicits a rather severe emotional reaction in us. It is rare for regs to warm up to us as well as you have, let alone volunteers. Aside from the obvious tactical disadvantage losing you would mean, I believe it is a little more personal than that.”
...
Hunter knows something is off even before one of the alarms is triggered - whatever it is, it is within five clicks of the ship, making you and Tech plenty exposed before he could do anything. He was straining his ear simply to keep you all safe - so what if he accidentally heard your muffled voice, or the soft crunch of snow underneath your boots?
But now is not the time to be idle, and he knows it. He would never forgive himself if something happened to his squad. And to you, he corrects himself almost softly as he grabs his helmet and checks his weapons quickly. Despite the fact that he’s still angry about your previous carelessness, he cannot deny the forbidden yearning coiling in his stomach whenever you’re on his mind, making him just as nervous as hopeful. And to be fair, it happens more and more often as of late, which is both alarming and exciting as he never thought he’d ever have the luxury to feel this way about someone else. Sure, he knows love, he loves his brothers with all his heart even if he isn’t very vocal about it, but this is different. New, scary, exciting different, an effervescent and persevering tingling blinding all his senses.
Crosshair is beside him in less than a second, rifle in hand, silent, and they share a nod before lowering the ramp and rushing out into the freezing dusk.
When he picks up on your muffled voice, he seems to ignore everything as he breaks into a sprint towards you, hoping to reach you in time before you’re in danger. He almost misses the way Crosshair’s heartbeat picks up, the usually stoic man reeking with genuine worry as he looks through the scope of his rifle.
He can deal with this later, Hunter promises himself as he pushes down this uncomfortable feeling. But then he sees you and Tech, and he seems to forget about anything and everything - you have that unfortunate and awfully distracting effect on him.
...
“But Hunter yelled at me for being reckless for a solid hour. And Crosshair said he didn’t care if I wanted to get myself killed, but I should do it in a way that didn’t interfere with the mission. Seriously, what an asshole.”
“Nevermind what they actually say,” Tech waves his hand in mild annoyance. “Hunter was worried sick. Crosshair almost went after you. And they’re both too pigheaded to admit the real reason why they’re so worked up.”
“Which is?”
“Obviously they both view you as a potential romantic partner.”
There’s a moment of pause as you two stare back at one another before you snort and chuckle, shaking your head and crossing your arms over your chest as a futile attempt at staying warm. “Tech, you need to work on your sense of humour.”
“And you need to work on your observational skills and situational awareness.”
“My observational skills are exceptional,” you defend yourself, a finger held up in the air defiantly. “And my situational awareness is-”
“Lacking, as you didn’t seem to notice the whitefang return. I suggest we head back to the safety of the Marauder.”
Sure enough, the wild cat is there lurking amongst the ice dunes, its eyes glowing in the dark as they reflect the light of the ship. It shouldn’t pose a threat to you as it is alone, and relatively small, but you still consider wrestling with it instead of returning to the ship and facing the rest of the squad - somehow, even that feels like a fight more fair than the ones that await you upon your return. So you hold its gaze as it curiously inspects you, wishing to swap bodies and run away and avoid any more conflict. Before you can even think of returning to the ship, you hear quiet footsteps catching up to you.
“I thought I heard something.”
“It’s probably more curious than anything.”
Hunter unsheaths his vibroblade and twirls it in his hand so theatrically it makes you roll your eyes. He glances at you, shoulders all tense, ready to pounce at the slightest sign of danger, and even though his face is obscured by his helmet, you can almost see the disappointed frown sitting on his features. “You want to test that theory?”
“My money would be on the whitefang winning.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Tech.”
“Any time.”
“Relax.” The distorted rasp of your commlink is not enough to drown out the smugness of the sniper. The stand-off ends when a single well-placed shot right before the big cat sends it sprinting away into the darkness. You all turn to find Crosshair standing by the ship, his rifle still aimed at the retreating form of the whitefang.
“Well, there goes my opportunity to finally have an interesting patrol,” you mutter to yourself as you all make it back to the Marauder.
“Do all of your patrols end in you staring down carnivores?” Crosshair snorts, clearly unamused.
“Only the good ones,” you fire back, deciding not to wait for any of them as you head inside. Crosshair is hot on your heels, another string of mockery sitting on the tip of his tongue, because fuck, you’re stubborn, but he’s not going to cave in and tell you how it makes him feel to see you in danger. He can’t, however, put up with being away from you either.
Hunter lingers a little outside. He has to set himself straight, to contain all the things he wants to say you that have nothing to do with scolding you about Bracca, to kill all the feelings that suddenly demand to be felt so desperately. He clenches and unclenches his fists by his side, pretending to survey the surroundings of the Marauder. Tech moves in the periphery of his vision, but instead of following you and Crosshair, he steps closer to Hunter.
“I believe the threat’s been averted.”
“Yeah. Good job on setting up those alarms, Tech.”
“No problem. Is there anything else you need?”
“No. You should head back inside. The last thing I want is for you to keel over with hypothermia.”
“That’s not how hypothermia works,” Tech mutters, his voice trailing off, eyes uncertain behind his goggles. He suddenly places a gentle hand on Hunter’s shoulder, making the sergeant glance at him.
“Hunter, I’m only asking this because I care about you all, but... how long do you think this can go on before one of you gets hurt?”
Tech’s words echo in his mind long after he’s rejoined the squad on the ship. And Hunter just stands outside in the snowfall, watching the last rays of light disappear on the horizon, wondering which one of you he’ll have to hurt when the push comes to shove.
