When your eyes first open in the early hours of dawn, all that Mayday graces with you is a hum of ‘good morning’ before he dives headfirst back into your pussy.
It isn’t the rudest of greetings. It’s rather pleasant, even if abrupt.
A lazy smile creeps on your face, and you tilt your head to the side to face the soft golden light that filters between peaks of curtains, casting a warm glow on the disheveled sheets that still cling to your bodies. Gradually, your senses come back to you; the first being the tingling, pleasurable sensation between your legs, urged on by Mayday’s slow, thorough licks he runs across your cunt in an urge to wake you up.
The two of you had discussed waking the other up like this before, but it’s the first time he’s ever done it, and the feeling of building pressure being the first sense to return to your conscious mind is another feeling entirely.
“Baby…” you mutter absentmindedly, thoughts and sensations entirely elsewhere.
Mayday brings his head up between your legs and curls a hand around your thigh, reaching to the back of your knee to hook it over his shoulder. When he smiles, you huff out of disbelief.
“Yes?” He asks.
You bring your knees up to get a better look; the scruff of his wet beard scratching against your inner thigh; the warmth of deep brown in his eyes that shines in the sunlight; his thick, tangled hair tied back with your hair tie that you gifted him yesterday.
“Good morning,” you finally reply, and Mayday breaks into a sweet smile. You watch closely as he leans down again and places a long kiss on your clit. Your breath hitches and a small moan comes out of you. Mayday chuckles into your skin. The vibration runs through you and suddenly you’re so overwhelmed, so consumed by the warmth between your legs you start to whine.
“That’s it,” Mayday mutters, taking long licks up your cunt with a sigh. “Keep making noise like that. So perfect.”
He keeps rambling between each lick and kiss, fingers tracing over your lips in focused precision. Your head spins and you lose focus on what he’s saying.
Your heels dig into the mattress and you try to gain friction as you grind your hips to meet his mouth.
“Kriff,” Mayday groans. You sigh as you feel two fingers circle your pussy before pushing into your entrance. The resistance makes you gasp and hold your stomach, and you dig your nails into your skin.
A coarse hand, large and gentle, wraps around your wrist. Mayday leads your hand to his hair, and you instinctively let your fingers curl through the locks. His ponytail is loose, but you doubt he cares.
“Touch me,” He says, less demanding, more imploring. You nod, head still spinning from the simple feeling of Mayday’s fingers inside of you; not curling, not moving,
just still, buzzing with anticipation. His eyes are focused on yours, with a soft intensity that melts you.
“Whatever pleasure you’re feeling, take it out on me, please.”
No words come to you. Instead, you moan softly and grip his hair. Mayday replies with his own noise. Your feet shuffle against the sheets, and your chest rises and falls as the fingers inside of you suddenly begin to ache and weigh inside you. He picks up on your impatience, and slowly pulls out, curling his fingers as he reaches back in and begins to kiss at your clit again.
A string of “Oh”’s and “Yes”s leave your mouth without warning, like some phantom lurching out of your throat. Your thighs clench and tighten around his head, but Mayday doesn’t stop. If anything, he’s encouraged by your building pleasure; he can’t get enough of it.
“Kriff, thank you,” You catch him mumbling as he scissors the two fingers inside of you, watching how your face scrunches and relaxes between each movement. “Thank you, love. Thank you.”
You still can’t reply, lost in the feeling of his lips, his tongue, his eyes set on you. But that doesn’t stop him from talking.
“Looked so beautiful this morning,” He says, reaching down to lick up a wad of your pleasure that spills out of you when he twists his fingers. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t— couldn’t help myself, love. Just had to—“
Mayday interrupts himself when he sees the way you twitch as he touches you.
“Baby—“
“I’m so close,” You interrupt with hoarse intensity, curling and uncurling your hand in his scalp rapidly. Mayday doesn’t stop playing with you, his other hand tracing over the lines inside and around your center.
“I know, cyare, I know,” He mutters before leaning in to kiss your clit again, tracing circles over it with his tongue while you whimper. “Let me make you come.”
You hold onto his hair. Open up your legs and focus solely on the sensations curling inside of you. You know that you’re moaning and crying out a bit too loud, but you can’t control how it falls out. Mayday groans and pushes more of his fingers into you, catching up to a speed and rhythm both of you know so well. He’s muttering desperate pleas for you, asking you to come, please come, he needs you to feel good, he needs you to wet his beard and clench on his fingers—
You come in one giant wave, convulsing up with a gasping cry. Mayday doesn’t even have to ask if you’ve come; he’s already lapping up your release, softly pumping his fingers in and out so he has more to marvel at and lick. Your hand lays on his head, motionless and no longer curled around his hair, and you catch a glimpse of the red marks left on your inner thighs from the scratch of his beard as you come down from your high.
As Mayday slowly pulls his fingers out of you, his other hand reaches to softly stroke your clit with his thumb. When you squeak, he smiles. You return with a squeamish grin.
Mayday slowly runs his other hand over the marks he left on your thighs.
“Best breakfast I could ever ask for,” He says. You scoff and playfully pull at his hair; he hums softly.
“God, your dork,” You mutter, a mischievous glint in his eye diminishing once you sit up, urging him to do the same. “Get over here. I need to eat too.”
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Your first day of work after the holiday season is like a douse of cold water over your body.
You’d spent your break on indulgences; staying
Especially since John has been home.
That morning at dawn when you began to stir awake you’d become acutely aware of his body pressed firm behind you, his mouth kissing down your neck and shoulder, practically begging as he mouthed into your skin that he wanted to feel you on his tongue. You gladly let him part your thighs and make you come once before you inevitably have to rise and get ready for work, unbeknownst the ache it would cause you as the day went on.
Since then, all you feel is empty. Incredibly, brutally empty .
The workday ends up melting and mushing into a blend of nonsensical demands from your boss, placid, gossipy chatter from your co-workers, and absentmindedly tapping at a keyboard and thumbing through cabinets until you’re able to return home. No doubt you could return at the end of the day and fall right into John’s arms again. But the day drags and drags and drags , and by the time you’re free, you sluggishly make your way back home without much excitement.
You arrive to a quiet house, the door locked and blinds shut as you turn on the light and slowly take off your shoes.
“John?” You call out, tilting your chin up as you wait for a response. As you get none, you huff and thump your feet as you walk to your bedroom and begin stripping yourself, rather carelessly, throwing your clothes onto the floor and pulling on lazy wear, rubbing your face and looking toward the window.
It’s barely evening, but the sun has already come down in favor of the cold, dark night. You frown and turn on a lamp before returning to the living room.
John’s dark figure with his legs leisurely spread on the couch makes you yelp. He’s positioned casually, holding a cigar that looks freshly lit between two fingers with a hand resting on his thigh, stare already placed on the door as though he was waiting for you to emerge out of it. You gaze quickly to your left toward the kitchen; two plastic bags that weren’t there before are on the counter, probably some snacks from the liquor store just down the street, you see his pretty blue eyes and watch him gently stroke his beard as he lets you process, then finally relax.
“Shit,” you sigh, smiling softly as you rake your eyes over his appearance, taking him in. “You scared me.”
He hums,
“Sorry, love,” he apologizes. You sigh and roll your eyes, paying no more mind as you walk over and wrap your arms around him, sighing gently as you finally feel his body pressed up against yours again.
“It’s okay,” you mutter into his skin, wrapping your arms around his waist. You don’t care for the feeling of his hand barely curling around your back so he could still hold his cigar or the fact he’s still wearing his jacket. Just getting to feel him again after such a long day is all you require.
John’s hand comes to softly brush your hair behind your ear, tracing the curve of your cheek with the back ever slowly, ever gently, before taking your chin between two fingers and pinching it until you look up into his eyes.
“There she is,” he rumbles.
The dark purr of his voice reminds you just how much you need him on a given day. Even more after feeling so void of his touch, his fingers, his tongue, his cock the whole damn day. You whine, melting into his touch and slumping your shoulders.
A grin makes the corners of his eyes scrunch together. He has his other hand resting on his thigh, a dimly lit cigar held tight, and you’re distracted by the sight that the feeling of his thumb on your bottom lip takes you back to his stare.
Your lips part. He presses his thumb past and without hesitation, you suck, slow and unrushed, and flutter your lashes.
John groans and adjusts his stance, nestling your calves on either side of his thighs so you sit curtly on his lap.
“Pretty girl,” he says, tongue darting out to lick his lips, and his thumb leaves your mouth, the slick you leave dribbling down your chin as he trails his hand down. “Talk to me.”
“I felt so empty all day,” you whine exasperated, as if you’d been holding your breath underwater and have finally come up for air. Your breath hitches again when you feel John’s hand slip past the leg hole of your sleep shorts and rubs his wet thumb over your clit. You whine.
“Aw, is that so, baby?” he probes gently, but there’s still that underlying tone of condescension like you’re just this helpless little thing in his arms. Well, you are , sort of; not that you’d say or admit such a thing. You swallow shallowly and nod.
“So empty.” his thumb rubs slow and deep and you buck your hips into it, aching for just a little more. His other hand gently guides yours to grip his shoulders, and you hold to him like an anchor. “‘Just need your cock to stretch me full. In my throat. Pussy. `don’t care.”
“Oh, you poor thing…” he coos, bringing your face closer to his. He leans in so slowly you barely even register that he’s parting his lips to kiss you, gently gliding his mouth over yours. His steady rubbing stops in favor of kissing you firm, and you furrow your eyebrows as you moan sweetly.
“John,” you mutter hot into his mouth.
He pulls away and grins.
“Alright, love,” his insistence to draw this out is no longer a tantalizing tease; it’s just frustrating. “`You want me to fill you up?”
You nod. His free hand, cigar still between two fingers, runs up and down your bare thigh.
“How about you get on your knees for me, then?”
You adamantly hop off of his lap and get into position below, letting your knees hit the floor firmly. John tuts and quickly rises, holding a small throw pillow to you.
“`Want you to be comfy.”
God, this man.
As you place the pillow on your knees you scoot closer to his inner thighs, hands hovering over his belt. He undoes it for you quicker than you would’ve, but he lets you take out his cock, warm and heavy in your hand, and you gently run a hand over it, thumb pressing to the tip.
With a groan, John’s hand grasps the base and leans forward to place it right at your bottom lip. Your hands curtly rest in your lap, gaze set up to his.
“Rub that little clit if you need to, love,” his voice is low, kindling and steady as the rest of his movements; he relaxes slightly as you remain watching and awaiting his next action, at ease with your submission. “Warm yourself up. Make yourself come if you need it.”
You whine and nod oh so softly, but he grunts; John wants a verbal answer.
“Do you understand?” He rumbles, low, threatening, a deep fire that sets off right in your cunt.
You answer obediently.
“Yes, John.”
“Good.” he relaxes fully into the cushions, barely gripping onto the base and letting it weigh heavy in the air, awaiting your touch. “Now go on. Get filled like you’ve been wanting to be.”
With his permission, you lean forward, grasping the base with one hand as you let your tongue flatten over the bottom and lick a long stripe to his tip. Your lips stay perfectly poised around him as you take your sweet time licking his length, languid as if you had no care in the world. John grunts deep in his throat, barely exhales, and leaves you with no large reaction. You lick a long stripe again, moaning softly as you feel his taste coat your tongue and flutter your eyelashes for extra measure. This time, he simply tilts his chin up and brings his hand up again, curling his lips around his cigar.
A pout droops your lip watching him act so casual and unbothered by any of your actions. You’ve seen him groan and roll his head back in full pleasure and satisfaction before; you’ve felt his hands curl around the back of your neck as he bucked his hips and fucked your face, feverishly close to his finish. But to see him act so casually as if he was watching a football game on the TV and not getting his cock worshipped by his loving girlfriend touches a nerve you didn’t even realize was exposed.
You jerk him forcefully, a little too tight and a little too fast, to try and get his attention. The only thing you get is a hum, and he taps the end of his cigar and lets some of the ash fall into his thigh, dangerously close to your hand. You look up at him; he isn’t looking at you.
“John.” Your words aren’t anything harsh or rude, just a calling to get his attention. His tongue darts out again to wet his bottom lip.
“Thought you wanted to get filled, love,” He quips back, tone harsher than normal as he brings the cigar to his lips, taking in a small puff and finishing his sentence as the smoke trails past his lips. “And I’m giving you opportunity to do just that.”
Well, his statement isn’t incorrect.
“I, I did–” You stammer, scooting your hips a little further. Your voice dies on your tongue as you watch him lock his jaw left and right, left and right, something that borders on disappointment storming in his eyes.
“I don’t understand why you’re demanding more, then,” it’s only a light scolding, could barely even be considered something worth being upset over, but it still makes your stomach uneasy and your headache and overthink with swelling disappointment. “`M giving you my cock to suck and to fill you up, what could be the matter?”
This bastard knows what the matter is. Not that your retorting would benefit you at all.
Wordlessly, you purse your lips together and give his tip a long, wet kiss, as an apology. John lightly grunts in approval.
“That’s better.”
It’s not long before the solemn feeling of hollowness crawls back up to you and you eagerly take him fully in your mouth. Your lashes flutter and you choke out a pleased sigh around his length, sinking further and further, fighting the urge to shut your eyes and just feel the sensation of his cock in your mouth, his bottom vein running against your tongue. But you keep them at least half-lidded to get a good look at the man you’re so piously sucking off.
Your hands grasp his base, firmly rolling your wrists over any part your mouth can’t reach without making yourself gag, breathy noises that border on just gargling as you get filled like you’ve been hoping to be the whole day.
Eventually, you pull away, but not very far as you press another kiss to the tip of his dick and lift it up to access his balls better, closing your lips over one with a little whine.
You look up again.
John continues to finish his cigar and absentmindedly watches the infomercial playing on the television, his gradually more apparent heavy breathing the only indicator you have any effect on him.
The sight isn’t as offensive as you’d thought it be. It’s almost arousing, seeing him pay no attention no matter what you do to him. As you cup one ball and suck on the other, you test his abrasion as you lightly, oh so lightly, run your teeth over the sensitive skin. Something throaty peeps past his lips. He clicks his tongue.
“That’s not a fair way to get my attention, love,” he tells you while a tense hand runs up and down his thigh, watching you still slobbering all over his balls. There’s a physical pout that downturns your mouth as you nod against him, switching over to take his other ball in your mouth and entirely dismissing any idea of trying to rouse his attention again.
Your hands come to stroke his cock while you finish soaking him in your spit.
The pool of heat between your legs gets to be too much. You slither your hand past the waistband of your panties and press your hand to your cunt, lazily rubbing your fingers through your folds. You have no goal to finish at this moment. You only need to satiate the aching need temporarily and get back to getting John to shoot his load right into your mouth and down your throat. The other remains steadily stroking him back and forth, pressing the pad of your thumb to his opening repeatedly when you reach his head.
You sigh pleasantly once again, finally feeling you’re filling that throbbing need for him you’ve had all day. Your hand strokes up and down once, twice, pressing to his tip once, twice, before you finally feel his hips buck slightly to your touch; at last, he gives you just a slimmer of a reaction.
“Good job,” He mutters, and you watch him rub his hand up and down his thigh again. Your mouth disconnects from his ballsac, leaving a trail of spit connecting you two as you position your mouth back to his cock. You keep his hand curled around, doing nothing with your mouth as you watch him bite his lip and look down at you.
“Are you close?” The question comes out way more desperate than you intend. John nods robotically, the hand once curled around his thigh coming back to lay at the back of the couch, puffing out his chest when he watches you take him in your mouth again, stuffing your mouth full until your nose brushes against the hair at the base.
“I am,” He confirms, chunky and gruff as he lifts his hips again to press you in further (you can’t really go much deeper at this point without his assistance, and you’re sure he wouldn’t give it to you tonight) before pressing his ass back down on the couch to allow you to do most of the work. “C’mon, girl. How about you finish me off?”
You don’t need to be requested twice. The hand slowly rubbing your folds and teasing your clit reaches out of your pants and cups his balls, running the pads of your fingers and the blunt ends of your trimmed nails over the tender skin while the other holds his base, acting as steady catalysts while you rock your mouth over his cock, slow enough you can take your time to appreciatively suckle at him when he’s inside fully.
That barely gets a grunt out of him. A gentle, ashamed purr as he tilts his chin down to get a better view. The slightest twitch of his thigh and a gentle brush of it against your cheek. All little, minuscule things that give you little indicators that he’s close to finishing.
When he does, there’s no warning; he takes a deep breath and holds it until you take him down to the base again, and you feel a sudden gush of creamy warmth hit the top of your mouth, tantalizingly close to your throat as he pulls his hips to you one last time, grunting softly. You whine gently, feeling your tongue coated with his warm, sweet finish, and you open your mouth to slowly slide your mouth off of his cock. His cum seeps past your lips, dripping slightly over your bottom lip, and you smile and let a drop drip onto your knee, legs still folded neatly.
John hums contently and leans forward, elbows pressed onto his thighs as he takes the side of your jaw in his hand and angles his thumb press to your mouth.
“Full?” He asks, smugly huffing softly as he rubs his spend onto your lips, smearing it on like some sort of chapstick. You smile brusquely and nod, posture blissfully lax while you press and pucker your lips together, feeling his cum spread over them.
Hunter thinks the best place he could ever be is buried deep into your cunt. He loves the feeling of every jerk of your legs, every single fold and crevice of your sex. Even then he feels like it isn’t enough, and presses himself to you so adamantly and for so long he leaves with his entire face drenched.
I’ve expressed before that his nose is a clit tickler and I still stand by that. He presses against it while he lets his tongue fuck into your hole, letting out heavy breaths that make you sigh and twitch against his face.
He wants everything from you. Wants you whining and bucking into him. Groans into your cunt “C’mon pretty, give it to me. Let me have it, oh, let me give you this,” when he’s making you reach your peak.
Tech - Treats it like a scientific experiment
There’s a method to making you orgasm thoroughly and pleasurably, Tech has discovered, and as a man of logic, it wouldn’t be correct to treat pleasuring you any differently than he does other situations.
The first time you let him between your legs, Tech takes his time to thoroughly take you in, and he collects his observations, infers what might make you cum the hardest, the fastest, and soon after he begins to run his “experiments.”
He concludes quickly that it’s all about the combinations of stimulation and how they’re applied, how hard or gently he sucks your clit in his mouth while his fingers probe your entrance, the speed of his index and middle pumping into you while his tongue gently licks around your folds. Tech won’t rest until he’s figured out everything that makes you click and cum.
Wrecker - Wants to be your chair
If you think Hunter is messy about how he eats your pussy, you haven’t seen Wrecker yet. This boy wants to be so roughed up and drenched you’ll be in need of a shower before he even gets his cock wet.
And he wants you to sit. Not hover, not squat, sit. You may express insecurities or worries of hurting him at first, but Wrecker is extremely adamant it’ll all be alright. I mean, come on. The man is huge, and any worry of crushing him is gone the instant he grabs onto your hips and situates you right on him.
Wrecker is incredibly eager when he laps at your cunt, tongue and fingers reaching any place he can, encouraging you to move and grind all over him so you can get your fill. If he gets your spend dripping down his chin and trailing down his neck, that just means hes given you and you’ve given him everything you can feasibly give, and he can wipe it away with a pussy drunk look on his face before asking if he can make you come again.
Crosshair - Does it more for himself than you
You could reasonably argue that Crosshair likes eating you out more than you like getting eaten out. This man craves it like he’s addicted, forever hooked on your taste, your body, every twitch and sigh and slight movement of your body forever ingrained in his mind.
Somehow, despite giving, he manages to be selfish. Crosshair is groaning into you, whispering things he knows you can’t hear because hes talking to himself (or your cunt). Even through that, he makes it good for you; being selfish doesn’t mean it won’t be enjoyable for the receiving party. If he’s slow and thorough about it (which rarely happens) he can make you see stars with the gentlest of pets. But usually, you come fast and hard. And no matter what, he makes you feel good.
Echo - Slowly but surely
Echo is probably one of, if not, the most romantic when it comes to eating you out. He doesn’t want you to do any work; “Don’t grind your hips, sweetheart. I’ve got it. Just feel good for me.”
Giving is something he feels is necessary to show his love and appreciation in the bedroom, so he wants you to lie back and let him make you fall apart at his own pace. And Maker do you fall apart.
Echo knows every single rhythm with his licks and pumps and sucks, every pattern he could follow that will make you feel so good your eyes are brimmed with tears once you do finally finish. But he’s quick to rise up and kiss them away, whispering little nothings while his hand traces the curves of your body, easing you back down from the high.
Despite the gradual (yet quite quick, in retrospect) increment of your feelings toward the skilled soldier, you do, in fact, notice the blunt sexual appeal of Hunter when you first meet Clone Force 99.
It’s difficult not to; with his long hair you can’t quite place how the Kaminoans allow him to have, the striking skull tattoo, his toned body, and discernable shape even through the heavy armor, you can’t help but flutter your eyelashes and rock your feet back and forth like you’re a schoolgirl all over again. Hunter is the Bad Batch’s essential leader, the closest in appearance to the rivaled ‘regs,’ leading them as their Sergeant and CT-9901, and he stands out more than any other clone you’ve interacted with.
His warm, welcoming, yet slightly wary smile is just as firm as the handshake he gives you when you first meet him, leaning down a little to your height (you’d think clone defects would be the same height, or maybe even shorter than a veritable trooper, but instead you feel enveloped by his vertical. Not that you don’t enjoy the feeling, of course) and nodding firmly.
Then you hear his voice.
It’s only a short sentence; a brief introduction and warm gratitude for joining them as their medic before you acquaint yourself with the rest of the squad. But your ears wrap around the waves of his rough, musky baritone like a magnet. Everything feels as though it’s finally clicked into place and created the perfect picture of your desired man.
Your mind immediately begins to create dreamy rhetoric, wondering silly things to yourself.
Had your mind been aimlessly wandering the galaxy for this long, circling like materials until you finally found an opposite —An opposite so charmingly rugged?
The feeling that rushes through you feels so destined.
Lucky for you, Hunter seems to express his commands frequently with his voice; sometimes hushed through a link, the vibrations of your comm humming pleasantly between the soft undersides of your fingers as he talks.
It always during the times when you’re deep past enemy lines, taking down clankers more efficiently than a Starfleet. Initially too, as you were still trying to memorize their master list of designated plans and being weighed down by the extra weight of regulation armor.
“Don’t go through there yet. Squad of clankers waiting for us.”
“You sure, Hunter? I don’t hear any steps.”
“Take it from the person with enhanced hearing, little medic. Just wait for me.”
Other times when he speaks to you, it’s thunderous commands; ones that he yells out across a field or war front. It frightens you at first, your shoulders jolting and hands instinctively clamping over your ears to deafen the noise, but you quickly realize he’s ordering you to act. Once you get used to the intensity, you come to equally enjoy and indulge how his voice takes on a new edge in fleeting moments of urgency and demand; a once blissful burning of wood turning into threatening crackles, and from there a bleeding forest fire.
It’s incredibly embarrassing how something as simple as his voice can leave you this breathless. Even from the snide comments he can’t seem to help himself from saying when Wrecker retells stories to you, either from their days as shinies and cadets to missions where you stayed back on the Marauder. Between Tech’s rambling and Wrecker’s enthusiastic narration, the sound of Hunter’s voice becomes even more of a calming sedative to you.
Though it equally arouses you in other moments.
How his morning voice is somehow even lower and raspier than his regular tone is a study that must be researched and conducted by only the galaxy’s best scientists. It seems just so impossible, unbelievable; none of it is inauthentic either—the grogginess is always equally spread through his body, from his tired slouch and ruffled hair, lolling eyes, the unkempt composition of the clothes hung over his broad shoulders and slim waist. It’s unspoken the things you might do if you felt there was even the slimmest chance of starting your every day with that sound so deep and lovely right in your ear.
When he addresses you directly before you both allow yourself the time to sleep, asking you to check on old injuries or patch up new ones he got on the last mission. He always manages to get hurt in the most menial yet bothersome ways, and you’re once again forced into close proximity; you’re beginning to consider paying a few scientists and investigators to study the sexy phenomenon that is Hunter. But either way, you sit legs crossed at the ankles in the cockpit, forcing yourself to zone out on anything he might be saying every few minutes so you don’t have to squirm and change your position in your seat every so often and prevent showing how damn flustered and hot he makes you; in more places than just your cheeks and ears.
In flitting moments you get time to relish in his conjured wavelength, take in the scene you can create with just the sound of his voice; he transports you to a world of the dark morning fog, the red of his bandana the most vibrant sight in your nearest vision as he takes you on the forest floor just like that, no civil thoughts daring to come to each of your minds as he finally gives you the relief you crave for in real life.
Your depraved fantasy of Hunter is all you can dream of when you sit yourself on your fingers, holding back as many of the impoverished whines you wish to let out due to your true desperation for such an attractive man.
And the sweet indulgences you luxuriate in make you selfish. You want more, need to know how he’d sound grunting, moaning your name while his cock lay on your tongue. Or how the oscillations of his words feel on your inner thighs, against your clit when he pushes his fingers past your tight barrier. There’s much more you could learn, could explore if you could attempt an advance. Or simply given something more than slight moments of suggestion that he might have the same deviant desires as you to allow the green light.
You’ve yet to receive such signals. And flimsy fantasies, the work of your fingers to chase unattainable pleasure, and insistent memorization of his voice can only keep you quenched for so long.
-
“Hunter,” The inadvertent, pathetic whine crawls up your throat the moment you feel his breath on your neck, lingering over your skin even as he pulls back after hearing the noise you make.
“Just a little more,” He reassures you. The hand not firmly gripping your wrist pats your shoulder, and your cheeks flush at the passing fondness. “Let’s try to get one more shot on target and we’ll call it quits, how does that sound?”
With the warmth of your flushed face spreading to the rest of your body, you mutter,
“Sounds good,”
and try to softly shake off your arousal, eyes zeroing in on the middle of the tree, the finger hovering over the trigger surprisingly still. You’re about to take the shot before he starts instructing you again.
“Fix your foot stance,” Hunter gently guides your legs apart with one of his own, fixing the positioning of your feet planted onto the dirt and you take in a deeper breath than you intend to. The fire kindle of his voice and the fire kindle of your core are equal matches now; the husk of his chunked honey tone will certainly turn you to mush if he continues any further, it feels.
Really, how does this oblivious, heart-seizing bastard expect you to keep your focus on this pointless shooting practice when he’s got you this compromised?
“Try again now,” he says after he’s got you in the position he wants. You huff again, letting the fiery stimulation fall to your diaphragm, and breathe down your arousal. Just one hit on the target and you’ll be free of this torture.
But as you lift your arm again, eyes narrowing closer and closer to your prize, the imminent feeling of his leg between yours rears its head. You become so incredibly, annoyingly aware of it, and grimace, biting your lip softly and knitting your eyebrows together to fully get him out of your mind and body. You tug on your bottom lip and pull the trigger.
The bullet lands left side.
A deep groan of frustration leaves you; it sounds much quieter with Hunter’s rumble and grunt in your ear. You gently pull away from his grasp, handing him the blaster, and turn to face him directly. And when you catch that damned expression you promptly decide that you don’t like to see him disappointed; at least, it looks as though he’s disappointed. Eyebrows pinched together with the smallest frown, his chin curled into himself as he looks down at you (Maybe you should look into research for lawyers in the case of when you sue Hunter for the neck pain he’s caused).
“It’s alright,” He assures you, but it doesn’t feel right. And from the way he looks at you, it’s not alright.
“No, it isn’t,” You tell him exactly that, your fingers curling and interlocking together by your stomach. His eyes dart down for a brief moment of scanning, and they don’t linger too long; Maker, you wish you had the power for your eyes not to glue to him and his absolute stature instantly when you enter a space. “I should be better at this by now.”
Hunter clicks his tongue and turns away, as if deep in swirling thought. His gaze comes back to you before you know it.
“You should be,” He agrees, but nothing is degrading or critical in his voice. In his eyes, the wave of gentleness that cascades and shifts his expression, there’s unconditional empathy that you do not deserve and he wouldn’t grace you with if he were to know what you beg him to do to you in your dreams.
“We can try again,” You then insist, but Hunter quickly shakes his head.
“We’ve been working on this for an hour,” He tells you, slickly spinning the blaster back into his holster. He sounds tired as well, a new jaggedness in the smoke tendrils of his voice. “That’s more than enough practice.”
“But I just want to–”
“I know.”
Somehow, those words are more devastating than anything else he’s said. You look back and catch the mysterious glint in his eye, almost as elusive as his words might connotate on a foggy day.
“Trust me,” He continues. You don’t even realize his hand has wandered and softly taken your chin between two fingers until you feel the soft pads brush against your skin; your jaw slacks. He pinches your chin a little tighter to ensure your eyes are fixed on him. “You just want to prove yourself.”
Well, of course, you think to yourself vindictively. It’s enough that you feel ever-so-slightly out of place in a squad of clone troopers, let alone defective ones; not being able to properly handle a blaster in the mere presence of your crush is even more embarrassing. How juvenile.
“We can try again another time. But you’re tired. I can feel it,” He continues. There’s the slightest hint of gentleness you only pick up on because of how you hone all your focus on dissecting and admiring every single crevice of his articulations. Suddenly, he drops your chin, and your head lolls back into place, rather sloppily, and you look up through your eyelashes. “Time for us to sleep, I think.”
With that, Hunter whips around and heads toward the ramp to the Marauder. You’re left there with a smarting jaw, discreetly trying to rub your legs together and take the heat out of the area.
“Alright,” You sigh, glancing around before trotting after him, the white noise keeping your thoughts off of the man in front of you.
Yet, you still picture what his knee had felt like parting your thighs open only half an hour later. Attempting to recreate it with your arm and then your pillow, you give yourself a foggy release and whimper a jumbled version of his name into your pillow before drifting off, body still buzzing with frustration.
-
The next week, as if the weeks and months before weren’t as excruciating, is pure sexual torture. Not to say it’s entirely filled with frustration and dull aching, however. When you and Hunter have a moment of silence, alone by the cots or the engine or the cockpit together, you both relax into the same, comfortable silence that fills the time.
It’s better to have him not running his mouth off, for sure. You still have to deal with it on deployments and missions, but it’s manageable when you’re knocking down clankers or trying to listen to Tech’s very confusing instructions on how to fly the plane to a certain location to pick them up. But he’s allowing the silence to fester between you two. All the better to preserve the actual sweet, steady relationship you have aside from your fiery attraction, you think.
Hey, it could be worse.
But then the dumbass decides to get himself injured. Get pushed into and dragged against hard durasteel, leaving a gash across his stomach that could challenge Wrecker’s spiderweb scars in its damage. Your jaw practically drops when they return and you see the wound out in the open; you can’t stop yourself before you lurch forward with worried eyes and grasp his wrist around your fingers, pushing him down onto a bench.
As Tech pilots the ship off the planet, the rest all recline and lick their minuscule wounds beside him, while you and Hunter remain cramped in the back, avoiding his gaze and praying to the Maker that he keeps his voice to quiet rough grunts of pain as you try to unclip each different plate of his armor and lay them neatly beside him, tutting when more of his wound is revealed to you.
”Oh my goodness, oh my goodness ohmygoodness,” You stammer to yourself, more and more strained with each breath you take, peeling off the tarnished fabric of his blacks.
“It’s not too bad,” He argues with a soft grin, which slowly fades away when you glare.
“Don’t,” You retort, firm and simple, flashing a genuine look of empathy, and even a drip of fear. If you didn’t know any better, you might think Hunter practically melts under your look with how he slumps and his expression droops. But he’s still an oblivious, sexy fool, you remind yourself.
You don’t even have the energy to fawn over how incredibly attractive he sounds with the rough baritone and anguished sigh-like tone he wears; you instead scramble to open the first aid kit. You can feel his gaze set selectively on you and it doesn’t help. In the corner of your eye, he tilts his head.
“Is everything alright?”
You nod automatically.
“Everything is fine.”
The Marauder jostles in rough air; the ship tilts, your stomach dropping with the altitude change, and you’re unwantedly yanked onto Hunter’s lap with a yelp.
You still for a moment, waiting for the ship to steady again before you become acutely aware of how your chest is almost completely pressed up onto his face. And how your knees are caged over his thighs, your pelvis way too close to his wound for each of your comfort. And pressure against your waist, not too firm but still weighting you to his body–wait, is Hunter holding you to him?
Your eyes widen and you stumble off, stammering nonsensically and afraid to gaze upon his face. You don’t for a long moment, before grabbing the disinfectant and pouring it onto a cloth.
Silence festers between the two of you. When Hunter does speak, it’s not to you.
“Tech! Get her steady, would you?” He yells across the ship, vexed and evidently not in an ideal mood. Tech immediately retorts in his typical, inappropriately casual, intellectual tone,
“That is not a light request, Hunter. I am already trying.”
Hunter scoffs and you finally get the gall to look at him. He exchanges a mutual look of annoyance and manages to grin wider for you. The sight soothes your frayed ends ever so slightly, and you stare down at his stomach again at the wound, biting your lip as you inspect the damage.
Your hands come to the hem of his blacks and you give him a silent ask with your eyes.
“Is it alright if I take this off?”
He hums, which you take as a yes, and you slowly peel it off of his skin, trying very, very hard to ensure your stare doesn’t linger. He looks at you with a mysterious gaze that's too hard to place for your liking. But you just try and shake it off as you slowly dab his wound with the bacta-dipped cloth, pressing it firm against the injury.
When he hisses, you perk up with wide eyes.
“Did that hurt?”
Hunter clenches his teeth and nods slowly, and you pull away with shaky hands. His arms reach out, encircling his fingers around your wrist, and guides them back tenderly.
“It’s alright,” He says, his tone dropping down an octave as your hands tremble again in his grasp. You gain the courage to look up at him, biting your lip softly. The grin he wears manages to soothe your nerves, just a little. “I’ve got you, girl. Just let me guide you so you don’t hurt me.”
You let out a shaky exhale of relief, and he sighs, dipping his chin down, but keeping the intense eye contact.
“How does that sound?”
“Good,” You squeak, the rise and fall of your chest the only constant managing to soothe your fried senses. After a couple of breaths, you finish your thought. “Better.” You press onto a side of his wound, softly spreading the bacta onto it; your eyes don’t separate from his once. “How’s that?”
He huffs, not of frustration or annoyance, but more a comforting relief.
"Fine. Keep going."
The rasp stirs between the space between the two of you, and you take a deep breath before you can do anything else.
With the firm grasp on your wrists and the low tendrils of his voice softly directing you, you continue to tend to his wound, your hands moving deftly over his skin. The thick, intoxicating tension in the air is palpable; the lingering silence between you weighs heavy despite your best attempts to snap yourself out of it and take care of him like you're supposed to.
It's not your fault he just sounds so damn sexy all the time.
"Careful, careful," He tuts when you're stitching up a particularly bad spot, pressing your fingers around the skin and holding it there as you thread the stitch through. "Just a little gentler, please."
Then, "Avoid that spot, please. I can't even-- shit -- breathe without it hurting. Just stitch around it. Yeah, just like that. Good job, little medic," As you're finishing up.
Once you finish wrapping the bandage firmly over the wound and around his waist, taping it firmly to him, he dislodges his fingers from where it's wrapped around your wrist, bringing it to your chin and manhandling you slightly to get a better look into your eyes.
"See, ‘wasn't so bad, was it?" He flashes you a grin, obviously masking the pain etching into his limbs, all to calm your nerves. The fact that he's making such a constant effort to make you feel better despite his state makes you positively soft. "You did great."
You grin back, nodding and averting your eyes.
"Thank you."
There's a pause before he bludgeons you with his next sentence.
"You enjoy getting instructions."
Your eyes widen; you almost drop the first aid kit; everything stills, your chest tight as you process his words. Shit, what the fuck?
What the fuck?
"Wh--What?" You stammer, taking a small step backward and tilting your head to appear more confused and insulted by the accusation. Maybe if you appear offended, he’ll take it back. "Who said that?"
"You don’t need to say it. I can feel it," He continues, gaze thoughtfully fixated on you. He doesn't even falter when you seem to panic. "I can see it." You try to gawk at him to make him feel stupid, make him retract what he's saying, but either he's so certain or you don't seem very convincing.
No matter; you're still fucked.
"You like getting told what to do."
Your heart pounds, and Hunter just sits there, legs spread leisurely, his eyebrow slightly raised in expectation. Seriously, what does he expect you to answer with? Does he want you to fess up and admit how depraved and desperate you are for his touch, then run off mortified to never speak to him again? Surely he doesn’t expect you to take.
Defeated, you sigh and softly run your hands over your work again, avoiding his burning gaze.
"Only from you," you mutter, then immediately pray devotedly to the Maker he doesn't hear. Hunter hums, a tone of question in his voice, then you proceed to figuratively jump off a cliff as you remember this fucker has enhanced senses.
"Why’s that, mesh’la?" He asks. Instinctively, your eyebrows knit together when the new nickname graces your ears.
"What does mesh’la mean?"
Hunter doesn't seem very phased. Can't you just throw him off his rhythm once?
"Don’t worry about that," He quickly excuses your question as a distraction from the question at hand. "But tell me why you only enjoy getting instructions from me."
There's something smug to the way he talks, hidden behind insistent concern and curiosity.
"Why’s that, tell me."
Your hand comes up to hide your face, but he takes it and keeps it away from disfiguring his view of your expression. You want to babble; you can feel your face heating up. Instead, you frown.
"I, uh," You try to discreetly rub your thighs together languidly, easing the tension and buildup of heat in between them. A huff leaves his lips that sounds oddly close to a chuckle.
"Come on," You lift your head, perplexed for a split moment, but then he pats the top of his thigh. You blink once, then twice, then another time for good measure, just to make sure you're seeing correctly. Is he... what's he even implying?
"Sit down. On my lap."
Oh. That’s what.
Your mouth opens, a strange sound bordering on a choke leaving your throat as you try to retort or deny him. He only raises his eyebrows and dips his chin down, gesturing toward his lap again.
You huff, eyebrows knitted, and take a small step toward him, slowly, and you envelop his figure, trapping his legs between your knees and careening slightly, hands still meeting at your stomach, unsure of where to move. He nods encouragingly.
“Good job, just like that,” He praises you, hands slowly rising to rest on the handles of your hips, fingers tracing your waist. You take a sharp intake of breath, eyes drifting down to where your bodies meet, and look back up at him again. Hunter’s wearing this oh-so-innocent, deer-in-headlights expression you know is bantha-shit. “What’s got you so hot and bothered?”
You sough vindictively, averting your eyes.
“Stop teasing me.”
He laughs— though it’s more of a snarky, yet affectionate chuckle. You feel so naked in his presence, given such focused, vehement attention.
“I’m not teasing. Just concerned,” He tells you. The problem is, Hunter does well making you think he’s actually this clueless when he does know and just wants to hear it from your lips.
“Mhm,” You hum sarcastically with a pout.
He manages to grin at you, the corners of his eyes scrunching up as he looks at you. You let your eyes come back to him.
“I can do both, can’t I?” He offers.
“Sure,” You retort.
Squinting his eyes, he casually rubs his hands up and down the sides of your body.
“I’ll figure it out, one way or another,” He affirms, ending the sentence with a wink; you take a deep breath, letting your jaw slack. Hunter keeps talking like there’s nothing thick in the air between you.
“Put your hands on my shoulders.”
You furrow your eyebrows; he pouts like an upset child. Chastising, you huff and do as he says. When your hands shake slightly, he continues giving you instructions. They are so simple, yet they seem so alluring and nuanced in this context. In his voice.
”Steady yourself. Yeah, like that. Good.”
You wiggle your hips slightly, and something boils in his stomach slightly, something bordering on a groan. Your legs are warming up but you have no way to close them and satiate yourself. So all you can do is squirm.
Hunter perks up in concern.
“Are you comfortable?”
You take a moment to respond but then nod.
“Good.” Hunter grins softly, patting your left hip. For a moment, he decides to rake his eyes over you appreciatively, almost in the same way you do when you assume he isn’t looking. “I’m glad.”
Offering a civil smile of mutual understanding, you wiggle your hips, trying to find a better position if you’re going to be compromised on his lap.
”Trail your hands down for me.”
It's hard to deny or disobey him with a voice like that, especially when you know it’s directed toward you. So you slowly let your hands slip from his shoulders and descend his chest and torso.
“Yeah, down,” He encourages you when you reach the top of his wrapped wound. “Maybe try to avoid the gash.”
You lift your hands and let only the pads of your fingers place feather-light touches over the wrapping. When your hands begin to tremble again the further you descend, reaching his pelvis, he tuts to stop you. “That’s a good place to stop.”
You look up again with wide eyes, trying to stop your erratic (embarrassing) trembles and tilt your head. There’s more he’s going to say. At least it seems so.
“Whenever you’re ready, put your hand over my crotch.” He gives you a soft look of reassurance, making sure you’re completely comfortable in this position, before finishing. “I want you to feel me.”
Gasping softly, you pull your hand away, fingers curling into your palm and gripping tightly. A shiver runs through you, and you can’t seem to figure out if it’s from shock or pleasure.
“What?” You begin, eyes flitting from his face and back. “H-Hunter, I shouldn’t.”
“I’m asking you to.” Polite insistence is the game he plays. If this truly is a trap, you might happily fall if it means you get to touch him. He runs his hands over your curves again. “I want you to.”
You tense further, something bordering on fear in your eyes. Hunter notices and frowns while he clarifies:
“Unless you don’t want it. ‘Cause then… we can stop. No hard feelings…”
You can see how he’s getting lost in his thoughts. For a split moment, that perfect composure he holds in your presence fractures; he seems insecure and nervous; anticipating inevitable rejection because he’s pushed you too far.
That isn’t the case.
As you finally press your palm to his bulge, you contain your gasp. He’s big. And so hard.
“Fuck,” He groans, head tilting back. “Feel that?”
Oh kriff, that rumble. It’s warm and smooth yet rough all the same, creeping its way over your skin until you’re forced to keep the faintest whimper from leaving your throat. You string your lips tight and nod.
“Mhm,” Is the only thing that manages to leave your mouth, whiny and soft. You palm him further, as if the fabric would simply tear away and you could finally feel his skin on yours. He hums again, and you’re left looking doe-eyed in his direction. “Shit, Hunter.”
He throws a heavy statement onto you.
“It’s my voice, isn’t it?”
You tilt your head up, containing the urge to gasp.
“What?”
“What’s making you so hot and bothered,” He continues. You want to look away, hide your face in your hands with humiliating embarrassment, but you’re trembling so much on top of him that you can’t even flit your eyes away. “You like my voice. And you like it when I tell you what to do.”
You gasp lightly when you feel his warm hand on your thigh. Your cunt twitches and it really shouldn’t. He’s barely doing anything.
“Well,” he continues, raising an eyebrow. “Are you going to deny it?”
The answer is delivered non-verbally. You relax into his lap, palm pressing further to his bulge, and then you squeeze oh so gently. That heavenly groan graces your ears and you devoutly catalog it into your mind for later recollection.
His chin dips down to catch a glimpse of your hand before he meets your eyes.
“Mesh’la,” he says; even without knowing what it means, just hearing how he speaks with such beguile and worship tells all that you need to know. “Mesh’la… can you do something for me?”
“Yeah. Of course. Anything,” You stammer out with a slack jaw, far too enthusiastic. Hunter doesn’t seem to regard it as anything distorting the absolute utmost respect that he must feel while he has you in his lap with your hand on his dick.
“Slip your pants off.”
It’s practically instinctual how efficiently you gingerly push yourself off of his lap and follow his order. With your hands chastely placed above your waistband, you let your thumbs push past, then await Hunter to grant you to pull them off. His eyes dilate with the view, and he nods.
The pants find their way to the ground clumsily, and you cringe internally at your lack of grace, but when you finally catch sight of Hunter’s expression, perhaps it’s nothing to worry about.
He looks… starved. Hypnotized by the splendor in front of him, for his eyes and his hands and his body only to touch, feel, hold, take.
“You’re… fuck,” he sighs, sounding out of breath, as though you’d just swept his leg and taken him off his feet. His hand methodically strokes up and down his thigh, only lightly grazing the tent in his pants as he takes his eyes over how you look, over and over again.
“You’re stunning,” he finally manages to say. His hand stops stroking to pat his thigh lightly, and his voice simmers in a way you know is on purpose. “C’mere, sit on my lap again.”
“Are you sure?” You ask for permission despite rocking your feet back and forth to shimmy your way back. As you gesture toward the bandages wrapped around his middle, Hunter huffs and frowns with miffed frustration. “You’re still injured.”
Hunter gripes to himself as he pushes himself up, placing his hands on your hips and pulling you to the free space between his two hard, firm thighs. His dexterity surprises you. The warmth radiating from his body does even more.
“I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.”
Oh.
Shit.
He looks the part, certainly; you only try to feel the faintest tremble of his fingers when his hands float away from your hips to sit on the top of his legs again,
“Okay,” You mutter aimlessly, reaching up to your face to brush your hair away in a measly attempt to look more presentable. Your voice is just a squeaky little thing, and it’s so incredibly humiliating. “Okay…”
“It’s alright,” Hunter tries to soothe you, and you breathe shallowly.
“I know that.” Your tongue runs over your bottom lip and you heave. “I just…”
Before you’re able to process what’s happening, Hunter’s reaching a hand out to cup your face. Despite the coarseness of his skin, his callouses fall on your cheek, it’s so tender, and you melt into his touch.
“Do you need some guidance, little medic?”
With a slight whine, you nod, letting your lashes flutter. Hunter lets his thumb swipe over your bottom lip, and your mouth parts. He grins at your unprompted compliance.
“Then let me tell you what to do. Let me tell you how to touch yourself and make you come from that, and my voice too.”
A depraved noise is choked out of you.
“Fuck,” your head careens to the side, but his firm hold on the side of your face keeps your gaze on him. His grin turns more into a cheeky smirk.
“How does that sound?” He asks. You nod adamantly before he tries to change his mind, so worried that he’ll push you away at any moment. As though he can read your mind, the hand that was still on the back of your thigh takes a gentle squeeze before trailing up your body, taking appreciative feels of your ass and hips before settling on your waist again.
“Mm…” You hum, reveling in the sensation. “Really good.”
Hunter gives you a half-crooked smile, and you want to cuss him out, or yourself, you’re not sure who to be fed up with.
“Come on, little medic,” He urges you on, patting your hip. “Slip your hand down your panties.”
Wordlessly, you let a trembling hand descend down your body. You have little dignity left in you to try and make yourself appear more seductive, but you hope your image isn’t so repulsive. The moment your fingertips make contact with your heat, your fingers grazing over your mons and clit, your mouth falls open in a silent gasp.
Hunter tilts his head.
“How does it feel? Are you wet?”
He should know already, smug bastard.
“Yeah,” you nod, keening further into his touch when he tilts his chin down, leaning toward your ear.
He takes a gentle lick, so light that if you weren’t in his grasp you wouldn’t have noticed.
“How wet?”
Your hips instinctively buck to rub yourself over your hand, a rush of arousal washing over you.
“Re–“ You swallow a wad of spit sitting on your tongue. “Really wet.”
Hunter’s lips are gentle when they undulate as he speaks oh so close to your ear, quiet and warm, words just for you.
“Just from my voice?” When he asks this time, you don’t detect much smugness; he wants the confirmation and credibility for a foundation of fact he’s built for himself.
You nod, but add on more.
“Not just that.”
“Hm?” His dark rumble travels down your spine and you squirm with pleasant upheaval. Your hand is still awkwardly lodged down your panties with nothing to do.
“Tell me more,” he demands with an assuasive croon. With one last kitten lick that lingers on the shell of your ear, he allows his lips to wander, mouthing against your skin, leaving delicate kisses on your temple, your jaw, and any moles and freckles in his nearest vicinity while he awaits your answer.
“I, uh,” you begin, awaiting to land on a coherent stream of words loosely strung together to fall on your tongue. “your—“
Just as you feel something begin to tie, your gaze drops down. Hunter palms his full erection over his blacks, languidly as though without a care, and the thought of him being aroused by this, aroused by you, slaps your mind into a render less zone.
“—fuck.”
He chuckles right in your damn face, and Maker he’s just too pretty not to kiss. But you resist the temptation with the festering worry of crossing the barrier past simple attraction into affection.
So you swallow slow and hard and try to compose a sentence.
“Your, face—“
Yeah, real eloquent, idiot.
“—That skull tattoo, it’s, well, shit…”
Your tongue wraps around itself again, words becoming more and more hard to piece together the longer you think about it. All that your primal mind begs you to think of is the olympic man presented under you, and the heat that radiates off the both of you.
“Alright now, you don’t have to continue,” Hunter huffs with no real malice contained in his words. It still makes you cringe nonetheless.
“That bad?” You ask with a clenched jaw.
A simple head shake is all you receive, but it’s more than enough to sedate a growing burn in the pit of your stomach. The hand not pressed to his crotch gently holds your hip, thumb swiping over your panties and bare skin; he even dares to let it slip past the waistband. The accurate awareness of your hand pressed to your pussy returns to you.
“Don’t want you to focus your energy on that,” he clarifies, eyes looking into yours with a softness you’ve never associated with Hunter. You’d find it peculiar in a regular conversation, but everything about this interaction has been anything but normal.
You suddenly realize you’re at a loss again. “So what do you want me to do?” You ask because you feel humiliated just straddling him like this.
Hunter puffs out his chest and you prepare yourself for the worst.
A coarse hand presses to your navel, trailing up underneath your shirt to sketch an image of your body underneath, stopping right where “Rub your pussy for me.”
It’s worded like a demand, but he voices it as though it’s a request. Your body wants to tense and retract, but the palm spread over the expanse of your stomach prevents you.
“You can do that,” Hunter encourages you, almost as though you were a creature he’s saddled on to ride. Though in this instance, you’d much rather be the one to ride. “Can’t you? For me?”
With a huff, you look away and nod bashfully. It’s wordless when you begin to move your hand, let your fingers get soaked as they rub up and down, up and down… you’re almost too tense to really feel the sensation, but Hunter’s doting gaze and his firm hand on your stomach keep you grounded. As you collect slick, running your fingers through your folds, it takes heavy petting for you to relax your jaw and let out the most pleasantly pathetic whimper.
Hunter groans, adding fuel to the flame flourishing in your pants, a dark sound of thunder rumbling in the sky, forewarning something much more devastating.
“Yeah, just like that,” he encourages you in that same husky tone following the groan. “Rock your hips too.”
You do so diligently, using your palm to press against your clit as a foundation for the rest of your hand to move leisurely while you rock your hips into himself. Hunter’s hand retracts from your stomach, fingers curling into his palms as he lets his knuckles graze against your skin. When you shiver, he takes it as an invitation to shush you gently against your temple, before his hand falls to your waist again.
The moment you glance down, you have to tip your chin back with an ascendant sigh. He’s got his hand over his clothed erection, palming it with a firm hand, almost absentmindedly as he keeps his eyes on you.
“Fuck, Hunter…” The desperate, embarrassing whimper comes out of you far more loud than you intend. Hunter shushes you gently.
“Keep quiet for me,” he commands; how are you meant to be by him when he speaks like that?
“Good?” He then asks, seemingly seeking approval good enough for him to continue. “Do I sound as good as you imagined?”
You want to say yes, declare it to the entire galaxy, and tell him just how wonderful this man is, but you’re far too overwhelmed by all the pleasurable sensations disrupting your thought process. So instead you nod.
That seems to satisfy Hunter, and the smallest smirk curls on his lips as he watches you squirm and rock your hips into your hands.
“Don’t you as well.”
With a hum, you try to dismiss the comment. But only as you let it sit does the implication of his words sink to your stomach. But he doesn’t allow you to dwell on it for too long, it seems, as he continues,
“I want you to keep touching yourself. Do whatever you need to for me. Whatever makes you come.”
He pats his incredibly intimidating bulge as though it’s an invitation.
“Right here, on my lap.”
You resist the dizzyness that threatens to overtake your senses, but as you steady your breaths, you suddenly feel so exposed. Far too exposed compared to Hunter.
So you try to level the playing field.
“Would you… er…”
If only your words could come out correctly. Hunter raises an eyebrow, perked with a cheeky glint in his eye.
“Hm?” He hums.
You grunt and attempt again to tunnel out the words. Like a plow shoveling out snow or sand.
“It—It feels unfair that I’m the only one here getting off.”
You wince as you finish the sentence. Maker, you sound so clunky and awkward. So much for being seductive.
But Hunter hums with total compliance, letting his hand trail up to where his bottoms cling to his skin.
“‘Guess you’re right.” Slowly, oh-so-slowly, Hunter peels back the waistband of his blacks, letting his hand slip through to free his cock from underneath the garments.
You think you’ve been knocked out for a healthy minute when you get a proper look. You’d never imagine describing a cock as pretty, but just like everything else, Hunter may become an exception. His fingers curl around the base with rather ease, before reaching up with it to his chin. He opens his mouth, letting a wad of spit collect and drop onto his palm, allowing him to stroke his cock with a more slick movement.
Maker, he’s so… so…
No, that can’t be right. His cock is far too thick for his hand to wrap around it so easily. But then you remember his proportions, especially compared to yours. A small chuckle leaves you when you imagine how you might try to wrap a full hand around his length.
Hunter leisurely strokes himself, eyes set on yours with an intensity that makes your stomach leap bounds up to your chest.
“Now it’s more fair, little medic,” he says. “Don’t you think?”
You nod adamantly with no hesitation.
“Yeah, yeah…” Your fingers deftly move to trap your clit between your index and middle, your mouth falling open when you feel the pressure hum over you. “Shit.”
Hunter huffs with a smugly saccharine look, his hand slowly stroking up and down his cock, lingering at the tip before he returns down again.
“You look really good like this.”
You tilt your head and grunt in disbelief. It’s hard to believe him when you feel simultaneously so powerful and so humiliated. Even though he’s just as physically exposed as you, you still feel more vulnerable.
“Do I now?” Despite being sarcastic, you try not to come off too mean.
But then Hunter sighs out the most exasperated, “ Fuck yeah,” his chin tipping upwards as he gathers his breath, tongue darting out to lick his lips, eyes half closed while he squeezes the tip of his dick, and you’re left render less to your own attraction again.
He seems to see the disbelief in your eyes.
“Don’t you believe me, mesh’la?” He asks. You remain still. “You really need me to spell out just how hot you look right now? How sexy .”
“Hunter,” you whine.
He continues without regarding you.
“I’m trying so hard not to— fuck—“ he tenses his stomach as he tries to compose himself. “—just blow my load right now. You’re just so— so pretty and pliant and so damn obedient .” You tremble slightly, and Hunter reaches to hold the back of your neck; not before tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, of course.
“Listening to my every order,” he continues, oddly affectionate.
A rush of confidence flows through your veins. You try to smirk, but instead it comes out toothy and bashful.
“That’s my job, sergeant.”
Hunter groans, his fingers curling into your neck, one pressing to your pulse point so purposefully.
“Fuck, don’t say stuff like that,” he says, shaking his head, though he doesn’t seem too displeased. “Or else this’ll be really short.”
You giggle, trying to look away, but Hunter’s grip on your neck keeps your head in place. You blink rapidly, suddenly overwhelmed by his stare. But you can’t. Move.
You whisper out a weak, “Keep talking,” before your eyes shut close. You press your palm to your clit, whining softly. Hunter uses the grip on your neck to bring you in closer, whispering slow and softly into your ear with purposeful oscillations of his lips,
“I wonder how you’ll feel around me.” You sigh out the faintest hint of his name in surprise, just as you begin to press a finger into your entrance. “I bet you’re so tight you’ll squeeze me out. Warm, and hot, and loud .”
“Fuck,” you swear, both in response to his words and to the feeling of a single finger pumping in and out of you. You’ve done little to stimulate yourself and cum, but somehow you’re already feeling an anticipated crawl up of an orgasm.
The things Hunter does to you.
“I want your mouth on my cock too.”
You clench involuntarily o over your finger, bucking your hip so your clit catches against your palm. Oh. He isn’t done.
“‘Thinking we’d both have fun if I tried a hand at commanding you around, fucked your face a little.”
Hunter tilts his head. as though expecting a response, so you nod your head — or tilt your chin down, you’re unsure— and he grins in deep settled approval at your compliance.
“How does that sound, hm?”
In a split moment of respite, while he awaits your response, you gaze down, watch his hand wrap around his cock with more insistence than before, stroke at the same rate you move. The hand on your hip drifts down to hold your hip again, rocking you with more fervor. Inadvertently, the movement forces your fingers in a new direction that grazes your g-spot just so perfectly, and you’re sighing again.
“ Oh… ”
The silence becomes too long for Hunter to bear, and he grunts.
“Answer me, mesh’la,” his tone is commanding, yet not overbearing. You appreciate it considering the sliver of shame remaining in your stomach. “Would you like that?”
“I’d–I’d like it,” you stammer out, slowly rubbing a second finger down your folds before pressing in slowly to meet the other. “A lot … fuck.”
With a tilt of his head, Hunter leans in closer, lips dangerously close to yours and for a split moment you consider pulling away.
“Something the matter?” He asks, but he knows the answer. Hunter can damn well see how your legs begin to twitch and shake more rapidly, the unsteadiness of your breathing as you simultaneously calm yourself and try to bring about your high.
“You fucking know what’s the matter, Hunter,” you bark back.
“I don’t think I’m sure exactly,” he responds dismissively. “Could you say it clearly, just in case?”
Something you hope sounds like a playful growl leaves you, but in reality, it probably sounds like a moth cat purring.
“You bastard .” There’s no real bite to your insult, and Hunter knows it, so he grins.
“I do my best.”
Your pleasure overtakes you and a shiver runs from the top of your spine to your legs, your thumb moving to properly rub your clit.
“Oh, fuck, I’m close,” you’re moaning out before you know it, voice dwindling so you’re not too loud.
“Ah,” Hunter hums, affectionately rubbing your hip. “That’s what I thought. ‘Was just making sure.”
His strokes have become more erratic and frantic, but his composure doesn’t give it away. If you weren’t to gaze down, you’d have no tell how aroused he truly was. Though perhaps that’s how he wants it to be— you’re a pretty mess while he’s the foundation to keep you upright.
Suddenly, he’s talking again, using the hand on your hip to encourage you to keep rocking.
“Come on, you pretty thing,” he rumbles. “Come for me and I’ll come for you.” Then you’re remembering what brought you to this attraction in the first place; that damn voice of his. Truly, and you mean truly, never saw yourself being in this position; situated over Hunter’s lap, touching yourself for him while he gets off to you and only you.
With one more curl of your fingers against your g-spot and your thump insistently rubbing your clit, you’re over the hill, and you’re twitching and rocking your hips over and over in arches of your back, jumbled syllables vaguely making up Hunter’s name spilling from your lips like sticky sweet sugar.
That’s when you hear it. When you glance down to catch his spend start to spill on his bare skin the bandages of his, he groans out the most pleasant incantation of your name you’ve ever heard. The moment the noise graces your ears, you’re certain that you never want to hear anything else. Or at the least, any other version of your name.
A few moments pass where you remain panting in each other's presence, his hands remaining render less at your side, rubbing up and down in uncoordinated patterns, while your hands grip his shoulders. You only start to pull away from him as you catch your bearings— and your dignity.
Hunter interrupts you by grabbing the wrist of the hand you had stuffed down your panties. He leans in closer, tongue darting out like a teasing little offer.
“Can I get a taste, mesh’la?” His voice is slow, and warm, like honey pouring into a pot of tea—in any other situation, it would sedate your nerves. But those words ignite that fuel inside you. You press your fingers still coated in slick to his lips, and he opens his mouth graciously, letting his tongue swirl around your digits with a gracious hum that vibrates your skin. Your other hand drops to his chest just before where the gash begins and holds onto it with a tremorous touch.
Hunter pulls away with a resounding ‘pop’ that makes you cringe, but not pull your eyes away.
“Delicious,” he remarks.
Your face is hot again and Hunter is smiling wide, but you’ve figured out by now he means no malicious intent with his mannerisms. His hand reaches out, cradling your face
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Hunter admires you with a glint in his eye you’ve never seen before. Sure, you’ve seen affection— plenty at this point— but there’s a tenderness to his words as he continues. It still doesn’t feel fair to not return the compliment, however.
“You’re one to talk.”
The only response you get is a scoff.
“Have you ever seen yourself?” He asks, posing the rhetoric as if you’d go out of the way to compliment yourself. It’s hard to feel anything more than pretty when you have the most handsome man trapped between your thighs.
Hunter doesn’t budge — states it like a fact, as though he truly believes it. “I always get ravenous just looking at you.”
“Oh,” You reply dumbly. “I… I didn’t think.” Your ability to talk to Hunter improves after getting off for him, it seems.
“You thought wrong,” he replies, shaking his head slightly with a smile. He leans his head down, looking better at your face before reaching with his palm to hold your cheek with hands so calloused they feel soft.
“You’re a capable woman, a great addition to the batch–” Your cheeks heat up, and he smiles. “--And I think you’re beautiful. Mesh’la. That’s what that means.”
Your hand crawls up slowly against his arm, unknowingly following the pattern of his skeleton tattoo before your much smaller hand is placed against his.
“Hunter…” You whine.
He tilts his head, that goofy smile still stuck on his face. “What?”
“You flatter me.” With a shake of your head, you unpeel yourself from his lap, and Hunter whines so, so soft as you do to the point you almost leap back onto his lap again.
“I’m being honest,” Hunter insists, lazily using the underside of his blacks to clean his spend off his skin and the bandages. You’re standing idly, stupidly, and you know he’s waiting for you to say something— and you do, you do, but you don’t know what.
“Well, thank you,” you finally answer, attempting to compose yourself. You awkwardly place your feet back into the holes of your pants, pulling them up in a swift motion that leaves you put away wet, but you care very little at this point.
You look up at Hunter, appreciatively looking over his features, before a forlorn feeling fills your stomach when you gaze down at his lips. You felt them delicately graze against your ear, wrap around your fingers to gently suck and lap at the spend coating them, yet you haven’t felt them against yours once.
He notices the look on your face.
“Something up?” He asks.
In retrospect, it must’ve been a rush of confidence through your veins after having him in such a vulnerable state only a moment ago, but you truly don’t know where your next words come from.
“Can I have a kiss?”
You expect, hope even, for Hunter to be thrown off his rhythm so he can be on the same level as you for once. Rather he takes a step closer to you, his hand methodically wrapping around the back of your neck again, thumb pressing the juncture between your jaw and throat for that extra leisure, feeling your pulse as he pulls you in for a kiss.
In your dreams, Hunter's kisses are wholly devouring. But in reality, it’s warm, tender, brimming with an underlying passion you least expected. As his lips press against yours, you can feel the velvet caress of his skin, the exchange of breath between the two of you that makes you hum into him.
His other hand rises to gently stroke your back before pulling you closer, and you feel so enveloped in his embrace that neither of you will be harmed again. You press your foreheads together and pull away, each taking slow, savoring breaths.
Truly, you never expected to be in this situation.
“...I don’t want this to be a one-time thing,” you mutter shyly, a bashful look on your face. It’s that little smile, that damned voice of his, that delivers the final blow, sending you back into his striking orbit.
“Of course,” Hunter tells you, smooth as ever. “I still haven’t gotten to be inside you.”
It’s hard to believe in something so ardently human when he was conjured out of something quite inhuman. Even then, he’s always been a man of science – facts and occurrences that could be proven without falter appeal to him the most.
The mere idea of fate comes from a natural need for most to believe in something higher than them – but Tech and his brothers had no reason to fall back on such a comforting blanket. It’s almost a shame, he could deduce, but now that he’s never depended on such a thing, Tech doesn’t know why he should ever seek it out.
Thinking of some invisible string, predestined outcome, interlinked paths and journeys leading to the same end doesn’t comfort him in the slightest. If anything, he thinks himself too intelligent to believe in such things. He won’t look down on others for having those philosophies tethered close to their chest, but no matter how hard he tries and makes himself believe, the simple, straightforward fundamentals of the universe are undeniable in his eyes.
It’s just the truth. It can’t be proven otherwise.
Now, Tech has grown significantly from the first years of the Clone Wars – despite his stubborn, know-it-all demeanor, Tech still strives to learn and adapt and evolve into his best self – and much has changed. His belief in fate remains the pillar of his mindset through even menial life, though sometimes he can feel slivers of his humanity slipping past that desperately beg him to believe.
Because on further recollection, the unfamiliar yet pleasant shiver that ran past him the day he properly met you felt far too destined to be the product of mathematical chance.
It’s like a fresh breeze against his skin after a lifetime in blistering heat, a breath taken right before plunging into oceanic depth, unexplored. Tech never considered himself a pioneer, but the first time he speaks to you, he feels like he’s treading frontiers never seen before. Though in reality, if he were to be brutally honest with himself, it only feels so new because Tech doesn’t normally like to indulge in such things.
Though, he doesn’t know this at an initial glance, of course. It takes him countless nights to come to these conclusions.
It starts simple, and begins with stiffness; you wave in his direction when he passes by your stall in the village market. The first few times, Tech doesn’t even acknowledge it, storing the action but deducing the wave isn’t meant for him. He doesn’t notice how your smile drops and your expression turns numbly neutral again when he doesn’t notice you.
Eventually, he finally realizes that your greetings are meant for him. If you had stopped greeting him in defeat, Tech may have never realized. But your insistence on getting him to acknowledge you isn’t in vain.
Tech watches you wave with a keen smile, and he turns around, expecting to see someone avidly waving back in your direction. When he doesn’t see anyone else and turns back again, your gaze still fixed on him, he blinks once–twice, thrice– and tucks his datapad into his pouch. Something almost smug crosses your face when he begins to walk to your stall.
“Hey there stranger,” you greet playfully.
Once Tech hears your voice properly, he begins to piece together moments of familiarity; that same voice speaking calmly to Hunter over the sound of patrons in Cid’s parlor, your eyes staring into his for a split second to exchange some nothing words about something Tech can’t recall. Based on everything else he can recall, you must’ve been in tangles (loathsome or not) with Cid, which can explain why you were speaking to them. But still, he can’t quite understand why a split moment like that would make you so comfortable to greet him like this.
“Hello,” Tech answers you politely, stiffly. You don’t seem to be bothered.
“How long have you and your brothers been on Ord Mantell this time around?” That’s your first question, palms pressing to your stall table to lean over. You still aren’t close enough to the point Tech would become uncomfortable and needs to pull away, but he takes note of your manner.
“We just arrived last night. But we’ll be staying for some time longer to restock.” Tech answers mathematically because it’s the only way he knows how to speak to someone like you– a stranger .
You hum. “No wonder it’s been a while since I’ve seen you around. Or Wrecker and Omega. They always stop by the Mantell Mix stand whenever you're here.”
Tech sneaks a glance to his left and realizes your seamster stand is situated right next to the stand selling Mantell Mix that the Omega and Wrecker always frequent.
That makes more sense.
“Omega’s currently resting, last I saw her,” Tech explains, though he wonders if an explanation is obligated in this situation.
“How is she doing?” You ask.
“She’s doing well.”
You smile. “I’m glad.”
Tech flips up his visor to get a better look at you. He tries not to stare for too long – from his understanding, it’s rude – but he still takes a hefty time taking you in. You’re your own person, just like everyone else in the world is; there’s no reason for him to be enraptured by anything more. Yet his eyes keep getting caught on the curve of your neck to your shoulder, how your hairline meets your ear, how you hold your jaw up.
It’s nothing out of the ordinary, yet that same juvenile feeling of destiny rushes through him again. A flush of red on his cheeks, a warm sense of typical affection.
You couldn’t be the cause, could you?
It’s something about you, isn’t it?
That can’t be right.
“I haven’t talked to you much.” Your next words snap Tech out of his trance but his mind still races through different ideas. He’s not accustomed to this feeling of distraction; his thoughts are usually so methodical and precise.
“I suppose we haven’t had the chance,” Tech finally settles on the answer, voice softening purposefully to seem less standoffish. The corner of your lips turns up at his reply.
“There’s no time like the present, right?” you respond, as peppy as ever. Though, perhaps you’re less peppy than he thinks, but just ten times livelier than him.
“What do you do when you’re not out saving the galaxy with your brothers?” You then ask, and Tech’s first instinct is to ask what led her to believe they were doing such a thing; a worry of that’s rude and dismissive overwhelms the initial thought, and he holds his tongue.
He thinks over the question, momentarily scrambling to think of an answer that doesn’t involve discussing the batch’s next move or tactical strategies.
“I… study. Research,” he answers vaguely, mentally berating himself for not preparing a better response.
Your jaw slacks, mouth forming a small ‘o.’
“That makes sense, considering you’re always on that datapad of yours.” Instinctively, almost defensively, Tech’s hand reaches for the pouch that carries his datapad, and then you’re smiling again. He isn’t lying when he speaks of studying and researching; in fact, more recently he has been studying the origins of faith and mythology. He recalls it again when he looks at you, ideas of the Maker’s beautiful handcraft. He’d like to believe in those beliefs, especially staring into your eyes now, that face so perfectly molded by a touch of godlike divinity or something else entirely–
Or perhaps he’s wishing he could believe in something so below him.
His mind shuts down any other thought, any other command, besides retreat.
“I should leave now,” he states matter-of-factly, trying not to look at how your face contorts with his change of mind.
“I enjoyed speaking with you,” he adds at the end to soften the blow. He’s unsure if it works.
You flash a smile, more bitter than before.
“So did I,” you say.
Tech turns on his heel and walks away. As he returns to Cid’s parlor, stomach flipping in ways he’s never felt before, Tech concludes stubbornly that you are no product of divinity, that the color of your eyes and etch of your smile aren’t utterly spectacular pigments of the Maker’s creation. A thought like that isn’t aligned with his previous beliefs, and he isn’t one to abandon something so fundamentally, provably true. Tech is a man of science, not a critic of artistic elegance.
-
Inconveniently, that isn’t the last time Tech speaks to you. Far from it.
Not only have you continued to wave his direction whenever he crosses your way – and he always waves back, no matter what, even if there’s no reason for him to familiarize himself with you – but you frequent Cid’s parlor more than he realizes. Perhaps he hadn’t taken notice of you before —just regarded you as another patron— but now he certainly has.
He sees you once again talking to Cid directly, voice hushed and chin tipped low while you speak to each other. Your expression is no more serious than what he’s seen before—it may suggest the conversation is entirely casual, but Tech knows better than to think there’s no ulterior scheming if you’re talking to Cid of all people.
Hunter’s voice cuts through like a knife, pulling him out of his previous trance.
“You’re looking at the civvy again,” he says.
Tech shakes his head adamantly, immediately.
“I’m not,” that’s how he replies to Hunter, but both of them know he’s incorrect.
“Hm,” Hunter mumbles, unbothered by Tech’s dishonesty. Instead, he moves on to the next topic. “Why don’t you talk to her?”
Tech tilts his head.
“She’s friendly,” Hunter then adds. “And I’m sure she won’t mind if you struck up a conversation.”
The idea of Tech walking up to an acquaintance, practically a stranger to drum up unnecessary conversation doesn’t sit right with him. It’s entirely unlikely. Not a viable outcome in the probability and spontaneity of the turmoil that is the galaxy.
“I’m sure she’d rather have a conversation with someone other than me. Someone as lively,” Tech says, attempting to keep an unaffected expression on his face. “Perhaps Wrecker, or Omega.”
Hunter purses his lips. And then he shrugs, which perplexes Tech.
“She talks to me and Echo just fine.”
Wrecker butts in, a level of energy above the rest as usual, and encourages him,
“Yeah! Make some friends, Tech!”
and his stomach twists, partly offended at the implication of their words, and partly discomforted by being pushed out of his comfort box out of his autonomy. Tech says something he truly feels, albeit cold, but he feels it's the only words that keep him safe and sane in his zone of stark,
“Who said I want to make friends?”
Just then, Hunter perks up, eyes darting away from Tech and looking behind him. Tech then turns before looking back again; he’s unsure why he wants to appear so casual–perhaps it’s you, though.
“Hello boys,” You greet them all with a little wave as you lean your body on the booth’s table, looking at everyone; Hunter, who waves and smiles small and quickly; Echo, who appears relieved by the intervention; Wrecker, prepared to say hello in a booming, friendly voice; and Tech, who tilts his chin down so he can’t see that face he worries might be celestial.
“Well hello to you too!” Wrecker smiles for you big and wide, attempting to make up for the lackluster welcome you receive from the rest of the batch. You smile wider, and Tech tightens his lips. The same feeling rushes down his spine, settling in his stomach. Twice now. Twice in your proximity. If it happens thrice, Tech won’t be able to dismiss it as a coincidence.
“Are you looking for Omega?” Hunter asks, debating your reason for approaching them. “She’s asleep already. I understand you wanted to teach her a bit of Dejarik strategy…”
You shake your head loosely with a shrug.
“Not necessarily, no,” you speak like you’re bargaining, Tech notices; as though you’re trying to sell a product, or charm your buyer. “I’d like to say hello to all of you.”
Echo smiles softly. “It’s nice to see you around,” he says. Perhaps you’ve been in closer proximity to the rest of his brothers more than Tech thought.
“Yeah, very nice!” Wrecker says, still so enthusiastic Tech almost cringes.
You shift your weight on the table, one hand leaning over to keep yourself upright while the rest of your body casually careens in their general direction.
“So…” She begins, smile turning coy and probing. “What brings a band of brothers like you–”
Before she can finish her sentence, a scaly hand clasps her shoulder, and she turns. Cid looms over the booth now, seemingly unamused by the interaction.
Though, when does Cid ever look amused? Tech things.
“Hey, bandana, goggles, the other ones,” she snubs. Tech scrunches his face. Cid gestures toward her backroom office. “Over here. I got something to discuss with you.”
She leaves it at that, and you slowly turn your gaze back to the boys, slightly squeamish. As though you shouldn’t be there. Wordlessly, you leave, and as the boys shuffle out of the booth, Tech can’t help but turn and catch a fleeting glimpse of you before disappearing into the room.
Business. That’s all Cid discusses with them. In her defense, they never exchange any other words besides those that regard business, but it still causes Tech to frown. Her interruption could’ve been saved until after you’d finished speaking; instead, Cid clapped your shoulder and dismissed you, your face painted with an expression of valid disregard, and Tech didn’t like it at all.
When the batch finishes discussing their next job with Cid, he exits the back room and is surprised to see you are still there. Instead of talking to anyone, you’re shuffling through a few credits at the bar table, nursing what looks like water. Who drinks liquor during the day, anyway?
The batch each returns to menial tasks; Hunter and Echo go to check on the ship and Omega, Wrecker finds some random patrons to play a round of darts with, and Tech’s feet find an indirect path back to you.
“Your question,” he begins monotonously. It seems his whole body moves at its own autonomy rather than his command because suddenly Tech can’t seem to recall how he got into this position.
You turn, surprise etched into your expression.
“Excuse me?”
Tech quickly debates his limited options. Now that you’ve acknowledged him, there’s simply no way he could back out now. At least, that’s what seems courteous.
“C-Cid interrupted you. So you never got to ask your question.”
Your mouth falls into a little ‘o’ shape, so delicately parted Tech’s entire expression softens ever so slightly.
“Thanks for asking,” you answer with genuine care for his consideration. “…I was just going to ask what brings a group like you to this parlor so often.” Tech hums, encouraging to continue even when you bite your lip. “We’re not exactly very accommodating for long, and…” He picks up on your choice of the words, we’re. “…unless Cid is using you as her lapdogs—“
A momentary pause in your sentence leaves enough space for Tech, now incredibly curious, to interrupt.
“Lapdogs?”
There’s no statistical way to predict how you’ll respond. But Tech considers his past experiences with you, how you’ve replied and reacted to his abrupt words before, and he awaits a response as peppy as you usually are. Instead, it’s radio silence. Deafening, discomforting, haunting silence.
Your gaze drifts down, tongue swiping over your bottom lip momentarily as you ponder your next words. Finally, you gaze up again, and Tech’s breath returns.
“Can you forget I said that?” Is your choice of words. It’s a strange choice, perhaps, at least in Tech’s eyes, but he lets it pass.
Only because… Only because…
“I’ll try,” Tech says.
You smile, warm and friendly and alien.
“I’ll see you, Tech.”
He does continue to see you around the parlor – quite often, actually. More often than not, you’re playing Dejarik with another patron. He’s unconsciously begun to catalog your different smiles– when you play, your smile is always smug, bordering on something nefarious. Tech has also noticed the same expression on your opponent's face every time you finish a game; the same disgruntled, disappointed look on them when they push themselves off the chair and grovel, leaving with fewer credits than they had entered with.
You seem to win so frequently and collect large wads of money, he begins to wonder if you make more money in your games of Dejarik than at your stall. However, he fears that he’ll look like a vermin invading in your business if he tries to calculate your earnings so adamantly.
Rather, you probe him yourself.
Tech is sitting on a barstool, absentmindedly reading another research paper he scoured the holonet for. This time, he’s reading up on the phenomenon of divine intervention. Near-death experiences when someone‘s pulled out of the water right before they take their last breath, that precipice of halting existence in the material plane before you’re brought right back in, by somethingmightier than you.
He’s grazed death many times before. It’s simply a part of existence as a Jango Fett clone. He deals with the risk of death every day he steps on a new planet, even after the war has ended. Nothing has ever felt like a pull out of the water before drowning, a gust of air rushing through his lungs mere seconds before he’s taken out of this world.
Though, perhaps divine intervention doesn’t just apply to moments right before death. As he reaches the counter-rebuttal section of the paper, your voice folds and floats over his skin like silk.
“What are you researching this time?”
Tech looks up from his datapad immediately, tucking it away, as he knows if he keeps it open, his instinct will want to retract back to his comfort zone.
“The phenomenon of divine intervention,” he says, feeling no need to lie. “Or rather, stories of those who believe they’ve experienced such a thing.”
You nod, keenly interested; he’s not used to someone caring to listen to any of his ramblings. You then place your elbows on the Dejarik table, almost teasing-like, leaning toward him in invitation.
“So you’re not a believer?” Your words aren’t insulted; they still wade in pools of curiosity, and those damn eyes trap him in again.
Again, he feels no need to lie to you. Not about this.
“In divine interventions? No,” Tech shakes his head.
You huff.
“That’s a shame,” you jest, opening your arms even further, just begging for him to crawl his way further. “I’d make a joke about how I’m a divine intervention right now.”
Tech raises an eyebrow. Your smile widens.
“I’m intervening oh-so-divinely to invite you for a game,” you gesture to the Dejarik board with a mousy scrunch of your nose.
You must be in his head. That’s it. There’s no other explanation for how you burrow into it so fast, know every thought that’s been plaguing his busied mind ever since he first properly spoke with you. Perhaps he should’ve, would’ve denied you a game another time, but in an instant Tech is pulling out the chair across from you and taking a seat to play.
Only because… Only because…
Why don’t I know?
You smile again, passing him a die to roll and turning on the holograms, each piece appearing unselected.
“Let’s play,” you say.
Tech nods stiffly.
“Let’s.”
Through the years, Tech has taken a liking to Dejarik. He enjoys the mathematical element, the perfect balance of strategy and luck that can’t be faked or excused by some higher entity. Though as much as he enjoys playing, he enjoys watching others play more. Trying to pick apart their thought process as they actively spell out their strategy onto the board, whether they emerge victorious or indebted. And even though he’s playing, he’s never been more fascinated watching another.
Each of you takes turns rolling a die and picking your pieces. You don’t hesitate with your choices, divisive when you place them on your side and Tech admires the confidence on your face. He isn’t
“Do you want to bet some credits?” Tech asks, assuming you’d want a gain out of a game. He’d never seen you play Dejarik for fun before.
You push your eyebrows together, a tiny grin gracing your face.
“I’m not trying to get money out of you. I’m playing just for fun.”
Tech shrugs.
“Just a few. Just for fun,” he shuffles through his pockets and places two credits on the table, raising an invitational eyebrow. The exhilaration that washes over your entire face is incredibly worth it.
The game begins after that. Not before you bet three credits yourself, of course.
Just as he expects from astute (neurotic) observation, you are mostly silent when you play, save for little quips as you’re deciding your next move. You move your pieces with precision, and instead of reaching him first, you let Tech’s pieces meet you in the middle.
“Fancy seeing you here,” you tease when his Houjix meets your Monnok. Tech bites the inside of his cheek, trying to avoid smiling like a fool.
Two full turns pass after that. Tech attempts to roll back with a witty remark, but he worries it comes out swell-headed. After all, he doesn’t want you put off of him entirely. Maybe just a little. Just so he isn’t irreligiously blessed with you far too much.
Besides that, Tech’s put you in an unfavorable position. One he hadn’t expected. He’s seen you play; you move and strategize with the grace and expertise of any master swindler. But here you are, your Monnok pinned between his Ghhhk and K’lor’slug. There’s little chance you’ll be able to defend; with a power piece like Monnok against a flanked defense, he’s
“You seem to have me cornered, Tech,” you say casually, unbothered. He frowns, puzzled.
“I do.”
“Well?” You lean back, hands neatly folded on your lap, ambivalent to your defeat. Waiting for his next move.
Tech attacks your piece. It’s killed with no buffer. When his eyes return to your gaze, he doesn’t expect you to remain so nonchalant about the loss. But you’re tipping your chin down in respect and pushing the credits to his side.
“Good game,” you say. “`Really got me there.”
Tech’s frown deepens, confused by your impartial feelings.
“You were winning up until that last turn,” he says, thinking out loud for a moment. “The only thing that got me back up was that counter-kill.”
You shrug.
“Beginner’s luck?” You bargain, but Tech doesn’t like that answer. Luck is plentifully part of the universe, but it’s far too abstract and all-encompassing to play a role in one Dejarik game. One dice roll.
Instead, Tech just returns the shrug. Perhaps some things don’t have to be over-analyzed, despite the discomfort it gives him to leave it at that.
You look at him with those unholy-holy eyes of yours again, and Tech tenses his jaw.
“Another game?”
Tech doesn’t answer verbally but rather picks up a die and begins to shake. You smile.
The air between the two of you doesn’t change, the same quips and expressions exchanged– Wrecker even notices and becomes your one-man crowd– but this time, Tech is humiliated. Immediately, he loses his Attack and Mobility pieces, realizing his flaw is his flow of movement on the board far too late in the game. He can’t save his pieces before you’ve killed all of them, three of your four remaining triumphant on the board.
His mind does it again. Contradicts his previous belief. Luck is the first thought that crosses his mind when he recalls the last two games. Deliberate luck. Something incomprehensible to those on his plane to understand intentionally changing the course. Something entirely false, entirely juxtaposing everything Tech knows to be true.
You’re then bringing the five credits over to your side, shuffling them around in your palm momentarily with a smile.
“Look at that. I’m rich,” you joke. Wrecker howls out a laugh, but your eyes are only focused on Tech when he returns you the softest grin.
You’ve played him. It’s a classic little hustle. But he knows that. You know that. You know that he knows that.
His first win isn’t beginner’s luck, and your totalitarian victory isn’t just the luck of the draw. It’s clear on your face.
Perhaps you’re not much of a believer in fate either.
-
Tech allows the moment to simmer. In the back of his mind, he’s still anxious to approach you on his own with seemingly no reason other than just wanting to. It doesn’t feel right to him. Far too out of his nature to do spontaneously.
He only allows himself to indulge in a conversation once the air has settled, and only if you initiate the conversation first.
You do. Well, technically. You wave him over to your stall, and he greets you with exactly what’s been going on in his mind.
“You flank with your offensive piece and reinforce with your defensive piece.”
You blink at him, then blink again, smile slowly turning more dumbly awestruck in your surprise. Nice work, Tech.
“I-It throws people off,” he finishes his thought. Can’t hurt to finish the blow, can it?
Your grin is all teeth and cheek, the crinkles in the corners of your eyes clear as day. Tech isn’t sure what feeling rushes through him when he notices it, but it certainly is pleasant.
“Oh?” That’s all you say. All you give Tech to work with.
He licks his lips with no aim.
“...Oh.”
You snicker, shoulders tensing, but your actions haven’t given a clear stay-away warning. He’s still in the clear.
“You open with your movement piece,” he recalls how you played last night, and the countless other times he’s watched you match against others. “In the first game, you moved your Molator twice, and in the second, you moved the K’lor’slug only once–” You nod in agreement, which gives Tech the green light to continue rambling. “–But you didn’t break the inner circle in the first turn for either game. You wait for your opponent to move inward before you break in.”
You shrug, still grinning all wide, and that rush of fate overtakes him again. This time, he doesn’t stuff it down with an adamant rejection but rather ignores it with little regard instead.
Only because… Only because…
“Can’t argue with that,” you say. “I skirt.”
“Some would say you’re attempting a classic round-table defense tactic. But I think you’re just a strategic attacker.”
“All attackers have to be strategic.”
“Sure. But you attack as though the game lasts twenty rounds. You attack for a long-run victory. One that takes multiple games to enact.” Tech gazes away, feeling himself getting caught up in his words again, pushing up the bridge of his goggles. “It’s– It’s a playing style most people don’t expect.”
Finally, Tech gets the common sense to stop explaining to you your own strategy and clears his throat, fingers locking in and out as he lays out his next words.
“...Or, at least I think. From what I observed.”
You huff, exasperated; or maybe amused.
“You observed correctly,” you say, and Tech’s shoulders heave oh-so-subtly as he sighs in relief.
“I’ve played plenty of Dejarik before. And watched others play,” he replies as smoothly as possible.
With a hum, you tilt your head, still so enraptured in the conversation. He wonders for a split second over what enchanted you. It’s uncharacteristic… yes.
“Is that how Omega got so good?” You then ask.
Tech considers your words, his half-shrug turning into a hand gesture.
“Not exactly,” he says. “She has a knack for those sorts of games on her own. But–but that’s not the point I was trying to make.”
Your eyebrows perk up.
“Well then, please continue, Tech.”
Oh, does he love the sound of his name on your lips. It’s far too–not perfect, no–it’s far too pretty to be wrapping around something, someoneso statically unmatched for you.
“I’ve read plenty on Dejarik tactics, variants, openers… you don’t play in a way that shows you know them. That you’ve ever read them. That the idea of tactic and strategy in Dejarik even exists .”
You tilt your head, urging him to continue. You have that same look of fierce curiosity in your eyes that Tech is beginning to adore.
“You might play those tactics and moves, but it’s not on purpose. It’s by chance. Because, of course, where do those strategies come from? Those who play first.” Tech gestures toward your figure again. “You play like you’re the first to ever do it. Like you made Dejarik yourself. Like the game is yours .”
For a split second, Tech seriously considers that he may have gone too far. But your contemplative face tells you otherwise. You’re still genuinely considering what he has to say.
You let out one more disbelieving breath, head dipping down with a bashful shake of your head.
“Well, I’m flattered you think of me that way,” you reply, biting your lip. “Though I’m afraid that’s too much to deduce from two games… don’t you think?”
“I’ve seen you play,” he says right after you finish. But it’s not long before he regrets it. He watches you tilt your head and he takes a deep breath. “...I, observed.”
You nod along, but Tech worries that you don’t believe him. But he wouldn’t believe him either.
“You’re clever,” Tech adds just to see that smile again. You give it to him, graciously.
“No one’s used that word to describe me,” you shrug. “After I beat someone, I usually get the typical pantheon of shallow insults.” Tech stares at you puzzled, and you shift your weight to ease the tension in your shoulders.
“‘Thieving bitch,’ ‘Conniving whore,’” You list examples with a mild expression of annoyance, “Sometimes just a simple ‘Fucker’ before they’re lunging over the table.”
Tech’s eyebrows push together.
“ Lunging? ”
You laugh teasingly, but not unkindly.
“Sometimes sore losers get aggressive,” you explain. “But Cid never lets that slide.”
“Are you in close contact with her?” Is his next question, though he’s unsure how you might respond. With a purse of your lips, you lean back, increasing the distance between the two of you.
“I guess you could say that,” is your response. “It’s… complicated.”
Tech feels it. How soft and undisturbed he feels in your presence. He’s suddenly no longer having a natural urge to overthink your words and conjure up the perfect response (even if it doesn’t prove successful). He can leave what you say just as it is.
Only because…
Only because what? What makes this special? What makes you special? He’d never once questioned his stance of faith. And he won’t let something like this change it either. So how can you even exist, live, and grace his world so effortlessly as though you know nothing of the way you disrupt his being?
It’s discomforting. It’s enticing. It’s foreign.
“That’s fair, I suppose,” he says. “I think I’d respond the same if you asked me that question.”
You grin, gentler than he’s ever seen it, and Tech is left to seriously debate the existence of material contradictions.
-
Without your own volition, you continue to occupy Tech’s mind, both in his dreams and in his wake. On missions when he isn’t forced to zero in on a threat, he’s found himself endlessly searching holonet scholars for something to justify his deviation from the objective truth.
There has to be a reason, Tech is sure of it. Why else would he look at you, someone as grounded as any other being, and feel something so divine? Something that feels almost destined?
He recalls certain stories of grand romance he’s read before. It’s like I knew you in a past life… Something drew me to you the moment we met… I looked and I just knew. It’s not an entirely inhuman idea, yet it’s so alien to Tech’s nature he can’t understand how anyone could experience that.
Faith is not something instinctual for Tech. He’s never needed it like others have. His moral compass exists without the need of a rulebook, or a punishment if he strays away from what’s correct.
Yet every time he sees you, his mind screams and grasps at the ideas like a lifeline. The only thing keeping him afloat when he’s in your presence.
Despite that, he does his best to keep these conflicting feelings at bay. You invite him for more games of Dejarik, though infrequent, and Tech eagerly anticipates them. Wrecker has taken a liking to watching the two of you play as well. When the two of you probe the answer as to why, Wrecker just shrugs and says “You two play well together.”
Tech would rather think of you as a scientific anomaly, he realizes; so he thinks of you as a magnet to his opposite, pulling him closer the moment your field meets his. The second you wave him over from your stall, he’s walking over with the smallest of content grins. He’s glued to your every minuscule movement, every twitch and glance. When you lean in, so does he. When you pull back, he follows the trail you leave.
Even through the discomfort, he allows himself to be pulled by your magnet.
Only because… Only because…
“Tech?”
Hunter’s voice interrupts Tech’s mental meandering. Tech looks over at him, pushing the bridge of his goggles up.
“Yes, Hunter? Is there something you need me for?”
Hunter squints, looking past Tech. He turns to look at where Hunter has fixed his gaze, which is, inconveniently, you. Tech turns back, and Hunter grins.
“Nothing, but I did want to ask about your little staring problem,” he says. When Tech stills, Hunter just purses his lips.
“Do you like her?”
Tech huffs softly, unsure of how to answer. What a question that is.
“Of course,” he answers, still unsure of what's appropriate. “I have no reason to dislike her. She is a perfectly adequate person.” Before he can begin to overthink his choice of words, Hunter shakes his head and says,
“That’s not what I meant.”
Tech only has a slim idea of what he’s implying, and has no plan of assuming.
“I don’t understand.”
“Tech,” Hunter catches his gaze with a firm tone, and suddenly he can’t look away. “Do you have feelings for her?”
Again, what a question. Feelings are not Tech’s strong suit. He knows this. Hunter knows this. Being cornered with such a question isn’t going to receive the results Hunter wants.
“...What is the exact definition of feelings?” Tech rationalizes before trying to give a real answer. “Because I’m not sure my reflections regarding her match what you’re accusing me of.”
Hunter frowns. Tech half expects him to keep probing, but instead, he leaves it at that with a lazy shrug.
“Sure,” Hunter says, looking over at you again. “Are you going to speak to her, at least? Instead of watching from afar?”
Tech shakes his head adamantly. He isn’t exactly embarrassed to admit to his brother that he has no wish to initiate a conversation.
“Only if she approaches me first,” he says. “I don’t seem the need to otherwise.”
Hunter still has that same look on his face; puzzled with a hint of disappointment.
“If you say so. Just… Don’t limit yourself.”
Leave my comfort zone?
“I’m going to take Omega back to the ship for an early night,” he continues, patting Tech’s shoulder pad and passing by him. “Keep your comm on, just in case.”
Tech nods, but his gaze is far directed your way.
“Sounds good.”
For the most part, Tech finds himself sticking to that same mindset; he won’t approach you first. Unless there was a feeling festering in his chest, that same destined rush that he devoutly will deny, there’s no reason.
The night grows darker, the parlor becomes more crowded with inebriated patrons having their hand at games of Dejarik. He sits on a barstool, waiting for you to leave your booth and challenge an oblivious customer, but that time never comes. Your silhouette looms in the corner, dancing in the dim light, pulling at something deep within him. Each time he tries to focus on something else, gaze away, his eyes keep finding their way back to where you sit alone, an empty glass in front of you, your fingers splayed on the table tracing invisible patterns; lost in thought.
Tech’s mind neurotically considers his options. Could he even approach you without feeling like he was giving into what he’s been rejecting so fixedly? What would he even say? How would you react? Surely, you’re observant enough to realize how he never chooses to come to you first.
The uncertainty gnaws at him, twisting his stomach, but the pull towards you is stronger. He favors you as a magnet once again and takes a deep breath to steel himself before pushing off his seat and walking toward you.
You don’t even seem to realize he’s walking toward you, eyes still glossed over with a look of apathy. Tech clears his throat awkwardly before speaking, his voice quiet, but still loud enough to grab your attention.
“Hello,” is his opener.
Real smooth.
You blink in surprise, gazing up at him with the gentlest part of your lips. He gets the perfect view of your face, and that familiarity he once saw the first time he spoke to you return. Like an old friend, a smell that transports him to somewhere safe and warm. Somewhere he belongs and always will belong, since the beginning.
“Oh,” you speak, a soft breeze settling over his exposed skin when you talk to him. “Hi.” You gesture to the booth seat across from him, and Tech sits graciously, tipping his chin down courteously.
“How are you?” He then asks; it is the only thing he could decide upon that was the least risky.
Your expression tenses, eyebrows pushing together with a scrunch of your nose.
“I’m…” you begin, as though bargaining with yourself. “...I’m not doing great if I’m being honest. Thanks for asking.”
Tech takes a deep breath, chest heaving at your last sentence. Are you… Are you being sarcastic? Do you not appreciate his butting in? Should he–
“If you’d like me to leave, I can do so,” Tech thinks out loud, attempting to backtrack.
Your eyes widen and you reach over, preventing him from sitting up and leaving you.
“No, please, sit down with me.” Your expression is soft again, gentle with a lack of spirit that frankly makes Tech slightly uneasy. But he just nods and sits his bottom down again, clearing his throat awkwardly.
He lets the silence sit. It feels like the right thing to do. But then you start speaking again.
“Tech,” you say, blinking so rapidly he almost assumes you’re holding back tears, “you’re a scholar, right?”
Tech hums, considering your question. He’d almost forgotten what he’d first told you during your first-ever real conversation.
“Perhaps one could call me that,” he says, “though I’ve never published any research or thesis of my own…” he watches your expression intently, and when your lips curl up, his chest seizes again. He backtracks again. “...Unless you’re teasing me.”
You shake your head rapidly.
“Oh, I’m not,” you say. “I’m sorry if it came out that way.”
Tech holds back a frown. He’s always found conversations to be a puzzle, always methodically putting it together like a typical person, but always missing the final piece to match everyone else. Something missing. Something extra. Something different. He’s never been good at this. Conversations with you are far from an exception.
He settles to clarify, “I didn’t interpret it as that,” with a softened expression. “Other’s might, perhaps. But not me.”
You nod, rerouting back to your initial question.
“So you’ve read and researched plenty of topics, right?”
Tech hums.
“I have.”
You breathe shallowly but still deep enough to push out your next words.
“Do you think you can help me with a question that’s been on my mind lately?”
Tech blinks. Now, that’s a heavy request. But he’s looking at a face borderline paradoxical, a loose bolt in the machine; what’s the point of rejecting such beauty?
“I can try.”
You smile softly, but the content doesn’t reach your eyes. Tech begins to truly wonder what’s been bothering you. With a much deeper breath, you lean your elbows on the table and begin.
“All my life, I’ve been doing what I need to do. To survive. To get by.”
Tech sits there, embarrassingly dumbfounded at what to say besides giving a sympathetic response. You hold in such a high regard– he doesn’t want to lose that.
“Many people do.”
You fool.
But you don’t seem to notice.
“Sure, but it’s mixed in with actual desires. Things they want to do,” you continue, rationalizing your next statement. “But with me… it feels like all I ever do is what I need to do to survive. I can’t even think of a time when I’ve done something I truly wanted.”
This time, Tech takes his time to consider your words.
“That’s… Not an uncommon experience.”
You tilt your head, considering his words for yourself.
“Really?”
“Sure,” he pushes up the bridge of his goggles before he keeps talking, recalling any relevant example he could use. If he’d like to leave this conversation in any way, it’s with you feeling comforted. “I know that my brothers and I have focused most of our lives on simple survival rather than a true passion. And sometimes, doing what you want can only come after working for a space to survive.”
You nod in understanding and what he hopes is agreement, taking a few moments yourself before replying.
“That’s not incorrect,” you say before turning it around, “but I think my problem is that I’ve worked so hard to survive that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to fulfill my wants. Not out of selfishness, but just out of… scarcity, perhaps? Of free time. Of liberty. Between finding places to stay, running the stall, making money in Dejarik, ensuring my protection–”
That’s what intrigues Tech. He doesn’t want to interrupt, but he’s doing it before he even realizes it.
“Protection?”
You nod, rather than go silent like the last time he’d interrupted you so starkly to probe at your word choice.
“From Cid. That’s how we know each other,” you explain. “When I first came to Ord Mantell, it was at a peak of crime and murder. Cid saw me playing Dejarik and making good credit, and we struck up a deal; she provided me protection using her connections through the city, and I gave her 25% of my earnings.”
Tech nods along, processing your words with an attending gaze.
“That’s…” he begins, aimlessly, when in reality he should’ve been thinking more properly because then you’re interrupting him with a tinge of insecurity in your voice.
“Dumb?” you ask.
Tech shakes his head automatically.
“I don’t have the right to say that,” he says, and you exhale softly in relief. Though he isn’t sure why you’re concerned about what he might think. “…If anything, I see it as resourcefulness. As you said, you were just trying to survive.”
Then you’re grinning again, a wash of sweet calm on your face.
“I’m glad you think that.”
Then silence fills the room again. Tech seriously considers his next words. He could retract and simmer his words down, or he could take a risk. But it’s been established with you clearly; Tech won’t take many risks.
So he’s unsure what compels him.
“What’s something you’d like to do?” He asks. You perk up with a raised chin. Tech tenses. “Perhaps–perhaps we could try and complete it together, right now.”
Your eyebrows raise, and Tech can see your thinking, a slow smile beginning to spread across your face.
“If we’re talking right now…” You say coyly. “...I’d love to get out of this parlor.”
A polite, yet genuine laugh erupts out of Tech, and you laugh along with him, body leaning down with the heaving of your shoulders when you giggle.
Tech regains his composure quickly, readjusting his goggles.
“Then let’s leave.”
You raise your eyebrows. Tech nods again.
“Where?” you ask. Then he purses his lips.
“I’m not sure.”
You sigh, but not in annoyance. Unexpectedly, you rise from your seat, gesturing for him to do so as well.
“C’mon,” you grin, “I know a place.”
With a leading stride, you tug on the fabric covering his wrist and swerve the two of you through the parlor. Tech half expects Cid to interrupt the two of you again, but he takes a moment to glance back and observe, relieved to see her nowhere in sight. For once, he actually can be alone with you, speak to you without such an overstimulating environment, and without the risk of being interrupted.
Once you exit the parlor, you let go of his fabric. Tech forlornly tucks it into a pocket and continues to follow you. Through backways of backways, up a winding staircase, through a hallway, then up another ladder leads him to your destination; atop a tall living complex overlooking the rest of the buildings down to the bustling life below. If Tech was a more spiritual man, he could swear he’d be able to reach up and hoist a star in the sky onto the next planet; they seemed to shine so close. He’s caught up in the view for a few moments before he remembers what he is here for; your company. But to his relief, you’re lost in the expanse as well.
“It’s quiet up here,” he comments, taking a step closer to you.
You nod, still not taking your gaze off the sky. Tech is pulled in again, unable to take his eyes off of you.
“As far as I know, this place is more isolated,” you say. “As you saw from the climb up, it’s kind of hard to spot unless you live in the living complex.”
“I see.”
Tech’s immediate urge is to ask if you live in this living complex, but the worry that he’s overstepping overtakes him. He settles on a different question.
“Do you come here often?” He asks, glancing up at the sky, but after long he’s compelled to look back at you.
You shrug, lament, as though disappointed in yourself.
“Not as much as I wish,” you sigh. “Like I said, I rarely do what I want.”
Then, you’re walking towards the end of the building, taking a seat on the edge, legs dangling over. Tech watches you and then follows behind, taking a wary look over. You don’t seem concerned at all by the risk. So he sits beside you. He reasons with where he sits, worried about overstepping a boundary, but still sits close enough that if either of you were to scoot, your shoulders could graze. That feels reasonable to him.
“Have– have you always lived like this?” Tech stammers, folding his hands over his lap.
“Lived like what?” You ask, seemingly confused by his question. He can feel your eyes on him, but he resists his want to look back; eye contact in a situation such as this might break him completely.
“...Just to survive,” he clarifies for you. You mutter a soft ‘oh,’, looking away again, eyes glossy while you recall past events.
“...No. Not my whole life,” you say. He makes the mistake of looking up, because suddenly you’re looking back at him, lips parted in consideration. He thinks of the first time he properly spoke to you, the familiarity he found in your face; as though he’d seen it before in a past life, or perhaps this one; but the latter couldn’t be correct. Tech would have remembered a face such as yours if it’s struck him so now.
You continue, unaffected by Tech’s neurotic mentation.
“Back in Nalvage, where I grew up, I did what I wanted. Survival wasn’t something I was thinking about.” You pause to take a deep breath, shoulders heaving. “I just… lived. With the pretense of survival already there for me.”
Tech thinks over your words, getting hooked onto one in particular.
“Nalvage.”
“Yeah,” you turn and tilt your head. “You know it?”
Tech holds back a snarky response. It’s you, after all.
“Of course,” he mutters, voice raising as he continues. “My first ever mission was on there. My brothers and I saved and escorted refugees out of a village the Separatists had been seizing.”
You nod, though it's more of a slight dip of your chin.
“Yeah.”
“That was almost four years ago,” he recalls. The clone wars had truly felt like an eternity, Tech realizes, despite in a vacuum, it only lasting a tenth of a tenth of a second. Living through it, fighting in it, growing up under the guise of war and bloodshed changes anyone.
He looks back again, and you seem to be lost in thought. Your eyes are downset, lip swiping over your lips. Then you gaze up again, eyebrows pushed together.
“Do you know how long I’ve lived on Ord Mantell, Tech?” You ask. Unsure of where you were heading in this conversation, take just shakes his head, awaiting you to fill the gaps.
“Three and a half years.”
Tech purses his lips, trying to connect the dots in his head. A flush of deeply rooted history between you two festers, but he pushes it down as he attempts to rationalize. Additionally, he’d rather you fill in the gaps for yourself than let him assume possibly incorrectly.
“Three and a half years,” he repeats to himself under his breath. You catch it and smile softly, breathlessly. “And you’re from Nalvage?”
You nod wordlessly, then provide him the clarity he’d been waiting for.
“The village you helped evacuate was mine, Tech.”
Tech’s never been good at conversations. When he can’t find a missing piece, little people make the effort to help him fill it in. He’s left just a tack behind the rest, inept and foolish for even trying when it comes to easy for others. But you take the time to fill it in for him. And as he looks at you, it’s like he’s been waiting for this along. Waiting for someone like you. Or… just you.
Now you’re looking at him with that same expression of familiarity. Perhaps it’s been there all along, and Tech was too lost in his monologue to realize. But it’s so prominent he begins to feel guilt pounding in his heart. You knew this whole time, yet didn’t share. He must’ve made you uncomfortable. He must’ve hurt your feelings when it seemed he didn’t recognize him.
“I–you–I apologize–” He stammers through, fingers starting to tremble. He combats it by taking a cold grip on his jean-clad thighs.
“No, it’s okay,” you say. “I was younger then. I looked much more alive back then compared to now.” Your tone is joking, but the playfulness doesn’t reach your eyes. “And you were saving so many people. I’m not surprised you don’t remember me.”
“It’s not that,” Tech denies with a firm shake of his head. “I couldn’t recognize you until now, but… I thought I knew your face.”
You tilt your head, intrigued. He’s pulled into your magnetic field again, just another opposite for you to latch with.
“Is that right?” You ask.
Tech nods.
“The first time we ever spoke properly, at your stall I believe,” he adds a tone of slight recollection so he doesn’t appear as enraptured by your every move and interaction as he absolutely is. “You looked so familiar, yet… distant. I suppose I couldn’t put my finger on it. But now I know.”
“All those years ago,” you say. Tech nods, but he’s already deep in thought again, digging his mind for any memory he can scrounge up of you. Your complexion against the lush green of Nalvage, then later smoke. That same scrunch of your eyebrows, your eyes wide, intensely focused on the task at hand, your voice…
“We spoke back then,” he mutters. In the corner of his eye, you nod.
“We did.”
“I asked you to take some children off my hands while I took down a group of clankers.”
“Single-handedly,” you add, and Tech just shrugs. You grin. “You had the same voice, same eyes, same goggles of yours. Just more… youthful,I guess.”
Tech agrees with a shy nod, still struggling to process that any of this is truly happening. “You certainly look much older now.”
You huff, only one side of your mouth tilting up.
“Well, that makes sense,” you remark blankly. Tech bites his lip, realizing the ill-intent you might’ve interpreted.
“Wait,” he begins, “I’m sorry if that–”
You shake your head before he can even finish. Then, you scoot closer. As Tech predicted, now your shoulders graze against each other.
“No, Tech. I wasn’t offended,” you say, your soft gaze set on him with an intent he can’t exactly pinpoint yet. “Don’t worry. If I was I’d tell you.”
Tech pauses, truly at a loss for a proper response.
“So you remember me?” He asks.
“Of course I do,” You say. Tech musters up enough courage in himself to look into your eyes, the first proper time this entire conversation. He wants to look away, out of fear of the sky falling on him if he stares for too long, but you’re tugging him closer again. “You and your brothers saved my life. You helped me get out. I mean… you’re probably the only reason I’m still alive.”
Tech slumps softened at your words. He’s keenly aware of the little, yet impactful effect he’s had on many people through the galaxy. Yet being told it directly… it’s a different feeling entirely.
Yet, he still feels foolish. Firstly, for being unable to make the connection between the two of you. Secondly, for succumbing to the paradox you wrap him in.
“I should’ve realized we were connected in that way,” he finally utters.
A soft noise comes from the back of your throat as you consider his words.
“Fate?” You ask, a teasing smile on your face. Something depravedly hoarse is choked out of his chest. Just how do you know what holds him up without truly understanding the turmoil it’s given him?
Tech just shakes his head.
“I don’t believe in fate.”
You shrug it off without a bother, and Tech’s chest constricts watching you do it so effortlessly.
“Coincidence, then.”
Tech shakes his head.
“That’s not quite it,” he mumbles to himself, but it’s still loud enough that you pick up on it. Tech still has that nasty habit of going off on tangents no one cares to hear, and it rears it’s head again as he begins talking. “My entire philosophy is based on facts and logic, what can be proved. Fate can’t be proved.” However, you’re nodding along, seemingly unbothered that he’s gone off. “Coincidence is just a facet of existence. One could think it's two lives intertwined, but that implies fate already. Something higher above us, controlling everything. And there’s no way for me to feasibly prove it, so… how am I meant to justify such a phenomenon in my mind?”
“What phenomenon?” You ask.
Tech takes a deep breath, and sighs, swearing under his breath with a coarse voice. Is he really going to admit to something he can’t come to terms with in his own head? Come clean to his own vulnerability, his own contradiction, and hypocrisy to the prettiest person he’s seen in his whole life?
“Why I feel meeting you is fate, despite everything.”
It appears so.
You look at him, as though you’re just as lost. Tech wishes you looked at him any other way, even if it meant you didn’t care. But the confusion doesn’t help his psyche.
“I’m not sure,” you answer him truthfully. The weight of the unspoken words between the two of you hangs heavy. If Tech were a more spiritual man, he’d consider the palpable feeling of divine intervention that mingles in the atmosphere. Rather, he thinks it’s kinetic energy. Heavy gravity. Deep-rooted insecurity in the back of your minds. Nothing more.
Tech takes his time to search your face, eyes darting over your features as if trying to decipher a code written in the lines of your expression. His gaze lingers on your cheekbones, your jaw, the wrinkles your smile leaves, and your soft lips before they flicker back to meet your eyes – a silent plea for understanding passing between you.
As the seconds tick by, the world alongside him holds its breath, caught in the suspended moment between what is and what could be. If only Tech was different, someone else, perhaps, and he could remedy everything holding him back.
Finally, you break the silence.
“I’d be willing to find out with you,” you say, voice barely over a whisper, “What all of it means.”
Tech raises his eyebrow. Now that… isn’t an outcome he could’ve ever feasibly predicted. Though, he hadn’t been considering any proper options when the silence settled. For once, he isn’t overthinking, re-thinking, analyzing and predicting.
Tech is still in slight disbelief looking at you, so repeats your words.
“You’d like to figure out… together?”
You nod.
“I’d like that a lot,” you explain, hands folding over your lap. They’d been fidgeting absentmindedly at your sides before, not too dissimilar from how he does. “If you’d like that, as well.”
Tech blinks, still stunned. Finally, is he able to acknowledge it in his mind; your eyes are beautiful, and so is your face. Everything about you is divine. And it’ll forever be true, whether or not it aligns with all he’s known previously.
“Then we shall.”
Both can exist.
You smile warmly, cheeks lifting in a gentle caress of joy.
“I like the way you think, Tech,” you say.
Tech hums with a purse of his lips.
“Most people don’t understand the way I think,” he says, and it’s true. Not many make the effort to understand him, let alone try to meet in the middle. “Or care to be patient when it takes me some time to understand others.”
You shrug, far too modest to regard yourself as such a person.
“I can’t speak for you, or how you feel,” you say, looking down to the fall below you. Your words are quiet, yet only hushed to the point that if anyone were around you, only Tech could hear. “But I hope I do understand you. And that I’m patient enough.”
You’re plenty patient, he wants to say, but his voice lodges in his throat. Instead, he gazes down like you do, taking a good look over the edge of the building. There’s less of a view for him down there, and certainly more of a view if he looked up at the sky, but truly, he’d rather admire the one right beside him.
”Tech?” You then say. Tech looks up at you to find you already looking at him.
“Yes?”
You take a deep breath, hand reaching up to scratch the back of your head with a nervous tremble in your voice.
“There’s one more thing I can think of right now that I want, that I think you can help with.”
Tech tilts his head.
“What is it?”
With a final gulp, the words are spilling out of you in a sweet increment that disguises the weight of your request.
“Would you kiss me?”
Tech blinks before he freezes completely. He repeats your words in his head, once, twice, and a third time for extra measure. You just asked him to kiss you. Press your lips to him. Nothing more and nothing less. And all he can do is just… stand there. Dumbly. Idiotically.
Despite that, he’s able to move ever so slightly, pulled closer to you by that same feeling of a field of magnetic energy around him.
Tech's heart thunders in his chest, echoing the chaos that reigns in his mind. The request hangs between you two like a delicate thread, shimmering with unspoken longing and anticipation. He searches your eyes for any sign of doubt or hesitation but finds only unwavering trust and a glimmer of hope. Without a word, Tech closes the distance between you, one hand on your knee and the other placed over one of yours as he leans in to press his lips against yours, almost featherlight at the first caress. He’s never been one for romantic lyricism, but truly, time does seem to stand still as it witnesses the sight in front of it.
You kiss back, reverent yet not greedy, and Tech hums into your mouth with relief that he’s not doing a bad job. You’re fidgeting slightly under his touch, one of your hands reaching to hold onto something and landing on his clad thigh. You don’t squeeze, nor grip, just let it rest there, letting it act like an anchor while you’re guided through the kiss.
His heart pounds in his chest, yet he isn’t compelled to abort the new situation. Rather, he’d want to lunge in headfirst. You hum into his mouth just as insistently, lips soft and touch tender, and Tech wonders if there’s anything else
But then he’s pulling away, licking his lip with a nervous gaze.
“Was that adequate?” He asks, bottom lip trembling in worry.
But then you flash that heavenly smile, and his body sedates under your warm gaze.
“It was exceptional.”
There it is. That sensation of divine fate. And then the feeling that rushes right after. It isn’t fear, no– rather wandering curiosity. Here you sit, lips mere centimeters away from his, a paradox to everything he’s ever believed, yet he has no wish to push you away in favor of the facts and logic he’s relied on to keep him company. He’d rather pull you in closer, tighter, and make you the exception– not even an exception, but a new addition to his philosophy.
No, Tech doesn’t believe in fate. But you’re his contrary.
You see how he catches glimpses at you. Always carefully and politely, afraid to be caught or overstep. Not that you’d mind if he did, in reality; you’re just as interested in him as he is in you.
But one day, he slips up; his eyes rake over yours almost hungrily just a few feet away, unable to satiate how he’d want to ravish you if he had your permission. Suddenly, you can’t stop yourself before you’re saying:
“If undressing me with your eyes isn’t working, maybe I can do it for you, huh?”
Your tone is (mostly) joking, of course. But hopefully, if you cross your fingers, he'll pick up on the suggestiveness laced in oh-so discreetly…
Hunter
Before he's fully able to process what you just said, he begins to stammer.
Kriff, he even drops his vibroblade straight onto the ground;
that never happens.
For just long enough for you to bask in it, Hunter looks at you dumbfounded.
Any casualness or relaxation he exuded is gone now.
You can't help but feel a little prideful and laugh; it's not often you get to see this absolute bastard (affectionate) not in total control of himself.
He scoffs at how you laugh at him, and he quickly gains his composure again to your dismay.
He signs and leans in onto his knees with his elbows, eyes lingering on yours as he leans into your ear and murmurs,
"Don't tempt me."
Tech
"Puh-pardon?" Is the first thing that comes out of his mouth.
Your eyes snap up to him, worried that you'll begin to regret your decision, but as you look at his furrowed expression, you realize he's just confused.
"What is... 'undressing someone with your eyes' mean to you?" He repeats your words like something new, yet fascinating, a tone you do not expect.
He talks it out.
"Perhaps it has suggestive connotations, that would make the most sense, and you accused me of doing such a thing while I was-" He pauses for a moment, eyes flicking to you and to the ground. "And offered to-" He stops completely.
"Oh."
Before your stupid open-mouthed ass can do anything, he's already turning to hide his face, a coat of red flushing behind his hands.
A breathy, disbelieved chuckle escapes you unintentionally. You don't mean to be mean or teasing though. Honestly, you just think it's really cute.
Both of you just nod it off after that.
Little to your knowledge he tosses and turns in bed all night, cussing himself out for not just taking the damn opportunity right in front of him! You buffoon!
Wrecker
This poor boy gets so nervous.
He'll immediately want to deny:
"My eyes weren't doing that- they'd never do that. I mean, I wasn't even really looking at you, so, er-"
Don't blame him for that though; half of it is instinct, and the other half is that he's so scared of frightening you off. Both with his subtle (charming) perviness and his overall stature.
A small bead of sweat forms on his neck the longer he talks, eyes flitting up to you then back to the floor, pushing himself into a corner.
"It really wouldn't be appropriate for me to think of you like' that. In that way. I don't wanna ever step past your boundaries- your privacy, yeah? And I'm really sorry that you thought I-"
Quickly, you lean in and cup his cheek softly, softly handling him to look back at you.
"Hey," You say it in a way that feels as though a secret between the two of you that never dare be shared. "It's okay. I was joking."
You can feel the tightness in his chest ease, though he still has that worried expression on his face.
"Oh. Well, I mean I kinda knew that from your voice, but I still don't want you to get the wrong idea... Kriff, I'm such a karkin'"
Only a sickly smitten giggle comes out of you, interrupting him, and without any hesitation, you lean in and place a chaste peck on the tip of his nose.
You've never seen Wrecker's face this red in your life.
Crosshair
Eats it up.
Crosshair, the snarky little shit he is, adores when you indulge him like this. Endless teasing that could come off as jokes, but beneath the surface, you both know what is at play here.
He's loving that you're initiating this.
Doesn't even think that you might've just been joking before he's got a stupid smirk plastered over his face, chuckling softly as he leans in close.
"Well isn't that a delectable offer."
His serpentine voice so close to your ear sends a delightful shiver down your spine. You don't back down, because, well, deep down this is what you hoped would come out of this; it's just surprising it's actually happening, is all.
Before you know it, he's tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and looking at you like a delicious meal.
"How pretty, even with all that fabric. And you still want me to see all of you?"
You fold.
Like, immediately.
But, *cough cough*, worth it ;)
Echo
By instinct, his signature surprised/confused face appears; he doesn’t even initially process it how he usually processes the words you say.
“Why are you-wait…”
His mouth opens slightly. You can’t help but giggle. His cheeks dust the fairest tint of pink.
He then washes (most of) it away, and looks at you incredulously, unsure of what to say.
Was that… flirting? His skills and knowledge about this stuff can’t be that rusty. It most certainly had to be some form of it.
But then again, a strong part of him doesn’t want to believe that it is.
So, like most interactions with you, he laughs lightly through the back of his throat, rubbing his neck to ease the buildup of tension there and (failing miserably to) forget about it.
Why am I like this… he dares to think.
Rex
He processes what you say quite quickly, and just reverts back to his basic way of reacting to things: nodding with a small smirk. But his eyes give away his unease and uncertainty.
This man has got negative rizz. Doesn’t know at all how to respond to a flirtatious comment or even initiate one himself.
So this is a straight up curveball.
“Heh… if you say so, nehutyc’ika.”
JANGO ABOVE WHAT ARE YOU SAYING-?
You see his nervousness (not surprising, of course, you know Rex well enough, so you decide to deter the conversation from there.
That manages to ease him up, but his mind is still on the comment you made;
it makes him realize that, kriff, he’s really got to make a move…
note: nehutyc’ika means feisty one in mando’a!
Fives
The first reaction that’s elicited out of him is a brief raise of his eyebrows; the only hint that he might’ve been surprised.
He then leans in and smirks, muttering “Oh?”
Suddenly, you get a little nervous under his stare; just like every time he’s been suggestive with you.
You stammer for a moment, careening away and throwing a hand in the air.
“N-nothing,” You tell him.
He groans, shaking his head, but his blinding smile doesn’t dissipate.
“Oh, come on,” He says. “Don’t do that now.”
Your eyebrows knit.
“Do what?” There’s a very small grin on your lips that you dare not to let spread, lest you wanted him to annoy tease you the entire night.
“Pretend you didn’t just say what I know you said,” He shakes his head, leaning in closer to you. The voice that comes out of him is hushed, not necessarily close to your ear but close enough it sends a thrill through you. “Don’t be a minx.”
Without a moment wasted, he leans in further. You have to push against his chest to get him out of your personal space.
“Fives!” You squeal. “Just forget it!”
He looks into your eyes, then down to your lips, so close to kiss, but he only gives you the faintest of winks and pulls away.
“Hm. Kind of hard to.”
You just roll your eyes and allow the two of you to fall into blissful silence.
When he finally has to get up and leave you, he tells you discreetly with a laugh.
“Sorry, cyare, don’t think I’m gonna forget. Gonna wait to see if the offer was serious or not. Gotta be worth it... don’t you think?”
You’re left totally dumbfounded and tugging at your sleeves.
Jesse
This sly guy retorts easily. With a striking smile, he gets comfortable beside you.
"My eyesight's doing me wonders, babe."
You laugh softly, leaning the side of your head on your arm and waiting for him to continue. He does so gladly.
"But the real thing must be stunning, eh?"
It's unintentional how your breath hitches.
The nature of your relationship has always been playfully flirting and teasing, sweet encouraging words to each other that, hopefully, one day, will escalate into something more.
Maybe this is the day?
"Worthy of worship," You praise yourself with a glint in your eye, even purposefully pursing your lips to emphasize it.
He eats up your praise, agreeing wholeheartedly and leaning in.
One of the most feared men in the galaxy is between your legs, holding you so softly and carefully as if you might shatter at any moment. Such a tactile man, hardened from years of battle, now rightfully in your arms, rightfully claiming you, in such a manner nothing else could’ve been destined.
“Oh…” It’s just a simple sigh, a gentle commendation of his slow, concentrated strokes with his tongue. You want to say more, tell Boba how good it feels, how good he’s making you feel, but you’re rendered to a simple blubber and string of words that pathetically make up fractured sentences and pleasant, flimsy moans. He rumbles between your thighs, the vibrations sending a shiver down your legs and making your toes curl every so slightly. You dig a heel into his shoulder.
Boba pulls away from your sopping cunt, swiping his tongue over his lips to gather your lingering taste there, and gazes up. His stare is surprisingly unusually sweet. Unusually tender.
“How are you feeling, little one?” He asks you, rubbing the pads of his thumbs over your inner thighs, tantalizingly close to your outer lips. A hiss uncoils out of your tongue and your chest heaves with a heavy breath. Boba waits patiently.
“Really good, Boba.” You even make the gesture and effort to lean your body onto one hand instead of both, taking the free one to hold his cheek. The merciless bounty hunter melts in your hold; he turns his head to leave a firm kiss on your palm. Then your thumb. Then your index. He kisses each tip of your finger as you compose your next thoughts. “I feel really good.”
Something of a grin reaches his lips; it isn’t one typical of a regular man, but it’s a characteristically hardened expression that means all the more to you. It means he’s grateful, savoring each moment he has with you. Your heart swells and arousal pools.
He returns to the task beforehand; easy strokes of his tongue ease you back into the feeling before he trails a hand up, closer to your entrance where he hasn’t been before. As you feel the tip of the first knuckle undulate small, contained circles, you squeal quietly. Boba perks up.
“Do you want me to continue?”
It’s not a hard decision to make. You nod your head, adding a sweet ‘yes,’ voice just a little breather than before.
Boba’s hand glides over the top of your entrance, fingertips a phantom touch barely caressing your pussy, yet it’s enough to make you tremble. Then, he presses further. He makes his touch more purposeful.
Gathering dollops of wetness for a moment, rubbing the spend over one digit, before sliding it in slowly. Soothing yet nerve-wracking all the same.
But then, the finger is seated in you with little resistance. Little pain. You feel your warmth hug his appendage, keeping it firmly inside of you as you stretch just the slightest bit (yet more than you ever have), and sigh sweetly.
“Mm…” You hum, eyes fluttering close for a minute. The soft noise of praise you can’t distinguish and the featherlight peck on your inner thigh bring you back to the moment.
“Good job,” is all he says. Yet it’s all enough. You see in his gaze the fascination, the utter reverence in his stare that makes you want to curl up into yourself and scream into the sheets to never rise up again. But you keep your stare on him.
Boba lifts himself up, resting his knees between yours to spread you out further and join you on his expansive bed. As if you couldn’t relax any further, your shoulders practically sink into the mattress beneath you, and his eyes twinkle.
He must love this.
You’d hope so, at least.
“Hm, look at yourself, little one.” The praise sends you into another frenzy, breathing low in your stomach stagnated. “‘Getting stretched out nice and good. Taking my fingers like a good little princess.”
“Boba,” You sob quietly, feeling the digit sink deeper into you. Many times you’ve brought a release with your own fingers, but they’re nothing compared to his. Not as big, not as thick. He just manages to be gentle enough to leave you only slightly uncomfortable, yet the slow movement of his hand and wrist rocking back and forth, back and forth is already bringing you to the brink of orgasm.
Boba can feel it.
“How many fingers do you need, baby?”
You mouth something that he doesn’t seem to understand, instead deciding for you. His lips tickle the shell of your ear.
“Three?”
The only thing you can do is whine and rock your hips.
“Yeah, I think you do,” Boba answers his own question, pushing in a second finger with little resistance from your body and fucking you with his fingers steadily. “`Gonna need some stretching if you want me to deflower you.”
You just manage to stave off your orgasm until he gets a third finger in, leaving you positively soaked and stretched more than you’ve ever been before. Boba stays silent, breathing in his stomach while cradling the back of your head. His free hand tucks strands of hair behind your ear when you come down with soft sighs and hiccups. All the while, he talks; you’d never think he’d be talking in the bedroom as much as he does.
“Mm, you’re doing so well, little one.”
“Feeling okay? It’s okay if you can’t speak. Just nod, yes or no.”
“Nuh-uh. Just stay like that. Let me make this good for you.”
When you catch your breath, you see Boba’s already taken off the bottom part of his armor, leaving him just as bare as you. He meets you on the bed, pressing his knees on either side of your legs and resting your head on a plush pillow, bunching your hair to keep it out of your eyes. The simple considerate gesture has you reeling.
It’s still oddly blunt, nonetheless. Only the slimmest layer of sugary pleasantness coats his actions; you still see the hardened, rough, unrelenting man he is. But it’s in an entirely new light now. The roughness is all his way of handling you the way he wants, ensuring you’re satisfied and taken care of with no trace of unhappiness left in your body. In the determination, there is thoughtfulness.
Boba lines up the head of his cock at your entrance, forcing your chin to stop looking at where your bodies will meet and inevitably join and instead into his eyes.
“I’ll make you feel good, little one. I promise.” He seals the guarantee with a sweet kiss, holding your chin to angle your face properly.
When he pulls away, he pushes barely an inch forward and you gasp, suddenly strung tight by nerves.
He’s incredibly gentle. But he doesn’t go slow.
The thick girth of his cock stretches your pussy out, even more than his fingers, unrushed and carefully, despite how taut he keeps his stomach. As you observe his face, you begin to question if Boba is even breathing.
Despite his caution and gingerly stretch, there’s still a twinge of pain that rushes through you. It’s washed, practically doused and drenched by your own arousal, your own wetness, and the deep, low, perpetual throbbing in your lower stomach.
Boba presses his forehead to yours and you finally hear him let out a deep exhale.
“That’s it,” he praises with a groan when you involuntarily clench, finally processing the new sensations all throughout your body.
Suddenly, you’re whining and hiding your face in his shoulder when he pulls out slightly, the slick link of your bodies causing a slight difficulty to disconnect. As he presses back in, your words are pathetically gracious, pure reverence as you take only a fraction of all Boba has to give you. One day you’ll be able to take it all. This is just the beginning. But this is already so much. So much you might just cry.
It’s still incredibly difficult to process that he not only chose you, but let you choose him.
SFW: Likes to be bathed or taken care of in the bath. While it doesn’t happen often, he loves it when you sit on his lap and scrub off the dirt on his skin, slowly massage soap onto his scalp and soothe him. Rex is not used to being taken care of or sitting back and just allowing things to happen without at least a little control, so it’s hard for him personally to come to terms with just how much he likes it, as well as even indulge himself too much when he gets the chance too.
NSFW: He wanted to record you two going at it to watch while he’s away for some time. You’d already sent him photos of yourself, domestic videos of you doing simple tasks, but none very vulgar. Now that he does have that recording, he watches it so damn much. One of his favorite ways to wind down after a hard day. Not that he’ll really admit it…
Tup
SFW: This boy LOVES self-care days. If he has the chance, he’ll beg to do one. Paint each other's nails, wear face masks, braid hair in intricate patterns, moisturize, he lives for it. It's just an excellent way of doing the little things to keep his spirits up, expressing his own self-worth, and showing how much you’re worth it. As well as just having some sweet bonding time with his cyare.
NSFW: Loves receiving a lot. He doesn't really ask for it necessarily, and don't get me wrong, making you buck into his face and gasp from all the pleasure he's giving you is still one of his favorite things to do. He just also really enjoys sitting back and watching the person he loves on their knees, doing their utmost to please him and make him feel good. Also, Maker have you perfected it. The moment he sees you slowly sink down he's already anticipating the filthy noises that will leave his mouth.
Crosshair
SFW: MASSIVE sweet tooth. It's his guilty pleasure for a few reasons. Firstly, well, it's unhealthy of course. They also don't get those kinds of pleasures or indulgences as a soldier. But if he gets a chance? He's gonna munch on some sour candy like a child on Halloween. It's a pretty interesting, delightful sight.
NSFW: Crosshair really, really likes it when you ride him. You rarely do it, mostly because he just can't give up that much control to you, albeit anyone, but on the rare occasions he allows it, Maker he comes so fast. You look so damn sexy on top of him, commanding his movements and taking pleasure for yourself equally without his say being a large contributor. For once, he's not in control, he's in your hands and so vulnerable and desperate... it rubs the strangest parts of his mind.
Tech
SFW: This feels a little obvious, but sleeping late. Tech knows it's bad for him, but he just gets so much work done! His brothers aren't up distracting or pestering him, he can be left to his own devices to stray from the task at hand and deviate to another interest of his own volition, it's great! ...Yeah, you have to drag him to bed all the time.
NSFW: 👏Tie👏him👏up! Tech's hands are the most dexterous part of him and give him so much control over things- including you. And if you tie him up and render him subject to whatever you want to do, he becomes a whimpering mess. He'll suddenly be begging for any salvation, bucking his hips up and attempting to grind against you `cause you're just that damn sexy to him.
Wolffe
SFW: Obsessed with holo dramas. Once you caught him screaming at the holo because apparently, the leading lady had made an unwise decision between the two men she was in a love triangle with, and when you asked him about it he immediately denied it. You didn't catch him watching it after that but saw him discreetly trying to find times when he thought you were asleep or working. So then you pretended that you showed interest in the drama to make him feel less bad about watching it. So now you always catch up on the latest episodes when he returns from a dispatch.
NSFW: Enjoys it when you make sorts of animalistic noises in bed. He hasn't expressed it directly, but you're beginning to catch on. He likes to sprinkle on some extra praise if you yelp or howl like a hurt puppy dog, give him those sickly eyes and whimper. And he always comes a little too hard, even letting a few growls rupturing in his stomach out to bless your ears. So in conclusion Wolffe is a furry
a/n: definitely gonna do more of these with other characters, this was really fun! if you guys have any other characters you'd like to see with these headcanons, let me know :) ~ @starstofillmydream @pb-jellybeans @corrieguards @badbatchbabe @ladytano420 @jediknightjana @sleepycreativewriter @shinyshayminflower @thebahdbitch @secondaryrealm
