Summary: You're not a hustler - you're an artist. And the upper levels of Coruscant have become your favorite playground of late. Your patron tonight is on a Sabacc hot-streak - you plan to reap the rewards, too, until his ego has him placing you in the winnings pot.
Normally, it wouldn't be an issue. Your tactics always earn him a win. But this time, he's challenged by the most dangerous man in the galaxy - a man whose stare sends a thrill up your spine.
And now, you kind of hope you lose.
Words: 10.2k
Warnings: Cad Bane is Not Nice, Canon-typical violence
Characters: Cad Bane x Reader
A/N: THIS IS CO-WRITTEN WITH MY GORGEOUS LOVE @bastillia.
Hope y'all enjoyed! We had a blast writing it. It's a bit more niche, sure, but look. We want to fuck Cad Bane, and that's the way it is.
This literally took us an entire year because I decided to change careers and then move across the country and then go to a bootcamp and then get a job and then we moved into a new apartment. BUT NOW IT'S DONE.
Thank you to Faestae for your sprint tips. Thank you to all of my friends for encouraging me.
Love y'all so much! Talk to you soon. <3
“Raise.”
Trek pushes forth another stack of credits to the center of the table, gilded edges gleaming across the polished wood. Across from him, a Weequay folds, groaning as his cards collapse.
“This is bantha shit,” he says.
Trek snorts, crimson lip curling to expose his razor yellow teeth. “Give it up, Oros,” he replies, examining his hand. “If you weren’t ready to lose, you shouldn’t have played.”
“You’re pulling something, Varcast.”
A Trandoshan adds to the mound of credits, leveling Trek with his gaze. “Call.”
Oros rolls his eyes. “Are you not seeing this, Ussik?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Trek turns, glimpses you, his coal stone stare dipping to your cleavage. “You got any idea, baby?”
It happens in a single bat of your lashes. Giggling, you toss a coquettish look across the table, tits jiggling underneath the thin swatches of black silk meant to conceal them. It’s enough to break the focus of every single cardholder still at the table—and in that moment, Trek swaps his Commander card for the Balance card you’d had tucked at your hip.
“No,” you say, lip plumping in mock-despair. The Commander card slips into the open slot. “I don’t.”
Trek clucks his tongue, like he’s disappointed. “That’s too bad,” he says. “Oh well.” Shrugging, he chuckles to himself and spreads his cards to the sky before pushing them forward and leaning into his seat.
A perfect 23.
“Sabacc.”
The rest of the table curses, tossing their hands across the table in disgust. A wide grin slithers over Trek’s face and he bends to gather his spoils in his arms, dragging all of it—credits, jewelry, precious gems—into his growing pile.
“Kriffing bantha shit,” Oros grumbles, and shoves from the table to wander back to the casino.
Laughter quakes through the gathered crowd as he disappears. Trek leans toward you, cutting a smile, his fingers snaking behind your shoulders and tugging you close.
“Typical Weequays.” Trek loops a new necklace chain around one of his big, red fingers and dangles it in front of you. “Sore losers, the lot of them. Ain’t that right?”
You giggle and offer a shy smile to the table, pushing the necklace away as if he’s embarrassed you by being so bold.
“Another round?” the dealer asks, gathering the cards.
Trek slicks a hand along one of his horns, the other gripping your shoulder and gently jostling you. “You kidding?” he says. “While I got my lucky charm here?” His black-knife nails prick your skin. “Deal me in.”
“I need to get me one of those,” a Nikto says, his attention zipping over your stringy dress. “She for hire?”
Ussik hisses in agreement, fork tongue flicking through his teeth. “Don’t be greedy. Pass the luck around.”
A ripple of hungry snickering passes through the men. You want to groan in disgust—but you defer to Trek instead, peeking at him like you’re worried he’ll agree. He laughs, picks up his cards and appraises them before lowering his hand and shifting to meet your stare. Two heavy fingers pinch your chin, his claws catching your lower lip, and he shakes you.
“I think she likes where she’s at.” His hot breath brushes your face, and he releases you with a pat of your cheek. “Go get me a drink, baby.”
You glide up from your seat, curving your spine only a little more than necessary with the motion. Heat presses your ears as you turn away and promptly feel every set of eyes at the table adhere to your silk-framed ass.
“Alright, alright, get your tongues off the floor, boys. We playing, or what?”
Trek’s admonishment makes you giggle, and you toss one last faux-coy smile over your shoulder before setting off.
There’s no need to hurry while you meander towards the bar on the opposite side of the casino. Trek’s winning streak has him in good spirits, and you can already taste your cut at the end of the night. Plus, this is the first opportunity you’ve had to properly analyze your surroundings. You’d be remiss not to take advantage.
It’s busy tonight, packed with well-dressed socialites, business folk, even a few politicians from what you can glimpse. The air is thick and sweet, scattered with prismatic chandelier light that softens through wisps of expensive spice smoke.
The upper levels of Coruscant have become your favorite playground of late. Each of your senses is alight with luxury, the weight of the pockets passing you by almost tangible. It puts a glint to your eye and a sway to your hips. You know you look like temptation incarnate–so what’s wrong with attracting a little attention from prospective clients?
Some may look down on it, but you feel no shame in letting men pay for your company. With Trek, it’s as lucrative as it is simple—he wins, you win.
It’s the more lascivious caveats to your arrangement with him that, if you’re honest, you could do without. But for the money, it’s easy enough to endure. For now, Trek pays you well to keep things exclusive… and intimate.
At least he never lasts long.
Your heels tap the carpet with your stride, a metronome to the pleasant dance of silk around your thighs. Just a few more steps, and the bar is finally within your sights. But just as soon as it appears, it’s cut from view.
You slam to a halt, nearly falling over a couple who cut off your path, as if neither of them even saw you there. They stammer an apology while you recover your balance, though they both seem much more occupied with putting as much distance between themselves and the table behind them as possible.
Brow knitting, you turn in the direction they came from. Others move with similar haste, like clouds parting, all from a centerpoint on one tall figure walking leisurely towards a dice table.
He certainly stands out against this ostentatious crowd. You’re not typically one to stare, but he draws you like a seeker drone to a heat signature.
Long and lithe, his shape is an uncanny shadow over the scintillating room. He comes to a stop at the table, all fine leather and savoir-faire as he leans up against the edge. One long blue hand disappears into his jacket, then starts stacking credits on the betting line. He seals the wager with a tip of a wide-brimmed hat.
A sudden wetness gathers in your mouth, and the force that pulls you towards him is almost gravitational. The same burning curiosity which must tempt a Tooka-cat to jeopardize one of its nine lives for a particularly challenging prey. As you draw closer, the sheen of a blaster hilt flashes beneath his long jacket tail.
Yes, there is certainly something dangerous about this stranger. And certainly something enticing. And it’s not just the tower of golden credits now stacked on the velvet.
You sidle up to the space beside the tall Duros—the other players have left him a wide berth. Your thighs tingle.
“You look familiar.”
He doesn’t look up when you speak, just studies the table while he rocks a pair of dice between long, cerulean fingers.
“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”
It’s a hackneyed line, sure, but it usually does the job of starting a conversation. You shift your weight through your hips. He still doesn’t look up.
“You should hope not.” His voice sits deep in his chest, underlaid with a mechanical rumble that lights a tingle up your spine. “Unless you got a keen taste for trouble.”
The croupier calls for his throw. A devious urge flutters in your ribs.
“Breath of luck?”
A smirk touches his lips at that, toothpick shifting between them.
“Luck’s an avaricious whore.” His eyes finally spear you, twin red plasma beams that burn the breath from your chest. “Prefer to take my chances without her blessin’.”
At that, his arm winds back, and he launches the dice in a perfect arc across the table. They clatter and settle, revealing a Pilot’s Seven. You let out an airy laugh.
“Looks like she fancies you anyways.”
He peers down at you, toothpick bobbing between his teeth. If he’s at all affected by the subtle shift of your shoulders, or the way your lashes flutter when you meet his eyes, it doesn't show. His gaze never falls any lower than your own—somehow that warms your cheeks even more.
A voice on your other side makes you turn.
“I’d take some of that luck there, gorgeous.”
The speaker, an Abednedo, grins and offers his dice palm-up. You glance once more at the Duros, flash him a silken smile before redirecting it to his opponent.
“My pleasure.”
You bend slightly at the waist, letting your dress ride just a little higher up your thighs. By your measure, your stranger should have a perfect view. Your lips wrap into a soft o and you blow a puff of air over the Abednedo’s palm. He hefts the dice appreciatively, and throws.
An arc, a clatter.
Harch Eyes.
“Winner!” the croupier declares.
The Abednedo cheers, wrapping his arm around you and wobbling you in joy. You giggle, plant a chaste kiss on the wrinkles of his hairy cheek before politely peeling him from your frame. He’s too elated to notice, already occupying himself with counting his spoils like an eager child. The Duros is silent, stare finding you again.
It’s icier, harsher than the dead air of space. Its severity clips your bones.
But you don’t let that scare you. Instead, you smirk and turn away, tossing a vulpine look over your shoulder.
“That’s too bad,” you say. “You’ll get ‘em next time.”
With that, you depart the table, a flutter in your belly and a swing in your stride. You stop by the bar to grab Trek’s requested drink: always something sour poured over stones. His taste gives a new meaning to on the rocks.
You return to a few new and predictably demoralized faces, shoulders sunk in a circle, another heap of gold and silver credits glimmering in the center. It’s moved fast—this game is already in its last round, and Trek has anted up without your assistance. Batches of discarded hands are strewn over the tabletop, leaving Trek and Ussik as the final two players, again.
From yards away, you can spy a flash of Trek’s cards and frown. He’s being reckless. You shouldn’t have left him.
Sparing a sweet smile to the crowd, you saunter up to the table and sink into your seat, pushing the glass toward Trek and swallowing the urge to cough as a whiff of acid shoots up your nose and behind your eyes.
“There she is,” he says, and quaffs the whole glass, stones and all in a single gulp. “What do you think, sweetheart?” He flashes you his hand, a triumphant sneer on his face. “Should I swap or stand?”
You hum, pursing your lips. There isn’t a card in the deck that will save his current hand. You almost want to get up and leave, just to punish him for being an idiot.
“Well,” you say, breathy and brainless, “I think you should...” You shrug your shoulders for emphasis, your arms pushing your tits together again. “Stand.”
Trek grins and angles his cards face-down. “You heard the lady. Your move.”
Ussik’s lizard leer switches between you and Trek, then to the horde of credits in the center of the table. It’s like you can hear him running the possibilities through his head—he wants to keep going. Thinks there’s no way he can lose this one. But Trek’s hot streak has him too nervous.
He folds.
“Ha!” Trek guffaws, and tosses his cards on the table. He sweeps an arm around his newest winnings. “You always were a coward.”
Ussik emits a rattling hiss, and sweeps back from the table. “Don’t call me when your luck runs out, Varcast.”
A chorus of jeers follows him away. The dealer begins organizing the table for a new round, and you draw a long breath through your teeth.
That was too close. It’s a miracle the bluff even worked, and now Trek’s high on winning, letting his better judgment fail. There’s a deep, glittering hunger to his stare when he turns to you, taking advantage of the shuffling of players to pull you close and press his lips to your ear.
“You’re gonna get fucked senseless tonight.” His breath is hot and rancid down your neck. “Covered in pretty jewels.”
“Trek!” You force a giggle, not letting your guise slip even as bile rises in your throat. You push at him playfully, but keep close enough to whisper. “Why don’t you take a break? We’re ahead, let’s not push this too far.”
No sooner can you manage the suggestion than the dealer is signaling last call, and a hush alights over the table. You straighten.
Directly across from you, the crowd has parted slightly. A tall shape now settles into the vacant seat there, hat brim concealing half of his face. Below its edge, there’s an ivory flash of fang, the shift of a toothpick.
The dealer cuts the silence. “Will you be joining us this round, mister Bane?”
A cold vise wraps your chest. The hat brim lifts, and red eyes pierce you.
“Deal me in.”
Your mouth parts, a thick web of realization congealing in your throat. It all makes sense, now—the hat, the leather, the blaster, the deferent jittery crowd.
His face hadn’t been familiar. But his name is.
Trek shoulders you aside, obsidian twinkling in his gaze. “If it ain’t Cad Bane!” he says, slamming his fist on the table. Audacity swarms him like a second skin, and he beckons for cards. “I’ll almost feel bad taking your money.”
Bane’s name is, in fact, synonymous with terror on every planet you’ve visited. And you’d just taunted him like a slut.
You swallow the realization. His attention is still trained on you.
“I never feel bad about takin’ anything,” Bane replies.
Your thighs press together. The round starts. Everyone’s focus snaps to the cards.
Beside you, Trek vibrates with glee. He reminds you of a kid waiting to prank his sibling, his victory already decided. When his turn arrives, he draws a card and nudges a few tall columns of credits to the center of the table, chuckling to himself.
“We’ll start with that, then.” His chest is puffed like a shaak’s ass.”Should be chump change for a guy like you.”
Every player peeks at Bane from behind the safety of their cards, nervous whispers creeping through the crowd. If there’s any true danger, Trek is more oblivious to it than a corpse. The toothpick twirls between Bane’s incisors. He draws a card.
“Call.”
He doesn’t even stack a credit before two players fold, distancing themselves from the table as if it’s made of flames. You glimpse Trek’s hand—with two people already out, his odds of winning with what he’s got could still improve. Pinching your lip between your teeth, you examine the abandoned cards, counting those left upturned before your eyes catch Bane’s again.
His scrutiny siphons the air from your lungs, shoots an electric thrill through your spine. Gooseflesh tickles your shoulders, and you massage it away, like the chill is from the air and not the primal flutter in the back of your brain.
“Just calling?” Trek says, swapping a card out from the pile. “You don’t wanna raise the stakes?”
Bane is nonplussed. “I got nothing to prove to a hustler.”
Trek shrugs. “Suit yourself, merc.” He collects more than half of his night’s earnings and guides them to the center. “Raise.”
Fuck, he’s going to blow every last credit on sheer pride at this rate. Idiot. Not that you care if he makes a fool of himself. It’s not your problem. But it is your money.
Two more players fold, crumpling under the high stakes and stalking away from the table to a ripple of murmurs from the crowd. That leaves only Trek and Bane remaining.
Your pulse picks up speed. From the corner of your eye, you again seek out a few abandoned cards left face up, and file the suits away in your brain.
“Call.” Bane’s voice is black ice. Your focus shifts to him, and you’re scorched again by his level stare.
To conceal a rush of nerves, you shift to peer at Trek’s cards. His hand is decent, but not worth the wager he’s set. At least, until you see his thumb shift, a signal that only you can see. His obsidian nail taps one card, and then another.
“I’d have thought a man of your caliber would bring a harder wager.” Trek taunts, a distraction from the silent communication he’s sending you. He swaps one of his other cards, and then pushes the rest of his horde to the center of the table. “Raise.”
Your pulse climbs. Of course, he wants to seal his victory with something unbeatable–an Idiot’s Array. And he can do it with what he’s got. All he needs is one little face card that now burns like a brand against your flesh, resting concealed under your dress.
“Man of my caliber don’t need two sets of eyes.”
Bane’s stare is burning you again, unbreaking when he calls the raise with another stack of credits. Your breath shortens.
“Who, this little minx?” Trek turns and brings a rough hand down on the inside of your thigh, eyes glinting. “Her skills are best employed at the end of the night, if you catch my meaning.”
His grip slides up your leg, pushing your dress up with the movement. You squeal at his boldness and swat him away, batting your lashes to the table in mock embarrassment when a few whistles rise from the crowd. As you pretend to yank your dress back down, two of your fingers slip under the hem and free the card from the band of your underwear. You tuck it under your palm.
The theatrics are typically enough to throw almost anyone off your scent. After all, Trek is naturally obnoxious, and you’re naturally gifted at playing dumb. With the final adjustment in your seat, you survey the table. And your stomach twists.
Bane isn’t just watching you. He’s inspecting you. Under the rim of his hat, his eyes narrow, a hunter’s confirmation that you’re his game. He’s tracked your every move. Probably registered the card pull, too. A soft breath hitches in your throat, and your belly tightens. Somewhere below your waist, something stirs with agitated heat. Your gaze drifts over his long, nimble fingers—you wonder what they’d feel like on your skin.
Clearing your throat with a demure giggle, you break away, ignoring the warmth flooding your cheeks, the back of your neck. You need to focus.
“Taking a while to take your turn.” Trek leans back. “You afraid of losing?” His voice rises in mockery. “Is that not something that happens to you often?”
Bane couldn’t look more unamused if someone had just told him everyone he’d ever loved was dead. But that might’ve already been true, anyway.
“Interesting game you’re runnin’,” he says. “You could walk away now with all those credits.”
“Walk away?” Trek replies. “When I have you on the ropes?” He nudges you, knocks you a bit off balance in his excitement. “How many people get to say they bested Cad Bane? Huh, baby?”
Finally, Bane swaps a card. Pauses. Then pushes forth another big stack of gold. “Raise.”
Trek frowns. “Call.”
“You ain’t got any credits left.”
“Oh, now you’re desperate. Trying to get me to bow out.” Trek laughs, invites the crowd forward. He’s getting louder. “Who wants to see Cad Bane lose a game of Sabacc?”
You swallow, try to busy yourself with the hem of your dress. Normally, you’d feel confident with The Idiot card in your hand. But Bane’s unshakable coolness makes you believe that Trek doesn’t pose a threat. Given the cards you’ve spotted, you think you know—Bane’s capable of an Idiot’s Array, too. And since he’s caught you counting, he knows that you know, too.
Trek’s about to blow your entire payment. Asshole.
Plastering your face with a saccharine innocence, you tug Trek’s arm like a sleepy ingenue.
“Trek,” you murmur, “I’m tired. Maybe we should take him up on his offer.” You trail a nail down his bicep. “Head back to the room with all those jewels?”
Snorting, Trek eases you free. “You can’t tell me you want to get out right when we’re at our big break?”
“Listen to your little assistant,” Bane says. “Unless you’re gonna call.”
“You keep saying that,” Trek says. “I don’t have an assistant. I have company.” He pauses, then offers a patronizing smile. “If you’re so jealous, I’ll toss her into the pot. One night with her.”
You balk, jaw dropped. “Are you—”
The words that want to come out aren’t polite. So you bite your tongue, and look from Trek to Bane.
He is silent for a moment, seeming to turn something over in his mind. Then he sits back, perches an elbow on his armrest, and drums his fingers once on the table’s edge.
“Dunno ‘bout that.” He passes his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, the hint of a smirk beginning to twist at the corner. “How do I know she’s worth my wager?”
Trek chuckles, then gestures to the crowd. “I think any man here would pay the same, if he could.”
A ripple of agreement goes through them, and the hairs on your neck raise. Normally, you’d revel in the attention. But you can’t assess Bane’s angle, and that unsettles you. Compounded with feeling like a fathier at auction, you almost prickle. And then Trek turns to you again, eyes glazed with greed.
“Get up and give us a twirl, baby, show the man what he’s betting on.”
Your blood sizzles the underside of your skin, and you try not to gawk at him. There aren’t enough curses in enough languages to span where you want to tell Trek to go fuck himself to right now, but there also isn’t enough time. You glance to Bane. His smirk has only grown, now stretching into a cruel, expectant half-smile as his full attention blazes you.
The realization snaps like a wire in your belly. He’s getting off on this. Punishing you for your earlier behavior, reveling in your humiliation. A sudden wave of arousal slams you, setting every inch of your skin ablaze while you move with leaden limbs to stand.
Until your last shred of wit finally reminds you of the hidden card still tucked under your palm.
Using your movement and the table as cover, you cross your legs and slot the card between your foot and the sole of your strappy shoe. Without breaking fluidity, you push your chair back, and rise.
Another round of whistles resounds as you step into full view and turn in a circle, managing just enough theatrics to throw in a giggle despite your insides performing a tumbling act. Trek has leaned back, the picture of a proud auctioneer, one arm raised to gesture up and down your body.
“I think she speaks for herself, wouldn’t you say?”
Oh, you could kill him.
But then your attention darts across the table. Bane’s posture is still relaxed, his long frame tipped back into his chair—but for the first time, his gaze dips below your chin.
His eyes trail over your bare, pretty neck and shoulders, linger along your clavicle, and appraise your tits, barely concealed, the shadow of your nipples poking through. Inches lower, and you know he’s imagining your belly, your hips, everything you’d flaunted before he’d sat down. This stare is no longer hunting.
It’s devouring.
A predator with prey in grasp, reveling in its last shallow breaths.
The toothpick rolls, Bane’s lip curling to reveal ivory fangs. “You got a deal.”
Murmurs ripple, punctuated by a few elbow jabs and the underhanded passing of bets. Trek’s grin stretches wider, greedier. You slip back into your chair, stomach twisting into knots.
He has no idea what he’s just done.
“That’s what I like to hear!” Trek opens his arm in a grand gesture, earning cheers of agreement. “Now let’s play.”
The ghost of a smirk still plays over Bane’s face as his attention lingers on you for a moment, then flicks to his cards. Every inch of your skin burns, and in the bottom of your brain, a terrible idea rises like a curl of steam. Your toes twitch against the hidden card.
“Shall we move to the showdown, then?” The dealer’s diplomatic tone feels lost within the cloud of static charging the air.
Your pulse drums your ribs when you watch Bane’s mouth beneath the brim of his hat, the way his lips massage the toothpick in thought. Your pulse rolls lower, that idea simmering and taking shape.
“What d’you say, merc?” Trek’s sneer saturates his voice. “Or is the wager not appealing enough for your tastes?”
Your foot slides beneath the table, drawing an unseen path to the killer across from you. Bane evaluates his hand as if Trek is a toddler throwing a tantrum.
“Your wager seemed more interested in blowin’ on my dice than helpin’ you out before I sat down.”
You cross your arms on the table, avoiding the laser of Trek’s glare at your temple. He nudges you, a signal to act, but you pretend he’s accidentally bumped you and shoot him a quick leer.
He snorts. “Doesn’t matter anyway. She can do whatever she wants.” His jaw tight, he adds, “You just can’t admit you’re about to lose.”
Bane hasn’t glanced from his cards, and your foot extends further. With one final stretch, you find the inside of his leg. He flinches a millimeter, his eyes lock to yours—and he’s still, allowing you to slide upwards until you meet the bend of his knee. His attention returns to his cards.
“Maybe you can’t admit you ain’t her only option.”
“Option?” Trek throws up his hands. “I think she has all that she needs right here!” The crowd urges him on, and Trek jabs you again, harder this time under the noise. When you don’t respond, he does it again. “Right, baby?”
The edge in his voice scrapes your ears, and you frown, turning your shoulder to him. You rest the ball of your foot on the edge of Bane’s seat, nuzzle your toes just a bit between his thighs. Pulse in your throat, you wait.
“Ha! I think, I think he’s scared! Cad Bane is scared, boys!” Trek demands participation, shaking you to remind you of the play you’ve rehearsed for months. His palm is sweating. “He’s trying to play some mind game or something!”
Bane’s gaze slips down between his legs for just the shadow of a second, then returns to his opponent while he waits for the ruckus to fade.
“Let’s finish this dance, hustler.” A pointed smile unfurls under the hat brim. “Seein’ as you’re all out of moves.”
Beneath the table, cool fingers wrap over the arch of your foot. Bane’s hand slides down along the delicate skin, his touch slow and indulgent in a way that makes shivers erupt up your spine. He lingers over your perfectly manicured toes, then slides the hidden card out from beneath them.
Trek forces a smile, his laughter like shattered glass. “Out of moves?” He looks to you, eyes wide.
You respond with equal confusion, as if you either don’t know what he’s talking about or can’t find where the card went. Saturation drains from his face, and he blows a long, frustrated huff through his nose.
“Gentlemen.” The dealer interjects, tone unwavering. “Showdown, please.”
“Fine.” With a suck of his corn cob teeth, Trek throws his hand on the table. “Twenty in Flasks.”
He settles back, hands coming up to rest behind his head. The crowd swells—cheers, mutters, and whistles surrounding the table. And then all eyes shift to Cad Bane.
The hat brim cocks, and then lifts. Plasma-red certainty sucks every breath from the room, and a cruel smile curves his lips. He spreads his hand to view. Your heart thumps—you didn’t even spot the exchange. But there in the center, like a crowning jewel, sits your clandestine gift. That tiny face card.
“Idiot’s Array.”
An explosive cheer erupts around you, and Trek juts forward in disbelief, his eyes darting over the table—the cards, the credits, the jewels—like he’s watching a mirage shimmer into dust. You swallow, inching away in your seat. He’s never lost this big. Not with you.
“Bantha shit!” he roars, shooting from his seat. “Cheat! You cheated me, merc!”
Bane is cooler than a neutron star. “I gave you a chance to back out.”
The dealer moves to exchange Trek’s winnings to Bane, but Trek slams his big fist on the table, sending credits flying. You flinch, sweat creeping up your spine. You knew he’d get angry. You didn’t think he’d get violent.
“No!” He scratches at the moving pile, snatching a handful. “This is mine! These are mine—you’re not taking shit, Bane—”
“Mister Varcast,” the dealer says, “I’m sorry, but—”
Trek snarls. “No! He didn’t win! He—he must have—”
As proof, he gestures to the Idiot’s Array. His gaze hovers there. He pauses. Silent, his ears draw back, his muscles lock and his shoulders bunch. Your stomach collapses, you stumble out of your seat—he’s a storm, whirling on you with demonic fury.
“You!” Trek reaches for you and you shove him away, staggering backward. “You little—”
He tries to grapple you again, but chairs are between the two of you, Cad Bane in your periphery. Howling in rage, Trek sweeps half the table clean in one swing, credits and cards and gemstones crashing to the floor. He’s heaving, eyes wild as he prepares to clear the other side, and stalls when he spots the empty drink you’d grabbed for him.
Lip furling, he seizes the tumbler, reels back and hurls it straight at you.
Before you can scream, a red beam shatters the glass. Another slams Trek in the chest and eats a hole to his heart. He chokes, stutters, stealing a final horrified glance at you. Then his black pebble pupils roll into his skull and he topples to the table in a heavy thunk.
You exhale your relief, your throat thick with dissipating fear. Beside you, Cad Bane spins his blaster on his finger and stuffs it back in its holster.
With a sniff, he flicks his toothpick onto the body. “That’s no way to treat a lady.”
The room is silent, every onlooker paralyzed and slack-jawed. You tremble, still clutching the edge of the table, its solidity helping to calm the ringing in your ears. It’s not like you’ll miss Trek. You’re just happy to be in one piece. And for the past thirty seconds, your heartbeat may as well have stopped entirely. It awakens now in your cunt, every fiber of your body blazing to life and aching for the man rising slowly beside you.
Not one person dares to move, and that only makes your thighs clench harder as Bane moves around behind you and lays a hand on the small of your back. He reaches into his coat, then tosses a compact bundle of credits to the dealer—the only person in the room who appears unfazed.
“For the mess.” He gestures to the scattered riches. “Y’know where to send this.”
“Indeed, mister Bane.”
Bane nods once, touching a thumb and forefinger to the brim of his hat. His hand presses your back. Mind numb, you allow him to lead you, past Trek’s slumped, smoking corpse, through the stunned crowd. All the way through the doors of the grand turbolift, situated between vaulting glass panes that frame the neon cityscape outside. It’s only once the doors glide shut, seal you in a crystalline box with a killer, that your brain produces a single coherent thought.
You’re going to fuck Cad Bane.
Instead of choosing a floor, Bane scans his gauntlet against the lift panel. It chirps in recognition and you’re moving, flying high into the sky.
Even cast in the spell of night, Coruscant thrums with sleepless life, a thrumming that resonates where Bane’s hand still rests—inches above the swell of your ass. Your tongue traces the seam of your lips and your focus drifts from the horizon, to his reflection, to him.
Bane is a walking weapon, optimized for tactical violence from the rockets strapped to his boots to the apparatus plugged under his cheeks. There is no softness, no tender curve to any part of him; even his face is sharp bones and fangs. You wonder how his mouth will feel on your throat, how his body will press into yours in his bed. A thrill squeezes your chest, and you draw in a breath. He smells like petrichor and dying plasma.
From the corner of his sight, he catches you staring. His lip curls in disgust, he drops his hand from your back.
“Don’t bother performin’. I ain’t payin’.”
You blink, tilt your head. Before you can reply, the lift doors open, and your mind blanks.
Mouth parted, you enter the penthouse suite, heels clicking obsidian tile. Jet panels embedded with glowing veins jut from the walls, soaring to claim the ceiling. Doors branch off the perimeter, but before you, the room stretches out to a stone dais decorated with lavish furniture. Floor-to-ceiling panes of glass encircle it, revealing the still-thrumming city miles below.
The thrumming feels urgent, now. Throbbing.
Your eyes devour the fine decor, every glint of light refracted in crystal detailing. Even the floor feels expensive under your feet, sending a tingle from your toes all the way up your neck with each step. You come to a stop just before the shallow stairs that lead up the dais, hand stretching out to appreciate a piece of furniture.
“Touch anything, and you’re dead.”
You pause, biting your lip against the smile that tries to spread. “I don’t know what kind of company you typically keep, mister Bane. But I’m an artist, not a thief.”
“An artist.” The word withers on his tongue.
“Yes.“ Your smile wins out. “There’s an art to good strategy, wouldn’t you say?” You resume your course, finger trailing along the back of the couch, savoring the ridges in its expensive upholstery. You cast a glance back over your shoulder.
Bane is following you at a distance, tracking your pace across the room. A shiver drags up your spine.
“Remind me never to take strategic advice from you.”
That makes you scoff.
“Oh please, like you’ve never had a job go sideways.” You turn to face him with a shrug. “That moron had it coming. Everything that happened tonight went exactly by my design.” His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly at that. Almost. “Believe it or not, I keep tricks up my sleeve even you’ve never heard of.”
“That so?” He continues to stalk towards you, his path now more direct. “Well, ain’t you clever?”
You back coyly up the steps, into the wash of neon-kissed light spilling through the enormous circle of windows. After a few strides, your back presses cold glass. Bane doesn’t stop. He prowls up the stairs and into your space, only stopping once he’s close enough that your tits brush his torso with your shallow breaths. His head cocks.
“But I’m pretty sure you keep ‘em somewhere else.”
With that, he wrenches one side of your dress all the way up your thigh and over your hip, revealing at least four cards tucked into the band of your underwear.
You gasp up at him, your face plastered in theatrical shock. A giggle bubbles from your chest. “How did those get there?”
He gives a low snarl and wrenches you around, shoves you tits-first against the window and lifts the other side of your dress, baring your ass and the rest of your cache on the other hip. His fingers hook under your thong, and with a quick yank, he rips the scrap of fabric from your body. Cards flutter to the floor at your feet.
“You’re quick, I’ll give y’that.” He smooths down the curve of your ass, drawing a hiss of pleasure from you. “But only quick enough to fool those cock-brained idiots down there.”
“Teacher, teacher!” You laugh, the sound airy and provocative in your throat, and then put on an exaggerated pout. “Such criticism. Forgive me, I didn’t realize you were qualified to evaluate my tactics.”
The roll of his eyes is almost palpable.
“I ain’t got your assets—“ he gives your ass a lazy swat “—but I am faster than you.”
You can’t stop the grin that spreads. “Then maybe I can learn a few lessons from those expert hands of yours.”
In emphasis, you arch your back and wiggle your hips. Bane’s palm cracks you this time, square on one asscheek, earning a tiny squeal.
“I’ll make sure of that.”
Excited air escapes you. “Fuck…”
“Just one thing I can’t figure.” The rumble of his voice against your spine makes you shudder. “What d’you get out of throwin’ the game?”
“Well, if I played my cards right…” You hum, trying to lean into his touch. “I’ll be reaping my reward very soon.”
Bane snorts, his breath washes your neck with gooseflesh. “Hope it’s better’n credits, ‘cause I already told you I ain’t paying.”
You bite your lip and reach backwards, trying to sense the lines of his body in order to reach your target. It doesn’t take long—you find the edge of his jacket, then the firm leather of his belt. You lay your palm flat over the buckle, slide blindly down the seam of his trousers until… yes.
His cock is straining already, hard and eager against his thigh.
“Oh, it will be.” You hum, and slide your palm down its length, over the coarse fabric entrapping him. The feeling makes your mouth water. Jaw slackening, you lick your lips. “Consider me willing to wager on it.”
A quiet, hungry sound vibrates at your back, and Bane’s grip digs you like a shock. He cups and kneads your ass, his long fingers dipping close to the pulsing heat between your legs—you fight the urge to buck into them. His other hand, cool and firm, clasps the back of your neck and flattens your face along the transparisteel. You gasp in delight, planting your palms to steady you while he tests your body’s response.
“You coulda played that Idiot’s Array,” he mutters. The hand between your legs loops around to the front of your thigh. “Walked out of here rich.”
“Yes,” you manage to reply. He’s close, so close to where you want him, need him to touch you. Your clit pulses for attention. “And you could have played that Twenty-Two you had. Ace high, Stave Flush, was it? You would have won.” He twitches against your skin—you clocked him with that. You smile. “But you took my card anyway.”
Bane’s hand slides down your thigh, groping the flesh there, stroking shivers alive through your nerves. He glides up, over your hip, and when you whine, he jerks his hips into you.
“What’s your point?” Desire is a microscopic tear in his tone. He eases back, squeezes your ass again, hard enough to spread your lips just slightly. “You offered it, didn’t you?”
You try to crane your head toward him to catch his gaze, but it’s hidden by his hat. He’s too busy studying what’s in front of him. Your cunt is swollen, tingling for anything more than what he’s offering you.
“I did.” You’re breathless now, and there’s no use in hiding it. Fire licks your cheeks, desperation growing in your center and throbbing there. “I wanted you to touch me.” Your voice is air and desire. “Did you want to touch me, Bane?”
You feel him growl out the beginning of a response, but then his finger just barely brushes the seam of your pussy. In one simultaneous moment, Bane curses, and you gasp. You’re fucking drenched, slick and hot for him already. It takes no pressure–he gives a testing advance, and dips between your folds with vulgar ease.
“Fuck,” you whine, locking your muscles down against the overpowering urge to throw yourself into him.
For once, Cad Bane is completely silent. Slowly, devastatingly slowly, his finger begins to trail up and down. It teases close to your clit, then glides back towards your entrance, repeating in a cruel game of keep-away that has you panting within seconds. Your breath fogs the window, creating little patches of frosted city light with every huff of your chest.
His movements become experimental, lingering close to your clit when your whines grow louder, circling your entrance when it makes your spine arch. Finally, one finger settles and presses there, breaches you with a delicious little stretch and sinks to its root.
You moan, and your body clenches, trying to suck him in. A low sound catches in Bane’s throat behind you. His skin is smooth and cool, gradually absorbing your heat. He draws halfway out and sinks in again, pulling a gasp and another whine from your chest.
His grip on your neck tightens and he steps closer, wedges his boot between your feet to spread them, nearly edging you off-balance. Satisfied, he drags along your walls and pushes in again, exploring the ridges of your cunt with lewd, wet sounds. Something about the shape of his finger—bulbous at the tip, the slope of his knuckles—has your cunt aching, and you tighten around him, wanting every possible millimeter inside you.
Behind you, Bane inhales sharp air between his pointed teeth and drops your neck, knocks your feet wider, pressing into you. Harsh, cold metal prods you at your shoulders, hips, ribs, his now-free hand slipping into your dress and finding your breast with a gentle squeeze. You squirm in his hold with an elated squeal, and he grumbles, flicks over your nipple, his other hand still relishing the grip of your cunt.
You reach back, grapple his hips and pin his erection against your ass. Breath escapes him in a gravelly pant, and he grinds into you, seeking friction. Dizzy, you moan, melting in his arms. Lust has flooded your brain, numbed your mouth—you can think of nothing else you want than more, more of Cad Bane filling you, stretching you, fucking you dumb.
Like he senses it, Bane slows, adjusts, teasing your entrance with two fingers. A pathetic mewl echoes in the air, and he sinks into you.
On any other occasion, you would have been irritated that you'd been so easy to read. But on this one, you’re far too desperate for the cock of a killer to care.
Bane’s rhythm starts rough, driving and curling into your pussy like a greedy beast, forcing a sob from your chest. His other hand kneads and rolls your tit, tweaks your nipple with tiny shocks of pleasure, and his cock is gouging your flesh. Pure need thickens the air, and your eyes roll, warmth glowing in your belly, rushing your thighs, your clit throbbing, pleading for release.
The last thread of your sanity strings your hand between your legs, and the moment you graze the bundle of nerves, you collapse with bliss, crying out. Bane stiffens, keeping you on your feet while he stretches against the delighted flutter of your walls, his breath deep and heavy. You manage to stand, but the rest of you is lost—lost to anything but the swirl of your swollen clit, the thrust of his fingers inside your cunt.
“Yes,” you whisper, more praise than prayer. Pleasure builds fast, your fingers circling, your desperate, soaking cunt pulsing as you rise toward your peak. “Fuck, yes…”
Bane folds over you, his breath—dry and smoky, like burnt wood—in your ear. He growls, mumbles something under his breath, too garbled in his throat for you to understand. And then he abandons your breast, slaps away your busy fingers, his own replacing them with stone silk smoothness. He ghosts your clit once, twice, feels you milk his hand—then circles it with exquisite, liquid bliss.
Cold glass against your cheek is the only sensation still tethering you to reality. You begin to unfurl, the tight coil in your belly starting to pulse and spark. Your skin feels furnace-hot, trembling as Bane’s steady rhythm hurtles you towards a peak. If there was any hesitation to his movements before, it has disappeared entirely. He’s learning your body now, making millimeter adjustments–and then a wicked curve of his fingers hits a spot inside you that makes your vision go white.
“Oh, fuck!” Each of your breaths carries a musical little moan through the top octaves of your voice. “Don’t stop…”
A mechanical growl vibrates at your neck, and his mouth drops to your shoulder, fangs brushing the skin there. The sensation crackles through your nerves, a fracture thin enough to shatter you like a plasma bolt to glass. In that moment, you fall—your knees wobble, you clutch his arms, and you explode into red-foiled fragments.
Ecstasy ruptures through your veins, an overload that shorts every muscle but the ones wrapped around Bane’s fingers, constricting and trapping him inside while he massages your clit through another wave, and another. His teeth scrape over your skin with dull, distant pain—he curses into your neck until you wilt, spent, in his hold. The remnants of your orgasm peel to the ether, leaving you a throbbing, dripping, panting husk.
City lights swim slowly back into focus, edges softened through the smudged window. Bane’s chest swells against your back. He’s still rooted inside you, unmoving, and he lingers there for several long moments before finally beginning to draw out. You gasp at the drag along your sensitive walls, bracing your palms on the glass. When he emerges, he straightens, the arm bracing you upright sliding away and letting your weight settle on the balls of your feet again. But he doesn’t step away. You can still feel his erection like wrought steel against your ass.
Cheeks awash with the heat of climax, you study his faint reflection in the window. The hat brim is a gentle curve bisecting the city’s harsh lines, his gaze downcast—his fingers are still brushing your swollen cunt, coated in your cum. You can’t help but let out a tiny giggle. A laser-bolt stare pins your reflection.
“Tastes even better than it looks.” Tattered air drags through your voice, and you feel Bane’s hips twitch against you. His eyes narrow. When he speaks, it’s through locked teeth.
“Then who’m I to deny you?”
His hand snakes forward, and before you can blink, his fingers are pushing past your lips, hooking onto the flat of your tongue and spreading the sweet, sharp taste of your juices across your palate. You moan, louder than you intend, as you instinctively wrap around his knuckles and draw him further into your hot, soft mouth, massage your tongue along the unique curve of his digits.
Bane stuffs them deeper, tickles the back of your throat, and you fight the urge to gag. Eyes rolling, you grind against the hard desire digging into your flesh, hoping to infect Bane with the same passion that grips you now like a contagion. Drool sneaks from the side of your lips, and you whimper, tasting yourself between his fingers. You hum in satisfaction, meet his gaze in the window, sealing around him with a single firm suck.
His hips jerk. Grunting, he rips himself free of your mouth and grips your hips, spins you around to face the couch only to push you over one of the arms. You fold like a bad hand, ass pointed at the ceiling and face smashed against the plush cushion.
“Y’re a demon, girlie.”
Bane’s voice is shredded with lust, now. Behind you, his belt buckle releases with a soft metallic clink.
Blood floods your face and cunt with heat. You aren’t going to be the first or last woman fucked on this penthouse couch—but with any luck, you’ll be staining the fabric for months to come. You turn your face to the side and grin.
“What a fitting pair that makes us.”
He grunts, and you feel a firm head prod at your slit before slicking itself in your wetness. You hold your breath, bracing for his cock. When he pushes in, he forces it all from your chest. The stretch is an entirely new landscape—slippery ridges roll into you, stroke your walls in delicious interval—and on top of it, he’s big, thicker than a man of his frame has any business being. You whine, dig your nails into the couch, and Bane’s pelvis hits your ass.
The shape and sensation of his cock has you halfway wound, and you want him to spin you up and unspool you, want to be fucked oblivious. You tighten around his cock, feel it throb in kind. Drool fills your mouth. Anxious, you rock your hips back, goading him deeper. His eyes flash with a hesitant excitement and the corner of his lip curls, revealing a fang.
“Shoulda known you really wanted this,” growls Cad Bane. “You got a terrible Sabacc face.”
Stars, why can’t he just shut up and fuck you? It’s like there’s some tiny, invisible tether sustaining his resolve. Something ready to fracture under a pinpoint of perfectly-aimed pressure.
Fishing remnants of your intellect from the haze flooding your brain, you smile over your shoulder, gaze half-lidded. To anyone else, Bane might appear unreadable. But to you, an expert in catching millimeters of movement, in spying tells from species across the galaxy, his own has become clear.
“Mm, pardon my curiosity, mister Bane.” You rock forward and press back again, letting him feel your pussy split open again on his cock. “I’d always heard that bounty hunters were a terrible fuck.”
He snarls. Two strong hands encircle your thighs and jerk you back. He snaps into you. Your eyes find your brain, your body finds purgatory.
Bane exhales the fragments of his restraint, slides out, the ribbed surface of his cock earning little gasps from you with each dip before he pushes in again. Another groan, another thrust, and another, and another, and Bane is driving into you, shackling you in place with his fingers, your stattacoed pleasure blending into a long, laboring moan.
At this point, you’ve had a fair share of nun-human cocks inside of you. But there’s something about Bane’s—the shape, the girth, the slick, almost wet slip of his skin—that ignites a warm, addictive shiver through your thighs, makes your cunt spasm with every thrust. Behind you, he grunts, shifting over you to pump deeper, his breath rattled by that mechanical purr.
You scratch the couch, arching your back, rolling your hips to meet him in tandem. Under the broken melody of your pleasure, he fucks you with shameless, quickening percussion. Your clit tingles to life, saliva pooling in your cheeks and leaking to the couch. Bliss is sweeping you into a storm, unmooring you from reality, and you can do nothing more but plead to drown. Gasping, you bounce your ass against him, wanting, needing, begging for more.
And then his pace slows again, evading your desperate thrusts and drawing an utterly pathetic sound of protest from you.
“Oh, everything not going by your design, little lady?” Bane coos above you, before his hand bunches around the back of your dress, voice turning hard and cruel. “You ain’t had enough?”
He slams into you, forcing a scream, cut short as he yanks you toward him. The force rips the delicate fabric, pops the straps at your shoulders, and you collapse forward, smacking the cushions. Before you have a chance to mourn your dress, he pulls out, flipping you with surprising strength, and shoves you forward on the couch.
Mind in a spiral, you only have a split second to process the sight—Bane crosses and looms over you, his cock now swinging into full view. Each ridge is swollen and flushed green, lined at the base with nubs that leak a pearlescent substance. That same substance still coats your pussy, and when you swirl your clit with it, a strangely potent pulse of pleasure zips straight up your spine, making your head go fuzzy.
Bane grips his cock, slicks that substance from base to swollen tip with a hiss and lines it up with your entrance. Bracing himself, he pushes in, piercing you with a sharp thrust.
You cry out, suck in a shuddering moan while your core clenches in delight, all too happy to be fucked numb. Above you, Bane traps a groan in his throat, and you bite your lip. At some point, his hat fluttered to the floor.
Like this, you can hear every trip of his breath, watch his jaw lock with pleasure, smell the spice of danger laid into his skin. His hips piston, cock driving in again and again, stretching you deeper with each plunge. The storm has captured you, eradicated rationality. In its onslaught, you throw your arms around him. All you can do is want.
Bane snarls and pins your throat, forcing distance between you again. The pressure blurs your sight, thumps in your temple and mingles with the electric fuzz in your brain while he fucks into your cunt—a throttled gurgle escapes, the sensation of his cock, his pace, his presence more inebriating than any drink you’d been served. Your thighs tremble, your fingers curl, the heat in your belly blazes, tightens.
“Fuck yes,” you manage to sputter. “Bane—”
He squeezes your throat. “Quiet.”
Your jaw slackens, and you swallow your words, drool and primal noise filling the void. Under it, you can hear Bane’s voice crumbling into ragged, soft panting—he pounds you, his fangs bared, your bodies rocking the couch across the tile. Your clit is sensitive, aching, every smack of his hips coating your folds in his fluid and somehow driving you closer, closer to orgasm.
Stars, you want to cum on him, you want to grip and pulse around his length and milk him until he’s spent, you want him to ruin your pussy. There is no reality that exists to you without him, without his cock.
The hand at your throat squeezes again, shooting stars into your sight. You nod with a whine. He drives deep, his cock so swollen you feel the urgent throb of its ridges as they breach your cunt, the grating desperation leaving his chest—as if to urge you before him, he crushes your breath, hammering deep, hitting parts of you that explode behind your eyes.
A whine becomes a groan becomes a scream, pulsing heat subsumes you, and erupts in blinding white light. It pours out in strangled sobs from your chest, overflows your skin in currents of electric gooseflesh. All of you constricts, pulsing in powerful waves that can’t find a way to break. Bane is silent as you cum, his pace remarkably steady through the longest orgasm of your life—until you’re halfway cognizant, quaking in aftershocks and gaze fluttering open.
The pressure leaves your throat. You gulp in oxygen, vision still grey around the edges and skin still vibrating in time with your abused cunt. Your walls seize as Bane’s cock pulls out, leaving you vacant.
He is a cerulean shape in your periphery, moving—without a chance to recover, you find yourself yanked off of the couch by the back of your neck and shoved onto your knees.
Eyes hazy, you look up at Cad Bane standing above you. One hand grips his cock, pumping it millimeters from your face, the other still hooked around the back of your neck. Dazed and compliant, you default on instinct. Your mouth falls open, tongue laid over your bottom teeth and brows pinching together in a final, silent plea.
Red burns down on you, curses flying from between his locked teeth. Bane fucks his fist, his hips jerk forward, and with a mechanical roar, he cums.
It hits you across your nose, forehead and tongue. It’s not only the taste of it, it’s the texture—it’s slick, warm. That same static tingles your tastebuds. Groaning, your sight goes white, and you swirl it in your mouth, let it slither down your throat. Bane is motionless, panting, a study of a man gilded in satisfaction.
There’s a mirrored bliss roiling inside of you, too, fat with glee that you can say you’ve fucked one of the most dangerous men in the galaxy, that he split you open on his cock, that he smothered your face with cum.
Bane squeezes the last few beads from the tip, twitching in sensitivity, and smears them across your lips. His slit gaze maintains a shackle hold on yours, and you grin, slipping your sticky tongue out to gather every single drop. You swallow it and gasp, opening your mouth to show its cleanliness like it’s the climax of your performance.
But really, despite Bane’s suspicions, it’s entirely sincere. Unlike most of your encounters, you haven’t performed since he guided you to the lift.
Easing back onto your heels, Bane is silent, tucking himself away before grabbing his hat from the floor and dusting it clean. The casual whisk of his hand—the knowledge that it was just inside of you—is almost enough to make you see if you can convince him into another round. Catching a glimpse of yourself, you notice your tits hanging free, the sheen of sweat in the dim light, the errant remnants of cum adorning your skin.
Getting clean is your first priority.
“Mind if I use the refresher?” The answer doesn’t matter to you—you’re already slinking to your feet and letting the tatters of your dress fall like ribbons around your hips. Better to start early.
His laser stare pierces your back while you find the master suite, hesitating before you dip beyond the door. Maybe you’re toying with him, but you’re almost surprised when he doesn’t fight your violation of his privacy. Until you glance around the room and notice how large, how pristine, and how utterly empty it is of life.
No luggage, no belongings. The bed isn’t even touched.
Humming to yourself, you head to the refresher, skating your fingers along the cool chrome-lined counters. Grabbing one of the folded towels, you carefully dab it along the last bits of Bane’s cum, wiping the smudges of makeup that have pooled at the corners of your eyes. After all, if you’re going to try for round two…
The state of affairs: your hair is chaos, pressed to your skull in wild ways, your lips plump, face shimmering with a mixture of semen and perspiration. The evidence of Bane’s teeth throb at your shoulder, the evidence of his cock pulses between your legs. Your thighs still tremble, the flesh there buzzing from whatever magic his species deals in.
Spotting a cleanly folded robe, you grab it, tucking yourself into it and leaving it open at the chest. With each step, your tits jiggle and sway, enough exposed to entice the imagination. You’re not exactly sure what he finds most exciting about you, but you figure that betting on all of it won’t hurt.
After messing with your hair until it decides to cooperate, you glide back to the main room, still floating on the cloud of being fucked to an inch of your life by a killer.
Across the room, Bane is tapping his commlink, ending a call he’d apparently just been on. Without acknowledging you, or saying a word at all, he inventories his weapons and taps buttons on his bracer before heading toward the docked ship outside of the penthouse balcony. You frown.
All of that, and he won’t even notice how great your tits look in this robe?
You clear your throat. “Tapping out so soon, cowboy?”
Bane sniffs. “Got a job.”
You fight the urge to droop. You feel like a plucked porg.
“A job?” You gesture at the robe. “What am I supposed to do, then? I don’t exactly have any credits right now. Or clothes.”
That red laser gaze nails you a final time. The corner of his mouth is curled, you swear, in the smallest smirk.
“Ain’t you an artist?”
Two fingers brush the tip of his hat, the only farewell you receive before Bane heads toward the dock, hopping into the ship. A second passes before the engines whirr alive and the craft speeds off into the dark, busy night of Coruscant. You hold your breath until its lights melt into the city’s own starscape.
Lip twisting, you stare at your very still tits, surveying the empty penthouse suite. With an exhale, you sink into the couch, spying the puddle of drool you’d left on the other cushion. Your fingers drift absently between your legs, finding the remains of Bane’s secretions there. You drag a bit of the syrupy material over your abused clit, feeling the nerves inexplicably surge to life once again in pleasant tingles.
Whatever the fuck you’re supposed to do now, at least you have until the morning to figure it out. In the meantime, you’ll enjoy your accommodations.
Can I ask for Cad Bane x FTM reader hcs? SFW and NSFW, no limits. Maybe a fic if you're in the mood? I'm on anon because I'm shy.
Hello, anon! Hopefully, you will like this. I did my best. This is my first try at a ftm reader insert! Feedback, likes, comments, reblogs are all appreciated if you feel they are deserved! I will take correction and advice for THIS FIC ONLY. It's important to listen to the target audience. <3
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A Good Story
Cad Bane x Trans Male (AFAB) Reader
Summary: You are a bored weapon's merchant on Fondor, a planet located near Devaron; Cad Bane has a date with Bolla Ropal at the Jedi temple and is in the market for something special—but you have the nerve to try to rip him off. Bane has money, and you're in need—surely he won't bat an eye at the high price tag?
Warnings: NSFW / 18+ for double-penetration and finger-fucking. Bane goes in both ways. I also make use of the words cunt and dick in relation to genitalia. There is a mention of the reader wearing a binder.
Word count: 4.5K +
Ao3
God, you were bored.
Fondor was a planet with little to do save for your dead-end job, lonely nights spent nursing bottom shelf brandy in some dingy, hole-in-the-wall cantina, unable to escape the smells of the shipyard. It reeked of tibanna, oil, tar, and rust, the odors having long since taken up residence in the vibrissae of your nose, lingering there, giving you no short reprieve—even after a shower.
Still, that wasn’t even your work. The Clone War was getting closer to your rocky home world with every passing day. It made sense. You lived in the Colonies, situated within the Inner Rim; threats from the Separatists loomed just beyond your backyard, populated with important trade routes.
It appeared Count Dooku, the leader of the Confederacy of Independent Systems, had the idea that Fondor should join his ranks. The Republic now vied for your attention but talks led nowhere—no one wanted to join Dooku willingly.
That’s where you came in.
Well, sort of.
“Good choice,” you praised the buyer of a DL-22 blaster pistol, the man placing the sum of five-hundred credits into your outstretched hand.
“Best to be armed nowadays,” he said dismissively, looking down the barrel of his newly acquired, high-priced toy.
The DL-22 was designed by BlasTech Industries and packed quite a powerful punch. A high-quality focusing crystal had been utilized by the weapon’s manufacturer to increase the damage output of the pistol’s blast bolts. This resulted in a reduction of the gun's stun setting, but most found the exchange to be well worth it.
“Can I interest you in any extra power cells? Carts? It only comes with the one up front.” If you had learned nothing else from this job, it was that your boss demanded you try to upsell every customer who walked in off the street. You resented him for that, but you also liked the extra commission when things worked out.
“Nah, got some back home.” The man was already holstering his purchase, aiming to walk out the door.
“We have a three rotation return policy,” you said, more as an afterthought. The man nodded he understood, then left.
You sighed. You wondered how much longer until your next customer. Sometimes, hours passed, and you would not see a single soul. It wasn’t that you minded, but the time seemed to drag on endlessly. There was only so much you could do on your datapad; scrolling through newsreels after a while became demoralizing.
You had just begun to read an article about Wilhuff Tarkin, the governor of Eriadu, when the door chimed. You found a stopping point at the end of the next paragraph and looked up, a habitual, customer-friendly smile having crept across one side of your face.
Then, it fell clean off.
A Duros strolled into your shop, the echo of his boots filling your ears as he sauntered across the duracrete floor.
That was the word for it, sauntered—he was strolling with what could only be described as a kind of confident detachment, a wide-brimmed hat hiding the fine details of his disposition, though you saw he was sporting the tiniest hint of a snaggle-toothed smirk.
You cleared your throat. “Hello, welcome.”
He said nothing, coming ever closer, causing the skin on the back of your neck to prickle. He seemed familiar, somehow, though you couldn’t quite place it. His short walk ended as he set the pads of all ten of his fingers down flat across the countertop, just to the right of the register—you wondered if he meant to rob you blind.
You allowed your eyes to travel the length of his skeletal frame, taking in his well-worn ensemble; the tightness of the leather; the glint of the metal accoutrements; the creak of the material as he tipped marginally forward, putting all his weight on one leg as he bent his knee, shifting his stance to one that was more casual.
Then, his chin rose. The face that was revealed startled you to the point you gasped. You sucked in a quick inhalation of air, filling your lungs before you refocused, this time on his eyes.
They were two austere, gleaming red jewels inlaid among the bluest scales—severe in appearance, surrounded by scars of varying depth and length.
Fuck; he was handsome. More attractive than he had any right to be. And his mouth—you suddenly couldn’t take your eyes off it, or off the two tapered fangs that peeked out at you from lips that were dry and cracked. But you thought it didn’t matter—you would kiss those lips if he asked you t—
“—In de market fer somethin’ special.” He interrupted your train of thought for another to take its place. His voice was like something you had never heard before, rough while at the same time smooth and sensual; he was as easy on the ears as he was on the eyes, and he had your full attention.
“Oh?” you asked, doing your utmost to stay calm, to come off as nonchalant. “And what might that be?” you inquired, genuinely curious, though hoping he wouldn’t surprise you with a request that was outside your wheelhouse. You realized that even though you did not know his name, you would hate to disappoint whoever this man was.
“Projectile launcher,” he started, pushing off the counter to stand up straight. He was a tall drink of water, enough to quench your thirst, though staring at him seemed to have the opposite effect. You felt as if you had never been this thirsty in your life. “Fer a cortosis shot.”
“Cortosis ore?” You felt the question had been a dumb one on your part, no sooner than you had asked it.
The Duros’ brow twitched, raising upward toward one side. He folded his arms and stared you down with those cold, crimson eyes, wondering what the hell else you thought he might be referencing.
“Problem?”
“What? No. No, we uh—” You released his heady gaze to glance back down at your datapad with some reluctance. “We have several weapons in stock that might suit your needs.”
You pretended to sort through your inventory, but you had just begun a search for Duros—ones that might be in some form of media, or on the news.
“Yeah? Like what.”
Why was it suddenly hard to swallow? Why did you feel so warm? You felt the blood rushing to your face, unable to curtail the onset of what was presumably anxiety, your finger adeptly scrolling through the holofeed as fast as the device permitted.
“Depends on what you’re after—something compact, something a little flashier—” Your eyes widened as you caught sight of a report some few days back; this Duros had been the one involved in a break-in at the Jedi temple. An APB had been put out for his capture—Cad Bane.
He was considered to be armed and dangerous. That much was obvious. But why was he here now?
“Somethin’ good ‘nough te disarm a Jedi,” came his reply. You looked back up and returned your datapad to the counter. His gaze was measured, calculating.
“Find anythin’ interestin’ on dhere?” the bounty hunter growled, eyeing you with evident suspicion. You panicked, pressing a button alongside the glowing screen so that it would blank out and go dark.
“Many ... something's,” you said awkwardly. You may have been scared shitless, but you weren’t stupid. Not entirely. Stupid enough to use this situation to your advantage, though, or at least stupid enough to try.
“A-a Jedi?” you inquired, trying to keep the fear from your voice, but ultimately changing the subject. You hoped against all odds he hadn’t seen what you had last been looking at.
“What Ah said,” he snapped. “Show me.”
“Right! Sure!”
You scampered to the back, looking amongst the shelves for the blaster you knew you had in stock. You used this moment not only to find something that might please the Duros, but also to catch your breath—your heart was pounding as you came to terms with who was waiting for you, yet you knew the man had money. Lots of it.
“Cad fucking Bane,” you whispered to no one in particular, staring blankly at a row of pistols, your vision nearly blurring as you practically disassociated—unable to believe that the galaxy’s most notorious hired gun had just waltzed into your meager storefront, and on a day you happened to be working.
“What?” came a low note in your ear.
You overtly jumped, turning around, terror-stricken and at a loss for words.
The bastard was right behind you! How had he done that? How did you not even hear him approach?!
“Shit, man! Don’t—don’t karking do that!” you said without thinking. The Duros narrowed his eyes, withdrawing a toothpick he had on his person somewhere, retrieving it from out the corner pocket of his coat.
“Do what,” he asked flatly.
“Sneak up on me!” you panted, gasping for air.
“Wastin’ my time,” he rasped, placing the scrap of wood between his teeth. It was plain as daylight he was losing his patience, yet you had only exchanged a few scant words.
“OK, look. I’m sorry—it’s—it’s not every day Cad Bane walks into my shop.”
“Well, dhen teday’s yer lucky day, innit?” he asked, sarcasm lacing his tone, the Duros speaking from around the inserted toothpick resting gingerly betwixt his fangs.
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.” You forced yourself to calm by thinking one thought only—if he wanted you dead or to hurt you, he already would have.
“Won’t ask again—show me,” he commanded.
You walked toward the back row of shelves without another word; the Duros followed. You stretched out your arms, gathering what you had been after—a top of the line slugthrower, a weapon that used kinetic energy to fire solid objects, metal objects—you hoped it was what the man was looking for.
You turned around and presented it to him; Bane lifted it straight out of your hands. He turned it this way and that, giving it a thorough examination, extending it as if meaning to take a shot. He pulled the trigger, though it wasn’t loaded, then shifted his gaze toward yours—you had been staring. “How much?”
Now was your chance—would you dare try to coax a little more out of him than the asking price? Maybe money was no object to a person of his wealth and status. It was no secret Bane worked for the highest bidder. Everyone knew his was the highest price tag and that he was capable of any job should you pay him his just dues.
You idly wondered who had paid him to break into the temple back on Coruscant…
“Ye slow?” Bane snarled, flashing his teeth. You had zoned out again, making yourself look more or less like an idiot three times now.
“Two thousand,” you shot back. This particular model was only worth twelve hundred.
The Duros gawked at you, arched a brow, then outright laughed a dry honk of a laugh. “HA! Ye must be dumber dhan kriff te think Ah’m payin dhat.”
“Take it or leave it,” you bravely replied, although you wished you hadn’t for what came next.
The hunter’s eyes narrowed for the second time within your presence. He shoved the shotgun back into your arms, forcing you to stumble backward. He removed the toothpick he had been gnawing on to place it against the underside of your chin. Your own eyes widened as you swallowed down your excess spit.
“Ye tryin’ te pull one over on me, son?” Bane asked, his voice riddled with animosity, betraying his lack of self-restraint.
“I—what? N-no—” you managed, hardly able to look at him directly.
Still, this sudden closeness, the smell of the Duros—it was intoxicating. Despite his piss-poor attitude, his leering was doing things to you. Things you could not explain except that it was your animal brain enlivening, as were your loins, much to your embarrassment.
Then, the Duros smiled. It was a shit-eating, nefarious sort of smile. A smile that made your blood run cold and your groin catch fire. “Dhat fear Ah smell, er somethin’ else?”
Your cheeks burned, though you would recover, finding your obstinance somewhere deep down inside you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, that’s the asking price,” you lied, the pounding of your heart thrumming in your ears.
“Ah know what dhis shit’s werth, and it ain’t dhat,” Bane hissed, pushing the sharp point of his toothpick more succinctly against you, the scars and lines that were etched into the flat of his face close enough to touch, close enough to kiss.
“Make ye a deal, since Ah know ye wanna fuck me,” Bane taunted savagely.
“W-what?!” you asked surprised, thrown off by his candidness. Was he a mind reader? Could he sense your desperation?
What you were not privy to was that Bane was in a rare, good mood, having just stolen a holocron out from under the noses of half a dozen Jedi, making out with a new ship and a payout that was triple. Normally, he might just shoot you for trying to pull a fast one, but there was something about you that intrigued him—maybe it was the brazen way in which you had tried to overcharge him. It was something he might do, after all.
“Pay ye what it’s werth, and Ah’ll give ye somethin’ te tell yer friends,” Bane snickered. “If ye got any,” he nastily teased, adding insult to injury.
“I … I have friends,” you defended, giving him a once over. You felt entirely too hot, your body having betrayed you for wanting this horrible, cutthroat man.
“Dhat mean we have ourselves a deal?” His grin returned, toothy and sadistic.
“I’ll drop it to twelve … but only if you can make me cum.”
Were you crazy? Had you actually gone temporarily insane?
Not only did the Duros’ rostrum crinkle in a twisted sort of delight, but the corners of his horizontal, ovate eyes did as well, his malicious smirk reaching to the tops of his gaunt cheeks.
“Ye got guts, Ah’ll give ye dhat—time te rearrange ‘em,” he stated cattily, flicking his chewed-up toothpick onto the floor.
You almost laughed, but thought it the wrong choice, not that you had much time to think through things to begin with, Bane on you faster than a womp rat up a drainpipe now that you had given your express consent.
The Duros snatched the slugthrower back out of your hands, tossing it down to join his toothpick on the ground, the shotgun landing with a clatter as he grasped you by the collar of your shirt, shoving you back against the row of shelves behind you.
“Turn around and spread ‘em,” he advised.
“Wait! That’s—that’s not exactly what I’m into,” you dared, taking a deep breath.
The hunter canted his head like an inquisitive took’, looking at you like you had just grown a second head yourself. Yet, he did not take yours clean off. Instead, he posed a question.
“Ye exspectin’ Ah be gentle?”
“No, just—go easy.”
“Easy …”
Bane hummed a sound, as if rolling over what you had said in his mind. Then, he closed the gap between you, pressing himself up against your aching loins; you could feel the outline of the Duros through his distressed jeans. It was … unusual, to say the least.
“Have it yer way.”
Bane moved toward the button at the top of your pants, dexterous fingers undoing the clasp within seconds. You found yourself holding your breath as one large hand slipped between the folds of your boxers, trying not to dwell on what he might think once he realized—
“Hold on!” you interjected, the Duros’ creeping digits stopping just below your belt line. He bared his teeth in annoyance, but it couldn’t be helped. You had one more thing to tell him.
“Tryin’ my patienccce,” Bane sizzed, his free hand wandering up to clutch your throat, holding your head steady as he gazed penetratingly into your eyes.
“Just thought maybe you should know that I—”
“Cahnnit,” the hunter snapped, the Duros’ sizeable fingers once more taking to movement as he pressed one between the folds of your labia. “Already know,” he informed you in a matter-of-fact tone. “Think Ah ain’t never karked a man with a cunt before?”
Bane snorted out a laugh as your breath caught in your throat, the Duros guiding his index finger to gently fondle the growth between your legs, “dhis ain’t my ferst rodeo, kid, now try te relax before ye piss me off.”
You nodded, unable to peel your eyes away from his, the brim of his hat steeping you both in shadow as you did the unthinkable, pushing up off your toes in an attempt to kiss him.
The hunter pushed you back with the point of a finger, then dipped down low at the same time he dipped inside you, gathering a measure of your slick. His thumb worked your dick in concentric circles as one large, elongated forefinger gave you something to mull over, the Duros leaving you gasping for air at the thought he hadn’t even stuck his cock inside you yet.
“Feel good?” he asked, as if he cared, as if might actually be concerned for how you were feeling. Whether or not it was an act wasn’t the point, just glad enough that he had taken the time to ask.
“Yes,” you breathed, your mouth so close to his, yet he had still refused to kiss you. It was almost unbearable, Bane immersing his finger into your tight hole to his third knuckle, curling it at just the right slant to apply the perfect amount of pressure against your anterior walls.
“Now… why don’t ye be a good boy and turn around fer me,” he coerced, though not so demanding as last time. His good boy sent your mind reeling; you were already lost to him, unable to move, unable to speak, riding the high that was Bane finger-fucking you in the back of your workplace—shit—if anyone walked in…
You tried to obey him, but your body was not cooperating by no fault of your own. You had not felt this good in ages, the intense pleasure you were experiencing outweighing the frightening prospect of being spied having relations by your immediate supervisor or any other customer.
“Need a lil’ help, do ye?” Bane asked, the wet squelch of his finger vacating your insides causing you to heavily blush. Though incapable of speech, you were past the point of caring, letting the Duros ultimately have his way with you against your better judgment. Maybe you were naive for thinking he wouldn’t hurt you, but things seemed to now be fully out of your control, allowing your unconventional lover to rotate your human form however he so wished.
You felt your pants slide down towards your thighs; your boxers were next, falling past the crack of your ass, Bane once more pressing himself firmly against you as you heard a shuck, a rattle of metal, and the peeling of what sounded like thermoguard being pried apart by its seams.
“Which hole ye want it in?” Bane thought to ask, perhaps assuming he was being considerate. Before you could answer him in any way, shape or form, he decided for you. “Both,” he chortled.
“What do you—” you began, but were quickly silenced, something slick and slimy finding its way up your slit while another something knocked on your back door, though the Duros was kind to you in that its introduction was gradual, his cock’s tapered tip slim and pliable, enabling it to slip inside your ass in tiny increments.
You realized his species must self-lubricate; you thanked the Whills. Even though it felt beyond compare, you knew you would be sore by this time tomorrow.
“Look how good ye take it,” Bane lauded, though you could not tell if he was being sincere. You were left to seethe through your teeth, hissing tiny breaths, Bane only moving insofar as you could stand. He seemed to have a second sense for this, though the other of his cocks pushed up inside you; they were obviously stacked, these dual phalli, ribbed in all the right ways; pressing into you at all the right angles.
“Fuck,” you exclaimed, panting like a man who had just run a marathon, moans of pleasure escaping your throat as a feeling of ecstasy mixed with a good kind of pain traveled its way down your spine, spreading outward from its origin point at the base of your skull.
“If ye insist,” Bane drawled, his bony hips thrusting themselves forward to where you belted out a sound that pleased him, Bane laughing a vicious little laugh as he reached around you, taking up the sizable nub that rested between your thighs.
“Louder,” he instructed, wanting to hear you sing, wanting to feel you writhe under him as he fucked you alongside an inordinate amount of deadly weaponry.
You pressed your hands flat along the shelves in front of you, digging your fingers into the wood. You would leave deep rents by the end of your time here, grasping for purchase as he began to rail you harder.
You moaned again, louder as he deemed it necessary. “Bane,” you praised, holding on for dear life as he gave you a good old-fashioned reach around while doubly penetrating you from behind. The overwhelming number of sensations you were feeling had your brain short-circuiting, the Duros swaying you toward an almost gentle release.
You reached a peak, biting down against your own hand, your dull, human teeth leaving their imprint across your flesh, damp with sweat, proof of pleasure rendered.
“Ain’t gettin’ off so easy after all,” Bane crooned spitefully in your ear. You momentarily wondered if he was referring to your orgasm, until you understood—he didn’t plan on stopping just because you came. He kept on rocking into you, over and over, simultaneously hitting your G-spot while stimulating the nerves in your anus, causing you to cum a second time.
Your body quaked beneath him, his thin hips enough to bruise you, to tenderize the meat of your rump as he gripped either side of your haunches, squeezing tight—you were glad he had never once groped you through your binder.
You weren’t entirely sure why you had agreed to this—especially without protection—but here you were, and you realized you had no desire to stop it from happening.
“Want it,” you croaked. “All of it.”
Bane obliged, discharging a thick, gelid substance into your cunt, followed by another round coating every inch of your inner walls. He did not hold back as was your preference, things only once more becoming impersonal when he raised up off your back, his rail-thin chest having been resting upon you, the rapid fluttering of his heart felt through the sparse fabric of your shirt.
It was a unique feeling, causing you to shiver reflexively, observing that his cocks weren’t by any means synchronized in their release. You only now began to wonder about his anatomy; what purpose it served to have two for a Duros, though you did not have one complaint regardless, and he had not questioned you about yours.
Bane finished himself off, then withdrew from you with a resounding, pressurized suck, every rib and crest felt by your sensitive loins on his way out.
“Hope ye got a ‘fresher ‘round here,” he quipped.
---
Bane had tucked himself away and waited for you, but you had the inkling he wouldn’t have stuck around had he not needed you. In fact, he didn’t—he could have easily walked out of there with the shotgun in tow, but he seemed to be a man of his word, extending an arm to offer you up his credit stick.
“Ye run it fer twelve, like we agreed.”
You nodded; kept quiet. You processed his payment, noting that the name that popped up on your screen was not his own.
“Werhl Tahoon?” you asked, quirking a brow.
“Ah really gotta explain dhat te ye?” he asked, visibly annoyed.
Of course, he didn’t. He was a wanted man, a criminal. He had assumed names, false identities … who knew how many bank accounts he had, and on which planets. All that mattered was that his money was good, the twelve hundred credits being withdrawn and added to your bosses' coffer.
“Sounds like the name of some nerfpoke from a cheesy holo—”
His glare shut you up; you handed him his card, having previously retrieved the slugthrower from off the floor on your way back out. You gazed at his hand as he plucked it from yours, thinking about the way those lithe fingers had been inside you, how you had felt every knuckle, how you would dream for years to come about this Duros, though he would most likely forget about you as soon as he departed from your shop.
You flinched as he once more snatched you by your collar like before, those same, agile fingers tightening around the cloth as he reeled you in, bringing you within mere centimeters of his face.
“Be in yer best interest naht te try and rip people off—next time, ye may just get pumped fulla lasers rather dhan gettin’ plugged.”
He kissed you roughly on the mouth; you felt the scrape of a tooth, its sharp point grazing your skin. It was more than you could have ever hoped for.
Then, he released you; he left you gasping for air. He seemed to have that effect on you. The idea that he was leaving was suddenly too much; unthinkable, even as he strapped the slugthrower across his back and tipped his brim.
Like an idiot, you called out to him as he made his way, taking him in one last time—the way his duster moved fluidly around him, the way his hat enshrouded him.
“Where are you going?” you asked, as if a jilted lover, as if you meant something, as if he might have the decency to tell you anything about his plans or about himself.
He turned on the heel of his boot, one arm lifting as his hand dug into the confines of his coat. He withdrew an object—cube-shaped, many-sided, and covered in intricate designs. You didn’t know what it was, but you thought it must be rare and beautiful, like him, and blue to boot.
In realty, it was a stolen Jedi holocron, filled with the names of all the galaxy’s up-and-coming Force-users, the future of the Jedi Order—and he had been paid to nick it from the Archives by one Darth Sidious.
Bane smirked as he deigned to answer to the likes of you.
“Devaron—got a Jedi te catch,” he snickered.
Devaron … it was a planet not too far from here, within the Colonies, bordering your sector.
You thought to comment, but then he was gone, leaving behind what he had promised—a good story to tell your friends. God, what you wouldn’t give to go with him, out on some grand adventure—an almost childish fantasy you would harbor in your heart forever, much like the man named Bane.
Summary: It's Luke's first day on Echo Base and he's never seen snow in his life! His boyfriend decides to show the Tatooine boy the wonders of playing in the snow.
Word Count: 2k
A/N: I find the lack of Luke x Male Reader stories in this fandom disturbing. Also, ignore my Star Wars fanboy side mentioning every single planet Luke visited before going to Hoth and specifying the ships and stuff. An important reminder: this story takes place before 'The Empire Strikes Back.'
A small fleet of rebel transport ships exits out of hyperspace just outside the frontier of the Hoth System. Ahead of the flotilla, Rogue Leader Luke Skywalker piloted his T-65B X-wing starfighter through the void of space towards the sixth planet of the System - Hoth.
The white and blue globe grows larger and larger by the second, and Luke can't help but be amazed by it. As a farm boy raised on Tatooine, all Luke's ever seen in the past 19 years of his life was sand, dust, and reddish rocks. When he first landed on Yavin 4, the boy's eyes sparkled in amazement. The moon was so green, so verdant, so different from Tatooine. He was sad when the Alliance had to abandon the place, but it's not like they had much of a choice, as the Empire knew they were there, and for the past three years, the Rebellion spent their limited resources on building their new home - Echo Base, so named due to its strange acoustics.
In his three years as a Rebel (and Jedi Padawan), Luke's seen a few planets and moons, like Yavin 4, Balnab, Rion, Rodia, Fex, Devaron, Hradreek, Bogano, Lotho Minor, Kudo, Cymoon 1, Nar Shaddaa, Tureen VII, Skorii-Lei, Horox III, Ktath'atn, Crait, Jedha, Mon Cala, and Strokill Prime. These planets varied from being verdant and forested to oceanic and desertic, with some even crystalline while others covered in swamps and humid jungles. But none is like Hoth - covered in ice and snow, bright white like a young star who just came to life in the ever-expanding universe. A small, white ball floating in the Outer Rim Territories, so small and insignificant no one knows it's there - a perfect spot for the Rebel Alliance to hide from the Empire and for Luke to continue his Jedi training.
"Wow. It's so beautiful." Luke comments to himself in a whisper, raising the orange-colored visor of his helmet to admire the snowy planet.
"Focus, Skywalker. No daydreaming in the cockpit." A teasing male voice called Luke out of his trance. The blonde boy rolled his eyes in response. He could even hear the other pilot's smirk through the comlink.
"Watch it, Rogue Three, or I'll put you to cleaning the astromechs again."
"And I'll put you to sleep on the floor."
"(Y/N)!" Luke immediately blushed upon hearing the teasing retort from Rogue Three, A.K.A., his boyfriend. He hated when (Y/N) said things like that through the comlink, where everyone could hear them. The bastard did that to ruin Luke's reputation as squad leader. Luke can already hear Wedge, Dak, and Zev teasing him once they land.
"Get a room, you two." Han's voice chimes in from the comms, the teasing tone making Luke grumble as he sees the Millennium Falcon passing through him and disappearing amidst the white clouds of the planet's atmosphere.
"Bite me, Solo." (Y/N) retorts as he flies by one of the Hammerhead Corvettes of the flotilla, flying wing-to-win with Luke's X-wing.
"Language, (N/N)." Luke gently admonishes his boyfriend, rolling his eyes but unable to suppress a smile. He finds his boyfriend's sharp tongue and quick wit quite admirable, even if Luke disapproves of foul language.
"Aye, aye, Commander Skywalker." The other pilot replies. Through the window of his cockpit, Luke sees the other boy saluting him from his close X-wing, making the squadron leader roll his eyes again. How he ends up with the most sarcastic, witty, and unserious pilot in all of the Alliance Starfleet Luke will never know. But damn, the boy's the most handsome pilot in all of the fleet, too.
Echo Base command permitted the ships to land in the large south hangar. Luke led the flotilla down to the surface, expertly maneuvering his starfighter into the in-cave-built base, breathing a sigh of relief once the landing gears made contact with the ground.
The boy took off his helmet and ran his hand through his blonde locks, untangling them and turning off the ship's engines. When the X-wing's in-built heater shut off, Luke was already feeling the cold air of Hoth creeping inside the cockpit.
The second R2 opened the transparisteel canopy, Luke immediately shivered and hugged himself. The orange flight suit provided Luke with a fairly decent amount of protection from harsh climates, but the boy wasn't used to the cold. Tatooine was cold during the nights, but not Hoth-level cold.
"Is the Hero of Yavin cold?" The teasing voice made Luke groan and roll his eyes again. He looks down on the floor to see (Y/N) leaning against the fuselage of Luke's X-wing, arms crossed and a smirk on his face, his helmet resting on top of his astromech companion, R4.
"Shut up, (Y/N)," Luke mutters as he climbs down the starship, and rebel mechanics help remove R2 from his socket. "I'm just not used to the cold, alright?"
"Wow. You blow up a big-ass space station, defeats Darth frigging Vader in a dogfight, frees the Mon Cala king from an underwater prison, but gets defeated by the cold, cold air of Hoth?" (Y/N) snickers, his eyes following Luke's every movement, noticing his cheeks blushing from both the cold and his teasing. "Oh, please, this is nothing compared to Rhen Var. You should have been there when the Empire ambushed us on those ancient Citadel ruins. Bastards even brought an AT-AT to crush us."
Luke rolled his eyes slightly while blowing air against his hands and rubbing them to try and keep them warm. (Y/N) always has a weird battle story to tell. The battle of Rhen Var, the hijacking of the Harbinger, and the assault on Thule are a few of the many stories he told Luke.
"Well, sorry, (N/N), but I was busy fixing moisture vaporators on Tatooine at the time."
"Aw, my poor little farm boy." (Y/N) coos teasingly/affectionately, wrapping his arms from behind Luke to help keep him warm.
The blonde boy's cheeks blush even more at the display of affection in the middle of the hangar, where everyone can see them but doesn't break away from the hug. Instead, Luke leans back against (Y/N)'s body, mumbling a soft "better" in response.
(Y/N) chuckles softly and nuzzles against Luke's soft blonde locks, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of his boyfriend's shampoo.
"Y'know." (Y/N) says, his voice slightly muffled by Luke's hair. "You've never seen snow before, right?"
"Hm," Luke denies with a tiny shake of his head, tilting his face up slightly to face his taller boyfriend. "Why?"
"Wanna play in the snow?"
"Play?" Luke echoes the question, raising an eyebrow in curiosity and confusion, his simple, naive mind unable to understand how one can play with frozen water.
(Y/N) smiles and nods in reply, brushing a strand of Luke's hair off the boy's face.
"Come with me."
Luke doesn't protest as (Y/N) interlocks his fingers with Luke's and starts guiding towards the slightly opened hangar door. He shivers a little at feeling the cold air against his body, unaccustomed to the frigid temperatures, and for a brief second, Luke considers running back inside the base and burying himself under the covers of his bed. But Luke is unable to say 'no' to his boyfriend - Obi-Wan would undoubtedly call him weak-minded and susceptible to mind tricks if he saw Luke right now.
"Brr, frigging cold air." Luke shudders, raising the collar of his orange jumpsuit to try and cover his mouth and nose.
"Oi, language, Rogue Leader!" His boyfriend mockingly scolds him. "You kiss your sister with that mouth?"
"I don't have a sister (Y/N)!" Luke retorts, frowning and making a disgusted face at the prospect of kissing a sibling if he had one.
(Y/N) merely chuckles at Luke's response and lets go of his hand to crouch down on the snow-covered terrain, using his hands to gather some snow and mold them into a small ball while Luke watches in curiosity.
"What are you doing, (N/N)?"
"A snowball!" (Y/N) proudly shows his work of art (the snowball) at Luke. "Come, try it, too!"
Luke blinks and cocks his head slightly to the right like a curious Loth-kitten, not understanding what's so fun in making balls of ice, but decides to humor (Y/N) and crouches down on the white terrain, mimicking the other boy's actions of gathering snow in his hands and molding it into a ball. He sticks his tongue out in concentration while trying to ensure the snow won't fall from between his fingers and wants to make it into a perfectly shaped ball like (Y/N)'s.
With some effort and a tiny bit of frustration, Luke manages to make a snowball. It is not perfect in shape, but Luke deems it a good result for his first try.
"(N/N)! I got it—"
POOF!
Luke blinks in surprise as a white, cold ball hits his face, spreading snow all over his hair, face, and clothes. It takes Luke a second longer to register it was a snowball thrown at him by (Y/N), who snickers a few feet away.
"HEY! What was that for?!" He pouts at the surprise attack.
"Oh, forgive me, o great Jedi Master." (Y/N) theatrically apologizes by bowing his head in mock shame, the corner of his lips twitching into a ghost of a smirk. "I thought you had your 'Luke tingling' thing."
"Don't call it that!" Luke's pout deepens as he removes some snow from his face. "And for your information, they're technically called 'Jedi senses.'"
"And yet your super senses didn't activate when I threw a snowball at you." (Y/N) teases, smirking and crossing his arms.
"Yeah, because they're used to detect threats (Y/N)! And my dummy boyfriend throwing snow at me is not considered a threat."
"Not a threat?" (Y/N) takes that as a challenge, his eyes narrowing and his competitive streak heightening. "We'll see, Skywalker."
"What are you— (Y/N), don't you dare." Luke points at his boyfriend when he sees the other boy leaning down to gather more snow in his hands and make more ammunition. "(Y/N), I'm telling you, don't— HEY! Stop— (Y/N)—!"
A barrage of snowballs is thrown at the Jedi padawan as (Y/N) laughs like a kid lighting candles for the Naboo Festival of Light. Luke uses his hands to shield himself from the snowy onslaught, but after getting hit square in the face for the third time in a row, he decides to retaliate and starts making his ammo.
Luke hurls four snowballs, one after the other, toward (Y/N). He dodges the first, but the second one hits his side, the third his knee and the fourth hits his forehead, covering (Y/N)'s hair in snow.
"Blargh! Son of a b—"
The boy has little time to finish his cursing as Luke lunges towards him, tackling (Y/N) to the ground as both boys roll down the snowy hill, laughing and getting themselves covered in snow.
Luke lands on top of (Y/N), holding him by the wrists and smirking triumphantly while blowing a strand of his blonde hair off his face.
"I win."
"Bite me, Skywalker!" (Y/N) retorts, his voice a mixture of playfulness and bruised ego at having lost in the snowball fight to his boyfriend.
Luke smirks at his words and leans down, "With pleasure."
"Huh—?" (Y/N) gets cut off by Luke's lips crashing against his in a kiss.
Damn, Skywalker got some rizz.
"ACHOO!"
"Force bless you."
"Amen or whatever."
(Y/N) blows his nose on a handkerchief handed to him by Luke, who sat next to him on the medical bay bed, both wrapped in blankets provided by the medical droids.
As it turns out, playing in the snow was not the brightest idea. But that's not even the worst.
"How could you two be so dim-witted to think it was smart to go outside with not enough protection against the cold, you laser brains?! Your flight jumpsuits are not suited for such weather!"
This is the worst part. Both boys grumbled and whined at the lecture and offense thrown at them, mumbling a "sorry, Leia" under their breaths.
Close by, leaning against the door with his arms crossed, was Han, snorting at the two Rebellion aces getting the scolding of their lives from the princess.
Honestly, I knew you from your Darth Vader stories, I would love it if you wrote more of him.
Darth Vader x Kel Dor male reader
Headcanons
Reader is Kel dor, cuz I said so, hehe. Debated on Kaleesh, but decided not to. I just really love writing nonhuman reader when I get the chance. Like, the star wars universe is so vast, why are we always only human.
I like them being soft... old man yaoi...
You weren't a jedi, but you possessed the force, which allowed you to form a bond with Darth Vader of all beings. A force dyad, he called it.
There was no rhyme or reason in how you used the force, since you hadn't been taught the whole, light and dark. The force just... was. It did feel as suffocating as going without your protective gear to be around Vader in the beginning, because of how powerful his presence was, but you got used to it.
Maybe it helped that you were also healer, to a certain degree. You knew how to get by, and that was enough to allow Vader to pull strings. But really, who would question Lord Vader, when he demands a random Kel dor to be made his prime doctor.
You get a uniform, and some new protective gear that fits you even better than what you had before, and it matches his color scheme, of course.
Maybe it helped that you were older too, not as old as your once jedi uncle, plo koon, may he rest in peace, but old enough to have experienced a lot, and to have been around before the empire rose.
Not that it bothered you much. It hadn't been a republic for a long time, and now everyone could see what it was all about at least. And you ended up bagging Vader himself.
Imagine Vader in his bacta tank, as his body has been hurting, everything hurts down to his very soul. Its like the force is burning inside his very being.
It only lessens when you enter the room. The vents hiss as the natural gasses from your home planet, Dorin, start filling the room. It doesn't bother Vader as he's inside the tank, and is fed oxygen through the different tubes inserted into his scarred body.
Vader isnt much for talking. Hes told you once, in one of his more vulnerable moments, that he used to never stop talking. But age, loss and anger had taken that away from him.
But you can see his eyes soften and the constant tension in his naked scarred body lessen as you reach up and pull your goggles and mask off.
It took a very long time for you to ever pull your mask and goggles off, mainly because it was deadly for you to do so. About as long as it took Vader to reveal his own ruined appearance to you.
Humanoid beauty standards never meant much to you, so instead of feeling disgust at his pale scarred self, you just chuckled softly and caressed his sensitive skin carefully.
After that Vader became somewhat obsessed with your face in return, even implementing multiple areas in any ship or building he spends extended period of time, where the atmosphere can be changed, so you can be comfortable.
His chest audible rattles as he exhales, bubbles gushing out of the tubes inside his mouth and throat, relief, floods the bond between you. Hes missed you, even if you two are only apart for a few days.
You two couldn't touch like this, when he was inside the bacta tank, but Vader still twitches towards you as you approach, your four fingered hand resting against the thick glass.
Vader always feels more at peace with you around. You settle him in ways even Padme couldn't. Oh how he still loves Padme, and you know this and don't mind, but by the force does he love you.
Love bordering on maddening obsession, possessive to a point where Vader would and could destroy planets for you if you so much as asked. Many servants and members of the empire have died for as much as insulting you and your appearance.
And you have always loved him as Vader, so its not as if Anakin Skywalker will take center stage. You do feel so warm when he shares parts of Anakin with you though.
As Vader is inside the bacta tank, you start explaining your day, what you have been up to, what you plan to do later. If you had lips you would have smiled as his eyes start drooping.
It's no surprise that your lover doesn't sleep much, its hard with all that pain and paranoia, and why sleep when he can sustain himself on the force.
But hearing your voice, and feeling your warm loving presence against his own puts Vader at ease.
Its not quite sleep what he does when you two are spending time together like this, your force presences wound together like snakes as you talk about nothing at all. But its close.
Its closer to meditation, Vaders eyes open just a slit, enough to see you, at all times. The bacta keeps his eyeballs moist, and he would never want you out of sight.
He wishes you two could cuddle and hold one another, without his life preserving suit, and without yours, but this will have to do for now.
Part of him fears what he would feel and do if your hands brushed against other parts of his body aside from his face too. He hasnt felt yearning like that since Padme, but they burn hot and heavy.
And the teasing glint in your dark eyes makes it clear you feel it too, when he experiences this. Maybe another time...
If you still write for Star Wars I was wondering if you could write something with Darth Maul! There’s this cosplayer on insta who reignited my thirst for him lol
Maybe in similar vain to your Darth Vader fics where the reader works for him and is kinda like a bit of a pet.
or
Jedi reader who ends up fighting Darth Maul in a very sexual tension way and Maul ends up using the force against him in… an inappropriate way
or just do whatever you want!!
Love you 😘
Darth Maul x Jedi Male reader
Headcanons
Darth Maul and a jedi having sexual tension? Do you mean Obi-wan kenobi? Reader is a jedi Shadow, cuz I dont think I've ever written that? Lemme know if that's wrong. Gave this a bit of my own spin.
I just don't see Maul having somebody as devoted and submissive as Vader would, so let's go with Jedi. And you know what? Let's make you guys a force dyad too.
Let's say you are a jedi who follows the will of the force more than you follow the council, and the force will want you to unite with your other half, so it means you and Maul run into each other regularly, even when you are meant to be far apart.
Being a shadow who follows the will of the force, you kinda run your own game. This means the jedi order don't hear from you for longer periods of time, and at times struggle to know if you are alive or dead.
The only one who knows if you are alive or dead at all times is your former master, who happens to sit in the council. Hes known you have always bucked against authority, so you running off to do your own thing makes sense.
But Grand master Yoda has his own personality, so he allows it. And yes, Yoda is your master. He took you in around the same time Dooku toon in Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon blames you for all of his padawans bad behavior, saying you are a bad influence. This is in a loving brotherly manner, of course.
You would have had multiple encounters with Maul before Qui-Gon dies, so you enter a very dark place after his death.
You blame yourself for his death for a long time, as you never took Maul out when you had the chance. The force doesn't allow it, as you are a dyad, but the pain is still so present.
This causes a lot of pain the next times you encounter Maul, but your master's guidance, and the company of Obi-wan and his new padawan helps reel you back in. Even as you feel Maul through the dyad bond.
I like to imagine, that being a dyad means you guys share dreams a lot. The dyad bond just grows stronger with time, and you see maul every time you sleep.
The anger you carry for him, and the pain you feel at the loss, makes you skip sleeping for a good while. It gets to a point where your former master pulls you from the roster to force you to take care of yourself.
Maybe Anakin suffers from nightmares too, both influenced by Palpatine, but also just from being a former slave. It results in you sleeping with Anakin in your arms, so you can protect him from his nightmares, and him acting as a bright presence, so strong it blocks the dyad bond.
Force dreams are probably real trippy, especially after you have blocked it for a bit too long. The first time you go out on a mission again, the force just smacks you over the head like a sledgehammer.
Just drops you and Maul right into a dream where you guys are both naked, in a field of tall soft grass. Nothing raunchy is going on (this time), but your ear is tucked against his chest.
If you listen hard enough, you'll hear his two years thumping away. Maul lets his hands explore your back, his claws not harming you, as this is a dream.
You end up having a lot of dreams like this, where you guys are just spending time together. Not much talking is done, but the force seems to be sighing like an annoyed grandma, nudging you guys together.
Like two feral cats, you two warm up over time. It's hard to forgive what he did to Qui-gon, and you never share the information about your bond with Obi-Wan or anyone else, except for maybe your former master.
But one dream, when you two are cuddling, you notice that Mauls chest and throat is vibrating. Hes purring, it's just very quiet and deep.
It actually sounds pretty ugly, but you get a feeling the nightbrothers of dathomir aren't given much reason to purr. Mauls purring kicks up a notch when you scratch where his horns meet his head, as it's a very sensitive area of his skin.
I dont see you guys outright getting down and steamy, but since it's a dream it something weirder but even more intense. Like your very souls are coiling together like snakes, merging into one before pulling apart and merging again.
You are thankful you are alone when you wake up, as you are sweating like you've run a marathon, and you are so hard it makes you dizzy.
Im not sure when you guys will have the chance to meet again, somewhere peaceful where you can learn all there is to know about one another.
But when you return, there is a deep healing bite between your neck and shoulder. Maul has a similar scar, except you guys made it with your lightsaber, since your teeth can't break his skin. Being burnt by your saber seems just as intimate because of the bond between you and the kyber crystal.
This is burned Vader, I always write burned Vader. Give him his prosthetics, his scars, his bald head. I love burned Vader.
Reader is Kaleesh, cuz hehe. I love non-human reader. Reader is also force sensitive. Not jedi levels but like, he can sense it. Cuz I love how deep a bond can be with the force. Alien biology hcs too.
Kinktober 2025 masterlist
Kaleesh were not a species known for being vulnerable, emotional or even kind. Being a powerful warrior, wearing your kills with pride, and carrying strength was more important.
That was why you had left your home world of Kalee, tired of the same old battles, again and again. There had always been something more pulling at your senses, at your very soul, pulling you out there, into the wide unknown.
The empire was in its young years when you encountered your first inquisitors, and experienced your first battle with the force. You had believed it magic for a long time, and though you were weaker than them, your many years of experience helped you kill these inquisitors.
That was how you first met Darth Vader, after making a name for yourself in the galaxy. A Kaleesh who blasted through the stars, looking for the biggest beast to slay, but even you weren't dumb enough to go for Vader.
At first you were mostly just the preferred bounty hunter of Vader, taking that spot from the skilled Boba Fett. Maybe it was because you reminded him of his past, as Anakin, of Grevious and what once was.
Your mild force sensitivity made you pleasant to be around too, even if you didn't seem to understand the power you possessed. But how could you have known that Vader could feel your weak force presence, poking at his own, before coiling together like snakes.
Falling in love had never been in your plans, as a Kaleesh and a warrior. It definitely had not been something Vader thought possible for him, to grow fond of somebody again. The love he felt for you wasn't the same as the one he once carried for Padme, but it was just as strong.
It was enough to shake the Sith, to the point where he retreated to his fortress on Mustafar, away from everything and everyone, to suffer in his silence and darkness.
If you hadn't been who you were, maybe you would have left it alone, but that pull in your chest and warriors' spirit, made you fly after him, following the Sith like he was your newest prey.
Neither of you were ever good with words, so the silence was heavy and charged. In the end, you make the first move, removing the mask your species always wore, exposing your less human face to the being you felt such strange feelings for.
For Vader, the act of removing his helmet was different, heavy and almost forbidden. But maybe it was the softness you made him feel, even when you were all rough edges and filled with the fire of a warrior.
Maybe it was a good thing you weren't human, and hadn't been raised around them. It meant you had no opinion or preferences when it came to how humans looked, all you saw was Vader, not the pale, scarred, sad remains of a man.
Acting on desire, you reach up to cradle his face, movements so careful as Vader wheezed, still assisted by his suit to keep living.
Vader let out a breathless raspy gasp as your skin met his. He had never realized how sensitive he was, how just the faintest of touch made his entire body tense, his skin tingling almost to the point of burning.
But like a man stuck in a desert, Vader couldn't help but lean into the touch, his tired, so exhausted and sad looking eyes, sliding shut as tears ran down his pale cheeks.
Kaleesh didn't cry, so seeing somebody spilling tears was always so fascinating. Normally it only interested you as a way to watch your prey break, but with Vader it felt like more.
The scent was salty, mixed with the bacta that was regularly applied to Vader's damaged body. Your split tongue flicked out, licking against your bottom lip as Vader outright trembled, near pained quiet noises leaving his lips, his expression twisting into something pained but full of yearning.
It was like he couldn't control the tears as they started pouring, though Vader didn't sob. His crying was silent, outside of his gasps and breathless rasping. At his sides, Vader's hands trembled, the prosthetics not responding to his wishes as he cried into your hands, his human body parts jolting when your sharp talons brushed against his skin.
The flames of Mustafar had taken many things for Vader, and one of those things was the parts of his body he had once used for pleasure. All this time, his misery had been so extreme that Vader had felt no need for it. But now, being held by you, sparks of something he had almost forgotten dripping through his body, Vader yearned for them back.
“Pretty” you mumble, leaning in, unable to resist the allure. Vader finally opened his teary eyes, just in time to catch your long tongue sliding out and lapping against his cheek, sipping up his tears like a delicacy.
If your hands had been a lot, your tongue was overwhelming. Nobody would believe that a Sith lord like Vader would struggle to stand from just a tongue alone, but he was. His knees buckling, and only holding him to his feet because of the mechanics of the prosthetics.
Vader hadn't been kissed in so long. And you, you had never kissed anybody. It was so clumsy, uncomfortable and sloppy. Vader was inexperienced and so sensitive that he sobbed as your tongue slid into his mouth. And you kissed like you fought, hungry, all-devouring and dominant.
Your weak force presence coiled itself around the sun that was Vader and his power, your tiny trickle trying to cover it and squeezing, an instinctual part of you want to show you were here, with him.
The Sith lords' noises became louder, pained and so breathless you almost pulled back to worry about him. But Vader held you close, the force almost crushing you against him as he sobbed into your kiss, almost blind with overstimulation from touch and kiss alone.
Vader didn't possess the ability to physically orgasm, not anymore, but he still felt it through the force. It felt more intense than anything he could ever remember experiencing with a body built for it.
It was so extreme that his legs finally gave out, and you had to scramble to catch him, shuffling awkwardly until you got him pushed against a wall so you two could keep standing.
You felt so heated yourself, as Vader wheezed, his suit struggling to keep up with the sudden influx of everything, still crying like he had no control.
He was adorable, in his own way, even knowing what he had done and planned to do. Even if he was what many other humans would see as horrifying and ugly. You simply saw the tear-stained face of the being that made you feel so soft and vulnerable, and so possessive it almost drove you crazy.
Plot: A training mishap leaves you hurting, and Wrecker refuses to let you suffer alone.
Warnings: injury (pulled muscle), touch-heavy comfort, mildly suggestive intimacy but overall safe for work, shirtless massage, neck kissing, established relationship, not proofread, and gentle, protective Wrecker, cute pet names.
Authors note: accidentally deleted your request @wra1thh00 so I’m hoping I remembered your request properly 😭
You know the second you twist wrong that you’ve messed up.
It happens halfway through a morning workout on the Marauder when a simple turn, a punch combination you’ve thrown a hundred times and then a sharp, hot bolt of pain slices across your left shoulder blade, dropping your breath. You don’t yelp. You don’t swear. You just let out this embarrassingly tiny hiss.
Which grabbed your boyfriend's attention immediately.
He freezes mid-rep with gonky raised over his head still, eyebrows shooting toward his nonexistent hairline.
“Hey tough guy, you just made a noise.” He squints. “You never make a noise.”
You straighten immediately, pretending nothing is wrong despite the muscle spasming harder in protest. “It’s nothing. Just… overextended.”
But Wrecker already knows better. Of course he does. This man knows the sound of you breathing in your sleep; he can tell when you’re thinking something stupid long before you say it. The man’s perceptiveness is a menace.
He puts gonky down carefully and is across the hold in three huge strides.
“Turn around,” he orders softly.
“I’m fine—”
“Turn around.”
You sigh and obey, because resisting a determined Wrecker is pointless and you both know it. He sets one large hand on your shoulder. Even that gentle touch sends another sharp pulse of pain through you, and you wince before you can hide it.
Wrecker inhales sharply with a hiss like someone just punched him.
“You pulled something.” He comments. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
You roll your eyes. “Because it’s not a big deal.”
His expression is a mixture of disbelief and worry, softening at the edges. “If it hurts you, it’s a big deal.”
And that’s the end of the training session.
Wrecker turns you by the hips, big palms spanning the sides of your waist like you’re made of glass, and huffs a warm breath against the back of your neck that makes your pulse skip.
“C’mon. Bunks. Now.”
You blink. “Your bunk?”
“Yeah. ‘Cause mine’s the only one big enough for this.” He waves a hand vaguely at himself, then at you. “And for me to get at your back properly.”
Your face warms. “Get at my back?”
“For a massage,” he clarifies, though the grin tugging at his mouth says he knows exactly how it sounded.
He tugs you along, one large hand hooked gently around your wrist, his steps practically bouncing with determination as he leads you.
Wrecker sits on his bunk and pats the space between his thighs. “Sit here.”
You hesitate for a moment but just long enough for him to narrow his eyes. “Unless you like being in pain, tough guy?”
You mutter something about him being a ‘bossy boots’ and settle between his legs, your back pressed against his chest.
“Take your shirt off,” he says, already helping you peel it over your head before you can object.
The cool air hits your skin just before his warm hands do.
Wrecker’s fingers start slow, mapping your back, finding the knot hiding beneath your left shoulder blade. You feel him lean closer, breath brushing the side of your neck. “Right here?”
You grunt. “Unfortunately, yeah.”
“Okay. Hold still.”
His fingers dig in with firm, careful pressure but strong enough to work the muscle and gentle enough not to hurt. His thumbs move in slow circles, his palms flattening, sliding, kneading you with ease. Wrecker has always had magic hands.
He works the muscle until your shoulders slump forward, breath leaving you in a soft groan you can’t stop.
Wrecker freezes.
“Did I hurt ya?!”
You shake your head immediately. “No, quite the opposite.”
“Oh.”
The tension in him melts instantly. And then he laughs with that warm, low rumble that vibrates through your spine. “Good. ’Cause you sounded like you were tryin’ real hard not to say something….”
You shove his knee lightly though amused. “Just keep going.”
“Yes, sir,” he teases.
His hands warm further as he slides them up to the base of your neck, thumbs working along the line of tension there. Every stroke sends a soft shiver down your spine. You let your head fall forward, exposing your throat and the back of your neck to him.
Wrecker makes a quiet sound, something fond and a little hungry.
Then his lips brush your skin.
A soft kiss, barely there.
You suck in a breath. “Wrecker—”
Another kiss, deeper this time, right below your ear.
“I’m helping,” he mumbles into your neck.
“You’re… distracting.”
“That’s part of the help,” he insists, punctuating it with another kiss, warm and lingering. “You always relax when I kiss ya. Better for the muscles.”
“Mhm.” You’re not entirely convinced that’s his motivation, but you’re also not about to complain.
His arms curl around you from behind as he continues working your neck and shoulders, pulling you firmly back against his chest. Every exhale from him ghosts across your ear, hot and soft. His thumbs slide down the sides of your spine, and you feel tension melting away with every long, slow stroke.
“You gotta take care of yourself sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice husky from how close his mouth is to your skin. “You can’t just push through stuff like this.”
“I wasn’t trying to be reckless,” you mutter with a playful roll of your eyes.
“You pulled a muscle and kept goin’ like nothin’ happened.” He explains, then presses a smile against your throat. “That counts.”
You turn your head slightly, enough to catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye. His expression is softer than anything you deserve — fond, protective, and a little worried still.
“Wrecker,” you say gently. “I’m okay.”
“Yeah,” he whispers, nuzzling your neck. “Now you are.”
His hands slide from your shoulders down to your waist, palms flattening warmly against your skin. He pulls you tighter against him, chest to back, his chin resting on your shoulder.
“You scared me,” he admits quietly.
That hits you harder than the pain.
“I know it was just a pulled muscle,” he goes on, fingers brushing your ribs, “but I heard you make that sound... I don’t like it when things hurt you.”
Your hand finds his thigh, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “You take good care of me.”
“Yeah?” His voice perks up, hopeful.
“Yeah.”
And with that, he pulls you tighter, warm and safe in his arms, letting you melt against him as the last of the pain fades into nothing more than the memory of his hands and his lips.
I recently saw your post on requests for Captain Rex…and ive looked at some of your other writings and LOVE THEM! 🤙🤙🤙
Maybe one of a teen padawan (like- 16-17?) kinda taking a PLATONIC shine to Rex
and Rex just….accepting to it and the other 501st members are just…confused?
Hey there! This took some time sorry (last year of uni stuff) but hope it was worth the wait! Xx, Blue.
"LITTLE SHADOW" — CAPTAIN REX/READER (platonic) 💖
WARNINGS: NONE.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
As a padawan, you were trained for danger. You sparred with lightsabers, faced down battle droids, learned to let go of fear. Knowing those things and living them were very different.
The Separatist outpost was collapsing around you. Smoke clogged the corridors. Red warning lights flashed through the haze. Somewhere behind you, another section of the facility gave way with a deafening groan.
Your hands shook around your lightsaber. Your weapon casted a warm glow on the darkness around you.
"Padawan!"
Your master's voice cut through the panic, echoing in the dusty corridor from the intercom you had attached to your belt.
You swallowed hard.
"We're good!" you called out, your throat complaining after facing the aftermaths of the explosion.
"The building is falling apart! Get out of there!"
Obi-Wan's order snapped you back into motion. There wasn't time to stop and process anything. To think about how the Separatist had been already waiting for you, to ponder how did they know and how this had all been but a trap. You were all in danger, and those questions couldn't be resolved right now. Later. Not now.
So you ran. You pushed through the fear and the noise and the awful certainty that you were one wrong step away from dying. You kept moving because the clones beside you kept moving too. And they were your responsability. Obi-wan had taken Cody and his group to the other side of the Separatist base. No matter how young, you were the Jedi in charge of those of the 501st who remained by your side. And you weren't going to return to Anakin and Asohka with half of their men. Not if you were still standing. And for now, you were.
Captain Rex and you led the way throw a maze of endless corridors. You advanced swiftly with quiet precision. You got rid of the ocassional droid that crossed your path. The soldiers that followed you never wavered, pushing through exhaustion and pain. There was always enough courage for one more step.
The exit to the building was sealed off by some building remainings and debris. At your back, Hardcase reached his belt for a grenade.
"Don't" you stopped him, still evaluating the blockade in front of you. "There are still a batallion of droids out there and we're in disadvantage. The mission is compromised and we need to return to the cruiser as fast as we can. Bombing this exist would draw too much attention to us and would make our retreat harder".
Hardcase noded and Rex turned towards you. You could feel that he was worried, but he remained composed and calm.
"What do you sugest?"
Your eyes travelled throw the debris. You turned off your lightsaber and hooked it to your belt.
"I'll try to use the force to open a space. Give me a moment".
Nobody complained, though you knew most of them were unsure about this. You were just a padawan. Fifteen. A kid. They trusted you with a lightsaber. After all, learning to use a weapon was more or less easy. Achievable. The Force, however... Was a more difficult task.
You could feel Captain Rex's trust on you, though. It spread out like a moving wave form his body to yours. You closed your eyes and latched onto that trust, letting it power you and strengthen you.
You closed your eyes, slowly breathing out. You emptied your mind, yourself, allowing you to exist and feel the currents of energy, of living, around you. The Force buzzed, and kind of swam, powerfull but elegant and tranquil. You caressed it and it responded, flowing more vibrantly. You directed it in front of you, you asked for it to flow between the rocks, to open a path for you to push through.
When you opened your eyes again, the debris had rearranged and a tunnel big enough for a person to pass through had formed. Rex patted your shoulder, a new wave of admiration coming out of him. The rest of the clones behind him replicated it, along with happy relief.
"Nice work" he told you, and you nodded before leading the way out of the building again. You and Rex fought back to back until the 501st was aboard the cruiser.
Safe. Technically.
The debrief came and went in a blur. Obi-Wan praised your performance. Anakin, in the videocall, too. Several troopers clapped you on the shoulder. Fives joked around you. Someone told you you'd done well.
Adrenaline dropping and exhaustion creeping in, it all bounced off.
Hours later, you sat alone in your quarters, staring at the wall. The fear had waited patiently until there was no battle left to fight. Until it felt safe to come out. Emotions were safe now.
And they arrived all at once. Your chest hurt. Your hands wouldn't stop shaking, no matter how you tried to tell yourself that the danger had passed, that everything was okay now.
You weren't properly pannicking. But every time you closed your eyes, you saw collapsing corridors and falling durasteel and soldiers dying and the split second where you'd been absolutely certain you weren't getting out. And then there was the guilt for those who hadn't made it.
A Jedi should be able to handle this. A Jedi should meditate. A Jedi should—
The thought broke apart before it finished. You weren't a master, or even a knight yet. You allowed yourself time to learn.
Restless and without really deciding to, you stood. Your door swooshed closed behind you as you started a mindless stroll through the cruiser. You let your mind wander out of the usual restrictions of your Jedi learning.
A few minutes later you found yourself outside Rex's office. The realization came only after you'd already arrived.
You stared at the door. This was ridiculous. Rex was busy. Rex had actual responsibilities. Rex was not your Master. The logic thing was to spin around and look for Obi-Wan, really. Perhaps some tea and experienced insight would help.
Before you could take a decision the door slid open. Rex looked up from a datapad. For a second, neither of you spoke.
The captain's gaze flicked over you. Tired eyes and face. Unsure wriggling fingers.
Understanding settled immediately.
"Can't wind down?"
The words were so simple. So normal. Not asking for what was wrong, exactly, for explanations. Just a knowing look, a simple way out. An offer.
Your throat tightened. You nodded.
Rex looked at you for another quiet second. He didn't feel the force like you could, but you knew he could read you like a book by now. He was intelligent and perceptive, kind, loyal and fierce. And no matter how rough his life and the situations he was permanently exposed to were, he still had empathy.
Rex stepped aside.
"C'mon in".
That was it. No more questions. No lectures. Just room.
Something in your chest lifted.
You sank into the spair chair beside his desk while Rex returned to whatever report he'd been working on. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was quiet in the way a safe place is quiet.
Eventually, Rex pushed a cup of caf substitute across the desk. You didn't think caf was the greatest idea, but accepting it felt like receiving extra help. Comforting. Seen.
"Thanks."
You took a first quiet sip. Rex glanced at you.
"Mm."
More silence.
Somewhere along the way your breathing evened out. The stress stopped. Your thoughts drifted to the man next to you instead of the horrors you had seen today.
Rex kept working. He always kept pushing, even after when missions ended. It was admirable. He was admirable.
You watched him for a while. The steady movement of his hands. The scratch of a stylus. The focused frown. The warmth of his eyes. The familiar blue markings on his armor.
Safe.
The thought came unbidden.
Safe.
The next thing you knew, everything went dark.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
The following morning, Hardcase walked into Captain Rex's office without knocking. When missions didn't went as planed, he knew he would always find Rex there.
It turned out to be a mistake. Not because the captain wasn't actually there, but because he...
"Morning, Cap—"
He stopped. Blinked. Looked again.
Blinked.
But because he wasn't alone, this time. Obi-Wan's padawan was curled up in the chair beside Rex's desk. Fast asleep. Wrapped in one of the captain's spare blankets.
Rex, of course, was already working. Nochalant, like this was perfectly normal. Like this sort of thing had happened before.
Hardcase slowly backed out of the room. The door slid shut.
He immediately found Fives.
"You're not going to believe this."
Five minutes later, half the 501st was conducting the least subtle reconnaissance mission in military history.
Jesse peeked through the small vertical window in the office door. Kix peeked after him. Fives practically unceremoniously pressed his entire face against it.
Inside, perhaps alerted by the movement, Rex looked up.
The clones started to scatter. The door slid open a second later.
"Do you need something?" The captain asked, already suspecting the reason for their visit.
"Nope."
"No, sir."
"Absolutely not."
Rex narrowed his eyes.
You stirred. Immediately, every clone froze.
You blinked awake, clearly disoriented. Rex handed you a ration bar without even looking.
"Morning." He told you, voice warm and surprisingly soft.
"Morning" You yawned, accepting it automatically.
The clones outside watched the exchange in stunned silence.
"Did..." Fives began.
"Did they just do that from memory?" Jesse whispered.
"He knew the kid would be hungry."
Rex finally looked toward the doorway. Every trooper snapped to attention.
"Away." The captain ordered with one word and a stare.
The door shut. A long silence followed.
Then Hardcase spoke.
"So."
"Yeah."
"We're all seeing this, right?"
"Yep."
Fives grinned.
"The captain adopted a Jedi."
Echo's smile was more fond, a contrast to Fives's smug one.
character(s): clones + tbb
reader: gn! reader
warnings: none
[a/n: it’s so hot rn, I have sweat in places I should never have sweat]
501ST
REX hears the movement and lets out your name through a hushed whisper, you tell him you’re overheating and need to sleep somewhere else. he hums sleepily in response, scooting over to the edge of the bed so you can be in his sight as he sleeps.
FIVES wakes up as soon as he feels you move away. “hey… where ya goin’? I was comfy.” you laugh softly and say you just need some space because of the heat. “huh, didn’t think I was that hot but touché.” he grins and lay on your side of the bed.
JESSE lets out an absentminded groan as he feels the bed dip and move. “mmh, what’re you doin’?” you say you need to sleep on the floor because you’re overheating. “oh, yeah—sure, just be comfy n’ that.” he murmurs in a way that makes you think he didn’t comprehend what you really said.
HARDCASE was already awake before you decide to move, he grumbles and holds you tighter as you move. “mm, don’t go.” you respond by telling him you’re too hot and need to be somewhere. “oh! we can both sleep outside, let’s go!” he sits up and grips your hand, the other arm grabbing the pillows and he literally drags you outside. not what was quite on your mind, but it was nice either way.
KIX softens his grip silently as you move, he watches you move to the floor and he whispers. “too hot?” you nod in reply. “want me to get you some water?” you shake your head and say you just want sleep. “I get that, but if you’re overheatin’ you need water.” basically, there was no way to stubborn your way around it.
DOGMA chews his lower lip as you move away from him. he doesn’t say anything but just watches you, his facial expression is subtly sad, though, he thinks he did something wrong. you reassure him you’re just too hot. “oh…” he murmurs embarrassed. “sleep well.”
TUP furrows his eyebrows as you move away, he whispers your name in a disappointed tone. “i’m sorry, did I do something?” you quickly sit up and shake your head, saying you’re just too hot. “oh! okay, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.” he smiles and lays on the bed close to you.
212TH
CODY startles awake and opens his eyes, he glances down at the floor. “uh, what are you doin’ down there?” you tell him why and he snorts softly in response, kicking the blanket off the bed. “fair enough, g’night.” he goes back to sleep.
WOLFPACK
WOLFFE stirs slightly as the bed moves, he opens his eyes and frowns at the emptiness of the bed, the light in the ‘fresher is off, so you’re not there. it’s when he hears creaking from the floor, he sits up and glares down. “why are you down there?” you tell him it’s too hot, he sighs in return and lays back down, ending the conversation there.
CORRIES
FOX feels the bed move, any signal of something out of the norm awakes him immediately. he opens his eyes and notices the empty side, making him sit up. “what are you doing?” he asks, you tell him it’s too hot to be next to anything. fox needs structure, so he won’t be able to sleep, he moves onto your side of the bed and peers down at you, lying back down.
TBB
HUNTER hears the littlest noise of movement and opens his eyes, he stays silent but watches you settle on the floor. you notice him and tell him you’re overheating. “yeah, s’quite hot, ain’t it?” he murmurs, he already has his hair up and sleeping in minimal clothing possible, he also overheats easily.
WRECKER has you in a bear hug as he snores, you try to wriggle out of him, but he doesn’t wake. you shake him and tell him you’re extremely hot and need some space. he slowly softens his grip, he’s disappointed but doesn’t show it. “aw, can’t have ya suffocatin’ now.” he chuckles and gazes at you.
TECH already knows you overheat easily, he’s read your signs and kept space between you both during your sleep anyway. he watches you slip out of bed and onto the floor. “would you like me to get you any cold water?” you shake your head and tell him you’re fine, you just need some more space.
CROSSHAIR grunts annoyed as he opens his eyes, he glares as you slide onto the floor. “what the hell are you doing?” you tell him you need to sleep elsewhere because you’re overheating. “suit yourself, then.” he murmurs, but watches over to make sure you get back to sleep.
ECHO snaps his eyes open as movement and creaking filled his ears, he saw you and whispers, “hey, you okay?” you say you just need to sleep on the floor because it’s cold. he understands the discomfort and he nods in return. “m’kay, sleep well.”
MISC
BLY awakes at the sound and tilts his head, calling your name, you tell him you were on the floor. he scoots over and murmurs, hoping you’re not mad at him, “why are you on the floor?” you tell him you’re overheating, he nods in return and leans his arm over the bed, gripping your hand as he lays back down.
MAYDAY doesn’t awake at first, it’s a little later in the night when he goes to put his arm over you, to find you’re not there. he pats around the bed and lifts his head up, panicking slightly, he sits up and sees you on the floor. he sighs and rubs his face, he glances down at your sleeping form and smiles, glad you were safe.
GREGOR was already awake when you shuffle against his arms, he groans and opens his eyes. “mm, where’re y’goin’?” you say you’re too hot to be against anything and want to sleep on the floor. he nods and hops off the bed, going down on the floor with you. “you’re right ‘bout this being better.”
HOWZER hands twitch as he felt the warmth of the other hand disappear, he murmurs incoherently and slowly sits up, before whispering your name. you tell him you’re on the floor, to which he responds confused. “okay… why?” you chuckle at him and say it’s just because you’re too hot. “oh, right, ‘pose it’s a bit hot.” he lays back down and grabs your pillow to hug.
Request: Could I perhaps request some Crosshair x reader where the reader is one of those people who can find the good in anyone and is very sweet? Perhaps reader is one of the only people crosshair will let in besides omega, since they’re honest and willing to go crosshair’s speed whenever he needs it. It would also be super cool if it was x male reader but Gen is okay too! For @rosin-flux
As a trans man myself, I love x male reader fics, and I wanna take this opportunity to let any of my followers and readers know that I’m happy to write any gendered (or non gendered) reader. I hope you enjoy this one. 💕
Male reader, Y/N is used. Not established relationship but hints at feelings!! Synopsis: Crosshair’s coming out.
Warnings: This is set AFTER the end of s3, so beware spoilers. It’s also my own headcanon for crosshair’s sexuality, so ofc dont take this too strongly if you don’t interpret him the same way.
Crosshair paced back and forth, his feet stepping in and out of the sunlight which strewn patches of light along his bedroom carpet. He’d comm’ed you to come over ten minutes ago, you said you’d be there in fifteen. That left five minutes. Five agonising minutes of waiting. His heart pound in his chest as he paced, the toothpick in his mouth hastily being chewed up. He spat it in the bin and got a new one out.
“Crosshair, you’re being ridiculous.” Omega’s voice spoke up from the doorway.
He startled slightly and turned around. “Excuse you?”
“[Y/N] isn’t gonna mind, you know? He’s not like that. It’s gonna be fine.”
He huffed and resumed pacing, needing to have something to do with himself. Omega smiled reassuringly and left him to it, shutting the door so could stew in his anxiety in private. Of course, she knew. She was the first and only person he’d told. He’d been a quiet, anxious mess and the script he’d formed into his head had faded as he blurted his secret out to her. They’d been meditating on the beach at the time, and Omega’s eyes had snapped open in shock. When she’d seen how vulnerable her older (little) brother seemed, she’d immediately hid her shock and gone into protective sister mode, comforting words spilling from her and her hand holding his remaining one.
He only hoped you’d be as kind.
Of course, you would be. Kindness oozed from you, as did patience and respect. Crosshair never understood how you did it, but you somehow saw the good in everyone. When he’d returned to the batch, you’d been the first person outside of Omega who truly understood how hard he was trying to become himself again. The two of you became closer in that time, close enough for him to feel his heart run loops in his chest every time he saw you. He hadn’t meant for it to happen, but somewhere along the way your magnetising personality drew him in.
Downstairs, the doorbell rang. Crosshair heard Omega let you in, the two of you chat for a minute before she left you to it. You’d been to the batch’s villa enough times to navigate yourself to Crosshair’s room. A moment later, you knocked on his door.
“Cross? You wanted to talk?” Your deep but soothing voice asked from behind the door.
Steeling himself, Crosshair took a deep breath and threw his second toothpick in the bin under his desk. He opened the door, not making eye contact. You already seemed to understand how uncomfortable he was, given that you wordlessly entered his room and sat on the edge of his bed, not speaking until he was ready.
He remained standing, his arms crossed. “I… I had something I needed to tell you.”
“Okay. I’m listening.” You smiled politely, giving him your full attention.
He struggled with his words for a moment. “I’m bisexual.” Crosshair said hesitantly.
A beat of silence passed. His eyes flickered over your lips and he quickly looked away.
“Cross, that’s amazing.”
“What?” He frowned.
“What?”
“Why are you being so okay with this?”
You merely smiled. “Why wouldn’t I be? This is just another part of you.”
He had to look away again. You waited patiently as he resumed pacing, seemingly unable to find his words. Eventually he sat next to you, leaving a small gap between the two of you. His eyes met your lips again, only to fall back to the stub of his arm.
“I guess I shouldn’t be too shocked that you’re so… accepting.”
You couldn’t help but chuckle. “What did you think you was gonna do?”
“Honestly? I’m not sure.”
He had to smile at himself too, relief pouring from his shoulders as his tension eased. The room itself seemed to ease too, light a darkness had lifted from it. This had clearly been weighing on him for a while.
“Cross… you know this won’t change anything? You’re still you… I’m still me. You can still bug me everyday and I’ll still be there to tell you when you’re being a rude prick.” Your shoulder bumps his as you speak, in an action you hope is reassuring.
Crosshair chuckles at that. “Thank the maker, where would I be without you all but rehabilitating my behaviour?”
His sarcasm feels warm, a welcome familiarity compared to his anxiety he was in moments ago.
“Exactly.”
The room fell silent again, the two of you at ease. You laid on your back, staring at his ceiling. “Cross?”
He laid next to you, humming as if to ask what you wanted.
“Was there something else you wanted to tell me?”
He watched as you turned your head, your eyes meeting his. To his surprise, your eyes trailed to his lips, mirroring how he’d gazed at you earlier. They then ran over his face, stopping over his cheekbones and eventually met his gaze again.
Crosshair subconsciously ran his tongue over his lip. “Well, um… no.”
“No?”
“Mhm-mhm.” He looked back to the ceiling.
You dropped the subject, knowing now wasn’t the time. One day, perhaps, you’d have the conversation that burnt within you, but for now, it was enough to share the silence with him. You trusted he’d ask you out when he was ready. Either that, or one day he’d just snog the life out of you. Crosshair could be a bit unpredictable sometimes with his hasty decisions, usually when his emotions drove him. Your thoughts continued to flow, wondering how he’d tell you. Eventually the fuzz in your head was interrupted by his fingers nudging against yours. You didn’t look down, your fingers parting to join his.
If only you’d looked anywhere but the ceiling. Crosshair was trying so hard not to break into a smile, but his will was fading. He couldn’t help it, your acceptance, your hand in his, your patience. Biting his lip, he failed to suppress it any longer and broke out into a grin.
Hello! Idk if I’ve ever requested here before (my memory is so bad 😭)
I love Luke Skywalker!! But my problem is there’s not very much out there for Male or FTM perspectives in terms of fanfics or headcanons/imagines
I would do legit anything to get some Luke x M!reader content of any kind, headcanons, imagines, fics, whatever you feel like, just please feed the small group of us who don’t identify with female or gn perspectives!! And if you don’t write for those kind of pov’s at all then no worries and you can just ignore this and you won’t hurt my feelings lol
Thank you!!
mlm luke skywalker headcanons
a/n: hii!! of course i will do male or ftm perspectives!!! i hope i did these headcanons justice. i hope you like them (if you don't you have permission to point and laugh at how much of a loser i am.) ALSO my first time doing headcanons!!
luke LOVES your laugh like i mean it is his reason for living
he constantly wants to train with you and i mean CONSTANTLY
if he sees you hanging out with another guy he like immediately gets jealous, and i mean seething with jealously
if you don't know how to use a saber he teaches you and like his hand is on top of yours while doing so
he ADORES putting his hands in your hair, he loves how it feels between his fingers
this man will bring you up in conversations any chance he gets. like someone mentions something you like? "my boyfriend LOVES _____" and then he rambles about it forever
luke is just filled with so much love for you like don't even joke lad
also i feel like he'd steal your robes or any clothing pieces you own and wear them around your guys' home
Clones react to non gender specific reader giving them a book from reader's boudoir photography session. Everyone deserves to look n feel sexy in their own skin.
╰┈➤ How clones react to your boudoir photography.
character(s): clones + tbb
reader: gn! reader
warnings: none
[a/n: i agree, let the sexiness commence]
501ST
REX blinks down at his hands, “uh, thanks?” he murmurs and looks up confused, you tell him it’s a photography book. “ohh, alright.” he opens the cover and lets out a breath, his eyes flicker over every bit of detail, and how you’re so relaxed. he’ll gaze at you and smile. “okay… you look really really good, do you have any more?”
FIVES raises an eyebrow and chuckles. “hey, y’know i can’t read well. is this your way of prankin’ me back, huh? cause, i swear i didn’t mean—oh my fuck.” he immediately pauses as he opens up the pace. “i think i’ll be keepin’ this, then.” he breaths out a long whistle. “why are you always just so… fuckin’ sexy. it’s unfair.”
JESSE blinks as he’s just given the book. “thanks…?” he slowly glances up at you and you tell him to open it. he gives a nod and opens it up, and his mouth falls slack. “hello…” he licks his dry lips and smirks. “so, you’ve just given me a sexy book of yourself, just like that? must be my decantin’ day or something.”
HARDCASE grips the book and lets out a surprised laugh. “uh, whaddya wan’ me to do with this? i don’t do paperwork.” you tell him it isn’t that, and to just open it. “alright, alright.” he does as you tell him and his eyes literally widen. “woah! shit, now, you’re just showin’ off your looks. i wanna do this with you, can we? please?”
KIX slowly holds the book and murmurs. “hey, good to see you, but uh, what’s this?” he listens to you explain and he nods, opening the page and his facial expression softens. “you look good, like really good. you do this a lot? i think it suits you. i’m bein’ serious ‘bout that, by the way.”
DOGMA looks up at you and then looks back down, he holds the book gently and tilts his head slightly. “oh, what’s this?” when you tell him to open it, he opens it and then he quickly shuts it. “hey, are you sure you want me to look at this? it seems personal and i—“ you tell him you’ve given it to him for a reason, he slowly nods and reopens it. “thank you… you look… just… i don’t even have the words.”
TUP looks down with a puzzled look, but he smiles anyway. “what’s this?” you tell him and he quickly opens it, he stares at the first page for a moment, before a “woah” slips out of his mouth, he flicks the pages and looks back up at you. “how do you look so photogenic? like, you’re just… perfect in these.”
212TH
CODY hums and raises an eyebrow as you hand him the book. “uh, what’s this?” he murmurs and open the books and sucks in a breath. “oh, wow.” he sits down from his standing position and leans against you. “you look so fuckin’ stunning, honestly.” he flips another page, admiring you.
SLICK lets out a gruff noise and raises an eyebrow. “what am i doin’ with this exactly?” he asks and opens the page before pausing, he doesn’t seem to be moving or breathing. you call his name, and he looks up. “i think i’ll be keepin’ this, thanks.” a small subtle smirk appears on his is lips.
WOLFPACK
WOLFFE grips the book you give him and frowns. “what are you givin’ me? i swear if it’s—“ he opens the book and his voice stops in its tracks. “oh.” he whispers and traces the photo. “when did you take this?” he slowly turns the page and listens to you talk. “wish i could’ve been there to see the process. and you.”
CORRIES
FOX holds the book you give him in confusion, he looks up. “and what’s this?” you tell him it’s photography of you, and he hums in return, opening the front of it swiftly. his breath hitches when he sees the first photo, you looked… divine. his fingers soften their grip on the pages and he flicks it. he’s mesmerised, he stares intently, picking up on every detail. he doesn’t speak, but you can tell he likes it.
TBB
HUNTER stares at you as he holds the book you’ve just given to him. “what am i doin’ with this?” you tell him it’s just some photography you’ve done in the past. he raises an eyebrow and opens the book. “didn’t know you did that… not that i’m complaining, fuck…”
WRECKER grips the book excitedly and grins. “what’s this? somethin’ for me?” he opens it and stares for a while, you ask him if he’s okay. “you didn’t tell me you did this! you look so amazin’!” he sits down and flips through the pages. “this is so cool, like, seriously.”
TECH turns to face you and tilts his head. “hm?” he glances down and looks at the book, he opens it and let outs a small breath. “you look very stunning, and comfortable. i see you enjoy doing this?” he looks up and gives you a small smile. “thank you for showing me.”
CROSSHAIR just looks at the book in your hand and sighs. “what are you giving me?” you tell him to just take it and open it. he huffs and grabs the book, and then his eyes soften just a fraction. “well, i see you’ve been busy in the past, then.” he replies gruffly, but his fingers are itching to flick more pages.
ECHO holds the book you’ve given him and he looks up. “hey… what’s this?” he asks and you tell him it’s photography of yourself. “huh, you never told me you did that.” he murmurs and opens up the first page. “breathtaking…” he speaks to himself as he gazes at the photos. “i’m glad you’re showin’ me these.”
MISC
BLY glances down and holds the book. “oh, what’s this?” he asks and you tell him to open it, he does as you say and his breath pauses. “this… you—oh my, you look wonderful.” he turns to you and smiles widely, he always seems infatuated with you no matter what. “genuinely, you look just… absolutely amazin’.”
MAYDAY holds the ridge of the book and tilts his head. “alright, what’s this?” he chuckles and opens up it. “holy—“ he lets out a shocked laugh, not expecting to be met with you in photography. his smile is wide as he observes the photos. “thanks for showin’ me. y’know, you look really incredible.”
GREGOR lets out a confused noise as he’s given the book. “c’mon, you can’t have me reading—holy fuck.” he lets out a whistle and grins, “never mind, i will be reading.” he eagerly flips the pages. “okay, wow, you look fuckin’ incredible. i need to see this done in like—real time. please tell me you’ve got more?”
HOWZER sits down and is immediately given the book, he hums and glances at the cover. “hello to you too.” he huffs softly. “what’s this?” he opens it up and straightens his posture slightly, looking deeper at the photos. “i didn’t know you did photography…” he whispers and flicks the pages, his voice gentle, “oh, you are just… so gorgeous.”
Can you please write headcannons of how the clones would react to a gift from reader? Like a handmade gift. (Please include the tbb mainly crosshair 🥳)
HUNTER immediately asks you, "what's this?" he is slightly suspicious at first, it could be anything, he has found a large amount of disturbing things in crates. but once he opens it, his face softens ever so slightly. "for... me? y'made this for me..." he murmurs, he doesn't get why you'd make something for him. he is grateful nonetheless. he keeps it by his bunk and makes sure it's in a safe place to never be destroyed.
WRECKER is over the moon before he sees what's inside. "a gift for me? hell yeah!" he doesn't care if there's a possibility it could even be a prank. he holds the box with care, his hands are strong, so he tries his best to be gentle. and as soon as he opens it? the biggest grin appears on his face. "woah, y'actually made it? aw, i love it!" he keeps it as a good luck charm for wherever he goes.
TECH takes the box slowly and looks at you. "for me...?" he double-checks, he wants to make sure it's actually for him and not being a messenger for anyone else, which unfortunately he was used to. he carefully opens the box and a small smile twitches the corner of his lips. he knows he isn't great with expressing gratitude, but he is very thankful. he keeps it on his nav-console, he wants it to be in his line of sight when he's doing something he loves.
CROSSHAIR is silent as you give him the gift, he glances down with a frown. "what exactly is this?" he opens it properly and a small breath slips through his nose. once you ask if he likes it or if he wanted to give it back, he glares at you. "fuck off," he grumbles and moves it away from you. if anybody even tries to touch it, he is shooting daggers at them.
ECHO smiles softly as he takes the box in his hands. "oh, for me?" he opens it up gently and stares at it, he is actually mesmerised you created something for him. "woah... this is... you made somethin' for me? thank you, i 'preciate it a lot." he keeps the gift with him at all times, he never stops reminding you how much he loves it.
stormborns
romaincrisis
pixelskylines
kianamaiart
