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skittykitkat · 1 month ago

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It Meant Everything To Me

Summary: After being stung by a bug on a remote planet during a mission with Torrent Company, your life is suddenly in danger, and it's going to take something rather...unconventional to fix it. Little do you know your decision might mean more than you thought it would.

Pairing: Fives x reader

Word Count: 11,105 words (sorry)

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, explicit sexual content, p in v sex, unprotected sex, oral sex, sex pollen, slight dubcon because of sex pollen, feelings, idiots in love, medic!reader, some slight descriptions of injuries but nothing too graphic, slightly possessive Fives, good bro Kix, we love wingman Jesse, language

A/N: Did I need to write another sex pollen fic? No. Has this one been plaguing me for days? Yes. So I wrote it. Bit rusty with the 501st boys but here we are. Hope you enjoy!

MASTERLIST

“Why did you have to bring me along again?” You ask into your comm, firing a shot at a droid from the bushes where you’re hiding.

“We just like having you around.” Fives’ voice sounds from your vambrace. You can picture the cheeky smile on his face beneath his helmet.

“I feel like Kix would have been more than capable of handling you idiots.” You say, flattening yourself in the dirt as a stray blaster bolt flies over your head. You weren’t necessarily trained for front-line combat, usually stuck at the back of the column to look after injured soldiers left behind by forward progress like most civilian medics.

You were getting more than enough combat experience hanging around these boys, though. They were making sure of that.

You let out a slow breath, pushing yourself back up to your knees to peer through the bushes. Droids are falling left and right as blue and red blaster bolts fly through the air. It’s utter chaos.

Yet, you trust the boys to take care of things. They’re here for a reason. The best of the best the 501st has to offer.

You take aim through a gap in the bushes, firing on another droid getting too close.

“Nice shot, Doc.” Jesse’s voice comes through the comm.

“Thanks.” You murmur, watching the chaos for any possible injuries you’ll need to treat.

You watch the field, the small droid army that had been guarding the base getting smaller and smaller as the boys work their magic. You keep a close eye out for any potential injuries, not that you don’t trust Kix can’t handle it, but you’d prefer he keep his focus on the fight and not one of these idiots catching a stray bolt to the groin.

You’ve gotten up close and personal with some clones for that very injury.

Just another day in your life.

You’re pulled from your reverie as something sharp pricks your neck. You slap a hand against the spot, pulling away to find a squished bug. You pick at the skin, pulling the stinger free. “Kriff.” It’s a decent sized stinger.

“You good, Doc?” Kix’s voice comes through the comms.

“Yeah, some kriffing bug stung me.” You say, the spot starting to throb painfully.

“Ooh kiss your mother with that mouth?” Jesse asks.

“Please, like you haven’t said worse.” You roll your eyes.

“Kriffing son of a bitch.” Hardcase grunts.

Yeah, like that. “What happened?” You ask, snapping back into medic mode.

“Hardcase took a shot to the shoulder.” Kix says.

“Drag him over here.” You say, pulling your pack off your back. You risk leaving the cover of the bushes, squatting down just past the treeline as Kix and Fives drag Hardcase over to you.

He grunts as he’s dropped, going limp. You roll your eyes, pulling off his spaulder before looking at the hole in his blacks. The skin is blackened and raw, burned from the heat of the blaster bolt. You open your pack, pulling out your med kit. “This is going to sting,” you say, pouring disinfectant over the injury. Kix kneels down on his other side, prodding at the wound.

“What’s the prognosis?” Hardcase asks, his helmet shifting side to side as he looks between you.

“I don’t know, Hardcase.” Kix says as you pass him a bacta shot. “You might not make it.”

Hardcase sighs dramatically, gripping your hand. “Distribute my sabacc credits evenly among the men, and give condolences to that Twi’lek from 79s.”

You roll your eyes again, but squeeze his hand as Kix jabs the injector into the wound. “You’re lucky that shot wasn’t further to the right.” You say, grabbing the gauze from your bag. “I told you to get bigger spaulders.”

“I keep forgetting.” Hardcase says.

A bead of sweat trickles down your spine as you pack your med kit back into your bag. The air is hot and heavy on this planet, your blacks already damp from sweat under your armor. It’s not as heavy duty or weighty as theirs, but you can only imagine how soggy they are under those helmets.

“Let’s get this communication tower down.” Rex says, the fight against the droids over. You quickly realize they were waiting on you to finish. “Hardcase, stay out here with Doc, the rest of you on me.”

Hardcase salutes him from his place on the ground before flopping back dramatically. You sit down next to him, fanning yourself. Sweat has pooled in your crevices, the day only seeming to get hotter and muggier.

You dig your canteen out of your pack, taking a long drink of the cool water. It soothes some of the heat for a moment, and your dry mouth. Has your mouth been this dry the entire time?

You offer the canteen to Hardcase and he takes it, pushing himself up to sit. He favors his right arm as he takes a swig, likely still in pain as the bacta slowly works itself through his system.

The jungle seems so quiet now that the fire fight is over with. The air is still and heavy, settling like a dome over the Separatist hideout. You’re aware and alert, and so is Hardcase, in case any straggler droids show up as the boys work to take down the communications tower, cutting one part of the Separatist army off from the others.

You slip your canteen back into your pack, leaning back against a tree. It’s getting hotter, and you tug at the neck of your blacks, trying to get some air between your skin and the tight fabric.

“You alright?” Hardcase asks, turning his head to look at you.

You nod, fanning yourself with your hand. “It’s hot.”

He hums, turning to look back at the building. He doesn’t seem bothered by the heat at all, not even a sweat breaking out on his forehead as you sit under the hot sun. You’ve always wondered if the clones were engineered to handle more extreme temperatures. You hadn’t read anything about it in the file you stole during a short stay on Kamino. Curiosity had led you to snooping about the clones and their genetic engineering. You’d simply made the excuse that it was to better understand how to treat them. Resources would be limited at times and if you knew how much they really could handle, then you could better allocate those resources between them.

You’d never give them less than you would anyone else, but that had been the excuse you’d come up with in case you got caught. You hadn’t, but you never do anything without a good reason thought up. Impulsivity isn’t your nature.

Sweat has soaked through your blacks by the time the doors open again, your hand falling to your blaster before you recognize your boys coming back through.

“Charges are planted.” Rex says, Kix offering you a hand to help you up off the ground. “Let’s get out of here and blow this place.”

“Hell yeah.” Hardcase says, putting his helmet back on.

Your group steps through the bushes again, slipping back into the jungle.

You’re not quite sure how far you walk before you hear the bang, jumping just a bit as the explosion reaches your ears. You’ve stopped for just a moment, long enough for them to detonate the charges and destroy the Separatist communication station. You take a moment to grab your canteen again, taking another big drink. Your mouth feels eternally dry, no matter how much water you drink, it doesn’t do anything to ease the ache in your throat. The canteen is half empty now, and you only hope you’ll come across water at some point so you can refill it before it’s completely empty.

You ignore the way your hands shake as you tuck the canteen back into your pack, slinging it over your shoulder again as you trudge along through the jungle.

The heat continues to intensify, sweat dripping down your forehead as you slowly weave through the bushes and roots. The wound on your neck from the bug is throbbing and achy, a bump forming where the stinger broke your skin. There’s an itch starting to build beneath your skin. Must be from the friction of your blacks and the sweat. Just what you need. Heat rash.

You can’t wait to get off this planet. You can’t wait to get back to the boring med bay, the greys and whites of the Resolute. You’d take cataloging over this. But the boys wanted you to come along, and here you are dragging ass behind them.

You pick up the pace, shoving past the exhaustion, something you’re well accustomed to. It’s not the first time you’ve had to push past the extremes, often pushing yourself further than sanity to save the lives of as many troopers as you can. You don’t want them to die, even if they do it with honor.

Your legs are starting to shake, sweat dripping into your eyes. The itch under your skin is intensifying, your fingers digging into the gap between your vambrace and rerebrace. The armor is getting heavier and heavier, weighing you down as your exhaustion continues to build.

Your vision is starting to swim, the colors of the jungle intensifying, becoming sharper. Your hand shakes as you lift it to wipe your brow, sweat soaking through your glove. The sun isn’t helping the heat any, bearing down on you through the trees. If you didn’t know better, you might have thought it was seeking you out, following you and shining its rays directly onto your head.

After a few minutes you finally stumble, sitting down hard on a root. Your pack nearly pulls you backwards and you quickly unclip it, letting it fall before it takes you with it. You need to stop, you need a moment just to breathe. The jungle around you is kaleidoscoping, the vivid brightness hurting your eyes.

“Doc!” Fives calls out, rushing to your side. His hand cups your face as you sit back against the tree, blinking away the dizziness. “Kriff, you’re burning up.”

Kix kneels down on your other side, grabbing his scanner from his belt. He holds it up to your face, and you can imagine his brows furrowing in concentration under his helmet. “A fever.” He tilts your head side to side, the motion nearly making you puke down Fives’ front. His fingers tug at the neck of your blacks, pulling them down slightly.

Jesse hisses, standing behind Kix. “That doesn’t look good.”

“What?” You slur, lifting a hand to the sore spot on your neck. The bump has gotten bigger, and it throbs as you brush your fingers over it.

“We need to find somewhere to set up camp.” Kix says, turning to speak to Rex. “I need to treat her before this gets worse.”

“There’s a clearing not far ahead.” Rex says, turning his gaze to you. “Think you can make it that far?”

You nod, standing back to your feet with Kix and Fives’ help. “Yeah.” You don’t sound very convincing.

Kix slings your arm over his shoulders as Fives grabs your pack, his grip around you tight to keep you upright as you stumble onward after Rex. If you weren’t so out of it, you might have been embarrassed or even ashamed. You can’t care about much besides putting one foot in front of the other right now, though. You don’t have that much energy to expend.

Kix is almost carrying you by the time you reach the clearing, half of the company jumping into setting up the tents while the others do a sweep of the area, making sure there’s nothing hiding in the trees that might cause a problem. You lean against a tree, fingers fumbling with your pack to get your canteen.

A gloved hand moves yours to the side gently, reaching in to grab your canteen for you. You look up at the familiar face of Jesse as he screws the top off for you.

“Thank you,” You breathe, taking a big sip. It’s almost empty now.

“You sure you’re alright, Doc?” He asks, brows furrowed in concern.

You nod. “Probably just heatstroke.”

He doesn’t seem convinced of your diagnosis, but he nods even as his brows pinch further together. He pushes himself to stand, moving himself in front of the sun, protecting you from its rays. It’s starting to lower in the sky, its rays reaching through the gaps in the trees.

“Come on,” Kix says, approaching you again. “Let’s get you in a tent.”

With Jesse’s help they get you on your feet, your legs trembling under you. Your body feels heavy, limbs dragging like you’re trying to move through mud. Everything feels harder than it should, even your breathing has become labored.

Kix and Jesse get you into the tent, Kix lowering you down onto the mat on the ground. It’s hardly comfortable, but you couldn’t care less right now. Kix turns on a lamp, casting a sterile looking glow in the tent as he digs through his own pack. Yours has been placed on the floor at your feet, your fingers reaching for your canteen. Your mouth is dryer than Tatooine, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth. You take a long drink, drinking up every last drop of water.

“I need more.” You gasp, handing him your empty canteen.

“We’ll get you more soon.” Kix says, pulling out his med kit. He scans your forehead again, the scanner beeping ominously. “Your temperature is higher than it was.”

“That’s not good.” You say quietly, tugging at the pieces of your plastoid armor. You need it off, the weight of it pressing against your skin. That itch is still there, burning and scraping where you can’t reach it.

“Easy,” Kix says, grabbing your hands as you tear at the plastoid.

“I need it off.” You breathe, your chest tightening. It feels constricting, rubbing your blacks against your sensitive skin.

“Alright, let me help.” Kix says softly, easily peeling off a spaulder. He carefully removes your armor, setting the pieces next to your pack at your feet.

You can still feel the burn of fabric against your skin, though it has lessened a bit without the weight of your armor on your body. Kix tilts your head to the side, brushing back some of the hair that’s fallen out of your braid, the damp strands sticking to your skin.

“You said a bug stung you?” He asks, running his thumb over the bump on your neck.

You hiss as he presses against it, a sharp pain shooting through your body. “Yeah.”

He pulls his hand back, grabbing an injector. “When did these symptoms start? After you got stung?”

“I mean, I was hot before.” You say, wincing as he injects the bacta into your shoulder. “But everything else…” you let out a long breath. “Yeah.”

“It’s possible the bug released some kind of toxin into your bloodstream when it stung you.” Kix says.

What you wouldn’t give for a blood test right now. Maybe it could tell you what poison is coursing through your system right now.

Sweat continues to soak through your blacks, beading on your forehead and sliding down into your hair. Kix straps a monitor to your arm before rising, taking your canteen with him as he leaves the tent. You lay there, trying to take in deep breaths but your chest feels constricted. Your entire body feels constricted, like your very skin is starting to tighten and suffocate you.

“Easy,” Kix says, keeling back on the ground next to you, his hand resting on your shoulder. “Panicking isn’t going to help anything right now.”

“It’s...it’s too much.” You gasp, tugging at your blacks. They’re sticking to you like a second skin, the sensation enough to drive you insane. You feel like you are going insane, every nerve ending alight all at once, every sense on high alert. You’re pretty sure if you focused enough, you could feel your bones.

Kix’s touch is unbearable as he prods at your wound. “The bacta hasn’t helped any.” He says, worry evident in his voice. “Your heart rate is still high, and your blood pressure.”

That explains the painful pulsing behind your eyes.

There’s an ache starting to blossom deep in your pelvis, a deep cramping that’s building steadily. You press a hand to your abdomen, applying gentle pressure, as if that could get it to stop.

“How much longer until they arrive to get us?” You ask, tugging at your shirt.

“We’re not due to be picked up for another six hours.” He says. “Rex commed and they’re coming as fast as they can.”

“Kriff,” you breathe, rolling back onto your back. “I don’t think I’ll make it another six hours.”

Kix doesn’t say anything, but his silence is all you need to know.

The deep ache in your stomach intensifies, sharp shooting pain racing through your overstimulated nervous system. You grit your teeth, curling into a ball.

“What is it?” Kix asks, shifting to face you.

“Hurts.” You gasp, curling tighter into a ball.

“What hurts?” He asks, his hand on your shoulder.

His touch burns through your body, intensifying the ache in your stomach. You pinch your eyes closed, trying to breathe through the cramp. It’s worse than any cramp you’ve ever had. It nearly has you seeing double.

“Doc…” Kix says, his thumb stroking your arm. “Talk to me.”

“Can’t,” you gasp, the cramping starting to lower in your body. “Shit.” You force yourself to sit up, ripping your shirt over your head. “I can’t. I can’t take it anymore.”

Your skin nearly sighs in relief at the freedom from the tight material. You don’t care that Kix is seeing you in just your breastband. He’s a medic, he’s seen a lot of things. The last person who would judge you for having your tits half out is Kix.

You curl back up into a ball, the ache in your stomach starting to sink lower and lower until it’s pulsing between your legs. You squeeze your eyes closed, thighs pressing together. You try to breathe through your mouth, willing the ache to subside.

“Kix,” you breathe, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder. “What’s happening to me?”

“I…” he lets out a sigh. “I don’t know. I’m going to update the Captain, you try and rest.”

***

“How is she?” Rex asks, approaching Kix as he steps out of the tent.

“Not good.” Kix says honestly. He’s watched your decline over the last two hours. “Whatever that bug was...it injected some kind of toxin with its stinger.”

“Is there a cure for it?” Rex asks.

“I don’t know.” Kix shakes his head. “I couldn’t find anything in any databases.”

“Can you think of anything that might help?”

Kix shakes his head again. “I’m a combat medic, not a scientist. Bacta is useless, and a stim shot might make things worse. How far out is our extraction?”

“Four hours.” Rex says.

Four kriffing hours. How is he going to keep you alive that long?

He’s not sure you’re going to make it another hour, let alone four.

***

The pulsing between your thighs is intense, so intense it almost hurts. You grind against your palm pressed between your thighs, skin slick with sweat. It’s hot and you’re exhausted, yet the pulsing of your pussy refuses to let you sleep. You’ve given up on your pants, kicking them off into the growing pile at your feet, leaving you in just your breastband and underwear.

“What does it feel like?” Kix asks, dragging a hand across his shaved head. The two of you have been trying to brainstorm, with what little brainpower you have left.

“You want the truth?” You breathe, panting slightly from the exertion of simply existing.

“That would be helpful right now.” Kix says. You’d hit him if you could move your hands.

“It feels like I’m insanely horny.” You admit, trying not to get embarrassed. The last person that would make fun of you is Kix.

Kix hums, typing away at the datapad in his lap.

“I’m so horny it hurts.” You whine, grinding against your hand. “I feel like I might die if I don’t orgasm right now.”

“Feel free to…” he waves his hand. “If you need to.”

Normally you might feel ashamed for being so open with Kix, but neither of you seem to care right now.

You sink your hand into your underwear, fingers seeking out your pulsing clit. You’re soaked and it’s not just the sweat. You can feel the slickness of your folds as you start to circle your clit, sighing quietly from the sweet relief it’s finally getting. Kix doesn’t even glance your way, buried in his datapad as you masturbate next to him, seeking any kind of relief from the intense need burning through you.

“I think I found something.” Kix says, uncrossing his legs. “I think whatever toxin that bug injected into you was some kind of stimulant.”

“You don’t say.” You breathe, turning onto your back, still furiously rubbing your clit, seeking any kind of relief you can get, but the building pleasure only goes so far. It’s not quite enough, even your fingers dipping into your pussy isn’t enough.

“You’re only going to get worse if we don’t find some way to burn this toxin out of your system.” He says, still looking at his datapad. “There’s a little research on the holonet about toxins that can induce arousal, but…”

“But what?” You gasp out, pumping your fingers in and out of yourself.

“Prognosis isn’t good unless you can orgasm enough times to burn it out of your system.” He says with finality.

You let out a groan of despair, curling your fingers inside yourself. Your pussy is damn near tingling, light pleasure coursing through you but it’s not enough. It’s almost like your fingers aren’t enough, like you need something else, something more.

You let out a huff, withdrawing your hand. “It’s not working.”

“What’s not working?” He asks, finally glancing up at you.

“I can’t...I can’t get myself to…” You groan, flopping back dramatically against the mat. “I need help.” Your voice is soft, small, quiet, like you don’t want to admit it.

“Doc…” Kix says, setting the datapad aside. “I don’t know…”

“I need help.” You say again, scrubbing your hands over your face. “I’m going to die if I don’t orgasm and I can’t do it myself.”

Tears leak out of your eyes. It’s the truth. Your heart rate has only continued to climb, as has your fever. The bacta held it off briefly, but as the minutes pass, you can feel your blood pressure starting to rise again. The body can only take so much before it gives out. You don’t want to find out what your limits are.

Kix lets out a quiet breath, his hand falling to press against yours where it rests on the mat. “Let me go talk to the guys.”

You watch him go, laying there on the mat, the tears still streaming. You can just hear them outside, their bodies visible thanks to the glow of the small fire set up in the middle of the camp.

“She’s declining again. The toxin the bug injected was a stimulant. It’s sending her body into overdrive.”

“Is there anything you can do to fix it?”

“There is one thing...but you’re not going to like it.”

Their voices quiet down, and you can see them leaning in closer to each other.

“We have to what?”

“We can’t do that. She’s...not like that...we can’t.”

“We may not have any other choice.”

“She just needs to hang on for three more hours.”

“She’s not going to make it two if she doesn’t get help.”

It falls silent, only the sound of your labored breaths filling the air. You can almost picture the silent conversation, eyes glancing around, looking anywhere but at each other as they come to terms with what Kix is suggesting. Besides some harmless flirting from Fives, they’ve never pressed that boundary with you. There’s always been an unspoken rule with you. They don’t push past that boundary, and now they’re being asked to hurdle over it.

“At least...let her decide. Let her have the autonomy to choose.”

Footsteps approach the tent and Kix ducks back inside. He comes over to your side, kneeling down next to you. His hand brushes your head, brows pinched in a frown. “They’ll do it.” He says quietly, wiping the sweat from your brow. “But they want you to choose.”

You already know that, but you let him say it. It’s a finality, the gavel striking on this situation, making it real. You’re going to have to fuck one of your friends, one of the troopers you’d trust with your life. Who better, though? It could be some random trooper you’ve never met before who you’ll never see again…

Maybe that would be better than a trooper you’ll have to face regularly.

How are you going to face them after this?

Who do you choose? Rex? You trust the clone captain with your life, but you’d never be able to be in the same room with him again if you asked him to do this. You can’t ask Kix. You need someone aware in case this goes awry, someone who might at least be able to keep you alive. Jesse would make it too romantic, and you know he’d catch feelings. You couldn’t do that to him. Hardcase would wind up bragging about it accidentally and you’re not sure you could handle that eventual reality.

That leaves…

Fives.

The one least likely to care about this, the one to play it off as a one-time thing, like many of his other flings. You’d be just another notch on his belt, like all those other faceless bucket bunnies he winds up bedding during shore leave. He won’t care, and he’ll make sure he forgets after all of this is done. He’ll pretend like nothing happened, and everything will go back to normal.

“Fives.” You whisper, squeezing your thighs together.

Something passes across Kix’s face, but you’re too out of it to put a name to it. “You’re sure?”

You nod, letting out a shaky breath. “Yeah.”

Kix is quiet for a moment before he nods. “I’ll...go tell him.”

Kix stands back up, leaving you alone as he ducks out of the tent again. You curl up in a ball, mind swimming with nothing but desire, nothing but an intense need to cum and fast.

The tent flap moves aside again, only it’s not Kix who enters.

It’s Fives.

He’s sans helmet, brows pinched as he approaches you slowly, like you’re a wild nexu about to pounce. He kneels down next to the mat, his gaze unreadable as he stares down at you.

“Hi, Doc.” He say softly, lifting a hand to brush some damp hair from your face.

“Fives…” you let out a soft gasp as a wave of pulsing pain throbs through your body. “Help me.”

You grab his hand, bringing it to your face. His glove is rough as it slides across your skin, your nerves alight and overstimulated from the simple touch.

“You really want me to do this?” He asks, his thumb brushing your cheek.

“Yes.” you gulp, squeezing his hand weakly. “I need it.”

He swallows thickly but nods, sitting back on his heels to pop off his utility belt and kama, laying them near your own pile. Your own hands tug your underwear off, the soaked fabric bunching as you kick it off onto the end of the mat. Fives pops his pauldron off adding it to the pile on the floor. He makes to take off his spaulders but you stop him, grabbing his hands.

“Don’t bother.” You say, laying back on the mat and pulling him with you. “The faster we can get this done, the better.”

“This isn’t going to be comfortable for you.” He warns, popping off his codpiece.

“You really think I care right now?” You ask, tilting your head back.

“Suppose not.” He murmurs, settling himself between your thighs. His hands trail up your legs, gloves gone at least.

This is so unsanitary, but you’ll worry about that later.

He stares down at you for a long moment, hands paused halfway down your thighs, just resting there. You try to part your legs for him but he keeps them closed, something passing over his face before he sits back on his heels. “Turn over.”

You do as he says, turning over onto your stomach. Whatever is going to get you fucked faster. He finally pushes your thighs apart, just enough for him to slot himself between them.

“Kriff…” he breathes, sliding a hand down the back of your thigh. His fingers glide through your folds before two slip into you, your body opening easy around him. He curses again, pumping his fingers into you. “So kriffing wet.”

“Hurry up.” You breathe, shifting your arm to wave back at him. “No time for that. I need you...like right now.”

You hear him shift, his blacks opening to free his cock. You lick your lips at the thought of what it looks like. Unfortunately you know from medical experience exactly what he looks like, just how hung they all are.

Your pussy clenches at the thought of his cock finally inside of you and the relief it’s going to bring. Finally you’ll be free from the intense overstimulation burning through you.

He leans between your thighs, kneeing them open further to make space for him and his armor. The plastoid digs into your skin but you don’t care, far too focused on the way your body stretches around the tip of his cock. He lets out a quiet groan, sliding into you easily.

“Kriffing hell, Doc,” He groans, settling his weight over you as he glides home in one stroke. His hands come to rest on either side of you, his hips pressed tight against your ass.

He starts to rock his hips, slow and steady as his cock presses into you over and over. Arousal seeps out of you with every press of his hips, soaking into his blacks. The itching is still creeping under your skin, the monitor on your arm beeping from your increased temperature and heart rate. Fives shifts, grabbing it and ripping it off, tossing it somewhere to the side.

“Fives,” you breathe, pushing back against him. “Faster.”

His hips still, pressed up against your body. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“If you don’t fuck me, I’m going to die.” you say, reaching out to grip one of his wrists. “So fuck me like you mean it.”

You can feel the weight of his stare for a long moment, wishing you could see his face in the artificial light of the lamp. It’s getting dark outside, the sun finally starting to set. “As the lady commands.” He says, lowering himself down on his elbows above you. His chest presses against your back, the plastoid armor covering his body cool against your heated skin.

His hips start to snap against yours in short, sharp thrusts, your eyes rolling back as you finally get some of the friction you’ve been dying for. Your hands grip the mat under your body, your hips pressing up against his, meeting his thrusts. For the first time in hours you’re finally starting to feel a hint of relief, an orgasm quickly building from the drag of his cock against that spot inside of you.

“Fives…” You breathe, fingers starting to cramp from how tightly they’re gripping the mat under you. Your clit is dragging across the rough material with every downward thrust of his hips, only adding to the pleasure coursing through you.

He curses, small groans leaving his lips. He’s trying to be quiet, even though the others outside the tent know what’s happening. The wet squelch of your soaked pussy can’t be helped, though, more and more arousal dripping out of you from the burning heat beneath your skin and the cramping in your abdomen.

“Oh, fuck, Fives.” You moan, back arching. “I’m gonna cum.”

“You gonna cum?” He leans down, groaning in your ear, breath hot against your sweat-slicked skin.

“Yes, yes!” You cry, your body shuddering as you’re thrown into an orgasm.

He slows his thrusts to languid movements, his body lifting off of you just slightly. There’s still a deep cramping in your stomach, the heat burning beneath your skin. It’s not enough.

“Again.” You breathe, reaching back towards him.

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “As you wish.”

He begins to thrust his hips against yours again, picking up the pace to a near brutal snapping of his hips. Already you can feel pleasure burning through you, almost as if you hadn’t just had an orgasm.

You cum twice more, shaking under Fives but this time he doesn’t stop, his hips still snapping against your ass in quick, short thrusts. The heat is beginning to dissipate, the itch finally calming. You’re a drooling mess, Fives’ hand wrapped around the back of your neck, keeping your head down as he plows into you. Breathy moans slip from his lips, his fingers curling into the mat like yours had. He’s close to his own orgasm. You’re shocked he’s lasted this long.

“Gonna cum.” He groans, his movements starting to get sloppy. “Where do you want me?”

“Inside,” you gasp, already getting close to another orgasm.

“Fuck…” he lets out a long groan, snapping his hips against your ass almost brutally before he stills, his cock pulsing inside of you as he cums.

Another orgasm shudders through your body at the feeling of him filling you, your body giving out as you lay flat against the bed. Fives collapses over you, pressing his face against your shoulder. He’s breathing heavily, almost as heavy as you are. You can feel his hot breaths against your sweat-slick skin.

“Feeling better?” He asks, pushing himself back up.

You are. The heat is receding from beneath your skin and the itch has been satiated. There’s still light cramping in your stomach but not nearly what it was before. In fact, you’re starting to feel cold. A shiver runs down your spine as you suddenly become aware of how much the air has cooled as it brushes against your sweat-slick skin.

Fives pulls away from you, your pussy clenching at the sudden loss. You can feel his cum dripping out of you, a wince crossing your face. That’s going to be fun to clean up later. Fives grabs a blanket from your pack, tossing it over you as you turn onto your side. He grabs his belt and kama before standing.

He won’t look at you.

“Fives?” You ask quietly as he redresses himself from the little he’d taken off. He hums, still avoiding looking at you.

A pang of hurt flashes through you. He could at least look you in the face after fucking you. He makes for the entrance to the tent, shoulders tense and tight.

“Fives!” You call, pushing yourself up onto a shaking arm. You’re exhausted, your brain fighting for something to say. You want to yell at him, beg him to look at you, but all you can come up with is a weak: “Thank you.”

He nods, glancing at you over his shoulder before he leaves the tent.

You lay back down, a tear sliding down your cheek from the awkward encounter. Maybe you should have chosen one of the others. Jesse would have probably kissed you after that.

Kix comes back into the tent kneeling down beside you. He straps the monitor back onto your arm, scanning your forehead to take your temperature.

“Your temperature has lowered significantly.” He says, setting the device aside. “So has your heart rate.”

“That’s good.” You murmur, snuggling under the blanket.

“The extraction team will be here in half an hour.” He says, grabbing your clothes from the end of the mat. “We should at least get you back into your blacks.”

Less questions that way.

You let him help you, easing your exhausted body back into your clothes, giving you at least a modicum of decency.

You’re half asleep when the ships touch down, Kix and another trooper easing you onto a stretcher. Exhaustion from the day and its events tugs at the back of your mind, all the adrenaline that had been pumping through you wearing off, leaving you shaking and weak.

You turn your head to the side as they get ready to load you onto the ship, meeting the helmeted gaze of Fives. He quickly looks away, climbing into the other ship with Jesse. You try not to let it bother you, but you can’t help but feel a bit hurt by his sudden avoidance of you.

Maybe it was as awkward for him as it was for you.

Maybe you should have chosen Jesse.

***

You’re back to work after some IV fluids and two days mandatory rest. Kix would have pushed for more, but he knew you’d break those rules anyway. A bacta shot had revived you after your return to the Resolute, but you did spend the better part of those two days resting. You still feel a bit sapped of energy, just your body ridding itself of the lasting effects of the toxic, the clone medical officer that had overseen your recovery said. The bump left over by the insect’s stinger has healed, down to hardly more than a blemish on your skin.

Your downtime also gave you a lot to think about. More precisely, to think about Fives and his reaction. You’ve come to the conclusion that he must have thought what happened between you meant more than it did. All he did was help keep you from dying in a rather unconventional way. That’s all it was. No feelings, no expectations.

Maybe he thought there were those things for you.

That’s why you seek him out after second meal, cornering him in the hallway. You’re glad he’s alone, catching him in one of those rare moments when Torrent Company isn’t moving together as a single unit throughout the flagship. It must be some miracle from the Maker, some kind of blessing after everything you went through.

“Fives!” You call out, his body stiffening as he pauses. He turns slowly as you run up to him in the thankfully quiet hallway.

“Yeah?” He asks, his brows furrowing as he stares down at you. Finally he’s looking at you, though he seems nervous. Maybe it was shame after all. Perhaps he feels ashamed for what he did, and in his shame he couldn’t look at you. You need to fix this stat.

“I just...wanted to talk about what happened...between us.” You say, suddenly nervous too.

He swallows thickly, lips pressing into a line as he nods. “Yeah.”

“I just...wanted to let you know that I picked you because I knew it wouldn’t mean anything to you.”

Something flashes over his face, his features twisting in almost a pained look for merely half a second before he cools them, finding his composure. “Right.” He clears his throat. “It wouldn’t mean anything.”

“And I also wanted to say thank you, again.” You quickly add, trying to ignore the way the look in his eyes is deepening.

He nods. “You’re, uh, you’re welcome.”

You nod, glad you got what you needed to say off your chest. “So...it just...it didn’t mean anything beyond you just saving my life.”

He winces, his gaze lowering from your face for a moment before he nods. “Yeah. It didn’t mean anything.” He shifts on his feet. “I should, uh, get going.”

“Right.” You say, stepping to the side. “I don’t want to keep you.”

He walks away without another word, his back tense and tight as he makes his way down the hall. You watch him go, something nagging in the back of your mind about the conversation that just transpired.

***

You don’t see Fives again for days.

If you thought more about it, you might have come to the conclusion that he was purposefully avoiding you, but as the 501st is thrown into another campaign right away, you don’t have much time to dwell on such things.

You’re busy as always, patching up troopers, saving their lives, doing everything you can to keep as many of them alive as you can.

It’s when things are beginning to calm in the med bay that you see him. Fives. He’s sitting on a gurney, waiting in line to be looked at. You nearly run over to him, elbowing one of your fellow medics out of the way as you come to a stop in front of him.

“Fives!” You say cheerily, his eyes widening as you appear in front of him.

“Oh, hi, Doc.” He greets you, clearing his throat. He holds out his arm, revealing a rather nasty scratch on the inside of his elbow. He’s already removed his vambrace and rerebrace, his blacks tugged up to his bicep.

You hiss through your teeth, grabbing some disinfectant and a bacta patch from the drawer next to the gurney. “That looks painful.”

“I’ve had worse.” He shrugs.

It’s true. You’ve seen him in worse shape.

“Still,” you say, your fingers wrapping around his arm to hold it still. “This might sting.”

He winces as you dab the disinfectant on the wound, careful to get any possible debris out.

“I haven’t seen you in a while.” You say softly, wiping his arm clean.

“It’s been a busy campaign.” He says.

“Right.” You nod, placing the bacta patch over his wound, waiting for the lights to turn blue before stepping back. “Leave that on for a couple hours. It’ll probably scar though.”

“That’s fine.” He says stiffly, pulling his sleeve down. He slides off the bed before grabbing the rest of his armor.

“I’ll see you around.” You say to his back.

“Yeah.” He says, turning to glance at you over his shoulder before he leaves the med bay.

“Well that was awkward.” Mira, one of your fellow civilian medics says. “Usually he’s all up on you when you’re that close and personal with him.”

“He doesn’t get all up and personal.” You say, shaking your head.

She gives you a look. “Yeah. Sure.” She shrugs. “Something definitely happened between you two.”

Your face warms just a bit. Both Rex and Kix had agreed not to go into details about what happened during...that mission. They’d given the barest possible description. Just a bug bite that went wrong. Some bacta stabilized you until you could get proper treatment. Nothing about you fucking a clone to survive.

“N-Nothing happened.” You say, quickly disposing of the supplies you used.

“Mhm.” She hums in a disbelieving tone. “Let me guess...he saw you with someone else.”

You make a face. “What? Why would that matter.”

Mira rolls her eyes. “Please, he’s totally in love with you. He practically drools every time he sees you.”

“No he doesn’t.” You scrunch your nose. “He’s nothing more than a friend.”

“Mm so that’s it.” She says, making her way to the next clone in line. “You friendzoned him.”

“Can’t friendzone someone who has no feelings for you.” You say, moving to the next gurney.

“Uh huh. Sure. No feelings.” She rolls her eyes. “Girl, you’re denser than a doornail.”

You shake your head, focusing on the clone in front of you with a blaster shot to the shoulder. Fives doesn’t have feelings for you. Sure he’s comfortable and flirty with you, but so are the rest of Torrent Company. Hell, even some of the other clones in the 501st like to hit on the civilian medics. When you’re that up close and personal with them...you don’t blame them when they spend most of their time around each other.

Fives doesn’t feel that way about you...right?

He can’t. He’s just your friend.

You jab the bacta needle a little too hard into the clone’s shoulder, earning a yowl of pain.

“Sorry…” You make a face. “Got lost in thought.”

“No kidding.” He says, rubbing his shoulder. “You know, if things don’t work out with Fives, you’re more than welcome to hit me up.” He grins salaciously at you.

“Why does everyone think there’s something between Fives and I?” You ask.

“It’s pretty obvious how he feels.” The clone says. “You could ask any clone on this ship and he’d know. Hell, I’m sure even the General knows.”

Your face heats up, and you shake your head. “No, I still don’t think so.”

He shrugs. “Have it your way.” He jumps down off the cot after you wrap his shoulder. “Just keep my offer in mind.”

“Thanks…”

“Tup, ma’am.” He says, saluting you playfully.

You roll your eyes. “Get out of here, Tup.”

He chuckles and you move on to the next clone waiting to get his wounds addressed.

***

You’re starting to believe them.

Fives has continued to do his best to evade your presence, even going so far as to leave the mess hall with a half full tray of food when you enter. It hurts, knowing you’ve messed up your friendship with him. Even the others are awkward around you now, like they’re tiptoeing around live ammunition when you’re near. More than once it’s left you in tears. It’s not fair. You couldn’t have stopped getting stung by that bug and you couldn’t help what happened to you after.

Of course sleeping with one of your close friends, be it for survival or not, would make things awkward, and you don’t blame them for taking their brother’s side. Bros before hoes right? The thought that they might think of you that way makes you wince.

Kix is the only one acting normal around you, but then again, working in close quarters makes it hard to avoid each other. Perhaps it’s just guilt that keeps him cordial, that he couldn’t do more to help you, that he couldn’t fix what was wrong without having to resort to those means.

You’re not sure what to think anymore.

You finally grow tired of their attitudes after another campaign. You’re exhausted and overworked and perhaps a tad bit emotional over how many men were lost during this battle. It’s perhaps not fair that you corner Jesse as he’s coming out of the med bay covered in bacta patches.

“Jesse!” you call out, racing down the hall to him.

He turns, his brows raising in surprise for a moment before his face cools. “Yeah?”

You come to a stop in front of him, forcing his back up against the wall. “Spill.”

His brows furrow in confusion. “What?”

“I want an explanation as to why you’re all treating me like I have the plague. Why Fives keeps doing everything in his power to avoid me.” You say.

Realization crosses his face for a moment before he lapses back into a neutral look, his back straightening. “I don’t really think it’s my place to-”

“Jesse,” you cut him off. “Please. I-I don’t know why you’re all so upset with me. It’s not like I could help what happened and…” you sigh. “I didn’t want it to ruin things between us. That’s why I wanted Fives to be the one to do it. I knew it wouldn’t mean anything to him.”

Jesse gulps, wincing as he stares down at you. “You thought it wouldn’t mean anything to him?”

“Well, yeah.” you shrug. “None of his other...escapades have meant anything.”

“Yeah, but...you’re...you.” Jesse says. “You’re our Doc. It was always going to mean something.”

You drop your gaze to his chestplate, frowning. “But I’m just a medic.”

“You’re so much more than that.” Jesse says softly. “To him, to all of us.”

Your shoulders slump, tears blurring your vision. Of course it would mean more to them than you thought. You’re not just some one night stand picked up at 79s. You’re…you.

“Look...I think it’s best you just sit him down and talk to him.” Jesse says.

“That would be easy if I could find him.” You say.

“He likes to hit the range after second meal.” Jesse says. “He’s there pretty much every day.”

You nod. “Thanks, Jesse.”

He nods, patting your shoulder. “Get some rest, Doc. You look like you need it.”

You look him over, at the many bacta patches covering him. “I could say the same to you. I don’t know why they’re letting you walk out of here right now.”

“It’s nothing too bad.” He waves you off. “Mostly just superficial.”

“Uh huh.” You say, but you take a step back. “Take it easy, okay? For me?”

He grins. “Anything for you, Doc.”

***

You do find Fives after second meal, just as Jesse said, in the range. You’ve only been in the training areas a handful of times, mostly responding to injuries the men get when they go a little hard on each other. Some bacta and a slap on the wrist is usually the standard of care for those kinds of injuries.

Fives is firing rather angrily at a droid, over and over and over. He’s tense, shoulders squared and you can see the way his brows are pulled together. You wait until he’s done, not wanting to startle him and possibly have to make your own trip to the med bay. Fives probably wouldn’t shoot you, but with him wound so tight, you can’t be sure.

“Fives?” You say quietly once he’s done, blaster lowered to his side.

He glances at you over his shoulder. “What do you want?”

“I’m here to talk.” you say as he raises his blaster once more.

“What makes you think I want to talk to you?” He snaps.

“Because I want you to tell me what’s going on.” You say, shouting over the sound of his blaster.

He pauses, his shoulders sinking a bit.

“We’re friends, Fives. Nothing about that has changed.” You say.

“That’s just it.” He says, turning on you. He holsters his blaster, taking a step towards you. “Nothing changed. You made me…” he cuts himself off with a sharp breath, his hand curling into a fist. “And it was supposed to mean nothing?”

You gulp, eyes widening at the intense look on his face. “I-It wasn’t. That’s why I chose you. None of your other one night stands have meant anything to you.”

“Because they’re not you.”

The words echo in the silence, your heart beating hard in your chest. “What?”

He swallows thickly, taking another step towards you. “They weren’t you, Doc. They were just...distractions from what I couldn’t have.”

Tears burn behind your eyes, your heart thumping rapidly in your chest. “Fives…”

It’s all coming together for you. His playful flirting with you, the way he always made sure you sat next to him, his protective streak when you were caught in combat with them, his reaction after...his stiff avoidance of you after you told him it meant nothing to you.

Kriff, you’re an idiot.

His steps are slow, careful, like he’s approaching a wild animal. You don’t move, your body tingling from all of the realizations slamming into you left and right. They were right. They were all right.

He stops inches from you, staring down at you. You hold his gaze, a stray tear sliding down your cheek.

“It wasn’t supposed to mean anything to you.” You whisper.

“It meant everything to me.” He says quietly.

More tears slide down your cheeks, your breath hitching in your chest. His eyes are so big, so soft as they stare down at you. His hand lifts, sliding up your arm to your elbow. The touch is so gentle, so intimate.

“You have no idea what it meant, that you trusted me like that. You trusted me to take care of you when you were so vulnerable. But you didn’t know...how could you have known?” His grip tightens just slightly around your arm. “I tried to imagine it was just another bucket bunny, but...I couldn’t.” His hand slides up your arm, over your shoulder to your face where he cups your cheek. “It was you, Doc. It was always you.”

“Oh Fives,” you whisper, sniffling. “Everyone knew but me...I couldn’t see it. Why didn’t you say anything?”

His gaze drops from yours. “I didn’t know how you would feel about it, and I didn’t want to ruin our friendship.”

“It wouldn’t have ruined anything.” You say, leaning into the rough fabric of his glove on your cheek. You can feel the warmth of his hand through it seeping into your own skin.

“Well, I know that now.” He says, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

You groan, leaning forward to rest your forehead against his chestplate. “Couple of idiots, aren’t we?”

He chuckles, his arms wrapping around you. “I think you could say that.”

You lean against him for a moment, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest against you. The sharp shard of fear strikes through you at the thought that someday you might lose him, but you push it aside, focusing on the here and now.

His hands grip your arms, pulling you back away from him. One of his hands slides up your arm as you stare up at him, at the deep emotion shining in those big brown eyes. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing your lips. He stays there for a moment, just staring at you, taking you in.

“Kiss me, idiot.” You say, breaking the silence.

His face breaks in a grin before he’s leaning down, pressing his lips to yours. It’s soft and sweet, everything you hoped it would be. His hands drop to your waist as yours wrap around his neck, pressing against his pauldrons.

“I really hate your armor sometimes.” You murmur against his lips.

He smirks, kissing you again. “Would you prefer me without it?”

You pull back for a moment, pretending to think about it. “Well, you’ve seen me mostly naked, so it’s only fair.”

A wide grin forms on his face, his hand dropping to yours, lacing your fingers together. “Well, lucky for you I’m free this afternoon.”

***

The two of you slip into the barracks, giggling like a couple of teenagers, fingers entwined.

The barracks are miraculously empty, Fives approaching his bed to find a datapad sitting on top of the blankets. He picks it up, reading the text on the screen.

“Jesse.” You both say at the same time.

“Cheeky bastard.” Fives grins, tossing the datapad onto the bed next to his.

“I mean, I did corner him in the med bay yesterday.” You say.

“You did what?” Fives asks, turning to face you, halfway through pulling off his pauldrons.

You shrug. “I wanted answers. He’s the one who told me where to find you.”

Fives mutters something under his breath as he drops his pauldron to the floor, making quick work of his belt and kama as well. You help him remove the rest of his armor with well practiced fingers.

“You’re good at this.” He says, almost jealously.

You roll your eyes. “Calm down big guy. I’ve had to remove enough clone armor in the infirmary I know all the seams and pieces.”

“Right.” Fives nods, dropping the last piece into the pile on the floor, leaving him just in his blacks.

He pulls off his gloves before leaning down to kiss you again, his hands falling to your waist to tug at your own clothes. You’d dressed down today, finally free from the med bay until the next campaign.

“You’re wearing too many clothes.” He says against your lips, tugging your shirt up before he pulls back.

You pull your shirt up over your head, goosebumps forming on your skin from the cool air in the barracks. Fives makes quick work of his own shirt, exposing his toned body to you. You lick your lips, tracing every line of his muscle. That was one way in which they all varied beyond just the way they styled themselves. Different clones with different jobs had different muscular builds. Fives is all hard muscle, biceps bulging as he tugs his pants down, kicking them off.

You try not to stare at the half-hard cock between his thighs, just as large and veiny as you imagined.

Fuck, he’s just as pretty as you imagined.

You tug your pants and underwear down, stripping off your breastband so you’re standing naked before him. His eyes trace over your form, a low whistle leaving his lips. “Kriff, you’re gorgeous.” he almost sighs, hands falling to your waist to pull you close, bodies pressed together. “This is how I pictured our first time going.”

You avoid his gaze, turning to look to the side. “I’m sorry it wasn’t.”

“Don’t,” he says, gripping your chin lightly to turn your face back to his. “I don’t know if I could have handled having to listen to one of the others in that tent with you.”

“Well, my second pick was Jesse, so…”

Fives rolls his eyes, moving you closer to the bed. “That idiot would have fallen in love with you after that.”

You grin, maneuvering yourself onto his bed. “That’s why I didn’t choose him.”

Fives crawls onto the small mattress with you, pushing your legs apart with his knees. You lay back, staring up at his face as he stares back at you. He pauses there for just a moment, taking you in under him. “This is how it should have been.” He says softly.

He leans down to kiss you again, his body pressing against yours. You hum at the feel of him, wrapping your arms around his neck. His tongue presses past your lips, flicking against your own. You moan softly, sinking your fingers into his curls. His hips grind against your stomach, dragging his cock across your skin. You’re already wet, arousal seeping out of you at the prospect of having him again...properly this time.

Fives pulls away from your lips, kissing his way down your jaw to your neck. His teeth sink into your skin lightly, leaving a mark below your ear.

“Fives!” you complain, tugging at his hair. “Everyone will see!”

“Good.” he almost growls, kissing his way across your throat. “Let them.”

You swallow thickly at his show of possession, your hand sliding from his hair as he continues to kiss down your body. His hands cup your tits, thumbs running over your nipples.

“I love your tits.” he says, squeezing them gently. “Shame that they get hidden under armor so much.”

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. “They don’t like it either. That armor is tight.”

“My poor girls.” He whines, leaning down to take a nipple into his mouth.

Your laugh comes out as half a moan, back arching from the pleasurable sensation.

“I’ll give them love later.” He says, sliding the rest of the way down your body. “Right now, I have better things to do.”

You swallow thickly as your head lifts, watching him lay himself between your legs as best he can on the small bed. His warm breath fans against your wet folds, sending a shiver through you. His lips press against your inner thigh, blazing a path of kisses upwards. His gaze lifts to meet yours as his hands shift to grip your hips, adjusting your position on the bed before he leans in, dragging his tongue through your folds.

You gasp at the sensation, your thighs pressing against his broad shoulders. His mouth is warm as it closes over your pussy, his tongue licking another slow stripe up your folds until he reaches the spot that has your inhale turning into a gasp.

“Fives…” You sigh.

He focuses his attention there, dragging slow lines across your clit with his tongue. You flop back onto the bed, back arching from the pleasure. Little whimpers leave your lips as he teases your clit, your thighs already trembling. It hasn’t been that long, but the thought of it being Fives doing this has you riled up. You’re not going to last very long, not with his sweet mouth eating you like a man starved.

You don’t last very long.

Your thighs squeeze around his shoulders as your orgasm is ripped from you suddenly. You let out a cry that’s probably too loud, but you don’t care who could have heard you as your back arches off the bed, pressing your hips closer to Fives’ face. His hands hold your thighs, keeping you still as his tongue continues to tease your clit, working you through your orgasm.

It’s not until you’re writhing in his grasp, letting out little whimpers that he relents, lifting his face from between your thighs. His face is shiny with your slick, his tongue darting out to lick his lips salaciously. It’s obscene and yet, it has heat pulsing straight between your legs again.

He lets out a chuckle, pushing himself back up the bed until you’re face to face. You can taste yourself on his tongue as he kisses you again, his hard cock dragging against your stomach. His knee hooks under your thigh, pushing it up higher as he slots his body between your legs. He pulls away from your lips, holding himself up so he can grip his cock.

“Ready?” He asks, staring into your eyes.

You nod, breath hitching in anticipation.

He drags the head of his cock through your folds, gathering some of your wetness before he presses into you. His cock spreads you open, your hands lifting to grip his shoulders. The stretch is delicious, your body opening to him as he sinks further and further into you.

His forehead presses to yours as he seats himself fully into you, both of you breathing deep. “Kriff, you feel so good.” he groans, slipping his arms around you. “Better than the first time.”

You moan softly, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Fives?” He hums in response. “Move.”

He grins, kissing you. “As you wish.”

He begins to move, rocking his hips into yours. You wrap your legs around his waist, hands pressing into his back, feeling the way his muscles flex under his skin with every thrust. You moan softly, head spinning from the thought of being so close to him like this, without the added threat of dying if you don’t cum.

Though you feel you might pass away if he doesn’t make you cum this time.

The wet squelch of your pussy is loud in the empty barracks as he thrusts into you, the mattress squeaking a bit as he thrusts into you, slow and deep. It’s so different from the frantic fucking you had the first time. This is slow, intimate, dare you say romantic. He’s taking his time, drawing out your pleasure so it lasts as long as possible.

“Kriffing feel so good.” He groans in your ear, his breath hot against your skin.

“Fives…” you moan, clinging to him tightly. “Don’t let me go.”

“Never.” He promises, tightening his hold around you, one hand sliding to cup the back of your neck as he grinds his hips against yours.

You’re getting close, the drag of his cock sending you reeling. He’s close as well, his thrusts starting to get sloppy. Your toes are curling, body squeezing his. It’s better than you thought, but that’s probably because it’s Fives.

“Fives…” you moan his name again, nails digging into his back as he picks up the pace, snapping his hips into yours.

“Gonna cum for me? Need you to cum for me.” He grunts, in your ear, lips brushing your skin.

You let out a whine, arching against him as you seek your second high of the day. His cock brushes that spot inside of you, stars nearly erupting behind your eyes.

“Right there.” You gasp, thighs shaking around his hips. “Fuck, right there!”

You’re being loud but you don’t care, nails dragging down his back as he focuses his thrusts right at that spot inside you. You cum with a cry, pussy squeezing around him. He lets out a loud groan, his hips stilling as he twitches inside you. His muscles go lax, his body falling on top of yours. He manages to keep himself from squishing you beneath him, his face pressing against your neck.

The smell of sex is thick in the air, but you don’t care. You’re shaking, still wrapped tightly around Fives as he lays on top of you. He’s breathing heavily, warm breaths fanning against your neck. You don’t want to move, your mind buzzing with the aftershocks of your orgasm still.

“You alright?” He murmurs, lips pressing a gentle kiss against your throat.

You nod, still holding him tightly. You don’t want to let him go yet. You want to hold him here, keep him here forever.

But you can’t. You both have lives you have to go back to, jobs you’re expected to do.

You’ve never understood desertion, but now you do.

“Fives?” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the side of his head.

“Yeah?” he breathes, pushing himself up so he’s staring down at you.

You stare up at him for a long moment, taking in his face, those soft brown eyes. “Don’t die.”

His lips twitch as he stares back, something flashing across his face. “I don’t plan on it.”

“Good.” You pull him back down against you. “I’d never forgive you if you did.”

He chuckles, rolling over so you’re on your sides. He pulls the blanket up over your bodies, tucking you against his chest. The moment is tender, soft, intimate. So different from what you had the first time.

You wouldn’t trade it for the world.

“Fives?” You murmur, resting your cheek against his chest.

He hums, his fingers drawing patters on your bare back.

“How long until the others break in?”

He thinks for a moment, going still before you feel his grin against the top of your head. “Long enough for another round.”

“Good.” You say, pushing him over onto his back, sitting yourself up over him. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

He smirks, his hands settling on your thighs. “Yes, ma’am.”

@kaminocasey @rosechi @mxkyrie @bobaprint @star-trekker-0013 @padawancat97 @bamfahsoka @thrawnspetgoose @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @dukeoftheblackstar @starrylothcat @sev-on-kamino @freesia-writes @returnofthepineapple @wings-and-beskar @dystopicjumpsuit @littlemissmanga @madameminor @clio3kantarella @moonlightwarriorqueen @sleepingsun501 @originalcollectionartistry @maddiedrmr @idontgetanysleep @sinfulsalutations @clonemedickix @523rdrebel @deejadabbles @starqueensthings @multi-fan-dom-madness @wizardofrozz @mythical-illustrator @sunshinesdaydream @mooncommlink @lickylickylicky @sweetheartsnips @commanderblood @crosshairlovebot @ghostperson69 @jediknightjana @jedi-hawkins @dalu-grantkylo @hellhound5925 @salaminus @tallrock35 @euphoriacafe @lamiliani @sleepycreativewriter @yagurlyvonne @cw80831 @trixie2023

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skittykitkat · 1 month ago

Note

My crazy idea born from lack of sleep and need of Soft!Crosshair: Reader is a new addition to the team and doesn't really get along with Crosshair. After a rain-soaked mission, Reader discovers he smuggled a tooka kitten he found planetside onto the Maurader. Reader and Cross bond over trying to keep the feline secret. Bonus if the rest of the Batch play along :)

“Classified Feline: Operation Purrfect Secret”

Crosshair x Reader

The mission had been drenched in disaster.

Quite literally.

Rain pelted down the moment you landed, soaking your gear and morale alike. Everything felt heavier—your pack, your boots, your mood. And somehow, Crosshair managed to make it worse with every eye roll and passive-aggressive sigh he threw your way.

You two did not get along. You weren’t sure what you’d done—maybe just exist—but he seemed to have it out for you since day one.

So when you trudged up the ramp of the Marauder, dripping water onto the floor, the last person you wanted to share confined space with was him.

Naturally, he was the only one aboard.

The ship was dim, quiet—Hunter and the others were still securing the perimeter, leaving just the two of you. You peeled off your wet outer layer and tossed it over a crate, teeth chattering slightly.

Crosshair barely spared you a glance from where he leaned against the galley counter, cleaning his rifle with practiced ease. “Try not to flood the whole ship, would you?”

You glared at him. “Wouldn’t be a problem if someone had rigged a proper tarp over the outpost.”

He scoffed. “Not my fault you didn’t pack waterproof gear.”

You bit your tongue. Not worth the argument.

You turned away toward your bunk when you heard it.

A tiny, inquisitive mrrrp.

You froze.

Then another. Mrrroww.

You whipped around. Crosshair had gone very still.

“What was that?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

You took a cautious step toward the storage crates stacked near the side panel. Crosshair moved in front of you.

“Don’t.”

Your brow furrowed. “You’re hiding something.”

“No, I’m not.”

Another plaintive mewl betrayed him.

You sidestepped quickly before he could block you again and yanked open the crate lid—and gasped.

Curled up inside a slightly worn blanket was a tiny, rain-speckled tooka kitten. Its big eyes blinked up at you, and it let out a soft, hopeful purr.

“…No kriffing way,” you whispered. “You smuggled a kitten?”

Crosshair’s scowl deepened. “It was abandoned. Would’ve died.”

Your brain short-circuited.

Crosshair. The grumpiest, most sarcastic member of the team. Adopted a tooka.

You blinked at the sight of him awkwardly scratching the back of his neck, looking everywhere but at you.

“I haven’t told the others,” he muttered. “And I don’t need you ruining this.”

You crouched next to the crate, letting the kitten sniff your fingers. It rubbed against your hand with a loud purr.

“…You kept her dry in that storm?” you asked softly.

He shrugged, looking almost… bashful. “Used my cloak.”

You stared at him, stunned. “You do have a heart.”

“Don’t get sentimental.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

A long pause. “Really?”

You looked up at him. “Yeah. But only if I get to help take care of her.”

“…Fine.” His voice was gruff, but there was no bite to it.

⸻

You were doing your best.

Really.

But there were only so many coincidences you could explain away before Clone Force 99 started to get suspicious.

It started with Hunter.

He stood in front of the rations locker with his arms crossed, brow furrowed. “We’re missing another protein bar.”

You tried to sound casual. “You sure Wrecker didn’t just… eat it and forget?”

From the front of the ship, Wrecker called out, “I heard that! And no, I counted mine!”

Hunter squinted at you, clearly unconvinced. “You’ve been spending a lot of time in the back.”

You shrugged, clutching your datapad just a bit too tightly. “I like the… ambience?”

There was a long, silent pause.

“…Right,” Hunter muttered, before walking off.

Disaster narrowly avoided. For now.

But then there was Tech.

He stood in front of Crosshair’s bunk one morning with a puzzled look, scanning his datapad.

“I am registering a 2.6 kilogram mass increase localized to this area of the ship,” Tech said aloud. “It’s not equipment. Possibly organic. That is… odd.”

You froze mid-step.

Crosshair, brushing past you with his usual scowl, drawled, “Maybe someone left a datapad in their bunk.”

Tech blinked at him. “A datapad does not purr, Crosshair.”

Crosshair shot you a look like, say anything and I’ll stun you.

You cleared your throat. “Maybe Tech’s sensors are malfunctioning! I mean, organic interference? Could be you,” you added, pointing at Wrecker.

Wrecker blinked. “Wait, what did I do?”

“Exactly,” you said quickly. “No one ever knows.”

Somehow… that worked.

Tech muttered something about recalibrating the sensors and walked away, still frowning.

But nothing—and you mean nothing—was as bad as the moment Echo accidentally walked into the supply closet.

You were already there, kneeling on the floor, brushing out the tooka kitten’s fur with an old toothbrush you’d repurposed. Crosshair sat beside you, chin on his hand, watching with an almost fond expression on his face.

And then—

“Hey, have you guys seen—”

Echo froze in the doorway.

You froze.

Crosshair definitely froze.

The tooka let out a very smug prrrrp.

Echo blinked. “…Is that a cat?”

You opened your mouth, panicked. “It’s—It’s a thermal sensor! Prototype. Classified.”

Crosshair deadpanned, “You walked in on a hallucination. Go sleep it off.”

But Echo was staring. Not at you. Not even at the kitten.

At Crosshair.

Who was still holding a tiny toy you’d found planetside—a little tooka-shaped plush the kitten had become obsessed with—and softly murmuring, “You’re a menace, you know that? Little terror. Bite me again and I’ll feed you to Wrecker.”

Echo blinked.

Then snorted.

Then lost it.

He had to grip the doorway as he laughed so hard he nearly slid down the frame. “Oh—oh my stars, I have to tell Hunter—”

“No,” you and Crosshair snapped in unison.

“Echo,” you added, eyes wide, “we’re keeping her until she’s big enough to survive being rehomed.”

“She’s… very small,” Crosshair muttered. “And loud. And annoying. And mine.”

Echo looked between the two of you—and the purring, clearly adored kitten now batting at Crosshair’s long fingers—and then smirked.

“I’ll keep your secret.”

You both exhaled in relief.

“…For a price.”

You groaned. “Of course.”

He grinned, wicked. “I want a holopic of Crosshair kissing the tooka. Frame it. Hang it in the cockpit.”

Crosshair’s glare could’ve melted durasteel.

“Deal,” you said, before he could object. “Now get out before she claws your face.”

Echo left, still chuckling.

Crosshair looked at you like you’d just offered up his soul. “You’re enjoying this.”

You offered the tooka back to him, who immediately curled into his chest like it was her throne.

“…Maybe a little.”

⸻

That night, you returned to your bunk to find a protein bar sitting neatly on your pillow, and a note—scrawled in Crosshair’s sharp handwriting:

Thanks for not ratting me out. And for brushing her. She likes you. (Don’t let it go to your head.)

—C

P.S. She peed on your blanket.

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skittykitkat · 1 month ago

Text

first kiss: part ii

part i is linked here!

wolffe x jedi fem reader summary: you and wolffe confront the awkward shift in your relationship after that night at 79's. warnings: explicit content (slight choking, vaginal sex, loss of virginity) toward the end but y'all have to communicate first 😾 tbh this is far from a definitive resolution tho mwahaha! pushing the hardcore wolffe & emotional constipation agenda but he still cares! a/n: omg ok so i wasn't gonna continue this one shot but i got some comments and i love any opportunity to write about the loml so yes!! ty to everyone who enjoyed part 1 <3 reminder that my requests are open >_<

Wolffe hasn’t spoken to you since he kissed you in the dark corner of 79’s that still lingers in your memories whenever you close your eyes to sleep or open them back up to think. If anything, he’s gone lengths to avoid your existence completely. These measures include asking his battalion members to relay any important messages to you since he can’t seem to do it himself. The silence is deafening, leaving more questions than answers. And although he believes he’s doing this out of professionalism, you know it’s only a matter of time before the Council notices this disconnect. Maybe they already have, and they’re simply preserving the last of your dignity. For now.

At the moment, you’re staring right at him from across the holotable that stretches an infinite distance between the two of you. He’s well aware of your gaze, but he’s still acting like you’re invisible as he carries on with his extremely detailed yet boring briefing. You simply focus on the sound of his voice, deep and calm like the ocean after a typical storm on Kamino. If he knows you’re tuning the important parts of this conversation out, then he doesn’t call you out on it. He continues to ignore you, succeeding impressively so far.

“Any questions?”

He poses this confidently, like he always is. You sense something else, though. It’s his desperate hope that you won’t say something. Anyone else in this room can ask a question that he’ll answer begrudgingly, as per his usual nature, but not you. Anyone but you.

“I have a question,” you interject as all heads turn toward you.

Your company seems to wait for Wolffe to respond, awkwardly glancing between the two of you as he shoots daggers into your amused smile. A nervous and somewhat frustrated coil tightens in your stomach despite your unbothered demeanor, mainly because he knows what you’re playing at. No amount of radio silence can change the fact that he knows you better than anyone else in this grand army.

“Yes…?” He huffs while folding his arms over his chest.

You raise your eyebrows, slightly surprised that he decided to engage. “You said this plan is dependent on whether or not we’ll receive reinforcements.”

“I did.”

“So, when can we expect them?”

He clenches his jaw, clearly displeased by this question. “I asked you to confirm that.”

Pin drop silence. It’s bad enough that his mood has cast a dark cloud over this base for the past week. Now, it’s only inevitable that the storm brews wilder with his growing disappointment in you.

“You asked me,” is all you can respond.

Of all the messages that passed through at least a dozen ears before reaching you, this must have been one of them. It couldn’t have slipped your mind, so it was probably lost in translation. And maybe that wouldn’t have happened if he had just spoken to you directly instead of pretending he had more important obligations. A regretful lump forms in your throat as you realize the root of this is still your fault simply because you were too desperate on a vulnerable night. But now, instead of remaining a petty squabble between two friends, it’s become a danger to the mission you promised the Council you would deliver without fail.

A flare of that frustration from earlier returns stronger and hotter as you continue, “I actually don’t remember having a conversation with you for the past…week? Give or take. So, I’m not sure if you really did ask me to confirm our reinforcements. Unless you believe otherwise.”

“I was busy. You should be aware of your expectations.”

“You should be aware of your pride, Commander. Instead of treating your men like messenger boys.”

All the wide eyes that were on you immediately look to Wolffe. Caught off guard, he purses his lips into a lethal scowl. He’s burning with aggravation, and you’ve only tipped him over the edge.

“Everyone out.”

Blinking in surprise, you look around and watch bodies pass you in a blur as they leave the briefing like their commander told them to. You stand, about to follow, when he says, “Not you.”

Just like that, you’re alone with him. The room is suddenly so much emptier and larger, trapping you in the looming despair both of you share at the moment. He’s on edge, and he has been ever since you all left Coruscant for your next assignment. You’re in the dark, not knowing where you two stand anymore. It’s hard to imagine that he doesn’t even care, for his devotion belongs to his duty, but it’s not hard to believe. It just hurts.

You break the silence first, meeting his eyes from across the table. “What are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” He tosses back with an impatient bite in his tone.

His retaliation doesn’t surprise you, but it’s intense enough to make you pause as you straighten your posture and inhale quietly. “I didn’t know you wanted me to speak to the Council about our reinforcements. If I did—“

“It doesn’t matter. I made a mistake.”

You can tell he’s not just referring to the current context of this mission. Memories from the night that changed everything and nothing at the same time begin flooding back like the butterflies in your stomach, mingling with your scrambled emotions. You’ve always been taught to control yourself whether in your actions or feelings—neither should fall into extremities that are hard to return from. But that kiss—kissing him—unlocks a part of you that shouldn’t even exist if you learned anything from the Order. He’s undone all that you know.

Noticing that you’ve fallen silent, he frowns. “You wanted to have a conversation. Now you have nothing to say?”

“I…” you bite your tongue before blurting out, “Are you angry with me?”

He recoils slightly, parting his lips in surprise. The distant hum of machinery fills the returned silence as he just watches you closely. It doesn’t seem like he’s going to answer, though, so you nod and glance down at your hands braced on the ends of the table.

“You haven’t talked to me since…” you wince at the memory, “…since it happened. You can barely look at me, too.”

“I am now,” he replies as if that makes everything better.

“Yeah,” you scoff, “After we just embarrassed each other in front of everyone else.”

He rolls his eyes before fixating his gaze on your hands. “I’m not embarrassed. I don’t care what they think.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“I know you do. Which is why you should’ve thought twice before—”

“Before what?” You interrupt, crossing your arms over your chest like him, “Before letting you kiss me?”

His expression hardens, nearly frightening you for a moment. But that aggression flickers away, and it’s gone in replacement of incredulity.

“I kissed you?”

“So, you’re denying it. I thought you said you weren’t embarrassed.”

“I’m not,” he takes a few slow steps toward you, “But you came onto me. Not the other way around.”

He’s suddenly standing right in front of you, looking down with a shadowed glare that forces you to swallow the lump in your throat and stare back at him. Being this close after hardly seeing him feels like whiplash, both emotionally and physically. Your pulse grows erratic as his eyes drive a hole into your heart, unraveling your thoughts one by one. There’s no hiding with him.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him softly.

Everything else you might have hoped to say to him has disappeared, silenced from the guilt that’s already been eating you alive. You never meant to ruin things between you and him. You never wanted to damage his reputation. You couldn’t bear the thought of making him uncomfortable with your desperation. But maybe you did all of that and more, just from one night you can‘t take back now.

“I’m not asking for an apology,” he says equally as quiet.

“Then what is it?” You turn your face away in shame, “Should we just act like it never happened?”

He startles you when he moves even closer, prompting you to look back at him again. Judging from the intensifying pressure of his scowl, he doesn’t seem to approve of your suggestion. But he’s also not disagreeing or arguing otherwise. You feel the conflict brewing underneath his skin, surrounding his bones and flowing in his veins the same way your body is reacting as well. His hands reach for you, carefully enveloping your face to hold you still. Your heart races at how gentle he is, reminding you of that kiss you’ll always remember despite your words. He’s your walking contradiction—the last man to ever treat you with such fragility. And yet, he’s also the first.

“You think I could forget it even if I tried?” He murmurs, stroking his thumb across your cheek.

Your breath hitches, but you raise your chin with an unbothered expression. “It seemed like you already did.”

“Thought you knew me better than that.”

“I don’t know. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what you’re thinking.”

“What about now?” he asks hoarsely.

His eyes are rounder and darker than usual, pleading rather than commanding for once. The sight is so unfamiliar that you feel inclined to forget that he’s the one who put this unnecessary distance between the two of you. But you replay the look on his face when he tore his body away from you and stared at you like the biggest mistake of his life that night. All before walking away and leaving you in the darkness. Despite sensing the vulnerability in his emotions as they squeeze through the cracks of his guarded heart, you can’t swallow the pit in your stomach that fears his rejection again. You’re aware of your pride.

Sighing, you tug his hands away from your face and lightly grip his forearms. “I’m not here to read your mind, Wolffe. I just want you to stop ignoring me over this.”

You’re about to pull away from him when he takes your shoulders, squeezing just enough to make you pause. As your eyes lock again, this time with a sharper collision, and he answers your question from before.

“I’m not angry at you.”

You suck in a breath as your hands find the belt around his waist, skimming tentatively before latching onto it. You don’t bring him closer, but he moves nonetheless, almost pushing his way into your hold. This proximity feels nostalgic, and you remember what happened the last time you were this close to him. The last time you were in his arms exactly like this, so helpless and naive.

“You left me there,” you recall bitterly, “And you didn’t even want to try to talk to me about it. If you’re not angry, then what are you?”

He clenches his jaw and avoids your gaze. “I didn’t think you’d want to talk about it.”

“Why not?” Your eyes widen as you lean closer, trying to get him to look at you again, “You’re my friend.”

The exhale that leaves his lips sounds so tired that you frown and slide your hand up his chest plate to cup the side of his face. His skin is strangely warm against your fingertips, like the bashful hesitance you observe in his eyes. Suddenly, he doesn’t look or feel like the all-encompassing commander you’re used to. He just looks like Wolffe.

“And you’re a Jedi.”

The statement is obvious, but you don’t need further explanation to understand what hides behind those four words. Still, you smile and gently tease, “I’m aware.”

His lips seem to follow your expression even though he’s not at a smile quite yet. “Are you taking this seriously?”

“As much as you are.”

“This is serious…to me. But not to you.”

You frown, remembering your words from that night. We don’t have to make it a big deal. It doesn’t need to mean anything. Easier said than done, now that you’re in the aftermath of the line you barely crossed. It’s so serious that you can’t pretend otherwise, despite knowing that’s the best option for both of you. Every layer that grows the distance between the two of you—the Order, the war, the friendship—seems to peel itself back the longer you stay searching his gaze for an answer you already feel deep inside your own heart. And you start to realize that he’s also looking for an answer, too, just as lost as you are.

“It is,” you admit, “Even if I don’t want it to be.”

His eyebrows draw together momentarily like a subtle flinch. “I understand.”

Still, you catch the subtle disappointment that drips from this simple sentence. Your hand returns to his face, caressing along his jaw before you clarify, “You’re a good soldier, Wolffe. I would never want to endanger that.”

“I wouldn’t either.”

“So…you agree. That we should just…”

“I can’t,” his eyes sharpen as they glare into yours, “Can you?”

Your heart skips a beat and your breath stalls, unsure how to react at first. You can only give him honesty after receiving his, though. Dropping your gaze to the faint scratches on his chest plate, you tell him, “No. I can’t.”

He’s silent, unresponsive other than his hands that slide down from your shoulders to your arms before pausing at your hips. Despite concealing your figure with your robes, you’re inevitably exposed as he reminds himself of what you feel like in his hold. Nervous, you blurt out, “Maybe we should just get each other out of our systems.”

“Yeah?” He murmurs, “And if that doesn’t work?”

“It has to,” you whisper back, “Or else…I don’t know.”

He thinks about your proposition, releasing an exasperated sigh when he can’t seem to come to a decision. It’s so unlike him—not knowing what to do—and he feels that new hurdle like hell. His touch is searing and hot through the fabric that encases his fingers, just one more barrier you have to tear through. And with what you’re suggesting you do in order to make this entire situation a memory instead of a regret, you just might.

You inhale a breath before leaning closer, letting your eyes flutter shut when he follows your lead. But just as your lips graze over his, he cringes and says, “Not here.”

Reality suddenly strikes you like a tumultuous wave. You take a step back, ignoring the furious blush across your face. “Right. Of course.”

His hand reaches for you before curling into a fist and dropping by his side again. A beat of silence passes as you just look at each other, but it quickly becomes too much to bear. Remembering the mission at stake, you mutter something about the Council and turn on your heel to return to your quarters all the way on the other side of these barracks. The briefing room doors slide open upon detecting your nearing proximity, revealing a much too large group of troopers standing outside as if they were…eavesdropping. Their faces turn red but also stern when they see you exit, standing at attention despite the amusement exuding from their spirits. You feel it all, and you might’ve laughed at the absurdity of everything if not for the fact that you’re at the center of it.

Because you started this, so it’s your job to end it.

A few hours later, you’re lying in bed and staring up at the ceiling in dim lighting that makes you a bit sleepy. By morning, you’ll be back on the frontlines and hopefully not thinking about the man currently occupying the entirety of your attention. It’s like his hands are still all over you, touching you exactly where you remember. It’s like he’s still kissing you, groaning through every breath he steals from your reciprocating sighs. This is the exact torture he’s inflicted on you since that night. But again, it’s also the consequences you brought upon yourself.

You squeeze your eyes shut when you sense his presence draw nearer, which is why you’re not even surprised when you hear a knock on your door. The urge to pretend you’re sleeping like the rest of these barracks keeps you still until it’s overpowered by the desire to see him again.

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath as you slide out of bed and approach the door. Because that’s how you feel at the moment. Completely and utterly fucked.

Somehow, he looks even more tired than before even though not much time has passed since the briefing. He’s also not wearing his armor.

“I…” you swallow and step back when he steps closer, “I spoke with the Council.”

The door closes, and he’s inside your room now. “That’s nice.”

“Yeah,” you clear your throat, “And…they like the plan. Your plan, really…It’s good.”

“I’m glad.”

“Yeah,” you breathe, barely aware of the way his arms come around your waist at the same time yours wind around his neck, “Me too.”

“Mhm,” is all you hear before he kisses you, not bothering to waste another second of this fleeting moment.

Your mouth fits against his just as perfectly as the first time, open and soft to let him do whatever he wants tonight. You barely react to your back hitting the wall, only tightening your arms around him and lifting your legs when he prompts you to do so. He hasn’t even said anything, but you feel the bossy command in his hands as they squeeze the back of your thighs and push upward. Wrapped around him, you gasp at this shift in position that has his hips aligned with yours. The sudden pressure between your legs, at the center of your desires, grows more difficult to control once you feel just how much he wants you. He must feel it too, then. You.

“You know I’ve never done this before…right?” You remind him, catching your breath with soft pants between your words.

There’s a territorial look in his eyes when he answers, “I know.”

“I just…” you frown, “…don’t want to disappoint you.”

“You couldn’t,” he says quietly. It looks like he wants to say something else, too, but nothing follows. Not until a thought seems to cross his mind and he winces before asking, “You’re sure about this, then?”

You nod. “Yes.”

And just like that, he’s kissing you again before you can ask him the same question. Are you? You wonder to yourself as his tongue slips through and caresses yours with a desperate hunger. Your focus on anything but this tangled mess shatters, even distracting you from the moment he brings you away from the wall and toward your bed. Your legs hit the end of the mattress as his lips find your neck, sucking at the skin confidently since he’s already aware of your sweet spot. He plants his hands around either side of your hips, caging you in his large figure that you pull closer with your legs around his waist. Your shirt is gone just a breath after he fists the back of it. And then your pants, leaving you in nothing but your underwear.

He looks a little stricken when he pulls back, watching you closely despite this dark room. You’re suddenly grateful for the shitty lighting that’s more a result of the sparse energy source powering these barracks rather than an intimate gesture. Any brighter, and he might laugh at how red and hot your face has grown in the past few minutes.

“Fuck’s sake,” he groans and sinks to his knees between your legs.

His lips meet your hip, and you shiver despite the warmth of his kiss and the heat in his hands that run up the back of your thighs before grabbing your ass. Pulling you closer, he kisses a line up your inner thigh and sucks to leave a mark. He keeps doing that, you realize. Placing reminders on your skin so that when this is all over, you’ll fail to run away from the truth that it happened. Your hands find his shoulders as he kisses your clit behind the thin fabric of your underwear, trying to maintain the calm composure ingrained in your rushing blood. But when he flicks the same spot with his tongue, his eyes looking up at you teasingly, you gasp and feel yourself crumbling from the inside.

He smiles—actually smiles—and this would have surprised you if not for the following distraction. Pushing your underwear aside, he licks your center in a slow and long stroke that leaves you trembling with ecstasy already.

“This isn’t what I imagined,” you breathe, tipping your head back.

“You thought I’d fuck you before getting a chance to play?” He mutters against you, sucking your clit inside his mouth this time.

You can only moan in response, biting down on your lip to keep the noise from spreading. The last thing you need is for someone else to know exactly what you’re doing in here. A flustered cry escapes beyond your control when he finally yanks your underwear away before kissing his way up your naked body. He hasn’t even shed a single piece of his clothing, but feeling every hard and broad ridge that spans his figure is enough to make your knees go weak. His hand gently pushes you back into the bed, and you’re looking up at him against the mattress without even putting up a fight.

“This might be the worst place we could do this,” he murmurs into the crook of your neck.

You splay your hands across his back, pushing him down closer. “What about the Temple?”

He chuckles, and the sound vibrates through your body from your proximity. “Actually, you’re right.”

Still sensing his hesitance, you pull back and cup his face. Your thumb strays near the scar through his eye, stroking absentmindedly as you tell him, “Don’t leave.”

“Don’t regret this.”

“You think I will?”

His expression darkens, bringing forth a serious look in his eyes that reads like a different type of hunger—one that you’ve never seen before. You’re not afraid of him, though, and you never have been. Leaning closer, you let your noses touch and your lips share the same breath and wait for his response.

“I think you already do, cyar,” is all he says before kissing you again.

You lose yourself to this—to him as you submit to his full control. Breath ragged and hands groping, he kisses you rougher and needier like he can’t think of anything else. His knee slips between your legs, applying more pressure when a whimper falls from your lips. You’re not completely sure why this feels so good, but your hips push down on his thigh for more. Because that’s all you want from him, really, despite his lack of faith in your desires. More.

“That’s it,” he whispers into your mouth when he feels you grinding. His hands come up to your breasts, pinching your nipples and touching you so shamelessly that your back arches off the bed.

“More,” you beg, giving in.

“More?” he kisses a trail down your chest.

You nod, throbbing and waiting for him at this point. The air feels a bit colder when he untangles himself from your embrace, getting up and standing over you. He holds your eyes as he undresses himself, somehow still dripping with confidence. There’s something else behind his gaze, though. It’s waiting, but for what? You inhale a breath when he comes toward you again, taking your jaw to kiss you, but you stop him from climbing on top with a hand to his chest. Hesitating a bit, you run your hand up his torso and feel his skin tightening underneath.

You don’t say anything. He doesn’t say anything. The heavy silence engulfs your synced heartbeats as your breathing echoes through this tiny room. You want to speak, but no words come, or the ones that do get choked up in your own doubts. None of this makes sense to you except for him. Above everything else that’s changed with your curiosities, he’s still here. You can count on that.

Wolffe wraps his hand around your neck gently, guiding you back to lie on the bed again. The slight pressure at the sides of your throat feels euphoric at his touch, only worsening the throb between your legs as it waits for him. You blink up at him, realizing this is really happening. And still, you’re not backing out no matter how irreversible this will become. It already is.

“Is this what you imagined?” He taunts quietly, spreading your legs wider with a rough hand.

Your arms slide under his so you can grab at his back, smiling when a flicker of surprise crosses his expression. “With you, yes.”

He leans closer, speaking into your ear so closely that you can’t see his face anymore. “And what would everyone think now? If they saw you like this. With me.”

His body follows suit as the words leave his mouth, and you feel the head of his cock graze over your clit. Gasping at the sensation, you almost forget his question and simply lock your arms around him tighter.

“You know they wouldn’t approve,” you moan, also dangerously close to his ear.

“No,” he slowly pushes into you, “They wouldn’t.”

You squeeze your fingertips, vaguely hearing him grunt at the pressure as he slides inside of you deeper but not all the way. He pulls out just to go back in, pausing when you cry out at this unfamiliar feeling you’ve also been waiting for. A rough hand clamps over your mouth as he lifts his head and glares at you, clearly displeased like always.

“Quiet,” his tone is lethally soft, “Or I stop.”

You nod, responding with a muffled, “Please.”

He raises his eyebrows as if challenging you to keep your word. Still, he doesn’t move his hand just yet, and pushes into you again. This time, he gives you more, hitting you so much deeper that you feel him in your lower stomach. You didn’t even know that was possible.

“Ah,” your back arches, and your eyes flutter shut, tuning out the smug look on his face as he begins thrusting in a slow rhythm. His lips take one of your nipples, teeth biting down and tugging. The pain clouds your thoughts, momentarily distracting you when he picks up the pace. He makes the mistake of pulling his hand away from your mouth to press down on your stomach, provoking a startled whimper that leaves you clawing for even more.

“Shhh,” he kisses you, “Don’t even think about letting anyone else hear this.”

You moan into his mouth, clutching at his biceps as he catches your desperate noises with every kiss. His hands are rough in grabbing you and pinning you down, and he fucks you like he’s pissed at something. It’s electrifying, capturing your pounding heart in a warm energy that tells you this is just as wrong as it is right. It’s everything. It means everything, too.

“Fuck,” he grunts, and you consider telling him not to make a sound as well. But his voice is so low and vulnerable that you only want to hear more of it—even louder and angrier. He keeps hitting that one spot that makes your eyes roll to the back of your head, angling his hips almost perfectly. How did he learn this? How can he do this? You ask yourself this as one of his hands slips between your legs, toying with your clit for more stimulation. It pushes you closer to the edge, overwhelming you toward the brink of collapse. You’re trembling. He’s shaking—his whole body. His groans grow louder as your moans escalate, muffling between more kisses that leave your mouth sore and swollen.

“Please,” you cry, not even knowing what you’re begging for at this point. He’s giving you everything you want and more, and you’re still begging. It’s dirty, and it hurts, but it feels too good to apologize later.

“That’s it…fuck, that’s it,” he urges, dropping his face into your neck.

“I’m going to—”

“No,” he orders, “Not yet.”

“I can’t,” you gasp. The harder he pushes into you, the harder it is for you to fight off your orgasm. But he ignores you, his thrusts growing sloppy with every ragged breath he takes and every groan he lets out. He has to be close, like you. He has to come, too.

Sucking on the skin of your neck, he gasps in your ear, “Come. You better fucking come for me.”

And that’s how easy it is for your legs to shake and your back to arch off the bed as your bodies collide and your climax rushes forward with the last of your cries. An exhilarating rush of euphoria washes over you like sun-kissed water, the same feelings you sensed all across 79’s the night you searched for this exact moment. You expect this to be the end, but Wolffe keeps going. With your lax body, he moves faster and kisses you when a whimper escapes your lips from your sensitivity. Soon, you hear a definitive groan before he comes and buries his face into your neck again, body slumped on yours.

Neither of you moves to get up and out of each other’s arms as you steady your breathing. Once the world slows to its usual pace again, you tighten your embrace around his shoulders and close your eyes when he does the same to your waist. His skin is still warm against yours. It’s quiet both around you and in your head, even though all of that is subject to change in just a few hours when the war decides to catch up. But for now, all that remains is the two of you in this quiet, dark, and empty room.

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skittykitkat · 1 month ago

Text

Sniper

Summary: You're a civilian medic assigned to The Bad Batch, during a mission you are injured and Crosshair has to get you to safety. Seeing you hurt has him struggling to come to terms with his feelings for you.

Pairing: Crosshair x fem!reader

Word Count: 6,599

Warnings: Description of Injury, Blood, Gore, Broken Bones, Needles

Authors Note: I've been watching too many medical shows lately and this is the result.

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When GAR High Command had decided to assign a civilian medic to Clone Force 99 Crosshair had completely baulked at the idea. They didn’t need some medic, especially a civ tagging along with them and upsetting the balance they had achieved as a team. Tech had always been considered their resident medic and Crosshair and the rest of his brothers had enough basic medical training to get by in the event Tech wasn’t around. In Crosshair's opinion that was good enough. But his protests had gone largely ignored and within days you had shown up at their ship with bright eyes and a warm smile and that had been it.

It hadn’t taken long for you to find your place amongst the squad, you seemed to get along well with everyone, even despite Crosshair’s initial attempts to scare you off. His brothers had all accepted you quickly and even though he would never admit it to anyone it hadn't taken long for your charms to work on him too. There was just something about you that drew him in. You just had an easygoing way about you, always ready with a smile or joke, or an encouraging comment. You were smart and competent, never a liability in the field. And your bedside manner was impeccable, they all knew they were in good hands any time you had to work on them. Even Crosshair could admit that you were a good addition to the team. And as Tech liked to point out, their efficiency had improved with your presence as they no longer had to make trips back and forth to Kamino for every medical need.

It wasn’t just your professionalism that drew him in though. He had spent many hours in hyperspace sitting silently at your side while he cleaned the Firepuncher and you idly chatted about whatever facts you had learned about the planets your missions had taken you to, or whatever recent medical journal you had read. He just liked spending time with you, which until you had come into his life was a completely foreign feeling for him. He didn’t like people. But you seemed to be the exception. It also didn’t hurt that you were beautiful. Warm and radiant in a way that made his heart pound if he stared at you too long. He ached for you in a way that was decidedly unprofessional but he kept those feelings locked up tight. He knew there was no chance that someone as bright and beautiful as you would fall for someone, well, someone like him. Asshole wasn’t his nickname for no reason at all.

His feelings weren’t helped by the fact that the two of you were often paired on missions. You could handle yourself and knew how to use a blaster if needed but as a medic, your job was to stay out of the fight while still being close enough that you could get to them quickly if needed. As the squad's sharpshooter, he often was separate from his brothers, finding the spot that would give him the best advantage. It only made sense that on the missions where you couldn’t hang back close enough on The Marauder, you would join him instead. He wouldn’t admit that he enjoyed the times the two of you spent together, holed up in some spot keeping a close eye on your squad, but he did. Crosshair wasn’t soft, he was harsh and unyielding but that didn’t ever seem to bother you. He gave little but you took and gave right back. Never with frustration or annoyance. He knew he didn’t always deserve your kindness but you gave it anyway, without fail. You just seemed to understand him in a way that very few others did.

As much as he believed that you couldn’t possibly have any feelings beyond friendship towards him there were times, as the two of you lay side by side in the dirt when you would look at him just so, that he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe his feelings weren’t so one-sided. It was dangerous, this line that the two of you toed. You were dangerous. Because he knew that if he let himself he could get completely lost in you.

Currently, the two of you were staked out at the top of a rocky cliff on some backwater planet he didn’t care enough about to remember the name of. The plan was relatively simple, his brothers would storm the village where the Seppies had dug in while he provided covering fire. In and out if everything went according to plan.

“Did you know that the residents of this planet worship the god of the moon? They believe he brings them good fortune. Each full moon they throw a festival and offer up gifts as a thank you,” You said suddenly breaking the relative silence between the two of you. It was a habit of yours that he liked, a way to break the pre-battle tension.

“Hm,” Crosshair mused as he looked through his scope. He could see his brothers getting into position as the squad of clankers cleared the ridge just in front of the village. A series of small, calculated explosions set up by Wrecker had drawn them out and hopefully in doing so would reduce the risk of the planet's inhabitants being harmed in the ensuing fight. From this current vantage point, Crosshair would have no problem picking them off as they approached the rest of his squad, “That sounds like a lot of work.”

“Especially when you consider that full moons occur twice a month on this planet,” You added as you peered through your own scopes to watch the battle unfold.

“Must be nice to get so many gifts,” Crosshair replied as the first shots sounded. He took aim with ease, picking off droids one by one as his brothers got to work.

“Must be,” You said, your tone considering, “Though if I were a god I don’t know if I’d be all that excited about a bunch of pickled vegetables.”

“So ungrateful,” Crosshair tsked as he picked off another super battle droid. You laughed at his reply and he gave himself a mental pat on the back at his ability to not get distracted by such a lovely sound.

He fell into an easy rhythm, picking off droids, calling out their movements and targets to his brothers. It was all second nature to him, as easy as breathing. However, from past experience, he should have known it couldn’t be that easy.

“I think they might have spotted you,” You said suddenly, a quick glance over at you showed you were still peering intently through your own scopes. Sure enough, the cliff shook as a blast hit about 30 feet below their position.

Crosshair hissed as small rocks and debris rained down from the impact, he immediately scanned the field, looking for the source of the blast. His heart kicked up a notch as he found the barrel of a tank aimed directly at him.

“Crosshair, look out!” You cried, panic lacing your tone as you scrambled to your feet. He was moving without even thinking, just catching a glimpse of the blast of energy headed straight for them as you both threw yourselves from your positions.

“No!” Was all Crosshair was able to shout as he looked back towards you before the earth between you exploded. He saw your body tumbling through the air momentarily before he too was launched by the blast. The world became a blur as he was thrown head over heels, tumbling through space before he landed with a hard crunch against the rocks. The air completely left his lungs as he landed in a heap. His head spun as he wheezed, trying to pull in a full breath. The pain from the rocks around him bit through him even with his armour on. He was definitely going to feel this one later.

With a pain-filled groan, he rolled over, pulling himself up into sitting. It took another long moment but finally, his lungs found their normal rhythm again as he surveyed the scene around him. The spot he had been perched on had been obliterated, a pile of rubble all that was left of his sniper's nest. A sort of numb shock washed through him as he realized that without your warning he likely would have been blown to pieces too.

Suddenly a loud and agonized cry caught his attention. His blood ran cold as he looked at the place where you had once stood. He was on his feet before his mind could fully comprehend it, any aches he had been feeling completely forgotten about as he rushed to the edge of the cliff.

His heart was pounding in his chest, terrified of what he might find, as he reached the edge and he took in the sight below him. You’d been thrown clear off the cliff by the blast, landing on a ledge nearly 10 feet below. Even from this distance a quick scan of you was all it took for him to figure out what had you crying out in such agony. You were in a contorted seated position, hands grasping at your leg. It appeared as though you had tried to right yourself in the air and had likely landed on your feet but the impact had been too severe as now the sole of your right foot completely everted, twisted unnaturally and offset from your leg.

Crosshair felt as though he were going to be sick as he half slid then jumped down the cliff side to land at your side. Agony was written clearly across your face as you looked up at him. A white knuckle grip on your injured leg told him just how badly you were hurting.

“Get my kit,” you managed to ground out between your teeth before you let out another soft cry of pain.

Your gear had been separated from you during the blast but thankfully it was intact only a few feet away. Crosshair grabbed it and was back at your side in an instant. His heart was still pounding painfully against his ribs as he looked at you. On top of the obvious leg injury, you were also covered in scrapes, likely from the flying debris, having not had any armour to protect you like he had.

“What do you need me to do?” He asked, trying to remain stoic as you took the bag from him, unzipping it with shaking hands.

“I need pain meds. And then I’m going to need you to cut off my boot. We need to straighten it,” you hissed between clenched teeth as you pulled a hypo-needle from your bag.

If Crosshair had thought he was going to be sick before it was nothing compared to how he felt now. The thought of laying his hands on you and causing you more pain was unthinkable. He watched in painful silence as a tear slid down your face, your hands still shaking slightly as you drew up the medication from the vial.

“Can you administer this?” You asked, holding the needle out to him, “My hands are shaking too much, I’ll probably miss the vein.”

Wordlessly he took it from you, all of the training he had received taking over and putting him on autopilot. He had done this countless times for his brothers before, he could do it now too. But that fact that it was you made it different. You should be the one helping him, not the other way around. You should have never been put in such a dangerous position. You could have died…he could have lost you.

You let out a soft hiss of air as he administered the shot into the crook of your arm. He was about to say something to you, what he wasn’t sure, provide reassurance maybe, but he was cut off by his comm pinging.

“Crosshair, come in,” Hunter’s voice filtered in through his helmet, “Are you alright? We saw that blast.”

Crosshair looked up briefly towards the battle, it was clear the number of droids was diminishing but the firefight was still intense. He lifted his hand to his earpiece to answer his brother, “I’m fine. Doc took a hit. Working on her now.”

“Keep us updated,” Straight to the point but the concern in Hunter’s voice was clear.

Crosshair didn’t bother with a response to that, simply turned his attention back to you. You were quickly beginning to look worse by the minute.

“There’s a pair of shears in my bag that’ll cut through my boot,” you said, taking the needle from him and dumping it back in your bag. With that done you leaned back slightly propping yourself on your hands as you let out another shaky breath.

“We should just get you out of here,” Crosshair said, he would never admit out loud the amount of fear that was lacing through him at the thought of causing you more pain, even if it was to help you in the long run.

“We need to stabilize my leg first. It will only get worse if we leave it,” You replied in the same professional air as always, as though you were talking about a patient and not your own injury.

Shears in hand Crosshair moved down towards your leg. Up close it was even worse, the unnatural angle of it made his stomach roll. Blood was leaking out between the bottom of your pants and the high top of your combat boot, staining the ground below.

“It’s fine Cross,” You said, clearly noticing the discomfort he was trying hard to conceal. Normally he would have warmed at the gentle way you always said the shortened version of his name but right now the only thing he felt was dread, “Just do it.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding before pulling off his helmet and setting it beside him on the ground. As advanced as his HUD was he needed an unobstructed view of what he was about to do.

At first, you were silent as he started cutting, your leg shaking slightly the only sign of your discomfort. But as he began to peel away the layers of bloodied boot and sock a string of curses so impressive that it had him looking up at you in surprise flew from your mouth.

He couldn’t stop the small smirk that made its way onto his face, “Who knew you had such a mouth on you Sunshine.”

“Just take my kriffing boot off,” you hissed. Even from where he was sitting he could see the way your shoulders heaved with each painful breath.

He did as he was told, his entire body tensed as you let out a painful howl as he pulled your boot away from your foot. A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck as he looked at your mangled ankle. Blood was flowing from the opening where the bones of your leg were clearly visible, your foot off centre and from the looks of it hanging on by nothing more than skin and tendon. He'd seen hundreds of horrible injuries throughout the war, many worse than this, but the fact that it was you rattled him to his very core.

His eyes strayed back up to you as he tried to hide the horror he felt at the sight of your leg. Your eyes were shut as you took a few deep, shuddering breaths and he could see a clammy sheen on your skin that hadn’t been there before. He knew he would have to hurry before shock set in fully.

Your eyes blinked open again and he knew the look you were giving him was meant to be reassuring, “You have to move my foot back into place, it’ll help restore circulation.”

“But the pain-“ Crosshair started but you cut him off with a shake of your head.

“I’ve taken enough pain medication to sedate a bantha. I’m not even going to remember any of this has happened within the next few minutes. You have to do it, Cross, please.”

The words in his head slipped out before he could stop them, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You could never,” You said softly, reaching out to put a hand on his arm, “this is helping me.”

He took a deep breath, “On three?”

You nodded, pain and fear mixing in your eyes as he grasped your foot, “Do it.”

“One… two… three,” He tried to think of anything else as he pulled on your foot, attempting to realign it with the rest of your leg.

The cries you let out would haunt him for the rest of his life. He stopped once your voice croaked out and when it felt as if he couldn’t budge it anymore. It was definitely straighter and the amount of blood flowing had lessened but the bone was still exposed.

Content that he had done what he could and anxious to get you off this kriffing cliff he looked back up at you for his next directions. All the blood had drained from your face and his heart rate kicked up a notch as he watched your chin dip down towards your chest. Your entire upper body suddenly sagged back down towards the ground. He managed to move in time to catch you by the shoulders, lowering you down softly to the ground as you let out a weak and pained moan.

“Look at me,” he demanded, his hands firmly on your shoulders. Your eyes opened at his command, staring blankly up at the sky first before sluggishly finding their way to his face, “focus on me.”

“I am,” you replied weakly as he gently mopped at the cold sweat on your forehead. You let out another groan before you seemed to pull your thoughts back together, “there’s dressings and an air cast in the bag. Put the dressing over the open wound and then put on the splint, there’s a valve on the side to inflate it. It’ll keep it stable and put pressure on the wound.”

He quickly went about doing as he was told, his anxiety was amping up with each passing minute. He needed to get you to safety. You let out a few more painful cries as he applied the dressing and the splint but they were weak, your voice hoarse from your earlier screams.

“Antibiotics,” you mumbled once he had finished and moved back up towards your head. You gestured with a flailing hand towards your bag. He wasn’t sure if it was the medications kicking in, the pain, or a combination of both but you were clearly becoming weaker and more out of it by the minute.

He was thankful that you were so meticulous about your kit as he dug through the bag and quickly located the vial of antibiotics. You didn’t even flinch as this needle went it, simply blinked up at him sluggishly as he went about cleaning and getting everything stored away.

“You did good,” you said weakly, your words beginning to slur together. Your hand waved towards him and on instinct he reached out to grab it, lacing your fingers together and giving you a reassuring squeeze.

“We have to get you out of here,” he replied tersely as he surveyed the area around them. It wouldn’t be an easy journey down the cliff. He would have to fully support you over the rough terrain, if not carry you completely. The only saving grace was that likely thinking the blast had destroyed you both the clankers were no longer firing on your position. But the sounds and sights of an ongoing firefight in the direction he knew his brothers were meant a pickup would be unlikely at this time.

He looked down at your prone form again, some of the colour had returned to your face but not enough to ease his nerves, “Can you sit up?”

You groaned but managed to pull your upper body back up into sitting without his help. You seemed to wobble slightly before righting yourself and looking up at him, “m’ok.”

“Clearly,” he scoffed before he could stop himself. He grabbed his helmet and put it back on, activating his comm as he kept a close eye on you.

“Hunter," He barked over his comm, "I’m moving Doc now. We’ll rendezvous at The Marauder.”

“Copy that. We’ve got things under control here,” Hunter replied instantly, the slight breathlessness in his voice over the comm the only sign that he was in the midst of battle.

Crosshair wanted to snark out that from the sights of the explosions in the distance, it didn’t look like they did but he let the moment pass. You were more important than getting under his eldest brother's skin at the moment.

Disconnecting his comm he stood, he looked down at you for a moment, weighing his options before he stooped and wrapped his arms underneath your own, hands resting on your shoulder blades. He didn’t give you any warning before he pulled you up onto your good foot, hoping the lack of warning would cut down on anticipation pain but you still moaned with the movement. He had to steady you as you swayed like a tree in the breeze once fully upright.

“Do you think you can try walking?” He asked after you had stilled. He didn’t miss the white knuckle grip you had on his armoured arms, your face pale and clammy once more as he helped take most of the weight of your injured right leg as you held it up off the ground.

“Gotta try,” you mumbled. He gave a stiff nod and then maneuvered himself to your side, his arm going around your waist as you slipped an arm over his shoulders. He pressed his hip into you to take the brunt of your weight, your injured leg sandwiched between you both. It was awkward due to your major height difference but it would have to do. He managed to grab your kit with his free hand, slinging the bag over his shoulder before he helped you hop forward on your uninjured leg.

It was instantly apparent that this wasn’t going to work as you let out another horrible cry that cleaved his heart from his chest. The vibrations from his and your own movements were likely too much for your injured leg and you crumbled against him.

With a single smooth motion, he hooked his arm under your knees and around your back, scooping you up into his arms. In the past when he had pictured you in his arms thousands of times before this situation had never even been considered and he desperately hoped it would never happen again.

Your head lolled against his chest as he took a moment to adjust to your weight, the rest of your body was essentially limp in his arms. You weren’t heavy by any means but it was an adjustment to rebalance himself with the added weight, especially on such rough terrain and with your kit and the Firepuncher slung across his back.

You were mostly silent as he began making his way down the cliff side but every once in a while a soft moan would escape your lips. He tried his best not to jostle you too much but thankfully by your lack of protest, it seemed like the pain medication had fully kicked in.

The dissent was slow and Crosshair couldn’t help but now curse his decision to chose this spot for his sniper's nest. You wouldn’t even be in this situation if he had chosen somewhere else. He sighed, desperately trying to keep his feet underneath the shifting rock as he picked his way down the cliffside.

He had made it about halfway down the cliff without any sound from you, the gentle puff of your breath against the sliver of exposed skin between his helmet and the neck of his blacks the only sign you were still with him.

He was about to duck his head to check you were still awake when a sudden soft mumble caught his attention, “You’re my favourite, you know.”

He scoffed, tilting his head down as best as he could to try and get a better look at your face, “You really overdid it on the drugs.”

You tipped your head up to look at him, shaking it slightly in disagreement “No is true,” you slurred before your head lolled back onto his shoulder

Your next words were so quiet we wouldn’t have heard them had you not been so close but as it was they made his insides freeze, “Sexy sniper.”

He let out a sound that was half scoff, half chuckle, “You’re delirious.” You couldn’t possibly feel the same way about him that he felt about you. It just had to be the drugs talking.

“No m’not,” You protested again as your one hand came up to wrap weakly around his neck, “You’re s’handsome.”

“Stop,” he hissed. He couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand the way your words, addled by medication or not, were getting his hopes up.

“Ok,” You mumbled but your hand stayed laced around his neck, “S’ok if you don’t like me back. Just thought you should know.”

His entire body felt as if it were on fire as he gazed down at you. Your words reverberated around his skull, solidifying something in his very soul. He was so bloody kriffed. You had your eyes closed, head resting gently on his shoulder, looking for all the galaxy as if you hadn’t just said something that had completely ruined him.

He couldn’t even begin to think of what to say back to you. A part of him was convinced the words out of your mouth were completely drug-fueled nonsense, but the other part wanted to hold onto them and on to you and never let go.

His comm blaring in his ear cut off any sort of response he could have come up with.

“Crosshair!” Tech’s voice vibrated through his helmet, “You have droid starfighters headed your way!”

Crosshair cursed as he looked up and sure enough, he spotted two blips in the sky growing bigger by the moment.

“Cross?” You asked weakly from his arms, sensing his distress.

There was no time to answer you though, he moved back towards the centre of the cliff, as far from the edge as he could get as the fighters roared overhead. The cliff shook, debris raining down around them as hyena droid bombers dropped their load. Crosshair cursed again as his feet slid beneath him, he held you as close to his body as possible as the cliff continued to crumble around you both. He wouldn’t drop you, he couldn’t.

You both let out a cry as he slid further down the cliff, feet scrambling as he desperately tried to maintain his balance. You cried out in agony at the shifting and jostling as Crosshair slipped once more, going down to his knees as the ground beneath him gave way. He managed to keep you in his arms but the pained noises you made as the earth below you both finally settled indicated that more damage had been done.

“Put me down,” You cried out, writhing in his arms, “Put me down. Put me down.”

It was the last thing he wanted to do, he just needed to get you to the ship. But as he watched all of the remaining colour drain from your face he knew he didn’t have much of a choice.

You screamed in pain as he placed you down on the ground again, hands clawing at his chest plate as you screwed your eyes shut. Even through the filters in his helmet, he could smell fresh blood. He risked a look at the splint and while it still looked intact clearly the past few minutes had not done you any favours.

“Easy,” He said softly as he moved his hands to your shoulders in an attempt to steady you, “We need to get you back to the ship.”

“No, no, no,” You chanted as your bloodshot and glassy eyes popped open momentarily, “I can’t.”

“You have to,” Crosshair barked out, his tone harsher than he intended. The stress of the situation was eating away at him. He just wanted to get you to safety. He knew that between the pain and the medication you weren’t in the right state of mind. Knew that had the situation been reversed you would have been hauling his shebs back to the ship no matter how much he protested but he just couldn’t bear the thought of causing you so much pain. He’d do it, but it would kill him every step of the way.

Your eyes had slipped closed once more and your voice was weak as you spoke, “Just leave me. I’m no use to you guys anyways.”

“Now you’re just being dramatic,” Crosshair hissed and rolled his eyes even though he knew you couldn’t see his expression.

You didn’t say anything, but he watched you for a moment, the way your chest was rising and falling raggedly. You needed more help than he could give.

A sudden explosion off in the distance, likely Wrecker’s doing, caught his attention. He watched the cloud settle before he reached up to activate his comm.

“Tech we’re going to need a pickup,” Crosshair barked, “Doc is fading fast.”

“Copy,” Tech replied, “ETA 10 minutes.”

Clearly whatever the explosion had been had been an end to the firefight. He transmitted his location to Tech and then he waited.

It was one of the longest 10 minutes of his life as he kneeled over you, one of your hands clasped between both of his as it shook. Your eyes had slipped closed again but he could tell by the way you were breathing that you weren’t asleep. He wasn’t even fully aware of the words that were leaving his mouth but he just felt the overwhelming need to reassure you in some way. It’s what you would have done for him or any of his brothers in the same situation.

He finally let out a breath of his own as the familiar sounds of The Marauder's engines filled the air around them. Your eyes popped open as it came into position, hovering beside the cliff edge.

Wrecker came barreling down the ramp, jumping onto the ledge with ease and quickly covering the distance. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of you but he didn’t falter in his movements.

“Hang in there, doc,” He said as he kneeled down, “we got ya!”

You let out another painful moan as he lifted you up and into his arms. The lack of volume and fight from you worried Crosshair immensely but he didn’t hesitate. He grabbed your kit and followed quickly after Wrecker as he carried you onto the ship.

Tech was at your side in an instant, directing Wrecker to lay you down on the middle bunk in the back of the ship. You groaned again as Wrecker gently laid you down but it seemed that all of the energy had been sucked right out of you. You were so pale and weak that Crosshair felt almost feral with the amount of fear that was coursing through him. You needed to be ok. Anything else was not an option.

He couldn’t bring himself to leave your side, even as Wrecker left and Hunter appeared in his place. Tech ignored you all, the medscanner passing over you as he worked. His brow was furrowed beneath his goggles in concentration as he assessed your condition. All the while you remained still and silent, your eyes only opening for brief moments.

“This is beyond my skill level, she has suffered a severely displaced compound fracture. She will require surgical repair of this,” Tech replied matter of factly before he turned to look at Hunter, “Set course to Kamino, it is the closest medical facility to our current location.”

“On it,” Hunter replied moving instantly off towards the cockpit. Technically as a civilian member of the GAR, they should have been taking you to the medical base on Coruscant but that would add days to their travel, time they did not have.

“Will she be ok?” Crosshair asked, tension evident in his voice.

Tech looked at him briefly before his eyes returned to the medscanner in his hands, “She is stable for now. It is a serious injury but I am hopeful she will make a full recovery once in the proper hands. You did a good job stabilizing her in the field.”

“I just followed her instructions,” He grumbled.

“In any case, a good job,” Tech repeated, “I will do my best to make her comfortable for the journey and ensure she remains stable.”

Tech became a flurry of movement as he bent over you, checking your vitals and looking for any other injuries. Crosshair couldn’t bring himself to leave your side. Not when you were like this. Instinctually he kept creeping forward, the distance between the two of you unbearable. He just wanted to touch you, to feel that you were still with them, still alright.

“Crosshair!” Tech snapped, pausing in his work drawing up more pain meds for you, “Your hovering is distracting and not helpful. Go clean yourself up. You are covered in blood.”

Crosshair growled at his brother, unwilling to part from your side when you were in such a state. A biting response was on his tongue but Tech didn’t let him speak, “You know she would say the same if she were not so out of it.”

As if sensing you were being spoken about you perked slightly, eyes opening as you turned your head towards the sounds of their voices, “Cross,” You called out again softly.

He shouldered past Tech, who tsked in annoyance, and kneeled down beside your head, reaching for the hand you held out towards him, “What is it, mesh’la?”

“Did you know that on this moon they worship the gods?” Your eyes were big and glassy as you looked up at him. Your tone was completely serious, as though this was the most important information you had ever told him.

He scoffed and ignored the jumbled way your sentence had come out, “Yeah, I even hear they give gifts to their god every full moon.”

Your eyes widened even more, comically so, “Wow. Who told you that?”

“I must have read it somewhere,” He replied with a soft smirk as he squeezed your hand once more.

“Crosshair,” Tech’s annoyance at the continued interruptions was evident as he spoke, “You. Are. In. The. Way.”

He hissed, glaring up at his brother briefly but he stood, pulling away from you slightly. He looked back down at where you were still gazing up at him dreamily, “I have to go clean up, you got blood all over me, Sunshine.”

“Whoops,” You replied with a delirious giggle, “My bad.”

An actual chuckle left Crosshair at that as he pulled his hand from yours, “Don’t cause too much trouble for Tech while I’m gone.”

“You’ll come back?” You asked, concern suddenly written all over your face.

“In a flash,” He replied, and suddenly as though he were possessed he stooped, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. As he pulled away he didn’t know what had come over him, or when he had grown so soft. But he found he didn’t care as he noticed the content look that had replaced the worry on your face. He waited for your eyes to slip close once more before he turned away from you.

He instantly froze, bristling as he noticed the smug look on Tech’s face. He had clearly paused whatever he was doing to watch the interaction.

“If you mention this to anyone I will put a blaster bolt between your eyes,” Crosshair hissed venomously.

If anything, Tech only looked more smug at Crosshair’s response, “It is amusing that you think your affections for her are a secret,” He replied, “However, I do promise that I will not mention what I have observed here today to anyone else.”

“You better not,” Crosshair growled, unable to think of anything better to say before he once again shouldered past his brother as he headed off to change out of his gear and clean himself up. He chose to ignore the embarrassment that was burning through him at Tech’s words.

He had never gotten out of his gear and cleaned himself so quickly. He returned to your side in under half a standard hour, clean from the small sonic shower on board and a fresh pair of blacks covering his body.

Tech didn’t even look up as he approached, “She’s stable. All we can do right now is let her rest,” he explained as Crosshair returned to bunks.

Crosshair watched him silently as he stood. Tech gave him a pointed look that he did not like but chose to ignore, “I’ll be in the cockpit if she needs anything.”

He kneeled down beside your head once more, no longer caring what his brothers might think if they saw him with you. Your breathing had thankfully evened out and a bit of colour had returned to your face but you still looked unwell. Slowly and hesitantly he reached out his hand to brush some of the hair off your forehead.

His touch caused you to stir and your eyes popped open, finding him instantly. A small, though decidedly hazy, smile grew on your face, “You came back.”

He scoffed, “Of course I did.”

“I missed you,” You said casually, clearly having no idea what effect your words were having on him. He really was so truly kriffed.

He swallowed the emotions that were threatening to overwhelm him and settled for his usual snark instead, “You did? How touching.”

Much to his delight that got a chuckle out of you. Clearly, you weren’t so out of it that you couldn’t still enjoy his usual quips, “That’s why you’re my favourite Cross.”

He knew that with the drugs running through your system you wouldn’t remember much, if any of what you had said to him. But even if things between you went right back to the way they had been before he would remember them and the way you had made him feel forever.

“Get some rest,” he replied, his voice gruff with all of the unspoken feelings bubbling inside him.

“You’ll stay?” You asked, hand reaching out to grasp his wrist gently. Your eyes were wide, as you looked at him, the faintest line of concern creasing your brow.

He slid his hand down to interlock his fingers with your own. He watched as a small smile bloomed on your face at the motion, “Always,” he replied. You smiled up at him before closing your eyes, pulling his hand into your chest, clearly intent on keeping him close.

Always. He felt the word straight down to his very bones. The first step had been to admit it to himself, just how much you had crept under his skin and how much he wanted to keep you there. Always. Now maybe one day he’d be brave enough to tell you just how much he truly meant it.

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skittykitkat · 1 month ago

Note

what if like. bad batch x reader where reader is a medic (HUNTER CANT DO EVERYTHING HES TIRED 😭) whom they have hired and taken in as part of the team. she’s really understanding and sweet and the type to call all her patients ‘sweetie, or honey, or baby’ in like an ‘i know it hurts, sweet boy just a teeeeny little prick, okay?’ sort of way. so the batch like all separately start to have teeny little crushes.

“Just a Teeny Prick, Sweetheart”

Bad Batch x Reader

Hunter was tired.

Exhausted, really. The kind of tired that seeps into the marrow of your bones, the kind that sleep doesn’t fix anymore. He was holding his squad together with sheer willpower, dwindling rations, and stim packs, and Tech had said something the other day that actually stuck:

“Statistically, it would be more efficient to outsource a trained medic. We are ill-equipped for sustained self-triage.”

That, paired with Wrecker nearly bleeding out after a skirmish on Corellia because someone (Echo) had “accidentally” used the wrong bacta dilution, finally pushed Hunter to agree.

You came highly recommended.

And you were… different.

⸻

The first time they saw you in action, you were crouched over Wrecker’s arm, cooing at him like he was a scared child.

“I know it stings, baby. Just a teeny prick, okay? You’re doing so good, honey.”

Wrecker—literal tank of a man, bruiser of nightmares—was blushing.

Like, full-body, ears-pink, avoiding-eye-contact blushing.

Hunter stood behind you blinking slowly. Tech actually stopped typing. Echo raised an eyebrow. Crosshair made a noise in his throat that might have been a suppressed laugh.

You, of course, were oblivious to the storm you’d just kicked off.

“All done!” you announced brightly, patting Wrecker’s arm as you bandaged it up. “You were so brave, sweetheart. Go on, get yourself a treat.”

Wrecker beamed. Like a puppy who’d been told he was a good boy.

And from that moment on, everything changed.

⸻

Hunter didn’t mean to stare. He really didn’t.

But he started noticing things.

The way your voice softened when you worked on him—“Deep breath, baby. In and out, just like that—good boy.”—and he’d nearly dropped dead right there. The way your hands lingered just a second too long when you pressed a bacta patch to his ribs. How your touch didn’t hurt even when it should.

He’d caught himself looking at you more than once while you cleaned your kit or tucked your hair behind your ear. You hummed while organizing supplies. You smelled like sterile wipes and something sweet. You called him “darlin’” once and he had to physically leave the room.

He started volunteering for med checks even when he was fine. “Just making sure I’m cleared for the next mission.”

You smiled every time. “Of course, sweet boy.”

Hunter was not okay.

⸻

Tech was confused at first. Your bedside manner was… statistically illogical. Surely grown men didn’t need to be called “sugar” or “darlin’” to survive triage.

And yet—

“You did amazing, sweetheart,” you said once, after removing a shard from his thigh. “So still, such a good patient.”

He’d never flushed so fast. His datapad nearly slipped from his fingers. The next day, he updated your medical database for efficiency—and also uploaded a music playlist that made you beam and say “Oh! This is perfect, thank you sugar.”

He recalibrated your scanner after that.

And your med droid.

And the lighting in the medbay.

And then started inventing reasons to come back. “Mild tinnitus,” “possible corneal abrasion,” “a faint ache in my ankle.” All documented. All excuses.

He was fine.

He was not fine.

⸻

Echo didn’t trust you at first. Too soft-spoken. Too sweet.

But then he watched you work during a firefight—calm under pressure, patching him mid-cover behind crates while blaster fire flew overhead.

You were gentle, but you didn’t flinch. Not once.

“You’re okay, baby. I’ve got you. Just keep pressure there, that’s it.”

He looked at you sideways, something twisting in his chest.

Later, after the fight, you came to check his stitches. “You really held it together,” you said with a warm smile. “Tough cookie.”

He snorted. “I’ve been called worse.”

You tilted your head. “Well, I call you Echo. And you’re one of my favorites.”

He didn’t know what to say. He just nodded and looked away.

And when you touched his metal arm without flinching—even thanked him for holding his own gauze—he felt… seen.

He was used to being patched up. But not to being cared for.

Now he sits just a little closer to you at meals. Offers you the first ration bar. He pretends not to notice when you call him “honey” again.

But he does.

⸻

Crosshair didn’t say anything for a long time.

He watched you. A lot. Silently. Unnervingly.

He noticed how your hands didn’t shake, how your tone stayed steady. You never flinched from his scars. You never forced him to speak.

One day, you caught him cleaning his rifle with a nasty cut on his hand.

“Cross,” you said gently, crouching beside him. “That’s gonna get infected, baby. C’mere.”

He raised a brow. “You call all your patients baby?”

You smirked. “Only the stubborn ones.”

He let you clean it. Didn’t complain once. Not even when you blew gently on the wound before bandaging it. His ears turned red, though.

“You’re good at this,” he said quietly.

You winked. “Don’t tell the others. They’ll want special treatment.”

He definitely did not steal one of your gloves to keep in his kit later.

Definitely not.

⸻

Wrecker had it bad.

From the second you cooed at him and called him “sweet boy,” he was gone.

He came to you for everything. Paper cuts. Headaches. “Funny feelings in his tummy” that were totally not butterflies. He’d pretend to limp just to get you to touch his shoulder.

And you? You were so nice about it.

“Oh, baby, you poor thing. Let me kiss it better.”

You didn’t actually kiss it. But he thought about asking. Just once.

He made you a little plushie out of spare parts and gave it to you with a bashful grin. “It’s you! Well, kinda. I made it ‘cause you always take care of us.”

You squealed. Hugged it to your chest. “This is the cutest thing anyone’s ever made me!”

Wrecker nearly passed out.

⸻

Eventually…

You start to notice.

How they hover just a little too long. How they all suddenly have “injuries” every time you do inventory. How they flinch slightly—but in a good way—when you call them sweetheart.

One night, you say it out loud at dinner.

“You boys sure do get hurt a lot. Almost like you’re doing it on purpose.”

They all freeze.

Then Echo coughs. Tech pushes up his goggles. Wrecker drops a fork. Crosshair mutters, “Told you it was obvious.” And Hunter—poor Hunter—rubs the back of his neck and avoids your eyes.

You lean forward, resting your chin in your hand with a smile.

“It’s okay,” you say sweetly. “I don’t mind being the team’s favorite. As long as I get paid in compliments.”

Wrecker nearly yells, “YOU’RE SO PRETTY.”

Tech immediately corrects, “Statistically, she has extremely symmetrical features.”

Crosshair sighs. “Maker, you’re all pathetic.”

Hunter just looks at you, dead serious. “You keep us together. You matter.”

You blink. A little stunned.

Then you grin. “Guess I better stock up on bacta patches, huh?”

⸻

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skittykitkat · 2 months ago

Text

Yours, Always ~ Rex x F! Jedi Reader

Summary: After a near-death experience on the battlefield, Rex is determined to make it clear who you belong to. Word Count: 2.6k Warnings: emotionally charged/rough p in v sex (18+ this is filthy), canon-typical violence, angsty A/N: i've been dying to write some rex smut lately so i hope you all enjoy ;) i also have a "morning after" scene that involves the 501st teasing tf out of you two if anyone is interested in me posting that! join my taglist / masterlist

The gunship was crowded and suffocatingly quiet.

Heat scoring still smoked on your robe. You didn’t even sit down, but instead just stood there near the bay doors, bracing yourself against the hull and trying not to look like your hands were shaking. They were, though. You could still feel the charge of the cannon blast that missed you by inches.

It wasn’t the heat from the battlefield that had your heart racing though. It was Rex.

He sat across from you, helmet on, fingers curled tight around the edge of the bench like he was holding himself back from doing something he would regret. Although you couldn’t see his eyes, you could tell his eyes haven’t broken away from you since you climbed aboard. Not when Kix muttered something about the Force keeping you alive. Not when Jesse clapped you on the shoulder for ‘saving the day’. Not even when the wind of exiting the atmosphere roared against the ship and forced the others to look away.

His stare felt like his hand pressed to your throat. He was furious, but not barking-orders furious or battlefield angry. This was much deeper and you felt it too.

Every time the gunship shuddered, you swore your eyes met his through his visor, setting off sparks like a live wire. Except they weren’t the fun sparks - they were the unspoken and unresolved ones. This was about the mission and about what you’d done. Everyone around you could feel it.

You caught Hardcase smirking at Dogma, who tried to hide the way he was studying Rex’s posture. Jesse, who was seated just next to you, leaned his arms across his knees, faced Fives and muttered under his breath, “Well, we’re either getting a wedding or a court martial after this.”

It was just loud enough for you to hear. Fives snorted. You didn’t take your eyes off Rex and neither did he.

The tension in the gunship was suffocating. So suffocating that the second it docked in the hangar and the doors hissed open, you didn’t wait. You turned and stepped out quickly like there was something urgently awaiting your attention elsewhere. There wasn’t anything through, just your Captain behind you, watching your every move.

Tradition was going to have to slide today. You were in no mood for a ‘post successful mission meal’ with the rest of the 501st. Instead, you just sauntered your way to your quarters - and the men let you. Well, almost all of them did. You didn’t need to look over your shoulder to know he was behind you. His presence chased you like a storm.

You could feel him trailing you through the corridor. Rex was silent and never more than a few paces back. He was good at following orders and better at giving them, but when it came to you, his discipline had its limits. Right now, you were sure he was one command away from breaking all of them.

Farther behind you, the rest of the squad was peeling off toward the mess, their chatter just loud enough to reach your ears. “Yeah, no way we’re seeing Rex in the mess tonight,” Fives cooed, rounding the corner that separated the mess hall from the Jedi quarters.

“Oh, he’s headed somewhere messier,” Jesse chuckled back, almost too casually. You didn’t turn around, nor did you need to. You knew the smug grin that was probably spreading across Jesse’s face and you definitely didn’t miss the low whistle that followed.

Once at your door, your palm hovered over the panel for a beat too long before you keyed it open. The door slid back with a hiss and you stepped inside - the soft thunk of his armor behind you.

Rex clicked the lock shut behind you. His eyes were dark and fixed on you like he was barely holding back the tide. That’s when you realized that this wasn’t going to be a conversation. It was going to be a reckoning.

You barely had time to breathe before he was on you.

Rex moved like he’d been holding back every last bit of patience he had in him and the lock clicking shut was the last thread snapping. He ripped off his helmet, gloves, and pauldron, tossing them to the floor with a hollow clang, before putting his hands on your shoulders. The motion was rough, unyielding, and hungry.

“You think I don’t see what you do out there?” he growled,“You think I don’t feel it every time you throw yourself into danger like your life doesn’t mean anything?”

You let out a startled gasp as your back hit the wall, his body crowding yours with heat and tension wound far too tight, “Rex-”

“No. Don’t,” he cut in, hands braced on either side of your head now, muscles flexing, “Don’t talk your way around this. You scared me.” His voice cracked at the edges, like the words were tearing out of him, “You ran straight into that cannon’s line of fire. Force help me, I thought I was gonna watch you die.”

You opened your mouth to speak or to explain or to soothe him, but one look in his eyes and you knew that he didn’t want comfort. He just wanted you.

“I couldn’t lose you,” he whispered, “Not you. Not when you’re-” He swallowed hard, knowing his next words are one he thought he’d never get to say to anyone, “You’re everything to me.”

Your heart stuttered. Your hands moved instinctively, gripping his sides, fingers brushing the edge of his blacks where his armor gave way to skin, “But I’m here,” you reassured him, “I made it back.”

“That’s not enough,” he rasped, his voice louder now, “It’s not enough just to survive when, kriffing maker, I need you.”

He didn’t give you time to answer. His mouth desperately and possessively crushed against yours, his hands tangling in your robe like he had to feel you just to prove you were real. The kiss was all teeth and heat. Almost like he was punishing you for scaring him, and punishing himself for letting you.

Your hands slid into his hair, anchoring him to you, triggering a low groan in his throat. His hips pressed into yours and although his armor was cold, you could feel his body burning beneath it. Just as you went to part from his lips for air, he was already one step ahead. Within moments, his mouth was everywhere.

Teeth scraped along your jaw and down your throat before settling on your collarbone like he needed to mark you and brand you as his. You gasped, tilting your back against the wall as Rex pressed closer, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise while the other wrestled your robe off your shoulders.

“Mine,” he grumbled against your skin, “You’re mine. You don’t get to risk yourself like that. Not when I’ve been losing my mind just thinking about what it would do to me if I-” his voice broke again. You felt the sharp tremble in his breath as his fingers dragged down your waist, “I thought I lost you today.”

His breath was heavy against your clavicle. Slowly, you shifted your head, allowing yourself to place soft kisses across his cheek and up to his ear, where you stopped, “Rex, I’m right here.”

That did it. Something in him snapped.

He picked his head up fast - scooping you up in one motion and tossing you onto your perfectly made bed. Your quarters were instantly filled with the sound of the remainder of his armor being snapped off and discarded haphazardly across the floor at an impressive rate.

“You should see your face right now,” you teased, trying to bite back a smirk, “I’ve never seen armor come off that quick.”

Rex chucked the last of his armor across the room, leaving him in only his blacks, before mounting himself across your thighs, placing his hands at the hem of your waistband. He paused, slowly curling his body down to press his lips into the side of your head. “Keep talking,” he snarled against your ear, shoving your pants down roughly, “See how long that attitude lasts.”

You whimpered. He was already hard and grinding against you through the blacks with zero patience, like he’d rip through the fabric of his blacks if it meant getting to you faster. Your hand dropped to return the favor, tugging at his waistband.

He hissed between his teeth when your fingers brushed against him, “Fuck, you drive me insane.”

“Good,” you huffed, nipping at his neck, “Then we’re even.”

That broke the last of his control. He hooked one of your legs up around his waist, shoved his blacks down just far enough, and pressed into you all at once. The thrust was deep, fast and accompanied a desperate growl that vibrated straight through your spine.

You cried out, back arching into his clothed chest as he filled you with his entire length. There was no buildup, no teasing - just raw, ragged need, “Stars, Rex.”

“Too much?” he grinned, pausing while fully inserted into you.

“Not even close.”

Rex then set a brutal pace, his thrusts snapping into you like he had something to prove. Perhaps he did. Maybe it wasn’t just about the fear or the fury or the way you’d looked back at him through the smoke like you didn’t realize what it would do to him if you died.

Maybe it was about ownership. Maybe it was about making sure you never forgot who you belonged to. Maybe it was about making sure you knew that you were more important to him than being a soldier.

You clung to his shoulders, nails digging into the scarred skin beneath his blacks. He buried his face in your neck, panting against your skin as his rhythm got even rougher, your name breaking off his lips like prayer and curse all at once.

“You’re mine,” he reminded you again, teeth scraping your shoulder.

“Yes,” you gasped, dizzy from the intensity, speed and stretch of him slamming into you, “I’m yours. I’ve always been yours.”

Hearing those words from your lips sent a slight shutter down his spine. Almost as if your words gave him some sort of surge, he plunged himself even deeper into you, forcing an involuntary whine out of you as he hit new depths.

“Don't sto-” you attempted to rasp out as Rex continued to ruthlessly drive deeper into you, muffling your words with your own moans.

“Why. Would. I. Stop,” he gritted between thrusts, “After. Finding. Your. Sweet. Spot?” The smug, hungry heat in his voice lit every nerve inside you on fire. He was relentless now, driving his cock into you at the same devastating angle over and over again, hitting so deep and so precise it knocked the breath from your lungs. You couldn’t even find the words anymore, just breathless gasps and broken whimpers as your body clenched around him, trying to hold on and falling apart all at once.

“Yeah,” Rex muttered darkly against your forehead, “Right there, huh? That the spot you lose your mind for me?”

You could only nod and shut your eyes, dizzy from the pressure building low and fast in your core, twitching your hips with every deep drag of him inside you.

“Look at me,” he growled, pulling back just enough to cup your jaw and tilt your face to his, the motion forcing your eyes open. Sweat began to bead at his temples,“You tell me when you’re close, cyar’ika.”

You nodded, a sob of pleasure caught in your throat as he slammed into you again, and again, and again, “Rex,” you cried, your thigh trembling against him, “Rex, please - I’m gonna-”

“That’s it,” he grunted, his thrusts ragged now, chasing both your highs like an animal hunting for prey, “Come with me.”

It hit you like a shockwave - your whole body arching against his, muscles locking around him as you shattered on his cock, crying out his name Rex followed with a low, guttural groan, burying himself as deep as he could, clutching you tight as his climax pulsed hot inside you.

For a long moment, the only sound filling the room was each of your muffled breaths as he held you like he could anchor himself in you forever. You slowly moved your hands from his back to his head while you watched his back rise and fall with each labored breath as he tried to steady himself. You began to scratch his head - which was still buried between your shoulder and the pillow - earning yourself a sigh of content from Rex.

Slowly, he shifted his head to face you, eyes half cracked and glassy, with his lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words just yet. Still nestled between your thighs, you could feel all the tension drain from his body. Without warning, he slipped out of you, replacing the space he just filled with the dazed, disarmed warmth you only ever got from him.

You trailed your fingertips from his head down to his cheek, cupping it. He nuzzled into your palm instinctually.

“Hey,” you whispered, giving him a soft smile, “Still with me?”

Rex didn’t speak right away. He just nodded once, his nose brushing yours as his hand slipped up your side, dragging across sweat-damp skin like he was trying to memorize every inch of you.

“I’m here,” he mumbled eventually, “I just. I just needed to feel you.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then just under his ear, letting out a soft laugh “I’d say you did.” That seemed to finally loosen something in him. He shifted his weight carefully, allowing himself to take off the top half of his blacks before doing the same with your top and chest band.

“I probably should have taken those off for us earlier,” he chuckled under his breath before placing his mouth on your chin, planting kisses down your neck, collarbone, and chest. They were the kind of slow, open-mouthed kisses that said thank you; that said I’m sorry.

He slid down the bed, scanning your body for any bruises he might have just left behind. His hands roamed softly, over your stomach, hips and thighs. Anywhere that had been bruised or bitten or gripped too hard in the heat of the moment was met with the most delicate touch of his lips.

Eventually, he pulled the sheets up around you both and settled at your side. You threw one leg across his hips and placed one arm over his chest, resting your head perfectly in the crook of his shoulder.

“I’m sorry I was rough with you. You just scare the hell out of me you know,” he confessed against your shoulder. “Every time you jump in front of a blaster or run headfirst into danger, I feel like I can't breathe until you come back.”

You angled your neck up to face him, “I’m sorry,” you whispered, “I’ll be more careful. I promise.”

His eyes flicked down to meet yours. You could swear they were wet with a little red around the edges, “I don’t need careful. I just need you.” He pressed his head forward to kiss you slow and deep. So slow and so deep it stole what little breath you had left. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone like he was afraid you might disappear again. You kissed him back with everything you had. Not because it was expected, but because loving him felt like coming home.

tags:

@trixie2023 @clon3wh0r3 @melonmochiii @alice-in-wonderland111 @marvel-starwars-nerd @simping-for-fives @horsegirl4561 @koskareevesismyqueen @katelynnwrites @pinkiemme @youmaynowdothething @808tsuika @dangerdumpling @ahsoka-padme @persaloodles @soclonely @coffeeandtodd @gryffindorqueensworld @obiorbenkenobi @jedi-dreea @lightning-wolffe @msmeredithrose @orangez3st @alor-ika

316 notes · View notes

skittykitkat · 2 months ago

Text

thoughts of you consume me

Pairing: Commander Wolffe x Jedi Fem!Reader

Words: 46,838 (I would apologize, but I’m not one bit sorry)

Warnings: 18+ only. Really Angsty Smut!!! Softer than usual Wolffe. Mutual Pining. Idiots in Love. Touch-Starved Characters. Lots of Kissing. Possessive Behavior/Words. Dirty/Sweet Talk. Oral Sex (male and female receiving). Rough Fingering and Overstimulation. Squirting. Penetrative, Unprotected Sex. Slight Breeding Kink. Oh and heavy implications of Order 66. I am so so sorry for that ending.

Summary: When you shut the door behind him, Wolffe turns around and reluctantly meets your gaze, finding your eyes more piercing than normal as they shone underneath the soft light of the candles scattered across the humble space. You smile gently at him, and he wishes then that you weren’t a Jedi, that you weren’t forced or even able to set aside your true emotions to make him feel at ease. He wanted you to be yourself with him, to be vulnerable with him. Against his better judgment, he takes a step towards you, never once daring to look anywhere else but your strikingly beautiful orbs as he finally asks the question he had a feeling he wouldn’t like the answer to. “What did you mean when you said you’ve seen your death a thousand times?”

A/N: I started writing this as I was watching S4 of The Clone Wars (February), got most of it done during S6 (March), became an emotional mess and started writing different oneshots for Wolffe for a while, but realized quickly that I wanted this to be the first one that I post for him so here you go. This is different, even for me, and Wolffe is “softer” than usually portrayed but you know what, bite me. This is mostly from Wolffe’s perspective but the perspectives change a bit as the fic progresses. Please please please let me know how I’m doing in the comments. Pretty please and thank you. Also, this is not beta’d and I apologize for any mistakes you will come across.

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skittykitkat · 2 months ago

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Hell and You (Commander Wolffe x reader)

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings: smut, rough sex, DFAB reader, fingering, porn with feelings, dirty talk, light Dom/sub/breeding kink vibes, very light choking and spanking, also brief mention of injury/blood, also be warned reader is a little shit and Wolffe is TIRED

a/n: ok y'all this piece is gifted for the lovely @cyber-nya she’s such a lovely person and author and I absolutely love all her works. seriously please check her out and give her lots of love!! (also sorry if you only followed me for Mando stuff lmao it’s clone lovin’ hours) ALSO tracinya’ika means little spark/flame

“Don’t stare too hard. Might cause an aneurysm.”

It takes every fiber of his being not to slam his head against the mauve colored stone. Why, out of all people in the entirety of the kriffing galaxy did he get stuck with you? You.

Maker, you’re worse than Boost.

You see, he hadn’t thought it’d be an issue—civvies volunteered with the GAR all the time, nothing new, but— Stars, if only he’d known then maybe he could have lightly suggested to General Plo that he did not need a civvie medic parading around. After all, only a medic off their rocker would be nicknamed “Spits.”

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skittykitkat · 2 months ago

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──────BROKEN DOWN AND HUNGRY FOR YOUR LOVE ───

⋆౨ৎ˚˖ ࣪

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touchstarved ! rookie! reader x training officer! tim

summary: Tim had said ‘no more rookies’ after Lucy, but well. Things don’t always go according to plan. Just like you never thought you’d be staring at your training officer’s arms, wondering how they feel wrapped around you.

cw: daddy issues (seriously this is a tim x reader like. don’t we all have daddy issues) mild depression, descriptions of child death and abuse (it’s one scene and pretty easily skippable but yk police call stuff) tbh could be read as platonic this isn’t super romantic i just want tim to hold me i don’t care how he does it

a/n: in this universe chenford never happened even tho i ship it with every cell in my body. also im only like halfway through season two so take my depiction of characters and events with a grain of salt. buckle up this one’s LOOOOOONGGG

title taken from Lover You Should've Come Over by Jeff Buckley (jeff buckley i miss u)

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Tim Bradford has really nice hands.

This is, undoubtedly, not at all something you should be noticing about your training officer. Probably the most strict, unpredictable, unrelenting, high-key-wants-you-to-fail training officer in the LAPD.

And yet.

Here you are, noticing.

His arms are really nice too. The chords of muscle flex in a particular way while he drives. Especially when turning or when he’s conducting a car chase and his hands go white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

You think to yourself that his hands are probably warm. Tim seems like the kind of man to run hot.

Tim also makes sure that you understand how much he doesn’t like you.

You get it. Kind of. He’d been on his way to becoming a sergeant when it’d been decided that during the coarse of his career, not enough of his officers actually made it past being a rookie.

“One last go,” The captain had said on your first day, “Should be easy. This rookie’s the most self-sufficient thing since Officer West. If she doesn’t make the cut, I want to know why.”

So yeah. You’re pretty sure Tim tuned out the conversation after hearing ‘one last go’.

Additionally, you two have… clashing personalities. You’ve always prided yourself on being self-sufficient- on not needing anyone else. But Tim makes it his mission every single day to remind you of all the million different ways you need to rely on your partner and need them— need him.

It’s annoying on a good day and humbling on a bad one.

And then there’s the matter of Lucy Chen. One of the few rookies to survive the Tim Tests and actually make it past rookie, all the while gaining his respect and friendship.

You don’t even try to hope to reach what she accomplished. Lucy Chen is an inspiration, a pipe dream, and an unreachable standard wrapped up in blue. It’s clear that Tim is proud of the cop she’s become. Proud of his work.

You’re not sure he could ever be proud of you.

But you didn’t raise yourself to be a quitter. So you get up everyday and take the Tim Tests in stride. You work and learn and learn and work and pretend the lack of relationship or bond you have with your fellow rookies doesn’t bother you.

You pretend you don’t dream of being held by warm arms and wake up in the same position, alone and cold.

You pretend the heated blanket you bought during the Academy with your meager funds feels just like human warmth. You pretend it’s enough.

And you do what you always do: you manage.

—

Like with any job, there’s good days, and there’s bad days. You try not to dwell on the bad days, but you usually end up doing so anyways, usually in your silent, empty apartment as you try to fall asleep.

Your shift today is only half over, and you’ve already lost a suspect during a chase —Tim ended up catching her, and the look he shot you as he cuffed him was nothing short of fiery— you accidentally tampered with evidence —in your defense, you weren’t aware that piggy banks were used to move drugs, but accidentally dropping it made you want to crawl into a hole and die— and the cherry on top was the suspect you apprehended today, who, in her desperation to get away from you and jail, kicked you in the leg while she was on the ground. With her very long, and very skinny heel.

‘I got stabbed in the leg with a stripper’s heel’ isn’t a sentence you ever thought you’d say, but here you are. The wound isn’t that bad, thankfully. Just all the usual pain that comes from being stabbed with a fairly blunt object.

You sit in an uncomfortable hospital chair in the waiting room, elbow digging into the hard, wooden armrest and holding your head up by your forehead, while your other arm presses on the still sluggishly bleeding wound on your lower, mid thigh, leg stretched out in front of you.

You’re tired.

Recently, the bad days have outweighed the good ones. You knew this would be the case when you signed up to be a cop. You knew your apartment would feel empty and cold, but you thought that maybe, maybe, you’d make a few friends in your coworkers and it wouldn’t feel so unbearable.

But it turns out there isn’t enough time to make friends when you’re busy trying to get the highest scores in the Academy. And by the time you graduated, you’d been written off as a stuck-up teachers pet. Tolerated by the other rookies at best, occasionally sneered at and mocked at worst.

No fellow rookies, no friendly coworker, no nice neighbors in your apartment. Your training officer doesn’t like you, and the watch commander regularly enjoys singling you out for rookie-typical ridicule.

You’re tired.

The wound on your leg hurts like a bitch, already bruised to hell and back in that way that blunt force injuries usually do. Your pants are dark and sticky with blood, and the hand that’s applying pressure is uncomfortably tacky as you bleed, clot, and dry, over and over again.

It’s shitty. You feel shitty.

The fluorescent overhead lights are making your head pound and there’s so much noise in the waiting room, overlapping and, for lack of a better term, stabbing your eardrums in a pounding beat, and the pain is starting to make you a little nauseous, or maybe that’s the smell of anti-septic, and you fucked up so badly today, and oh god what if you get sepsis or a staff infection, that heel was so dirty, who knows where it’s been, and why won’t you just stop bleeding, and—

“Boot.”

—you haven’t called your mom in ages, she deserves better than that, and god your leg really hurts, and you don’t want to go home after this because—

“Rookie.”

—you’re most definitely being sent home, you got stabbed with a fucking heel for christ’s sake, and unlike after a normal shift you won’t have the exhaustion to just send you straight to bed, chores be damned, your apartment is so, so so quiet and you hate it—

“Hey!”

Snapping fingers in front of your face and Tim’s shout jolts you from your pain-slash-panic-induced spiral, and you reflexively clench your fists, then hiss in pain as your grip tightens over the wound.

He’s crouched in front of you, dark, steady eyes scrutinizing your face.

“Sorry,” you huff, face hot with embarrassment. “It’s, um, it’s loud in here.”

He just nods once, looking rather unimpressed. You resist the urge to fidget.

“You good to stay here while I go back out?”

The thought of waiting in the ER alone, and then more than likely catching an Uber to the station and then ignoring possible doctors orders to drive yourself home from there is… less than pleasant.

But if it has to be done, then it has to be done.

“Yeah,” You say easily, the lie slipping right off your tongue. “Yeah, yeah I’ll be good.”

Your injury had already been called in, so Grey wasn’t expecting you back at the station. Tim would go back on shift and you’d take care of yourself like you always do. You’ll be fine eventually. You always are.

You expect Tim to take the easy out. You’ve handed it to him on a silver platter. Express permission to not have to deal with you anymore today.

He sighs, unexpectedly, then stands, and you look down so you don’t have to watch him walk away, and wait to hear the sound of his retreating footsteps.

They don’t come.

The chair next to you creaks as someone sits down in it.

As Tim sits down in it.

You blink, looking up at him. “Officer Bradford?”

He’s crossed his arms across his chest, sparing you a small glance. “What?”

You look down at your lap. “Nothing.”

He doesn’t say anything, just pulls out his phone, clearly texting someone —probably Officer Lopez— and pretty much ignores you as you wait to be called back.

His presence is enough, though. It chases away some of that creeping panic and chill in your chest. You relax in increments. Your posture slouches, your hand unclenches, and you feel like you can take a breath without throwing up.

Eventually, your name gets called, and maybe you just look especially pathetic as your stiffly and shakily climb to your feet and begin ambling towards the indicated trauma room, but you hear another annoyed sigh, and then Tim’s mumbling “Here,” and then your arm is around his shoulders and his arm snakes behind your back and just above your waist.

And fuck.

If you thought that having him near you was something, having the arms of the man you’ve literally dreamt about doing nearly this exact same thing is… it’s a drug.

Your skin is on fire where’s he’s quite literally holding you together as you awkwardly shuffle across the waiting room. His hands are warm even through the under shirt and your uniform shirt. The rush of chemicals in your head is dizzying at the contact, your brain startlingly aware of each and every place the two of you are connected.

To him, it’s nothing. To you, it’s everything.

If this is what hard drugs feel like, you sympathize with the addicts. All it takes is his arm around you, safe and steadying, and you’re gone. Hooked.

You try your best to file the feeling away in your head, to commit it to memory, so later, when those bad days have their cold nights, you can take it out and remember it. Remember what felt like to be even half wrapped like this. Supported and steadied.

It’s an uncharacteristic show of care on Tim’s part. He’s not exactly a touchy-feely kind of guy. He’s more like the ‘deal with it or quit’ kind of guy.

But he’s helping you here, now. More than he knows.

You don’t comment on any of this, of course, because you don’t want to draw attention to how much you’re leaning into his touch.

You hope he writes it off as needing help walking.

—

The first night after the stabbing —Tim does not let you drive yourself home, though looks vaguely impressed that you were completely willing, and instead drops you off and has Officer Lopez drive your car back to your place— is great. You sleep clear through the night without waking up once. The memory of Tim holding you up, touching you, is fresh in your mind. Sleeping is easy. You arrive to work for once not faking your enthusiasm under layers of professionalism. You actually, genuinely feel okay.

As the weeks progress though, you start flagging.

By the time a month has gone by, you’re downright miserable. You didn’t realize just how empty your chest could feel after actually feeling how warm and full it could be.

This, of course, means doubling over on professionalism, because there’s absolutely no way that anyone can know how much you’re starting to fracture, bit by bit. You’re strong, put-together, and self-sufficient. You take Tim’s training in stride and you never complain. You don’t rise to the bait when you get singled out for hazing, and laugh when you become the subject of a rookie prank.

You do not stare at Tim’s arms or hands out of the corner of your eye when he’s not looking, you do not imagine the big pillow you hold at night is him, and most importantly you do not even entertain the fantasy in which Tim holds you, really holds you, and you don’t have to keep it all together anymore.

It’s not realistic. You’re always going to hold everything together. You always have and you always will.

But sometimes, every now and then, you get something well and truly right, and Tim says “Good job, boot.” And he means it. Gets that crinkle near his eyes and that twitch in his jaw when he’s trying not to look impressed or pleased. And it chases away the empty, just for a little bit. Makes how hard he pushes you just a little more worth it, each time.

It’s starting to get to you, though. Has been for awhile. Because it’s a bit pathetic, isn’t it, to think these things about your training officer? Someone who would never, ever do the things you want him to do? As trivial and stupid and childish as they are?

And look. You’re not stupid. You know exactly why you’ve fixated on Tim Bradford specifically. You’re well versed in the art of “intellectualizing your feelings so you don’t have to feel them” and your want of your training officer’s touch is no mystery. He checks all your boxes- Brooding, emotionally unavailable, harsh, attractive, and more importantly, in a position of power over you. So you get it. Daddy issues, your emotional needs not being met growing up, blah blah blah. It’s whatever.

What’s not whatever is your inability to stop obsessing over it. Him. You need to get a grip.

You want to become a detective. And, not to mention, you’ve worked incredibly hard to be a damn good cop.

But here you are, sitting in the shop with Tim, spacing out when you should be paying attention because you saw one of your old friends post the anniversary for her and her boyfriend last night and now you can’t stop thinking about how she probably look at every couple and wonder how it feels to have someone around, constantly, to soothe the near permanent ache in your chest and itch under your skin.

She probably doesn’t have the ache or itch at all.

“Boot!” Tim barks, voice sudden and loud. “Where are we?”

You jolt in place. “Uh—“

Tim slams on the brakes, your seatbelt snapping against your chest. “I’ve been shot. I’m dead. Where were you just now?”

You scramble for an answer. “I was—“

“Your head wasn’t here,” He jams a finger onto the center console. “And in this line of work, that means you’re dead. It means people die on your watch.”

He starts the car, and without the crackling of dispatch over the radio, it’s awhile before he speaks again.

“What’s wrong?”

The words sound so foreign coming from Officer Bradford that you pause.

“Is that a trick question? Is the answer…um… I should focus more…?”

“Well, yes, and no,” He responds, face set in a slight grimace, “Yes, you need to focus more, but no, that wasn’t a trick question.”

When you don’t immediately respond —what are you supposed to say to that?— he keeps going.

“You’re spacey. You don’t get spacey. But you’ve been all over the place lately, so something’s up.”

“Nothing’s—“

He levels you with a Look.

Now it’s your turn to sigh.

One of the main reasons you didn’t get along with other students at the Academy was your unwillingness to sacrifice your career for a social life. You didn’t tell anybody your sob story— didn’t need the pity, didn’t care what they thought.

And you don’t really want to tell Tim either, but for a different reason. An opposite one, really. You do care what he thinks. A lot. And you don’t want to sound whiny or sensitive or any less of a capable cop. You need to prove to him that you can do this.

But Tim also has the best bullshit sensor of anyone you know, and will immediately see through you if you try to lie.

“I moved to California right before I started at the Academy. I was focused and career driven. And I’ve never really been social. It just, uh, kind of hit me, I guess. That my family is a thousand miles away.”

“What, you don’t have any friends from the Academy?”

His confidence in your social skills is nice, if not very misguided.

You shrug. “I gave up everything to move here. I thought that if I went out to bars and parties, I’d lose focus and fail. I couldn’t, and still can’t afford to.”

Tim’s saved from responding by a call close to your location crackling out from dispatch. And thank god for that. You’re sure as hell not itching to restart the conversation, and besides. Tim wants you to get your head in the game, so you do. Complete and utter focus on the call.

It goes well. But Tim doesn’t say anything as you climb back in the shop, not even a not-displeased hum.

“That’s stupid, you know.”

You look up from where you were checking something in the system. “What?”

“This thing you’re doing. You’re not even living. You’re just going to work and then going home. Your performance is shitty because you feel shitty.”

You gape for a second before rushing to respond. “My performance isn’t—“

“Yeah, it is. Don’t argue me on this, boot. You’re drowning, is what you’re doing. You have no work life balance. You’re going to burn out, and then you wash out.”

He turns to you, eyes bright and jaw set. “And you better not wash out, because you’re my last rookie and I need you to win.”

Right. Yes. Of course. Tim needs you to win, so he needs you to get focused, and get real.

The smile you give him is perfectly practiced and hollow. You ignore the nausea churning in your chest.

“Don’t worry. I don’t do anything other than win.”

—

Even though it’s most definitely stupid and insane, you ignore Tim’s advice. Since when have you had the energy to do things outside of work but rot in bed? And besides. Going out would mean losing precious sleeping hours, which are already hard enough to come by as it is. You don’t need to make your energy levels any worse than they already are by adding going to bed late on top of incredibly fitful sleep.

So it’s fine. You’re handling it.

—

You’re not handling it.

You’re exhausted. All the time. The more tired you are, the more you have to work to make sure your performance at work isn’t suffering. Which makes you more tired.

And you just… can’t sleep. You toss and turn all night, wake up a million times, and usually end up reliving your worst cases with added bonuses, like Tim being injured, and then berating you for it, and then the watch commander calls you into his office and fires you.

And then there’s the guilt. The sickening, nauseating guilt that follows you day after day, choking and clogging your throat because you know you’re better than this. You’re better than this. But you’re not getting better.

You should’ve taken Tim’s advice, maybe. Should’ve heard it two, three, maybe four months ago and extended yourself to other people and tried going out, making a routine of trying new things other than sleeping, watching tv, or working, but it’s too late now and you’re just so fucking tired.

And alone.

Really, really, alone.

When you finally lose it, it’s because of a call. A bad one. A really bad one.

It’s a little girl. No older than nine or ten. Her mother had reported her missing when she’d come home from work and her daughter and her husband were missing. At first, the report hadn’t been taken seriously, but the mother begged and pleaded. It was Lucy who’d pulled up the woman’s husband and found several previous charges for domestic violence and abuse that dispatch had sent multiple units after the child.

Whom you found. Locked in a car.

You were the one to break the window. You were the one to get her out.

You were the one who had to call an RA unit for a nine year old girl, not conscious, not breathing.

Tim pulled you away from the scene. From her. Kept a hand on your shoulder and steered you towards the shop, and you were shaking. Are shaking. You’re in the shop. You can’t get your hands to stop shaking.

Tim is uncharacteristically silent. He doesn’t start the car. You can see him watching you out of the corner of your eye. You need to stop shaking. You need to get it together.

It’s just. That was you. Could’ve been you. Almost was you, once or twice.

You spent a lot of time in locked cars growing up.

“Boot,” Tim says softly, too softly, he’s babying you, “You need to take a minute.”

“No, no,” The first no is shaky and the second is no better but you need to be fine, “I’m fine, I’ll be fine. I need to adapt, need to get used to this kind of thing.”

He makes a noise of annoyance in the back of his throat. “No you don’t. Becoming desensitized to this kind of thing isn’t what you want to happen. Trust me.”

You breath is starting to hitch a little, and your eyes are beginning to burn. Why can’t you stop shaking? It happened so long ago.

“I’m fine. I’m— It’s okay. We should get back on the road.”

Your voice wobbles at the end. You clench your jaw, steel yourself against the onslaught of emotions and will yourself to just get a fucking grip.

“Hey,” Tim starts, voice that lower, gentle tone he sometimes uses on victims, and that’s messed up, because you’re not a victim, just dramatic, “It’s okay to not be okay after something like that.”

“I’m fine!” You snap, “I survived. She didn’t.”

Oh.

You feel the first few tears begin falling, and immediately scrub them off your face as fast and as hard as you can.

“I’m sorry,” You half-whisper, mortified at the action of crying and snapping at him. “I’m sorry, this is, this is really unprofessional—“

You hunch, pressing the heels of your hands so hard into your eyes starbursts of color are whirling behind them.

Tim doesn’t say anything, which only adds to your mounting anxiety, until you hear the semi-familar sound of him typing on his phone, and then a steady tik. Tik. Tik.

You look up, your eyes already puffy.

Tim sets his phone down on the console between the two of you.

“That timer is set for ten minutes. For ten minutes, you are not going to be fine. Ten minutes while we drive. Got that?”

You sniffle pathetically. “Ten minutes is a long time to put up with me crying.”

He shrugs. “If I give you your ten minutes, and you get this out, then you’ll be more focused on the job. Seems like a fair trade off to me.”

You’re not expecting the firm hand to land on your shoulder.

“This was your first d-o-a. Even the best cops are shaken after something like that. It changes you. That is not something be ashamed of.”

You let yourself lean into the touch, ever so slightly. The tears start falling easier after that, and, still not entirely comfortable with crying in front of your TO, you cover your face with your hands.

The crying bit is over in only a few minutes. The rest of the time on the timer is spent staring down at your lap and trying to calm yourself down, and when that doesn’t work, you pull out your phone and soothe yourself by organizing one of your Pinterest boards. Ah, the peace that comes from setting arbitrary rules that affect no one and organizing pictures based on these rules. Bliss.

Tim only removes his hand after you stop crying, which. You try your best to memorize the touch —no matter how mortifying the circumstances— and try your best not to think about how it almost seems like starting to catch onto the messier parts about yourself you’d like to keep hidden.

—

Sometimes it’s hard not to feel well and truly and completely alone.

You know you’re not. Not really. Not if you tried harder, extended yourself more. Made an effort to get out there. But you don’t have any energy for efforts. You don’t have anything left to give.

Tim’s touch and approval and just there-ness haunt you on your off days and are, if you’re being embarrassingly and horrifyingly honest, the only thing you really look forward to anymore.

You like your job. You do. But you’re tired. And how many times can you say that? Can you think that?

I’m tired. I’m tired. I’m tired. I’m tired. I’m tired.

Please, someone, put me down, let me go, give me a minute, I’m tired.

So it’s not really surprising when you get sick.

You’ve been running yourself absolutely ragged, day in and day out, and when you wake, feeling like death warmed over, you don’t even groan. It makes your throat hurt.

Your head pounds with pressure from your sinuses and your hands shake as you put on your uniform in the locker room. Your slow-and-unsteady gait gathers a few looks as you make your way into the, surprisingly empty, roll call room.

Is it really empty if one person is in it? Tim’s in it. He’s leaned up against the front desk, where you usually sit with the other rookies. Only time you’re really ever near them. He looks mad. Why’s he mad?

“Boot,” He starts, voice low, and that’s never a good sign, “Is there a reason you decided not to show up to roll call today?”

You blink, thoughts going about as fast as a fish in frozen water, “But it’s not time for roll call yet.”

It’s not. You woke up when your alarm went off, took cold medicine (probably more than you’re supposed to, and the wrong combination of them, but who cares) and drove to the precinct. Same as you always do. Minus the cold medicine.

Tim frowns. He’s always frowning. He frowns deeper. “You’re over an hour late.”

That…doesn’t make any sense. How’d you lose an hour of time? Did you fall asleep somewhere along the way? You don’t remember falling asleep. You’re not missing any memories, no blank spots, no black outs.

“Boot!” He barks, and you flinch and the noise, pressing a hand to your forehead as if that’ll help the sharp stab of pain in your head that accompanies his raised voice.

Tim is downright glaring at you now. “Are you hungover?”

“No!” You reply indignantly, then instantly regret it due to the burn you now feel in your throat, “I’m just like. Kind of sick.”

Did that come out convincing enough? You’re sure you can still work. You worked through every cold and flu and fever back at the Academy. You can totally do this, right?

Tim pushes off the table and stalks towards you. arms crossed. He uncrosses them as he gets closer and—

Oh. That’s nice. His hand’s cool.

Your eyes flutter shut, unbidden, as the cool skin of the back of his hand presses to your forehead. If your eyes were open, you’d be able to see that his frown has taken on a concerned brow furrow to accompany it, but you’re too busy enjoying the simple contact to notice. Or keep your eyes open.

He takes his hand away with a sigh, and you stumble forward a little.

“You feel like you’re on fire. Jesus- did you drive here?”

You nod, to avoid angering your throat, and end up angering your headache instead.

“Yeah, you’re going home.”

Panic stabs you in the chest.

“No!” You rasp, “I’m fine. I’m a rookie, it’s my job to keep working no matter what—“

“It’s also,” Tim interrupts, “Your job to take care of yourself, but you’re shit at that, which is why you’re sick in the first place. So I’m going to drive you home and make sure you’re not going to die by yourself while you’re sick.”

You shake your head. “I used to work through being sick all the time at the Academy, I can do it.”

“And you were stupid for doing that too. The key difference here is that you’re not responsible for peoples lives at the Academy. I’m not going to get shot today because you’re too hopped up on cold medicine to cover me.”

“But—“

“I’m sorry,” He growls, “Were you under the impression that you have any sort of say in this decision?”

You close your mouth.

“That’s what I thought. Go wait at my desk while I clear this with the watch commander.”

You trudge solemnly to his desk, head and vision swimming. Great. Now Tim’s upset at you and you feel awful. Why is everything so terrible?

You slump into the chair at his desk, dropping your head onto your arms and allowing your eyes to close. The walk from the briefing room to Tim’s desk exhausted you. And your uniform feels extra uncomfortable.

You just want to be at home, not sick, and maybe sleeping restfully for the first time since becoming a cop. Maybe you’re not cut out to be a cop. Maybe you should quit. Maybe—

Someone gently shakes your shoulder, and your straighten, blinking blearily.

“Come on, up we go.”

A strong arm hooks under yours and carefully hauls you up, and let out a small whine at the movement. Tim’s desk is comfortable. And smells vaguely like him.

“Don’t give me that. I’m taking you home. We need to go get your stuff from the locker room.”

You whine again, as if the noise will somehow convey everything you’re feeling at the moment.

I don’t want to leave the temporary and fake saftey of Tim’s desk. I don’t want to go home cause my home is empty and I’m sick. I’m extra miserable because I’m sick. My brain isn’t working and I don’t remember what locker I put my stuff in. I don’t even know if I brought my stuff. Is it somehow possible for my technical-boss to take me to his house instead and tuck me into his bed that smells like him and has him in it so I can sleep next to another human being and feel safe for even twenty minutes?

Of course, none of this is relayed to Tim, who’s currently half holding half dragging you over to the locker rooms, grip firm but not unkind.

After assuring you that no one else is even going to be in the locker room because you’re now over an hour into your shift, he goes with you and helps you find and take your stuff. In your sick daze, you did manage to bring your bag and water bottle, but neglected to put any water in your water bottle or put your wallet in your bag.

Tim just mutters an “Alright, come on,” once your stuff has been acquired, and escorts you out to the parking lot.

Two things occur to you.

One, Tim is no longer dressed in his uniform. Instead, he now sports jeans and a dark gray henley.

Two, you’re both headed towards the personal parking lot.

If Tim isn’t in work clothes anymore, and he’s taking you towards his car, that means he’s not just dropping you off at your house.

He is, presumably, going to look after you. Because you’re sick.

He ushers you into the passenger seat, going so far as to help you up and grab the seatbelt for you. He leans over you when he does it, and there’s a second where he’s pressed against you and it’s so nice and you kind of want to live in the moment forever but you can’t because you’re sick and he’s mad at you and he shouldn’t have to deal with this and you should’ve been better.

You sniffle just as he starts the car, momentarily thankful for the engine turning over hiding the sound, but unfortunately, the second the tears start, they don’t stop.

Tim notices immediately, because of course he does.

“What’s wrong?”

You hiccup a half-sob. “I’m sorry. I should’ve called out.”

“Yeah, you should have.”

You sniff again, harder, cause now your nose is running. “I thought I could do it. I thought I could handle it.”

He eases the car out of the parking space. “Having a brain-cooking fever isn’t really something you can just handle.”

He eyes the fat tears rolling down your cheeks and you see the muscles in his jaw work.

“Why didn’t just call out sick?”

“I don’t like calling out. I wanna be a model employee. Model officer. Wanna be reliable. I wanna be—“

You swallow, voice hoarse and wobbly. “I just wanna be good.”

The car is silent for awhile. A long while. Tim doesn’t respond, and with your nerves now thoroughly fried and your immune system making a minor attempt on your life, you’re pretty sure you fall asleep.

You wake to Tim shaking you, albeit gently, and helping you out of the car. He instructs you to leave your bag and to go inside and change.

He really doesn’t have to tell you twice. You feel awful. So bad. Terrible. Horrible.

Changing clothes only serves to exhaust you further, so you trudge out to the living room and collapse onto your couch, shivering. There’s a blanket only a few feet away, but it’s just so far.

You hear your front door open and the sound of heavy-footsteps, and then there’s the creak of your shitty fridge opening and a few mumbled curses.

You ignore the noises behind you and dedicate all of your energy to grabbing the remote off the coffee table and finding something you don’t have to think about watching. Maybe Criminal Minds. Or Bluey.

“I,” Tim starts, then annoyedly snatches the blanket off the end of the coach and drags it up over you, “Am going to the store, because your fridge looks like it hasn’t been used since the eighteen-hundreds. Don’t die while I’m gone.”

“Okay,” You say, but your voice is hoarse and muffled by the blanket so it comes out more like, “Mmomhay.”

You end up watching Jurassic Park, because nothing makes you feel better like dinosaurs and people getting eaten by them. Classic.

Tim does return at some point, right about when you’re thinking of just binge watching every single Jurassic Park/World movie, and starts making noise in your kitchen. Which you also ignore.

You’re doing a lot of ignoring today.

It’s easy though, is the thing. Tim is cooking something, if the sounds of grocery bags and pots and pans and chopping are anything to go off, and he’s handled you and his’s shifts, so there’s no work to worry about, and you’re really honestly too sick to think about any other things that need to be done.

Tim’s taking care of it. So you don’t have to worry, cause he’s cooking something, and people are getting eaten by dinosaurs on the tv in front of you, so maybe everything will be okay for the time being.

The okay feeling comes to a swift and brutal end when Tim comes around the edge of the couch and tells you to sit up.

“M’ comfy,” You mumble, indignant.

He rolls his eyes, ever exasperated. “You can’t eat soup while laying down.”

“Watch me.”

“No. Come on, sit up.”

You whine as he pulls you forward, stuffing pillows behind you so you don’t actually have to put effort in to staying upright. He then places a tray you didn’t know you owned (maybe he bought it?) on your lap and places a small bowl of soup and a sleeve of saltines.

Your eyes begin to burn with unshed tears again.

Tim groans. “It’s just soup, Boot.”

You sniff harshly. “No one’s made me soup before.”

He sigh’s long-sufferingly, but his vocal exasperation is undermined by the careful way he dabs at the tears on your cheeks.

“Thought you liked your mom.” Tim says, a question hidden in his voice.

“I do. But we were really poor, so she couldn’t really afford to take time off work because I was sick. And I got sick pretty often so,” You pick up your spoon with shaky fingers. “I got good at taking care of myself.”

“Yeah?” Tim says, opening the package of saltines for you, “Then where’d all that skill go?”

He clearly means it as a joke, but you still can’t help the small stab of guilt in your chest.

You set the spoon back down. “I’m just really tired.”

He doesn’t sigh again, but he does purse his lips in that way he does when he’s upset about something and can’t quite decide how to show it.

When he moves, it surprises you. He takes the soup off your lap, moves the tray to the little coffee table by your couch. Turns the TV volume up. Loud enough to hear the audible crunch of the Spinosaurus battling the T. Rex.

Then, he reaches forward and just. Reaches his arms around your waist and back and pulls you forward, then borderline man-handles you into a comfortable position with your legs now where your head used to be, and your had pillowed on his shoulder. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you just that much closer.

You couldn’t have stopped yourself from melting into the embrace even if you weren’t hopped up on cold medicine.

After a few minutes of mindlessly watching a Spinosaurus go on a rampage, he speaks again.

“You wanna know what I think?”

You nod into his arm, face smushed.

“I think you got really good at making people not worry about you. You probably had to.”

For a brief second, you think about hunger, and sickness, and locked cars.

“And I think that in my haste to get through this training period and make it to Sergeant, I didn’t bother looking deeper to find out if you were lying or not.”

You shift in place, now a little uncomfortable as the conversation has switched over to you. “It’s not really your responsibility.”

“It is,” Tim says easily, tone-matter-of-fact. “You’re my rookie. And it shouldn’t have taken me this long to learn what kind of training and support you needed.”

You sit up at his words. Which is a huge mistake, because then you get really dizzy and nauseous and there are weird stars dancing across your vision.

“You—“ You pause, taking a deep breath, “This is police work. I shouldn’t have to be coddled every step of the way.”

“Lay back down,” He tugs you down by your waist. “You aren’t coddled every step of the way. You’re a capable cop. You’re good at your job. I’m not holding your hand. I’m giving you what you need.”

You sink lower on the couch, trying to hide your face from this mortifying experience. Unfortunately the closest thing to hide your face in is Tim’s side.

Oh well. Beggars can’t be choosers.

He rubs your back consolingly. It only feels a little patronizing.

“But,” He continues, “I don’t know what you need if you don’t tell me.”

“I don’t want to bother you with that. You’re my T.O.”

“And you’re my rookie,” Tim continues smoothly, “I can’t send my rookie out on the streets if any criminal can get to her through a hug.”

“Hey,” You grumble, “That’s mean.”

“No it’s not.”

You pull your face away from his side and go back to facing the TV.

“But what if I need this a lot? What if my brain gets… screwy when I’m alone for awhile, and this is what fixes it?”

“Then I’d say it was a fairly normal reaction and need.” Tim shrugs.

You look up at him questioningly.

“Look. I didn’t have a great dad either. It’s not…” He trails off, jaw working. “Bad things happened to you. You dealt with them the only way you knew how. But now you need a little extra help. That’s all.”

“That sounds like something Lucy would say.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “How could you tell?”

The conversation lulls into a gentle silence. Tim continues trailing his hand up and down your side. Up and down, up and down, up and down. And occasionally pause to rub, knead, or scratch. All of which you lean into with equal amounts of shame and enjoyment.

“You’re like a cat,” He mumbles, eyes trained on the still rampaging Spinosaurus, “Can’t believe I didn’t make the connection before.”

You don’t have it in you to do anything more than make a non-committal hum.

A couple beats pass.

“Thank you.”

Tim’s hand trails a little higher on the next pass, his large palm curling up over your shoulder and to the back of your neck.

“For what?”

⋆౨ৎ˚˖ ࣪

masterlist | kofi

taglist:

@wowzabowza69 @4kirstein @marvel-z0mbie @mca-attack21 @winchesterkenzie @daithideolishmer18 @entoxicant @scarlet-issilly

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skittykitkat · 2 months ago

Text

Man or Commander

Pairing: Wolffe x fem!Reader / Wolffe x Doctor!Reader

Words: 17,082

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! established relationship, fluff, it's like 50/50 pwp, protective!Wolffe, smut, oral (f recieving), fingering, unprotected sex, pinv, dirty talk, so much of that, praise kink in a big way, size kink, veryyy soft dom!Wolffe, Wolffe is a cuddly drunk

Summary: After your first date in months with Wolffe is ruined, you want to make the most of your night together. All Wolffe wants is you.

A/N: This was born from @cyaretra and I discussing Wolffe's guilty pleasures of red wine, trash reality tv, and fast food. RIP Wolffe you would love space in-n-out.

Previous Work | Next Work | Masterlist

“How much further?”

You and Wolffe share a look over your shoulder as he hoists Boost further in his arms, Sinker dangling from yours like a wet bag of laundry. Comet trudges behind, looking for all the galaxy like he just got kicked in the face.

He had, by Wolffe's own account.

“If you don’t stop whining, I’ll leave you all here in the street,” Wolffe grumbles back, and you can tell he’s only half-joking.

Boost and Sinker, to their credit, shut up.

Comet, who has always been the most perceptive of the bunch, says nothing and tries his hardest to keep pace, limping on what you guess is a sprained ankle. The rest of him looks like a bruise, with various shades of reds, purples, and blues covering most of his exposed skin. He had been the first of them to get tossed around in the scuffle, the others jumping into the fray a little too late for him to not take the worst beating.

You try not to think about what might have happened if they hadn't intervened.

The streets of Coruscant are never truly empty, not even during the day, but they are at least quieter in the early morning hours. Which means that when a small squadron of clones, one of whom is being carried, appears from around the corner, people notice.

People stare.

You feel a wave of secondhand embarrassment for the four of them. You can practically hear Wolffe's internal cursing, and he makes sure you know he isn’t happy by the way he grabs your arm and pulls you close to him.

The four of you are going to look quite the sight once you reach the barracks.

Not a bad sight, mind, just a bit... rough.

Wolffe and you share the burden of Boost and Sinker, but it’s mostly him carrying both. You simply hang on, your free hand grasping one of theirs so they don't fall from their commander's arms.

Comet is still trailing behind, and Wolffe shoots him glances, trying to gauge whether or not he is going to pass out before you make it back. He doesn't say anything, though, and neither do you. Comet must take as some sort of dismissal, because he starts trying to make conversation.

"You know, sir, you should really get us some medals for this," he starts, and Wolffe looks up to the sky, asking some unseen deity why it hates him so.

You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing, but a giggle still escapes, and it makes Wolffe glance at you. You offer him a small smile, and his lips twitch slightly in return.

Comet keeps talking. "It was a hard-won battle, sir. We had them outnumbered. I bet there were twenty of 'em, at least."

"There were six," you say, turning back to him, and he shrugs, which you guess is as good a response as any.

"They were pretty big, though. They were probably part-Wookiee. Did you see the size of them? Huge."

You look at Wolffe again, who looks ready to drop Boost and Sinker in order to throttle his soldier. You can't help the laughter that bubbles out of your mouth.

Comet looks pleased with himself, and you think the pain of the fight is starting to make him delirious.

Wolffe glares at the two of you. "I hate both of you."

”Me?” you ask. "I didn't do anything!"

He doesn't answer, which is his usual response when you’re right.

You turn and continue making your way down the street. The neon signs and blinking lights of the seedy district fade into the darkness of the night as you walk, the sound of music and raucous laughter fading with them. The city is still busy, but it’s a different crowd, and they seem to be a bit more interested in getting home than making their way to the next club.

Not that there are many places open at this hour. It is, after all, one in the morning.

You and Wolffe share a sigh as another person pushes past, nearly knocking you over.

You've had about enough of this city. You were ready to go home the moment the sun went down, and now, it‘s all you can think about. You barely had time to look at your bed when you dropped off your bag this afternoon, and you want nothing more than to curl up in it, Wolffe at your side, and sleep for about a week.

That was the original plan, after all.

It's been months since you've had a day together, and you have been looking forward to it. A few drinks. A nice dinner. A walk through the city. An evening spent catching up on all the episodes of that awful holo-series the two of you have gotten hooked on. And then, you and Wolffe could crawl into bed and stay there for as long as possible.

It's what the two of you have been planning for weeks, and now, thanks to your over-zealous, over-protective, and frankly, ridiculous boyfriend and his brothers, you'll be lucky if you make it home before sunrise.

You can't bring yourself to be mad at them though. If they hadn't stepped in when they did, you and Wolffe would be the ones needing to be carried.

They saved the day, and you can't be mad at them for it.

But you are going to complain.

A lot.

"Why is there a fight every time we come here?" you ask. "Every time. We can't even get through one night without someone saying or doing something that causes a riot."

"Because Boost can't keep his mouth shut," Wolffe grunts, and the clone in his arms groans, which you think is an attempt to defend himself.

"You've got to stop picking fights with the locals," you add, turning to Comet, who’s looking worse and worse the closer you get to the barracks. "And I swear, if one more person calls me a 'trooper's whore'..."

"I will rip their spine out," Wolffe growls, and you and the others stare at him. He's a little bloodthirsty tonight, and you have a feeling it has to do with the way he'd been pulled from your embrace in order to break up the fight.

"That's a little graphic, don't you think?" you say, and he glares.

"They deserved it."

"Of course they did, honey," you placate, knowing it's easier to agree than to argue. He knows you're humoring him, but he lets it go.

A few more blocks, and the lights of the barracks come into view. There’s a single floodlight above the entrance, a few windows on the first floor still lit, but the compound itself is quiet. You’re the only ones walking the streets, and as you make your way through the gate, the silence settles around you. It’s a welcome change.

You step into the building and walk to the lifts. Wolffe presses the call button, and the doors to one open with a soft ding. You all shuffle in, and as soon as the doors are closed, you let out a collective groan.

Sinker snorts and lifts his head, his face contorted in pain. There’s a cut on his forehead, and a black eye mars the left side of his face. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

Wolffe shifts, trying to keep his hold on Boost while also giving Sinker a little shake.

That seems to do the trick. Sinker clears his throat and speaks, his voice hoarse. "I'm sorry, Commander. I really didn't mean to cause any trouble."

Wolffe shakes his head.

"You didn't. Those shabuir did,” he says. Boost grumbles, and Wolffe jostles him a little harder than Sinker. "Shut it. You're lucky I didn’t let Fox throw your shebs in the drunk tank. And I'm only not doing it because she," he nods to you, "won't let me."

Boost grumbles again.

"What was that?"

"Thank you, Commander," Boost mumbles, and Wolffe sighs, letting his head fall back against the wall.

"I'm not mad," he continues, and you and Comet share a look, knowing what’s coming next, "but I am disappointed."

There's a chorus of groans and winces, and you have to cover your mouth with your hand to keep from laughing.

The lift slows to a stop, and the doors open. You and Wolffe shuffle out, the boys in tow, and turn towards the infirmary. The halls are still and empty save for a few droids who patrol the floors, and your footsteps echo in the silence.

You pass the first ward, then the second, until finally, you arrive at the third. You enter, and the lights flicker on as you move into the main room, heading for your equipment.

"Let's get the droid. I'll take Comet," you say, nodding at Wolffe, and the two of you deposit your passengers on the nearest cots. The medic droid, sitting idle since you left, stands up and powers on, the little light on its head flashing red.

"How may I help?"

"Run a diagnostic on Boost, would you?” you ask as you thumb through bacta patches. “I'm pretty sure he has a concussion."

"Yes, Doctor."

You come to stand beside Wolffe as the droid scans Sinker, and he wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you against him. You lean in and rest your head on his chest, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"I'm sorry our evening was ruined," he says softly.

You hum and smile. "It wasn't a complete disaster."

"We didn't get to eat. Or talk. Or..."

You lift your head, and place a finger against his lips, shushing him. "No, we didn't. But we got a few things instead. For one, you got to prove to everyone that you can still take on three men twice your size."

"They were drunk," he points out, and you roll your eyes.

"And we got to spend some time together."

"Barely. Then they got jumped,” he says, motioning to the men, who are now all staring at the two of you. You give them a pointed look, and they avert their gazes, but not before muttering a few apologies.

"We also have the rest of the day, and tomorrow,” you add, raising your eyebrows suggestively, “to do whatever we want. With no interruptions."

"Is that a promise?" he asks, his lips pulling up into a smirk. He leans over you, his mouth inches from yours, and your breath catches.

"Absolutely."

"Oh, gross," Boost groans, and Wolffe pulls away from you, his glare returning.

"If the next words out of your mouth aren't a 'thank you' or an 'I'm sorry,' I'm going to make you wish you'd never been decanted."

"Thank you," Boost mumbles, and the other two chime in. Then, the droid speaks.

"Doctor, I have completed my diagnosis," it says, and you and Wolffe move towards Boost. "Trooper Boost has sustained several contusions and minor abrasions, including a sprained wrist, and a laceration requiring five stitches. He will also need an anti-inflammatory and analgesic."

"Shab," Boost lets his head fall back and groans, and Sinker rolls his eyes.

"I told you. Didn't I tell you? Didn't I say that would happen?"

"Yes, Sinker, we get it," Comet interjects.

"Did I not?"

"Yes, Sinker. You did."

You tune out the bickering as you move to help the droid with Boost and Sinker, then move on to Comet. By the time you’re finished, his ankle is wrapped and the bruises and scrapes have been covered. He still looks like he got hit by a speeder, but at least he isn’t bleeding.

The droid makes a note of the injuries and gives you the report, which you quickly read over before setting it aside.

"Alright. All three of you," you start, pointing a finger at each of them, "will stay here for the night. No strenuous activity, no training, no lifting or pushing for a minimum of one week."

There’s a round of protests, but you hold up your hand, cutting them off. "No. You all will do as I say, or you will spend the rest of the war in the infirmary scrubbing bedpans. Are we clear?"

"Yes, doc," they all grumble, and you smile, satisfied.

"Good. Now, try and get some sleep. If you need anything, just ask the droid. Don’t call me.”

Wolffe, who’s been standing silently behind you, steps up and crosses his arms. "Do what she says. I'll be back in the afternoon, and if I find out any of you left this room..."

He lets his words hang, and the three clones nod vigorously, promising to stay put.

"Good."

"Thank you for defending my honor. But next time, please try not to get yourself beaten up in the process,” you say, squeezing Comet’s arm.

He nods and smiles, his grin crooked thanks to the split lip. "You got it, doc."

You pull away and reach for the datapad, signing off on the treatment plan before handing the pad back to the droid.

"Notify me if any of their conditions worsen," you say, and the droid's head flaps in understanding.

"Of course, Doctor."

Wolffe steps up and places a hand at the small of your back, giving his men a parting nod.

"Behave yourselves," he warns.

You step away, and the three clones give their goodbyes, calling their apologies and promises of good behavior as you and Wolffe leave the infirmary. The door hisses shut behind you, and you turn, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with Wolffe back to the lifts.

The corridors are still and quiet, the silence broken only by the occasional beep from a passing droid. The lights are dim, the shadows stretching long across the durasteel floor, and you can feel the fatigue of the night begin to creep in. Your body is tired and aching from the adrenaline crash, but the thought of getting to curl up in your bed with Wolffe is enough to keep you moving.

You stop at the lift, and the doors slide open, the both of you stepping inside. As the doors close and the lift begins its descent, Wolffe turns and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you into his embrace. You sigh and tuck yourself against his side, his warmth seeping through the fabric of his off-duty uniform.

"They shouldn’t have done that," he says, his voice low.

"They did it because they care," you answer, running your hand over his back.

"They're idiots."

"They're sweet," you correct. "I know they got a little carried away, but I think they're going to have plenty of time to reflect on that."

"You're too nice,” Wolffe replies as he leans down and nuzzles your temple.

"And you're too protective," you point out, smiling.

"You're worth protecting."

He presses his lips to your hair, and you close your eyes, savoring the rare display of affection. He’s not as sober as he appears, you realize, the faintest trace of alcohol still on his breath. He’s always more hands-on when he drinks.

Not that you mind.

You turn and kiss his cheek.

"And you're just mad because your brothers stole your thunder," you tease, giving him a grin.

"Damn straight," he says, leaning down to nip at your earlobe, and he smirks as you let out a squeak.

You slap his chest and turn to face him, his smirk widening at the flush on your cheeks. The lift slows to a stop, and the doors open, but neither of you make any move to exit. The idea of making the long journey back to your apartment is as unappealing as sneaking out of Wolffe’s quarters at the crack of dawn, and you can’t bring yourself to tear away from his embrace.

He tilts his head and nips at your jaw, his lips dragging along your skin. You sigh and run your fingers through his hair, gently scratching his scalp, and he lets out a pleased groan, his mouth traveling up to press a soft kiss against your cheek.

"You're staying," he says, the warmth of his breath ghosting across your ear, and you shiver.

It's not a question, but you pretend to think it over anyway, humming softly as you continue to play with his hair. Wolffe’s eyes narrow at your act, and his foot moves to stop the door from closing on his floor, his gaze never leaving yours.

"You're staying," he repeats, his voice taking on a commanding edge.

You give him a sly smile and shake your head.

“I need to eat and shower, and I’m not using GAR-issued soap,” you say, wrinkling your nose. “My body is not a weapon, and I refuse to treat it like one."

Wolffe huffs and removes his foot from the door, letting it slide shut. He punches the button for the ground floor with more force than necessary, and the lift jolts, slowly continuing its descent.

“I suppose that means we’re going back to your place then," he says, his tone dripping with resignation.

"Unless you have a private collection of luxury soaps I don’t know about, then yes. I'm sorry to say we are," you answer, grinning, and you slip out of his embrace as the lift comes to a stop.

You step into the hall and turn, watching as Wolffe slowly follows, a pout firmly on his face.

"You know, a good boyfriend would keep an extra bottle of shampoo for his girlfriend in his shower,” you tease as he comes to stand beside you.

"If she's such a high maintenance woman, maybe she shouldn't be dating a soldier," he retorts, giving you a pointed look.

“Oh, well if that's how you feel..."

You trail off and start walking towards the exit, but Wolffe catches your hand and pulls you back, tugging you into his arms. You collide with his chest, letting out a soft 'oof' before looking up and meeting his gaze.

His eyes are soft, and the hint of a smile plays at the corner of his lips.

"Come on, cyare, we both know I'm the only man for the job," he murmurs, leaning down to brush his lips against your temple.

You laugh softly and wrap your arms around his waist, holding him tight.

"Yeah, you're definitely the only one who can handle me," you say, and Wolffe’s eyes turn dark.

"Mmm, that I am," he rumbles, and he nuzzles your neck, his stubble scratching your skin.

You shiver, and Wolffe pulls back, looking down at you. He brushes a few stray hairs from your face and tilts your chin up, placing a gentle kiss on your lips. It's brief, barely a whisper, but it still makes you smile.

"Let's go home. We can finish our conversation there."

He drops his hand from your face, and you turn, looping your arm through his as the two of you begin to walk. It doesn't take long to reach the lot where your speeder is parked. The streets are empty, and the air is cool and fresh, the sky dark and dotted with stars. It's a pleasant night, and if it weren't for the events that transpired over the last few hours, you'd say it was perfect.

You shoot Wolffe a grin and hop into the driver’s seat, revving the engine. Wolffe rolls his eyes, but a small smile plays on his lips as he gets in and straps himself in, his hand coming to rest on your knee. He squeezes once, nodding, and you take off, heading home.

It's quiet as you fly over the city, the buildings nothing but blurs of color below you. You're not in any rush, and you fly leisurely, taking your time as you navigate the city streets. Wolffe's thumb moves in a gentle circle over your knee, his eyes fixed on the view outside the window.

You can't help but glance over at him every so often. It’s rare to see him like this, relaxed and unguarded. His head rests against the back of the seat, and he watches the city move by, the neon lights dancing across his features.

You know how much this break has meant to him. How hard it’s been, waiting for a day, an hour, even a minute where the two of you could be alone together. He's done well to hide it, but now, without the threat of prying eyes, his mask falls. He looks tired, and sad, and there's an edge of relief to his features, his eyes softening the closer you get to your apartment. You wonder how much sleep he's actually gotten over the last few months.

Not much, by the look of him.

The man doesn't know when to stop. Or when to say no.

It's part of the reason you fell for him. He's always trying to protect his men, his friends, his family. He puts others before himself, and you love him for it. You'd never ask him to change, but you do wish he'd take a little more time for himself.

Wolffe's eyes drift over, and they catch yours.

"What are you looking at?" he asks, his brows drawn together.

You shake your head and look away, back out the windshield.

"Nothing,” you reply. “Just wondering when the last time was that you slept."

He snorts and looks back out the window.

"That's an easy one. I can't remember,” he answers, and you frown.

"That's exactly what I was afraid of."

He chuckles as he turns his attention back outside, and you let out a sigh, shaking your head. He's impossible.

"Well, then I'm making sure you sleep tonight," you state with finality, a plan beginning to form in your mind.

Wolffe raises his brow and glances over.

"Oh, are you now?"

You nod, your gaze fixed on the street in front of you. The turn to your apartment complex is coming up, but instead of turning left, you fly straight past it. Wolffe’s thumb stops moving on your knee, and you bite back a smile as you continue on, heading towards the city center. He doesn’t say anything, but he sits up straighter, his gaze narrowing as he watches the cityscape pass.

"Yes. It's the doctor's orders," you say, giving him a sidelong glance.

Wolffe lets out a hum and sits back, his thumb starting its gentle movements again.

"Alright, then," he concedes. "Where are we going?"

"To get some food. I'm starving, and I can't sleep on an empty stomach," you reply, and Wolffe grunts.

"So we're stopping for a snack? We have food at home," he points out, and you shake your head.

"No, we're going to the best restaurant in the city."

"What restaurant is open at two in the morning?"

You look over, grinning, and Wolffe gives you a flat stare.

"Wolffe, my love, it's Coruscant. There's always something open."

Wolffe doesn't respond, but he does squeeze your knee, his thumb resuming its movement, and a shiver runs through you. He knows just how to work you, and even though the two of you are dead tired and the adrenaline has faded, it doesn't mean he isn't going to try and get his way.

But you have your ways, too.

You reach over and place a hand on top of his. He laces his fingers with yours and brings your hand to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.

"Wolffe," you warn, but it's a weak attempt.

"Cyare," he answers, a knowing smirk on his lips. It’s barely there, a twitch of his mouth and a crinkle in the corner of his eyes, but it's there, and you know it's not going anywhere anytime soon. Not when the two of you finally have the chance to spend the night alone together and not under the watchful eye of his men. Or worse, Master Plo.

"Sorry, Commander,” you tease, your eyes flicking over to meet his. He raises a brow, and you grin. "Food first. Then we can talk."

"You drive a hard bargain, Doctor," he replies, but he doesn't sound bothered in the least.

"That's why you love me."

"Hmm, that's not the only reason," he murmurs. You give his hand a squeeze, and he brings it to his mouth again, placing a kiss against the inside of your wrist.

"I'm sure there are many. You'll have to tell me later," you say, feeling a blush spread across your cheeks.

"Count on it."

You turn another corner and drift down into a district lit with neon signs and glowing advertisements. It's busier here than the other places you've passed through tonight, and the sidewalks are filled with people. You’re forced to stop the speeder as a large group crosses the street, their laughter and loud conversations reaching you in the safety of the vehicle, and the two of you watch, waiting for them to pass.

“What are you planning?” Wolffe asks as he makes eye contact with two men who step too close to the speeder. They catch sight of him and immediately stop, backing away. He smirks.

"To surprise you," you answer, and he huffs.

"I don't like surprises," he replies, his eyes drifting over the crowd.

"Yes, you do," you say with a disbelieving laugh. You can name a few surprises he’s enjoyed in the time you’ve known him, and not all of them were of the sexual variety. Just most. "You just hate the idea that there might be a variable outside your control."

"I've got enough of those to deal with already," he grumbles, and you squeeze his hand.

"You're off duty. Just enjoy the evening."

He huffs, but you can see the corner of his mouth pull up, the dimple on his cheek becoming more pronounced.

"I'll admit, I've enjoyed some of the surprises you've come up with,” he says, giving you a sidelong glance.

A blush spreads over your cheeks, and Wolffe lets out a low chuckle. You shake your head and try to hide your smile.

"You're terrible," you murmur as you shift the speeder into gear.

"Maybe, but at least I'm honest," he replies, giving your thigh a squeeze.

"That's something I can't argue with."

The crowd clears, and you take off, zipping between the other speeders on the road. You turn and head towards the parking area, and the moment the speeder is secured, Wolffe is out of the vehicle and around to your side, opening the door and helping you out.

“What a gentleman," you tease, and Wolffe huffs, shutting the door and pulling you close.

"Don't go telling anyone. I have a reputation to uphold," he murmurs, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss against the corner of your mouth.

"I wouldn't dream of it," you whisper, tilting your head and catching his lips in a gentle kiss. He lets out a soft groan and his arms tighten, pulling you closer, his mouth opening slightly, his tongue darting out to swipe against your lower lip. You pull away, and Wolffe chases your lips, capturing them in a soft, brief kiss.

You chuckle and rest your hands against his chest, pushing him away. He goes with a slight stumble, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, his thumbs rubbing in gentle circles.

"Come on. I'm hungry, and you're drunk."

"Am not," he mutters, but the way his eyes flick back down to your lips says otherwise.

"Oh, you're not, huh? That's not why you're so affectionate right now?"

"No,” he grumbles, his lips pulled down into a pout. You snort a laugh, and he rolls his eyes, his expression relaxing. He leans forward and presses his forehead against yours. "All right, fine, maybe I'm a little drunk. But not so drunk that I can't keep up with you."

"We'll see about that," you say, pulling back. You let your hands linger for a moment before taking a step back and turning, making your way towards the restaurant.

The door chimes as the two of you step inside, and you’re immediately faced with a line of patrons snaking up to the counter and staff bustling back and forth. Wolffe makes a face as he scans the room.

"What is this place?” he asks, and you can hear the slight judgment in his tone.

“This is a restaurant, Wolffe," you reply, trying to hold back a grin. "I figured the best way to cure a hangover is with some greasy food. And you’ve never had a burger, so I figured we could fix that tonight."

"A what?"

You roll your eyes and take his hand, tugging him into the line. He lets you drag him along, and as soon as you find a spot, you turn and explain. Your hands run over his chest, and his come up, his fingers curling around your wrists, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin on the inside.

“It’s like a nerf steak, but better. It's a mix of ground meats, and there's this bread called a bun, and you put all these other toppings and stuff on it,” you say as you bounce up on your toes, bringing your face close to his. “It's good, trust me. You'll love it."

"So you're telling me this thing," he starts, gesturing with his head towards the board where all the food options are listed, "has all the same nutrients as a nerf steak, but the texture is completely different, and the flavor is...better?"

“Pretty much," you answer, giving him a wide grin.

Wolffe doesn't look convinced, eyeing the board with barely veiled skepticism. A laugh escapes you, and his gaze snaps down to you, his eyes narrowing.

"What?"

"Nothing, you just look so confused right now. I've never seen that look on your face before," you reply, grinning.

"I don't think I've ever been this confused in my life," he states, turning his attention back to the menu. His brow furrows. "What the kriff is a 'tater tot'?"

A loud laugh escapes you, and the sound draws a few eyes. You cover your mouth, trying to quiet yourself, and Wolffe shoots you a glare, his cheeks turning pink.

"Sorry, I'm sorry, but it's just so funny seeing you like this," you explain, and his face softens. He reaches out and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side.

"Well, I'm glad one of us is enjoying themselves."

"Oh, come on, you're having fun,” you murmur, poking him in the ribs. He jerks, and his glare returns, but his arm doesn't move. You laugh and wrap an arm around his middle, patting his stomach. "Don't worry. I'm going to order for us, and you're going to eat what I get. And then we're going to go back to my place, and I'm going to tuck you in."

Wolffe snorts, but the smile on his lips and the way he relaxes in your arms says it all.

"Oh, is that all?" he hums, and you can feel his hand sliding up and down your back.

"Mhm," you tease, running your hand up his chest, your fingers playing with the buttons on his fatigues. "That's it."

"Just tucking me in, huh?"

"Yup. Nothing else," you say, giving him a smile that is anything but innocent.

Wolffe's eyes narrow, and his fingers tighten against your hip, the pressure firm and steady. He's considering his next move, and judging by the look on his face, he's already made up his mind.

You take a step back and reach up, adjusting his collar, smoothing it out. You take your time, letting your hands run over his shoulders and chest, feeling the planes of his muscles. He holds still, watching you with dark eyes. You lean in, and he holds his breath, waiting for your next move.

You pat his shoulder, giving him a small smile.

"Well, maybe if you’re really good, I'll read to you," you tease, giving him a wink before turning to look at the menu, standing on your toes to see over the crowd.

Wolffe huffs behind you, and his hand comes up, wrapping around your waist.

"You're mean," he whispers in your ear, his breath tickling your skin.

"Mean? How so?"

"You're being mean to the man who just got out of a drunken brawl in your honor," he murmurs, and his hand tightens around your waist, his fingers pressing into your flesh.

"Well, when you put it like that," you begin, turning and looking up at him. You tilt your head and give him a sweet smile. "Would the man who got into a drunken brawl in my honor care for a milkshake?"

Wolffe looks down at you and sighs, shaking his head. His lips turn up in the corner.

"I suppose he wouldn't be opposed to the idea."

"Good, because I'm getting you a jorganfruit one," you answer as you fall back on the soles of your feet.

"Is it good?"

"So good," you say, nodding enthusiastically. His mouth twitches into a smile, and his arm slides up, wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you close.

"Then I guess I can't say no," he replies, and he presses a soft kiss to the side of your head.

You sigh and lean into him, his warmth surrounding you. Your head falls against his shoulder, and his arm tightens around your waist, holding you close.

It's the first time in weeks the two of you have been able to just exist, and you take a moment to relish the feeling of his body pressed against yours, the warmth of his breath on your hair. You can feel the eyes of the patrons on you, a few even openly staring, watching as if they're trying to solve some great mystery. It's not often they see a clone officer around here, especially one as decorated as Wolffe.

You're sure it's not every day they see one with his arms wrapped around a woman, holding her close, his eyes filled with nothing but warmth, either.

You can't blame them. The two of you are quite a sight, and while you know Wolffe's presence tends to make people nervous, you hope they can see him the way you do.

Strong, but soft.

Fierce, but tender.

Warm, and protective.

You tilt your head and look up, finding his eyes fixed on the crowd. He's scanning the room, his gaze roaming over the patrons, assessing the threats. It's a force of habit, and one that you're sure he'll never shake, no matter how many times you remind him that he's allowed to relax. Not that you can blame him. Tonight was a perfect example of the dangers of the world, and while you are grateful for the protectiveness he and his brothers show, you hope he knows that he can be vulnerable, too.

You reach up and place your hand against his cheek, gently guiding his gaze back down to you. You offer a soft smile, and you watch as the furrow in his brow fades, his features relaxing as his attention settles on you.

The line moves, and before long, you’re placing your order. Wolffe stands behind your shoulder, watching the man behind the counter as he takes your order with an unflinching intensity that you've grown accustomed to over the last year. He doesn't move, and he doesn't blink, not until the man hands you a cup and the receipt.

"Enjoy your food," the man says, shooting Wolffe a wary look.

Wolffe nods, but his eyes stay fixed on the man, watching as he turns and moves into the kitchen.

"Wolffe," you whisper, elbowing him.

He huffs, and a hand moves to rub at his side.

"What?"

"You were being rude."

"Was not," he mutters, his brows drawing together.

You raise an eyebrow, and his frown deepens.

"Fine, maybe I was," he says, turning his attention to the packed seating area. He scans the room again, his eyes moving from table to table, studying the occupants. They're mostly couples, a few groups of friends, but the place is busy, and Wolffe's unease seems to grow.

"See anything interesting?" you ask, bumping him with your hip.

"No," he replies as his eyes come back to rest on you. He leans down, brushing his lips against your cheek. "Just making sure no one gets any ideas."

You laugh and shake your head.

"No one is going to bother me, Wolffe."

"After the day we’ve had, I'm not taking any chances,” he grumbles, and you turn, stepping closer and looping your arms around his waist. He doesn't hesitate to pull you into his embrace, and the two of you stand there, watching as the food is prepared and the people come and go.

When your number is finally called, Wolffe's arm stays locked around your waist, his grip tight and sure as he guides the two of you towards the exit.

The walk back to the speeder is uneventful, but the air is cool, and the sky is clear, the stars shining bright overhead. You lean into his side, and he turns, pressing his lips to your hair, holding you close as the two of you walk back.

The streets are still busy, and the sidewalks are lined with people, the sounds of conversation and laughter floating around you. You can see the neon signs of the restaurants and bars that line the streets, the bright colors and flashing lights a sharp contrast to the calm night.

The two of you come to a stop outside the speeder, and Wolffe moves to open the door for you, but you skirt around him, snatching the bag of food from his hand. You hop onto the hood of the speeder and turn, grinning as he glares at you.

"Really?"

"I'm hungry," you say, shrugging and opening the bag.

He huffs, his lips pulling into a frown.

"And you expect me to sit here and eat on top of the speeder?"

"I don’t expect you to do anything. I'm going to sit here and eat my food," you state, and you take a bite of a fry, making a show of letting out a pleased moan.

Wolffe watches, and the longer he does, the more you can see the cracks forming. He glances around the parking lot, his gaze shifting from one car to another, his eyes flicking over every darkened corner and shadow. When he's satisfied no one is watching, he walks over, his steps heavy. He steps between your legs until his thighs are pressed against the hood, and he leans forward, his hands coming to rest on either side of your hips.

You swallow and look up at him, and he raises a brow. His face is impassive, but his eyes are alight with humor. You take another bite and grin, and his expression softens, the corner of his mouth turning up in the barest hint of a smile.

"Well, are you going to share, or not?" he asks, tilting his head.

"Hmm, I suppose I could," you begin, and you reach into the bag and pull out a fry, bringing it up to his lips. "Open."

Wolffe hesitates for a moment before leaning in, his mouth parting. You push the fry in, and his lips close, his teeth sinking into the potato. You try not to stare as he chews, his mouth moving slowly. He's not trying to be sexy, but the way his jaw moves, the way his lips press together, has you entranced, and a shiver runs through you, heat pooling low in your stomach.

He swallows, and his tongue darts out, licking his lips.

"Good?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

"Decent," he answers, his gaze fixed on your lips.

"Just decent?"

"Mhm. I could do without the grease."

"That's half the point,” you say, laughing softly.

“You’re a doctor, shouldn’t you be telling me not to eat garbage food like this?"

"No. I'm the Chief Medical Officer, not your mother. You can eat what you want," you retort, and you pull out a burger. You carefully unwrap it and offer it to Wolffe. "Eat this."

Wolffe stares at the burger in your hand, his expression flat.

"Why are you looking at it like it's poisoned?"

"Because it might be."

"Oh Force," you mutter, and you pick up a fry and shove it into his mouth. "Eat. Both. Or so help me, I will drag your sorry ass back to the infirmary and have the droids hook you up to a nutrient drip."

He gives you a look, but he takes the burger from your hand and bites down, chewing slowly. His expression softens, his eyes widening, and his eyebrows lift as he takes another bite.

"You're right," he says, swallowing. "It's good."

"I told you. I always know best."

"You're impossible," he mutters around his food.

"And yet you're still here."

"Where else would I be?" he asks, giving you a sidelong glance.

You can see the affection in his eye, the way his cheeks turn pink, and the smile that threatens to break out. He tries to hide it, but his walls have always been easy for you to see through, and you know him better than anyone.

"Oh, I don't know, off chasing after a new woman," you tease, and his expression turns sour.

"Don't be stupid," he grumbles, taking another bite.

"Well, why wouldn't you?"

"Because I have a beautiful, intelligent, infuriating woman who loves me right in front of me. And I love her," he states, the last words coming out a little softer than the others.

You blink, and he blushes, turning away.

"So that's why I'm here," he finishes. He reaches for another fry, popping it into his mouth.

A grin spreads across your face despite your best efforts to stop it, your cheeks warming. Wolffe never talks about his feelings. Not in the way most people do. He's a man of few words, and when he does open up, it's never as flowery or sweet as his brothers. But the things he says, the small moments when he lets his guard down and tells you the things he wants, or how he feels, are so much more meaningful.

He's told you he loves you before, but it's not something the two of you say often. You know it, and you think it, every moment you're together. The fact that the two of you even have the chance to have moments like these, where you can just be yourselves and not the faces people expect, is enough.

"I love you too," you say, your smile widening. Wolffe meets your gaze, his eyes soft.

"I know," he murmurs.

"Good. Because I'm going to tell everyone you said that."

"Don't you dare.”

You give him a shrug, and he scowls, taking another bite of his burger. You chuckle and reach for another fry, popping it in your mouth and chewing, looking out over the lot. It's a nice night, and you take a moment to enjoy the feeling of the breeze on your skin, the coolness a stark contrast to the warmth of the man between your legs.

You can't help the smile that spreads across your lips as you watch Wolffe, his cheeks stuffed with food. He's enjoying himself, and while he'd never admit it, the food is helping him sober up. His cheeks are less flushed, and his eyes are brighter, less hazy.

He'll sleep well tonight.

Wolffe catches your eye and smirks, and you smile back. The two of you finish your meal in comfortable silence, the occasional laugh or comment passing between the two of you. By the time the food is gone, the lot is all but empty, the streets quiet and still.

"That was good," he admits, crumpling the wrappers and tossing them into the bag.

"You know, that's what I said about the nerf steak, and the dumplings, and the soup, and the fish, and—"

Wolffe huffs and places his hands on either side of your hips, leaning down and nuzzling your neck. You squirm, trying to push him away, but he's stronger than you, and all it does is bring him closer.

"Alright, alright, I get it, you've got good taste,” he murmurs, and you giggle as he nips at your jaw. "Now, are we going home or not?"

You shiver, and a smirk pulls at his mouth, pressed against your skin. He knows exactly what he's doing, and you don't know whether you want to slap him or kiss him.

You opt for the latter.

You slide your fingers through his hair, the dark strands silky under your touch. He lets out a quiet groan and tilts his head, his hands moving to grip your hips. His lips are warm and insistent, and the faint taste of jorganfruit lingers on his tongue as it runs over your bottom lip. You let him, and he kisses you slowly, his hands running over your back, pulling you closer until there's not a sliver of space left between the two of you.

The two of you make out in the parking lot for longer than you should, your mouths moving lazily, your bodies flush against each other. Neither of you can bring yourselves to care that anyone could walk up and see the Commander of the 104th kissing his medical officer like a lovesick teenager, and neither can you bring yourselves to stop.

If anything, you think Wolffe is enjoying the display a bit too much. His kisses become bolder, more consuming, and his hands wander, running up and down your sides and over your ass. He presses until your back is flat against the hood of the speeder, and his thigh bullies its way between your legs, nudging the apex of your thighs. He doesn't do anything more, doesn't grind or move against you, but his intention is clear.

You pull back, and Wolffe makes a sound of protest, leaning forward and chasing your lips. You laugh and place a hand against his chest, gently pushing him back.

"Wolffe," you say, trying to put as much authority into your voice as possible. It's not easy when you can feel the warmth of his thigh between your legs, his breath hot against your mouth.

He doesn't move.

"Wolffe," you repeat, your voice dropping into a whine.

He doesn't answer. Instead, he tilts his head, pressing a series of slow, lingering kisses against your neck. They start behind your ear, his lips dragging over your throat, stubble scratching your sensitive skin. He's gentle, his touch almost reverent, and you let out a soft moan, arching into him.

He takes advantage of your distraction to move his thigh, pressing it snugly against your center. Your head falls back, and your hands curl around his arms, squeezing. You can feel the muscle flex beneath your fingertips, his strength evident even under the layers of clothing.

Wolffe presses another kiss to your skin, his teeth grazing your throat, and you know that if he doesn't stop, the two of you are going to end up doing something in the middle of a parking lot that will have you seeing Fox for the second time tonight.

"Wolffe," you breathe, and this time, it's more of a gasp than a command.

"Cyare," he rumbles as he pulls back, his eyes dark and filled with something you know very well.

"Take me home."

His eyes narrow, and his hands tighten around your waist. He's not going to take no for an answer.

"Or we can stay here, and I can bend you over the hood," he murmurs, and your face grows hot.

"Wolffe!"

He chuckles, the sound low and gravelly, and his hands run over your back, smoothing out the wrinkles in your clothes.

"Just saying," he says, giving you a teasing smile. You push him away with a hand on his chest, and he goes willingly, backing away from the hood and offering you his hand.

"You're terrible," you chide as you take it, sliding off the hood and straight into his embrace.

"Maybe," he murmurs, and his hands settle low on your waist, holding tight. "But you like it."

You roll your eyes, but you can't deny the fact that you very much do like it, and the fact that the man holding you is the only person you've ever felt like this with. He's the one who can bring you to the edge of your control with just a few touches, a few words, a kiss.

He's the one who makes you feel wanted, and desired, and loved.

He's the one who holds your heart, and the knowledge of that makes your head spin, a dizzying mix of arousal and affection washing over you.

"Let's go home," he whispers, and the look in his eyes says everything.

He's thinking the same thing, and his control is waning, the tension between the two of you thick and heavy.

You nod, and Wolffe wastes no time. He guides you around the front of the speeder, opening the door and helping you inside. He takes the bag from you and tosses it into a nearby can before sliding into the passenger seat. You turn to ask if he's ready, but the question dies on your lips, replaced by a squeak as he pulls you into a kiss, his hands cupping your face, his fingers tangled in your hair.

It's brief, his lips brushing yours once, twice, before he's pulling away, leaving you breathless and wanting.

"Thank you for dinner," he whispers against your lips.

"You're welcome," you reply, breathless and smiling.

"But if we don't leave now, I'm going to fuck you in the backseat, and then we're really going to be in trouble," he growls, and you shiver, heat pooling between your thighs. He pulls back and gives you a look that says he means business, and you bite back a whine as he settles back into his seat, fastening the harness.

"Let's go," he orders.

You're quick to obey, starting the engine and taking off. The ride back is silent, but the tension between the two of you is tangible. It's heavy and demanding, and all you can think about is the man sitting beside you, the way his mouth feels, and his hands, and how good it's going to feel when he finally has you alone.

Wolffe’s hand, heavy and warm, comes to rest on your thigh.

You swallow and press your foot down a little harder.

The city drifts by, and it isn't long before you're flying down a street lined with artificial trees, their branches reaching towards the sky. A few blocks down, and you're turning, entering the parking area below your building.

You park and kill the engine, and the two of you sit in silence for a moment. The lights from the streetlamps filter through the windshield, casting the interior in a soft glow. You take a deep breath, and Wolffe turns, his eyes catching yours.

“Are you ready to go inside, cyare, or do you want to do this here instead?" he asks, his voice low and gravelly.

A blush spreads across your cheeks, but you can't find the words to respond. Instead, you unbuckle your seatbelt, and his mouth twists up in the corner, a smirk spreading across his lips.

"Alright then, let's go," he murmurs, and his hand slips from your thigh.

He's out of the speeder and around the front, opening the door before you can even reach for the handle. He helps you out, his hand steady and warm as he pulls you into his arms. He closes the door behind you, and then he's walking, leading you towards the lobby.

You follow him inside, and the man at the front desk does a double take, his eyes wide as they land on the pair of you. You offer him a small wave, and he waves back, his face slack with surprise.

"Evening,” Wolffe greets, low and gruff. His hand finds the small of your back, gently guiding you to the lift.

“Have a good night,” you call over your shoulder as the two of you pass.

"You too, Doctor," the man answers, his gaze still fixed on Wolffe.

You press the button for the lift, and it comes to a stop, the doors sliding open. Wolffe wastes no time in ushering you inside and hitting the button for your floor. He stands close, his hand still pressed firmly against the small of your back.

The doors slide shut, and Wolffe steps in front of you, his eyes intense as they meet yours. His hand moves, sliding over the curve of your ass, cupping and squeezing. You let out a surprised squeak, and he huffs, a smirk twisting his lips.

"What? You thought I'd be able to wait until we got upstairs?" he murmurs as his head dips, his lips hovering a hair's breadth away from yours.

"I thought you were going to try," you whisper, trying to hold back a shiver.

"Mm, no. Not tonight.”

You can feel the warmth of his breath on your lips, the closeness making your head spin. His hands move over your body, and his eyes roam over your features, his gaze heated. He looks hungry, his desire clear in the way his eyes linger on your lips as you reach out, your hands moving to the buttons of his uniform.

"I think I can agree with that," you murmur, undoing the first button. Your thumb runs over the small patch of skin bared at the hollow of his throat.

Wolffe grunts, his eyes fluttering shut. You can feel the shudder that runs through him, and his hands come up, his fingers wrapping around your wrists. He doesn't push them away, though, instead, holding them loosely as you undo another button, then another.

You take your time, savoring the feeling of his skin beneath your fingertips. You know he's struggling, the need for control warring with the urge to give in. He doesn't often let himself lose control, always focused on the task at hand, but tonight, he's off duty, and the man between the lines of command and the soldier has shown his face.

And he's desperate.

The lift dings, and the doors slide open, the sudden noise startling the two of you. Wolffe's grip tightens as he lets out a frustrated sigh.

"Fucking hell," he mutters, turning and guiding you into the hall.

You chuckle, and his hand squeezes your hip, his expression darkening.

"You think this is funny, huh?" he growls, his voice dropping an octave.

You bite your lip, but the grin spreads across your face, the smile bright and full. Wolffe's eyes narrow, and a hand moves, sliding over the curve of your ass. A yelp escapes you as his fingers dig into your flesh, the sensation shooting straight between your legs.

"Oh, it's funny," he mutters, shaking his head.

He pushes you forward, his hand guiding the two of you towards your door. It's only a few steps, but it feels like a mile, his touch firm, the promise of what's to come clear in the way his grip tightens the closer the two of you get. You can feel his presence looking behind you as you unlock the door, your hands shaky and fumbling.

He doesn't say anything, but the heat in his eyes is unmistakable, his desire evident. He's going to make you pay for that smile, and while a small part of you is nervous, the rest is excited, eager to see how he's going to get his revenge.

You open the door, and before you can even step inside, his arm is looping around your waist, lifting you off the floor and into his arms. He steps into the entryway and kicks the door closed, the slam echoing in the otherwise empty apartment.

"You're a fucking tease," he grumbles, kicking off his boots.

"Me? A tease?" you ask, incredulous. You squirm in his arms, and his grip tightens. "Who was the one who couldn't keep his hands to himself the entire night? Or the one who tried to seduce me in the parking lot?"

"You're one to talk. If you weren't such a damn menace, we would have been in here hours ago,” Wolffe counters, his grip tightening around your waist. He steps around his discarded boots and carries you into the kitchen, flicking one of the cabinet lights on with his shoulder. You kick off your heels as you go.

"You know, I think I remember you being the one to pin me to the hood of the speeder,” you point out, and you raise a brow, giving him a look.

Wolffe sets you down on the edge of the counter and places his hands on either side of your hips, leaning close. You lean back, and his hands slide over your thighs, gripping and pulling until his hips are pressed between your knees.

"Well, I'm not sorry,” he says as he dips his head, nuzzling your neck. “It was the best part of my night."

"It was?"

"Mhm."

"Better than the fight?"

"Much better," he answers, his breath hot against your skin. His teeth graze the spot just behind your ear, and you shiver. Your legs wrap around his hips, and your hands find his shoulders, curling around the fabric of his uniform.

"That's high praise, coming from the Commander," you tease, tilting your head and allowing him more access.

Wolffe chuckles and presses a kiss to the hollow beneath your ear.

"Mm, well, the Commander likes a good fight, but the man prefers spending his time like this," he murmurs, his hands moving up, sliding under the hem of your shirt.

His fingers trail along your sides, running over your skin in lazy circles, the touch firm. You can feel him everywhere, the warmth of his hands, his lips, the way his hips press against yours. The outline of his cock, hard and insistent, brushes the inside of your thigh, and you shudder, pulling him closer.

"Like this, huh?"

"Mhm."

"And just what does the man have in mind?" you ask, biting back a moan as his hands dip lower, running over the curve of your ass. He squeezes before continuing on, fingertips dancing over the tops of your thighs until they settle between them, his thumbs rubbing firm circles into your skin.

He lets out a thoughtful hum, the sound rumbling in his chest, his breath hot against your skin. It takes all your self-control to keep still, but the anticipation is delicious, the knowledge that he's going to do whatever he wants, and you're going to let him, a heady rush.

Wolffe pulls back, his gaze roaming over your face. Even his clouded cybernetic eye can't hide the lust, the way his eyes have darkened, the black almost completely consuming the brown of his iris. His cheeks are flushed as he studies you, and his lips are red and slightly swollen from where he's been biting them, trying to hold back the noises he wants to make.

"What does the man have in mind? Let me see," he murmurs, his fingers curling around the fabric. He pops the button of your pants and pats your thigh, and you obey, lifting yourself so he can tug the clothing down your legs. He drops them to the floor, his gaze returning to yours.

"Well?" you ask, a smile playing on your lips.

Wolffe doesn't answer. Instead, he reaches out and cups your sex, the fabric of your underwear a thin barrier between the heat of his palm and your aching core. His touch is gentle, barely there, and yet the pressure is enough to send a spark through you, your skin prickling. You swallow, and his lips turn up, the hint of a smile spreading across his features.

"Let's see," he begins, his finger tracing a line over the damp fabric, drawing a gasp from your throat. "First, I'm going to undress you."

His hands move, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of your underwear, fingertips sliding over the smooth expanse of your skin. He pulls the fabric down slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. He watches as you shift and shiver, his expression calm, the only sign that he's not unaffected the slight tremble in his hands.

"Then, I'm going to taste you, get you ready for my cock," he continues, his voice rough.

His touch is slow, methodical, the drag of his knuckles and fingertips torturous. Your underwear slides down, and you let out a small whine, the fabric bunching around your thighs.

"And when you're all nice and wet, and you're begging for me, I'm going to fill you up, and fuck you, nice and slow," he growls, his hands running over your legs, sliding your underwear down and tossing them to the floor.

Your face grows hot, the blush spreading across your cheeks and down your neck, the heat creeping down until it settles low in your stomach. Wolffe's eyes track the movement, and he finds the hem of your shirt, pulling the fabric up and over your head, his hands immediately cupping your breasts over your bra.

"What do you think about that, cyare?" he asks, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, the fabric rough against your sensitive flesh.

You bite back a moan, and his brows raise, expectant. You know what he wants, and you can't bring yourself to deny him, not when his hands are already on your body, his fingers working the clasp of your bra.

"Yes, please," you whimper, reaching up and sliding your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

"See? That wasn't so hard," he says, his lips twitching. He unclasps the garment, and it falls open, the fabric sliding down and joining the rest of your clothes on the floor.

You're left bare before him, exposed, and Wolffe takes a moment to drink in the sight. His hands come up, his fingers tracing the curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder. They run over the swell of your breast, his touch feather-light, the contrast between the cool air and the warmth of his skin raising goosebumps. He continues down, over the plane of your stomach, the ridges of your ribs, until he comes to rest against the flare of your hip.

"Perfect," he breathes, his gaze returning to yours.

His mouth is mere inches from yours, his breath ghosting over your lips. He doesn't move, and neither do you, the two of you locked in an intense stare. You're waiting, wanting, and it's a battle of wills to see who will give in first.

You lose.

Your head tilts forward, and Wolffe is there, meeting you halfway. His mouth closes over yours, the kiss gentle, tender, nothing like the rough, demanding way his hands grip your hips, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh.

It's the opposite of the words that tumble from his lips, the things he says, the filthy promises whispered between heated kisses. But it’s so him, the juxtaposition of the gentle and the rough, the soft and the demanding.

It's everything, and it's all you want, all you need.

Wolffe groans as your lips part, his tongue darting out, tasting the sweetness of your mouth. It's slow, his pace measured as he licks his way inside, his movements controlled and steady.

"You have too many clothes on," you murmur against his lips, and Wolffe huffs, pulling back.

"I guess I do," he says, his eyes roaming over your body, lingering on the curves and dips.

His gaze is so heated that it's nearly palpable, the intensity bringing a blush to your skin. He steps back and takes a deep breath, and you squirm as he stares, taking in the sight of you perched on the counter, spread out like an offering.

He reaches for his uniform, popping the buttons, his movements slow. The fabric parts, revealing the tight white undershirt, the thin material straining over the broad planes of his chest, dark hair peeking out from the collar.

You bite your lip, watching as he shrugs off the outer layer, his eyes fixed on you. The fabric slides down his arms, his muscles flexing as he works. His movements are fluid, easy, but each one is deliberate, his gaze never leaving yours.

"Wolffe," you groan, biting back a frustrated noise.

"What?" he asks, his tone innocent.

He drops his shirt to the floor, his fingers hooking into the fabric of his undershirt. He peels it up, slowly, his eyes shining with amusement as he exposes his toned stomach, the planes of his chest, and finally, the broad expanse of his shoulders.

"Are you in a hurry, cyare?"

"A little," you admit, the words coming out breathy.

Wolffe grins and steps closer, his hands finding your knees. He pushes them apart with ease, his palms sliding over your skin, his touch firm.

"I guess I can't blame you," he begins, his gaze drifting down to where your thighs have parted. "I mean, look at you."

"Wolffe, come on," you mutter, trying to close your legs.

His hands move, holding you in place. You don't stand a chance against his strength, the muscle of his arms rippling as he pushes you back, his palms running over your inner thighs.

"Shhh, let me enjoy the view," he chides, his eyes moving over your exposed skin.

You can feel his gaze like a physical touch, his eyes drinking in the sight of you, naked and bare before him. His hands run over your thighs, and then his thumbs are dipping into the apex, spreading you open.

"Look at how pretty you are," he rumbles as he brings his thumb up, running the pad gently over your clit, his touch barely there.

A whimper escapes, the contact not nearly enough to satisfy. You want more, but he doesn't give it, his thumb moving lower, dipping into the heat of your entrance. You shiver, and Wolffe makes a pleased noise, his eyes flicking up to meet yours.

"And I haven't even done anything yet," he teases, his thumb pressing into the sensitive flesh, circling your opening.

"Please, Wolffe," you whine, and his brows raise, the corner of his mouth turning up.

"Oh, I like the sound of that," he murmurs, his eyes darkening. "Please, what?"

You glare, and Wolffe smirks, his gaze dropping back to the apex of your thighs. He presses his thumb in further, his knuckle catching against the edge, and the contact sends a shiver down your spine. You bite your lip and squirm, heat coiling low in your stomach.

"Please, what? Use your words," he murmurs, his tone dripping with saccharine sweetness.

"Stop teasing," you hiss, trying to press down against his hand.

Wolffe's lips pull into a frown, and his grip tightens around your hips. He yanks you towards the edge, his hands keeping you from sliding off, and you cry out, a spike of arousal shooting through you at the rough treatment.

”Try again," he says, his tone dropping an octave.

You take a shaky breath and glare, and Wolffe's expression grows darker, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your hips. He's waiting, his eyes fixed on yours, the weight of his gaze heavy and expectant.

"Please, just...I want—"

"You want, what?"

"I want your mouth," you breathe, heat rushing to your face.

Wolffe hums, his thumbs rubbing circles against the inside of your thighs. The gesture is meant to be soothing, but it does nothing to quell the ache that has settled between your legs. He watches, waiting, and when he's satisfied with the desperation that's seeped into your expression, his lips curl up into a smirk.

"Good girl."

The praise sends a wave of warmth through you, and the blush spreads, creeping down your neck, the heat settling against your chest. Wolffe lets out a pleased rumble and leans forward, nuzzling your neck.

"That's what I wanted to hear," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on you, trailing slow, lingering kisses down the column of your throat. He pauses and sucks the sensitive skin between his teeth, biting and nibbling until a mark blooms beneath his lips.

He continues down, his mouth moving over the swell of your breast, his tongue flicking out, licking a path between the mounds. He pays the same attention to each one, his lips closing over your nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh.

A moan escapes, the sound loud in the silence of the apartment. Wolffe huffs a laugh and presses a kiss against your sternum, his hand sliding over your waist, his fingers dancing across your stomach.

"Let me hear you," he says as his lips drift lower, his tongue trailing over the line of your ribcage, his stubble scraping your skin.

He kneels, and the sight alone is almost enough to send you spiraling. Wolffe is the very picture of devotion, his hands warm and reverent as they run over your skin, his mouth gentle and sure as it moves over the soft expanse of your stomach. He presses a kiss just above the line of your hip, and you can feel the way his lips curl up, his eyes fixed on you.

"So beautiful," he breathes, his voice muffled against your skin.

His words are sweet, but the hand that grips your thigh, pushing it back, is anything but. It's demanding and firm, a wordless order to spread your legs. You obey, and the grin on his face is wicked, his eyes flashing.

"There we go, just like that," he murmurs as he leans in, his nose brushing against the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh.

His lips trail higher, his mouth warm and wet as he sucks the tender skin between his teeth. You can't help but squirm, the sharp sting of his teeth followed by the soothing sweep of his tongue sending a rush through you. When he sucks another mark onto the opposite side, you let out a whine, your hips bucking against his grasp.

"Don't move," he growls, his voice low and dangerous.

You still, the commanding tone enough to make you freeze. You've seen the way Wolffe can get when he's in the mood, and while it's fun to tease him, to rile him up, there’s something about the way he’s looking at you that says tonight isn't the time.

Tonight, he's not going to let you get away with a single thing.

"Yes, Commander," you whisper, and the sound that escapes him is sinful.

"That's my girl," he rumbles. His tongue darts out, sliding over the skin. "I knew you'd listen."

He gives you a few more languid kisses, his mouth moving slowly, deliberately, working his way up until his lips are brushing the apex of your thigh. Finally, the first kiss lands, a soft brush against your clit, the touch feather-light and barely there. You bite back a groan, your head falling back, but you keep still.

"Good girl," he praises, and you can feel the smirk against your skin as he presses another kiss, his lips dragging over the sensitive bud.

The feeling sends a spark of heat through you, the praise mixing with the gentle drag of his lips. He knows exactly what you like, but he seems in no hurry to give it to you. Instead, he's content to tease, his tongue darting out, giving a few long, lazy licks before retreating.

He repeats the process, his tongue moving over you in slow, methodical strokes. He laps at your entrance, lapping up the wetness that's gathered, the taste of you filling his senses.

It's not enough.

Not nearly enough.

Wolffe pulls back and blows a stream of air against your heated skin, the coolness making you squirm.

"Wolffe," you whine. “Please."

"Shhh," he says, and his thumb comes up, rubbing small, gentle circles over your clit. "Let me taste you. I told you to stay still, didn't I?"

You don't answer, and he leans in, nipping at the soft flesh. You let out a squeak, the sound turning into a moan as he sucks on the spot, soothing the sting with his tongue.

"Cyare," he begins, and his voice is stern, his grip tight.

"I know," you mutter, forcing yourself to relax.

"That's better," Wolffe says as his hands move, trailing over the inside of your thighs. His touch is firm, his fingers tracing the path his lips just took, his palms spreading your thighs wider.

He doesn't keep you waiting long.

Wolffe's tongue drags a path from your entrance to the tip of your clit, the feeling so intense that you nearly miss the way his thumb hooks against the hood, exposing the sensitive bundle of nerves. The next lick is followed by the gentle pressure of his lips closing over the bud, his tongue swirling. It flicks over your clit, once, twice, before dipping lower, the tip sliding inside your entrance.

"Oh," you gasp, your hand flying to his head, tangling in the soft strands.

"Mm, so wet," Wolffe groans, and his tongue slips deeper, the muscle pressing against the silken walls.

He works you open, his tongue curling and twisting, fucking in and out, the wet sounds echoing in the room. You can't help the noises that spill from your lips, the moans and whines mingling with the sound of Wolffe's mouth as he devours you, his hands keeping your hips firmly pinned against the counter.

You're lost in the sensations, the feeling of his tongue, the pressure, the heat of his mouth, the way he groans as his head moves, his eyes fixed on you. Your fingers curl, tugging at his hair, and the vibration of his answering groan has your head falling back, the breath stuttering in your chest. Arousal pools heavily between your thighs, oozing over his tongue. He laps it up, his pace quickening, his nose brushing against your clit.

He fucks you on his tongue until you're dripping, and then he pulls back, his breathing harsh. The sound is obscene, the wet, sucking noise enough to make your face flush hot. You watch as his lips part, his tongue snaking out, licking up the mess you've made. He doesn't miss a single drop, his movements measured and thorough, his eyes fixed on yours.

"You're perfect," he murmurs, fingers tightening their hold.

You open your mouth to speak, but no words come out, the compliment taking you by surprise. You're still getting used to his more open displays of affection, the things he says when the two of you are alone. The Wolffe that the world sees is nothing like the man who kneels before you, the soft, gentle side that he saves just for you.

You reach out, and Wolffe's lips curl into a smile, his cheeks pink and warm under your palm. He leans into your touch, his eyes closing as your thumb brushes over the scarred ridge under his eye. The moment is tender, a stark contrast to the things he's said, the way his hands have moved, his grip firm.

He looks at peace, and the sight has your heart melting, a warmth spreading through you, pooling low in your stomach. Wolffe's eyes blink open, and the warmth turns into heat, the flames stoked by the hunger that's crept into his gaze.

He wants, and you want him to have.

"Wolffe," you begin, but the rest of the words are lost as his mouth closes over your clit.

He sucks the swollen bud between his lips, the pressure firm and steady. He's relentless, the flat of his tongue stroking the length, the tip flicking and swirling. You’re overwhelmed by the intensity, and there’s no time to brace yourself before two fingers slide home to the hilt and curl.

"Oh, fuck," you gasp, arching into him.

A satisfied grunt rumbles through his chest, the vibrations going straight to the apex of your thighs. The suddenness of the intrusion, coupled with the heat of his mouth, the drag of his tongue, is enough to send a hot wave of pleasure through you, and your toes curl, the first tingles of an orgasm building in the base of your spine.

"More," you beg, tugging at his hair.

Wolffe lets out a soft noise, something between a groan and a growl, and his hand moves, slipping from your hip and sliding under your ass. His fingers dig into the plump flesh, the touch firm. Your back arches, and he pushes you forward, tilting your hips.

You have no choice but to lean back on your elbows, his strength too much for you to fight. Your head falls back, your neck strained to look at him, but the new angle leaves you spread wide open, his lips sucking eagerly.

"Oh, fuck, yes, just like that," you whimper as the pressure builds, the sensation coiling low in your core and spreading along your thighs.

He's merciless, his tongue and fingers moving with purpose, and his hands guide your movements, pushing and pulling you, your body pliant beneath his touch. He's completely in control, the position allowing him to do whatever he wants, and the realization sends a fresh wave of arousal through you, a gush of wetness dripping down his fingers.

Wolffe doesn't seem to mind, his nose buried against your skin, his tongue working. The sounds that fill the air are obscene, the slick, wet noises mixing with the filthy moans and groans that fall from his lips.

"You're so good, Wolffe, so good," you praise, a strangled moan escaping as he presses his fingers in deep. He curls, rubbing them over the spongy tissue, his mouth closing over your clit.

Your words seem to spur him on, his movements growing bolder. His grip on your ass tightens, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. He's relentless, his tongue and fingers working in tandem, his rhythm unwavering.

The coil in the pit of your stomach grows tighter, the familiar pressure building until it threatens to break. Your legs come up, wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him close, and Wolffe obliges, his hand leaving your ass to press his arm over your hips, pinning you in place.

You let out a choked noise at the show of strength, the muscles of his arm flexing as he holds you down. Your mouth opens, but the only sound that escapes is a series of short, breathless gasps. The fire spreads, burning through you until you're a quivering mess. It's too much, the combination of his mouth and his fingers and the way he looks between your thighs, his eyes dark and filled with something akin to adoration.

It's the thought that breaks the dam.

His lips wrap around the bud of your clit, and the first flick of his tongue has you toppling over the edge, the pleasure bursting through you. Your head falls back, your eyes screwing shut, and a long, drawn-out moan leaves your lips. You can feel yourself gush around his fingers, and Wolffe groans, his fingers picking up speed. Your thighs clamp around his head, and your nails dig into his scalp, and you hold on, a choked sob escaping as your body writhes beneath him.

Wolffe doesn't slow. He fucks you through the waves, his mouth working, his fingers rubbing against your walls, drawing the pleasure out and coaxing another, smaller orgasm from you. It crashes over you in a burst of sparks behind your eyelids, shooting down to your fingers and making your toes curl.

It's only when your hips jerk away from his mouth, oversensitive, that he finally relents, pulling back with a wet pop.

"Fuck, cyare," he breathes, and his voice is hoarse, his breathing ragged. "So beautiful."

"Wolffe," you croak, unable to formulate a proper sentence. Your head spins, and you have to force yourself to breathe, to relax, your heart racing. The release has left you feeling drained, and all you can do is lay there, gasping and whimpering as Wolffe's tongue gently cleans the mess you've made.

He pulls away, a wicked smirk playing on his lips, his chin glistening with your release. He looks proud and a little smug, but the effect is ruined by the dazed look in his eyes, the way he leans into the hand that cups his cheek. You watch, transfixed, as he stands, gently maneuvering you until you’re sitting up, your back resting against the cupboards.

“Good girl, take a breath," he whispers, running his hands over your legs, gently massaging the tense muscles.

You obey, taking a deep, shuddering breath. The oxygen clears the fog, and when you finally open your eyes, it's to the sight of Wolffe, his hands undoing the belt at his waist.

"I need to be inside you," he says, the words a low, raspy growl, barely audible underneath the sound of the metal buckle clinking against the counter.

The noise has you swallowing, your mouth dry. You watch as he slides the leather out and sets it down, the thud of the metal buckle against the countertop making you jump. His eyes dart to the offending item, and a smirk pulls at his lips.

"Nervous?"

You shake your head, and his expression softens.

"Good. No need to be, not with me," he says, and the belt is forgotten, his hands returning to his pants.

"I'm not," you whisper, and your eyes move over his chest, taking in the dark hair and the smattering of scars, the dips and ridges of his muscles, the broad expanse of his shoulders, and the way his arms flex as he pushes the fabric down his hips.

"I know, cyare," he says, his expression gentle. He's watching you closely, his hands coming up, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No," you reply, the word coming out breathless. Your eyes are locked on the damp spot that's darkened the grey fabric, the bulge of his cock straining against the material.

"Then what do you want?"

"I want to see you."

Wolffe's breath catches, his eyes widening slightly.

"Okay then," he murmurs, his voice low.

His thumbs hook into the elastic band, and he pushes the fabric down, the hard line of his cock finally free. It's heavy, hanging between his legs, the tip flushed a deep red. The sight has your mouth watering, and your eyes follow the thick, pulsing vein that runs the length, the bead of pre-cum that has gathered at the tip, slowly dripping down.

"Like what you see?" he teases, reaching down and wrapping his fingers around his length.

"Always," you breathe.

You watch as he gives himself a few long, slow strokes, his fist closing around the head. The motion brings a bead of precome to the tip, and he spreads it down the shaft, the movement slow and deliberate.

"Are you sure you're not nervous?" he asks, his voice soft.

"A little," you admit, the words coming out shaky.

You know exactly how thick his cock is, but the sight of him standing between your thighs, the head level with your stomach, always takes your breath away.

"Shhh, I've got you," he says, stepping closer. "I'm gonna make you feel so good."

You nod, and Wolffe's hand leaves his cock, his fingers curling around your ankle. He lifts your leg, guiding it up and over his shoulder, his lips pressing a soft kiss against the inside of your knee. He reaches out and runs a knuckle down the length of your sex, the contact gentle and teasing.

"So beautiful," he murmurs.

His other hand moves to his cock, lining himself up. The head bumps against the inside of your thigh, and you gasp, the wet heat searing against your skin. It leaves a trail of precome, and the sight has your heart rate picking up, the anticipation coursing through you.

"That's my girl," he whispers, his hand sliding up, fingers brushing the swollen bud.

Your hips jerk, and the tip of his cock catches against your entrance, the slick head nudging at the opening. It's enough to make him grunt, the muscles in his neck straining, his hand squeezing the base of his cock.

"I'm gonna put it in, cyare, and I want you to stay nice and still, okay?"

"Okay," you agree, your hands gripping the edge of the counter.

He gives a few experimental thrusts, the head sliding against the wet heat, spreading your slick along his shaft. He pushes in, the first inch, and the stretch is immediate.

"Fuck," he hisses, and his hand drops, his thumb moving to press against the hood of your clit, rubbing gentle circles. "Just relax, sweetheart, take a deep breath."

You do as he says, sucking in a deep breath and forcing yourself to relax. The pain fades, replaced by the intense stretch, the pressure of his cock. He's not even halfway inside, and already you feel so full, the feeling almost overwhelming. It feels like it's been years since the last time he had you like this, his body pressed against yours, and it takes all your willpower to remain still, to keep from fucking yourself onto his cock.

"There you go," he says, and his tone is gentle, his expression soft. "Just like that."

He rocks his hips, the head sliding in and out. Each thrust is easier than the last, the silken walls loosening and allowing him deeper. Wolffe’s eyes flutter, his mouth falling open, his fingers moving against your clit. He's lost in the sensation, the tight, wet heat of your pussy clenching around his cock, and you can't help but stare, watching the way his brows draw together, a sheen of sweat already forming on his forehead.

"Fuck," he mutters, his voice strained. He grinds deeper as if trying to get as close as possible, the action drawing a whimper from your lips, and he stops. "You okay?"

You can only nod, tears prickling in the corners of your eyes as his tip kisses the end of you. It's too much, the stretch, the heavy weight of his cock, and yet it's not enough. You need him deeper, his skin against yours, his weight bearing down on you, pinning you beneath him.

"Words, cyare. I need words."

"Please," you gasp, trying to rock your hips.

He shakes his head and squeezes your hips, keeping you still. His jaw is clenched, and his eyes are shut tight, his brows drawn together in concentration. You can feel him pulse inside you, the throbbing a steady beat, his cock twitching with each squeeze of your walls.

"Wolffe, please, fuck me," you beg, a desperate whine escaping.

Wolffe's eyes open, and his gaze finds yours, his expression softening.

"There she is," he murmurs, the corner of his mouth turning up. "That's what I like to hear."

He presses a kiss to your ankle, and he doesn't take his eyes off yours as he pulls out, his length dragging against your walls. It's torturously slow, his movements measured and precise, and he keeps his pace, his hands gripping the soft flesh of your thighs, his palms hot.

"Such a pretty girl," he says, the words strained. He thrusts into you, a slow, steady roll of his hips. "So good for me, letting me take my time, letting me enjoy the way you feel."

"You feel so good, Wolffe," you moan, arching into him.

"Oh, I know," he grunts. "I can feel it."

His thrusts are steady, each one hitting the same spot, his pace never wavering. He keeps his movements slow, his eyes never leaving yours. He's watching you, gauging your reactions, taking note of every sound, every facial expression.

You've been intimate before, but tonight feels different, and you realize that Wolffe isn't in a hurry, not anymore. He's taking his time, enjoying the feeling of being buried inside you, of watching your reactions. The lines around his eyes and the creases in his forehead have smoothed out, his jaw no longer clenched tight. The tension has melted from his shoulders, replaced by something that looks suspiciously like contentment.

"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice low.

You can only nod, unable to speak, your mind a foggy haze.

"That's good, that's so good," he murmurs, and his lips turn up, his expression soft. "I like having you like this, all to myself."

You whine, and his smile grows, the tips of his canines flashing in the dim light. He's beautiful like this, his head bowed, his dark hair hanging in his face, a reverent, awestruck look in his eyes.

"Do you like this, too?" he asks, the words punctuated by a firm thrust, his hands gripping your thighs.

"Yes," you gasp, a moan slipping out as he hits a spot deep inside you, sending sparks down your spine.

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

"Good, because I think we should do it more often," he murmurs, leaning in.

"Yeah?"

"Mmhm," he breathes, and his nose brushes yours, his lips a breath away.

He's so close, the heat radiating off his skin. You can taste the sweetness of your release on his lips, and you want to lean forward and claim them, but he's just out of reach, and all you can do is stare.

"You're a tease," you whisper.

"I think I can live with that."

His eyes move, roaming over the exposed expanse of your body, and they linger on the place where his cock is buried, the skin stretched and glistening. He bites his lip, his hands gripping the soft flesh of your thighs, and his pace quickens, his hips snapping against yours.

The feeling has your toes curling, and you try to reach down, to stroke the bud of nerves that is aching for contact.

"No, no. Not yet," he chides, his hand grabbing yours and pulling it away. He brings your wrist up, pressing a kiss to the tender skin. "I'll get you there. Be patient."

You pout, and Wolffe smiles, a crooked, mischievous grin. He lets go of your hand, his palm coming to rest on your stomach. His thumb finds the spot, rubbing circles over the sensitive flesh, his gaze never leaving yours.

"It's not fair," you mumble, trying not to squirm.

"Mhm, tell me about it."

He presses down, his finger rubbing the spot in lazy circles, the pressure intense.

"How does it feel, cyare? To have my cock buried inside you, nice and deep?"

"Feels good," you breathe, arching into his touch.

"Does it?" he asks, and his eyes flicker down, watching as he pulls out. He pauses, the head caught against your entrance, the tip shiny with your arousal.

He stays there, the two of you joined by the very tip, his length coated in a mixture of fluids. The sight is obscene, the slick mess dripping from his cock and down his balls, the fluid coating the tops of his thighs.

"Look how messy you are," he breathes, his eyes wide.

"All for you," you murmur, and his eyes snap to yours, his lips parting.

"Fuck," Wolffe mutters.

He guides your leg off his shoulder, hooking his arms underneath both of your knees. He spreads you open, and the sight of his cock sliding in, the thick length disappearing into the mess, makes you groan, a fresh gush of wetness slipping from your entrance.

"Wolffe, please, I want more," you beg, trying to press closer.

“More, she says," he huffs a laugh, and his fingers dig into your legs, the pressure almost bruising.

"Yes," you moan, nodding.

"Then you're going to get more."

The words barely have time to register before his cock is slamming home, his hips pressing flush against yours.

You cry out, your back arching, and he wastes no time in setting a rough, unforgiving pace. His grip tightens around your legs, and he bends, leaning over your body, his hands planted on either side of your hips.

The angle allows him to drive deeper, and you can feel his pelvis grinding against your clit, the roughness of his pubic hair scratching against the sensitive skin. You try to move, to meet him halfway, but the position, coupled with his strength, leaves you immobile. All you can do is lie there and take it, his cock splitting you open.

"Oh, fuck," he grunts, his pace never slowing. His eyes are fixed on yours, the dark brown and grey shining with pleasure. "I could stay like this forever, just buried in that sweet cunt."

"Yes, yes," you cry, the words tumbling from your lips.

"Do you want that? Do you want me to fuck you all night, keep you full?"

"Please," you beg, arching into him.

"Fuck," Wolffe groans, his eyes falling closed. His pace picks up, his movements growing frantic, and he leans forward, his hands wrapping around the tops of your thighs. He uses his hold as leverage, tugging you towards him, the motion causing your head to knock against the cupboard.

"Sorry," he pants, and he reaches out, his hand cupping the back of your head, the gesture almost tender. "Fuck, I'm sorry."

"Don't be, please, just—"

"I've got you," he whispers, and his lips press against the side of your neck. "I've got you, sweetheart."

"Please, Wolffe, I'm so close," you plead, your nails digging into the skin of his forearms.

"I know," he growls, and his hips snap, the feeling making you gasp. "I'm right behind you."

His lips find the juncture of your neck and shoulder, his teeth scraping against the skin. He bites down, the pain sharp, and a cry escapes as he sucks, hard. The delicate capillaries underneath your skin break, a purple-red splotch blooming in the wake of his mouth.

"Oh, fuck," you gasp, his mark sending a fresh wave of arousal through you.

"Mm, there's my girl," he grunts. "I'm not going to last, sweetheart. You're going to have to come for me, okay?"

You nod, unable to form the words, and you reach down, your fingers finding the apex of your thighs He's pressed so close that your hand brushes the coarse hair covering his pelvis, the tips grazing the base of his cock.

"Come on. Let go," he urges, his breath hot against your neck.

Your fingers brush over the sensitive nub, and you're sent over the edge, your climax hitting so hard that the room begins to spin. You're barely aware of his voice, urging you on, praising you as your walls flutter and pulse around his cock.

"That's it, let me feel it," Wolffe groans, his pace growing sloppy, his hips jerking erratically. "Fuck, I'm gonna come."

You can feel the way his length pulses, his cock throbbing as his release builds, and then he's following after you, a long, low moan rumbling in his chest. He pushes in deep and grinds his pelvis against your clit, his movements frantic as his orgasm washes over him.

You're vaguely aware of his body jerking, his hips moving erratically, and then his release is flooding you, the warm liquid painting your walls. He fills you up, his seed leaking out and dripping onto the counter, the mess smearing over the smooth surface.

"Oh, shit," he hisses, his arms trembling. He sags, his forehead dropping against your shoulder, his breathing heavy.

You can feel the sweat-slick skin, his chest rising and falling, the movement uneven. He's shaking, his body trembling as his arms finally give out, and the weight of his upper body presses down on top of you.

"Hey, are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Wolffe replies, his voice muffled. "Just...just give me a minute."

"Wolffe?"

He doesn't answer, and you reach up, your hand threading through his hair. It's damp, the locks plastered to his scalp, and you run your fingers over the soft strands, trying to soothe him.

"I'm fine," he says, his voice quiet.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," he replies, and his body shudders, his limbs growing heavy. You hear him inhale sharply through his nose, and then his arms are sliding under your back, wrapping around you. He's clinging to you, his embrace almost too tight, and you can feel the way his heart is racing, the rapid-fire beat thudding in his chest.

"Wolffe," you whisper, and his head shifts, his chin resting on your shoulder.

"It's okay, cyare. I'm alright, I promise."

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," he says, his voice soft. "I'm just..."

He trails off, his face turning, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to the spot where his teeth had been moments before. You shiver, the feeling making your walls clench, and Wolffe lets out a shaky breath, his hands gripping tighter.

"It's just...tonight was a lot," he murmurs, his mouth moving against your skin.

"Yeah," you agree as you run your fingers through his hair.

"It was intense, and I needed...well, I don't know what I needed, but this helped. Being with you, having you here, it helps," he says, his tone quiet. He pulls back, eyes glassy, his gaze searching.

"I'm glad," you say, swallowing.

"I love you," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the curve of your neck.

"I love you, too," you reply, a smile pulling at your lips.

Wolffe falls silent, his eyes closing, and you can feel his muscles relax, his body sagging. The exhaustion is finally catching up with him, the adrenaline of the fight, followed by the intense release, leaving him drained. He's spent, and the realization has a fondness blooming in the pit of your stomach.

He's always so tough, and it's rare that he lets his guard down, even when the two of you are together. It's not the first time he's shown you his softer side, but tonight seems different. Tonight, it's the most vulnerable you've ever seen him, and you can't help but admire him, the way his face has gone slack, his brows no longer drawn, his eyes no longer filled with pain.

"You're tired," you say, running a hand through his hair and pushing the damp locks from his face. "Let's get cleaned up, and then we can go to bed."

"I don't want to move," he mutters, burying his face against your neck.

"Wolffe, come on. Up," you coax, your hands running over his shoulders. You drag your nails down the back of his neck, and he shivers, his arms tightening around you.

"No. 'M comfortable," he mumbles, his mouth pressing against the soft skin below your ear. His lips drag over the shell, and he sighs, his breath hot against your skin.

“There’s no way that’s true,” you tease, and you pinch his side, making him jump.

"Hey!"

"Up, please. My ass is falling asleep."

"Fine," he huffs. He cracks his eye open and gives you a pointed look, and then he's shifting, pulling out, the mess of fluids following.

"Fuck, that's a lot," he murmurs, his hand reaching between your legs.

You shiver, the feeling of his fingers slipping against your slickened skin almost too much.

"Stop it, Wolffe," you chide, and you're rewarded with a grin, the look in his eye mischievous.

"Alright, alright," he relents, pulling his hand away. "Can't blame a man for wanting to play a little."

"You can play all you want in the morning," yo say, giving his arm a gentle squeeze.

"I'll remember that."

"You better," you retort, and he chuckles, the sound making you smile.

Wolffe finally straightens, his back cracking as he stretches. He rolls his neck, and a pained groan escapes, his face twisting into a grimace. You wince, and he lets out a tired laugh, his lips curling into a half-smile.

"I'm getting old."

"No, you're not," you argue, sitting up.

"I am. I can feel it. Next thing I know, I'll be one of those old men, complaining about my back," he says, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

"Well, if you'd stop being such an idiot and letting people throw you through tables, maybe it wouldn't be an issue," you mutter as he approaches with a damp washcloth, the fabric warm and smelling faintly of soap.

"Ah, you can't blame me. I had a good reason."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah," he says, and the look in his eyes is soft. He reaches out, running his thumb over the apple of your cheek. "I had a feeling I was going to get a nice reward for my efforts."

"Oh, did you now?"

"I did," he replies as he works, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "And I think I'll get a few more in the morning."

"I bet you do," you say, unable to hide the smile that's threatening to spill over.

"Now, hold still. Let me get this cleaned up."

You nod, and Wolffe's eyes move, his gaze drifting over your body. He takes his time, wiping away the mess that's coated the tops of your thighs, and his touch is gentle as he cleans between your legs, his motions measured and precise. When he's finished, he throws the cloth in the hamper down the hall and returns, scooping you into his arms.

"I'm not completely useless, you know," you say, wrapping an arm around his neck.

"Oh, I'm very aware of that," he replies, his lips twitching. "But I want to carry you."

"Alright, then," you murmur, unable to deny the warmth that spreads through you at the gesture.

Wolffe carries you through the apartment and down the hall, his steps slow and steady. The lights are dim, and the darkness is peaceful, the sounds of the city outside muted. It's late, and you know the two of you should get some sleep, but the thought is drowned out by the comfort that comes with being pressed against him, his arms strong and secure around you.

"Think we still have time for an episode of Love Island?" you ask as he nudges the bedroom door open.

Wolffe chuckles, the sound low and soft, and you smile, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

"Yeah, cyare. I think we do."

taglist: @covert1ntrovert @stellarbit @spicy-clones @kindalonleystars @totallyunidentified @lovelytech9902 @frozenreptile @etod @puppetscenario @umekohiganbana @resistantecho @dindjarins1ut @tech-aficionado @aynavaano @burningnerdchild @ihatesaaand @lolwey @chocolatewastelandtriumph @hobbititties @mere-bear @thegreatpipster @lordofthenerds97 @notslaybabes @ayyyy-le-simp @mali-777 @megmegalodondon @dangraccoon @heavenseed76 @bimboshaggy @bunny7567 @lostqueenofegypt @anything-forourmoony @9902sgirl @jedi-dreea @salaminus @ghostymarni @gottalovehistory @mrcaptainrex @maniacalbooper @burningnerdchild @callsign-denmark @julli-bee @moonychicky @sonicrainbooms @marchingviolist @deerspringdreams

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skittykitkat · 2 months ago

Text

this is (not) fine [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x personal assistant!reader

personal assistant rules: don’t crush on bucky barnes. definitely don’t misinterpret a flower purchase and spiral into silent heartbreak, and absolutely never ever get stuck alone with him in an elevator.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, oral (f receiving), public (ish) sex?, wall sex (?), okay they fuck in an elevator guys, kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, insecure/self-conscious reader undertones, reader is an overthinker, reader is horny lol, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 9.1k

A/N: hi, hopefully this will keep you all fed while i work on part five to lessons in lovemaking. finally getting around to some of these requests in my inbox. this one is based off this request, but i changed it up so the reader is a PA instead of an avenger. lmk your thoughts thanx for reading <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

You’d never pegged Natasha as the type who enjoyed flowers.

No, she struck you more as the encrypted-flash-drive-on-a-park-bench type, the kind of woman who appreciated mysteries with teeth. A custom leather jacket, stitched with the same precision she used to dismantle a glock. One of those sleek, low motorcycles. Not daisies. Not peonies. And definitely not whatever soft, pastel nonsense Bucky was currently handing over cash for.

You stood a few feet away, halfway hidden behind a sidewalk sign advertising oat milk lattes and gluten-free muffins, clutching a cardboard drink tray and a bag full of vegan pastries in a death grip. The barista had spelt ‘Bruce’ as ‘Broose’ again, and under any other circumstance, that would've made you laugh, but now it felt like the most irrelevant thing in the world.

You liked Natasha. You respected her. You just didn’t think she had it in her to giggle over roses like the girls in those sappy rom-coms Clint insisted he hated (right before he would watch three in a row, a beer in each hand). But there Bucky was, brushing pollen off a bouquet of pale pink ranunculus, face soft in a way you’d never seen during mission briefings or sparring sessions.

And suddenly, you were building a list in your head of all the things you were sure Natasha Romanoff would rather receive as a romantic gesture: a knife, balanced perfectly for throwing, an expensive bottle of vodka, a vintage chess set with hand-carved pieces, a bottle of expensive ink and a fountain pen with a sharp nib, cookies—messy ones—overloaded with chocolate chips, or simply just black coffee, straight from the pot, no sugar, no cream. Yet, as Bucky handed it over to the redhead, she smiled. Smiled. And suddenly you felt like you were witnessing a scene you were not welcome to.

Truthfully, it stung. Maybe it stung a little more than what was appropriate. You’d been harbouring a quiet crush on the dark-haired, sullen supersoldier from the moment he joined the team. Fresh out of Wakanda, new vibranium arm in tow, and god, he was handsome. Not in the polished, television commercial way Steve was, but in a way that made your pulse skip and your thoughts stall mid-sentence. He had the kind of face you didn’t know how to look at for too long, sharpened jaw, stormy-blue eyes, and a mouth that always looked on the verge of saying something he’d regret.

There was something electric about his stillness. Like if you leaned in close enough, you’d hear the hum of danger beneath his skin. He walked like a man who never quite trusted, drifting through the tower like he expected a fight around every corner. He barely spoke, but when he did, his voice was low and gravel-worn, something that settled right in your gut and made its home there.

He never smiled. Not really. But sometimes—sometimes—you’d catch a flicker of it when Sam teased him, or when Steve nudged him just right, and it was devastating.

And yeah, maybe you had a soft spot for broken things trying to heal.

As the Avengers’ personal assistant, it was your job to keep everyone comfortable, informed, and running like clockwork. You were a one-person organisational machine, constantly juggling the chaos that came with managing a tower full of enhanced individuals with the emotional range of a brick wall to a nuclear reactor. Your days were a blur of colour-coded schedules, back-to-back briefings, and the never-ending group chats.

You coordinated mission debriefs, booked international flights with military clearance, and handled press requests that would make most people cry. You endured complaints when Thor overloaded the power grid again, trying to make toast, and even replaced the mugs he shattered before anyone noticed. You wrangled Clint’s kids when they came to visit, sourced obscure snacks from remote parts of the world because Sam liked those protein bars, not the other ones, and Steve wouldn’t touch anything processed. You replaced a record number of coffee machines, hunted down whatever special detergent could get oil out of Tony’s designer shirts. You knew which brand of muscle balm Banner preferred and how to order it without triggering a random Homeland Security check.

And then there was Bucky.

With him, it was always a little extra, whether he noticed or not. His schedule came first in your Monday morning rounds. You made sure the pantry was stocked with the Eastern European tea he liked but never asked for, and remembered the exact setting he preferred on the tower’s training room temperature controls. You adjusted group plans so he’d be paired with Steve or Sam, just in case the crowds and questions became overwhelming. When he disappeared for a few hours, you didn’t ask questions, but you made sure no one came looking. You even swapped out the scratchy tags in his mission gear with soft ones, because he never complained, but you noticed the way he fidgeted with them.

Every day, you’d beam at him like some hopelessly love-struck idiot when you handed over his usual coffee—black, two brown sugars, just the way he liked it—and in return, he’d offer little more than a grunt. A low, barely-there sound that most people wouldn’t even register as a greeting. But you did. Somehow, that grunt became the highlight of your day.

So yeah, maybe seeing him hand over flowers to Natasha broke something in you. Not just a hairline fracture, but a quiet, splintering break that left your chest aching in places you didn’t know could hurt. Still, you understood. Natasha belonged to his world, effortlessly cool, all smoke, shadows and secrets. Yet she was kind. Not cold or unapproachable, just… carved from something rarer than you. The kind of woman who didn’t need to try to be extraordinary, she just was.

And you? You were the sweet, well-meaning assistant who made people laugh in the kitchen, who fetched dry cleaning and remembered everyone’s birthdays. You were the one who labelled tupperware and chased down Clint’s kids with bandaids. You were an afterthought, the background noise in the buzzing hive which was the Avengers Tower.

So maybe you could justify feeling jealous, but angry? No. Not really. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. And it wasn’t their fault that you’d let yourself hope.

—

Two weeks later, and you timed it perfectly, like you always did.

Just as the door to Bucky’s apartment clicked open, you rounded the corner—folder in hand, clipboard tucked tight to your side. The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of ventilation and the soft thud of your heels against the carpet. Bucky stepped out, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair tied back, and his hoodie sleeves shoved up just enough to show the gleam of vibranium. Predictable. It was routine, every morning just before six he would meet with Steve in the gym. On Mondays, you’d catch him just as he exited his apartment, unload the details for the week, a freshly printed schedule and all.

“Morning,” you said lightly, handing him the week’s itinerary. His reply was his usual, a grunt. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just Bucky. That gruff, barely-there sound that once felt like a small victory. The kind of grunt that used to warm your chest when he followed it with a question, even if you knew the answer was printed in the folder you’d triple-checked. You always answered anyway. You liked having his attention, even just for a few seconds.

You used to dress the folders up with care, multicoloured sticky notes marking key tasks (blue for meetings, yellow for reminders, red for anything urgent and green for personal events). You’d highlight sections like traffic lights, add stickers you thought might make him smile, sometimes even scribble little crooked cartoons in the margins with cheesy encouragements—seize the day!

The folder looked rather sad today, just a plain manila folder packed with stapled papers. No colours. No stickers. No effort. Just the essentials. You didn’t let your fingers dawdle when he took it. Didn’t smile like you used to. Just handed it over and kept your gaze somewhere past his shoulder.

Bucky took it slowly, eyes flicking down at the cover like he was trying to spot something that wasn’t there. His brow pinched, barely, but enough for you to notice. His fingers lingered on the edge of the folder, like he thought maybe he’d missed a note tucked inside.

You nodded and turned to leave, forcing yourself to shift your mind to your next chore mentally, restocking med supplies in the Quinjet, cross-checking Clint’s revised travel forms, hunting down the coffee machine Tony had threatened to ‘repurpose as target practice’. You’d have to order a replacement before the morning debrief. Double-check everyone’s dietary preferences. Update Steve on the tech room schedule. Get maintenance to repaint the lines in the training room because someone (probably Thor) had scuffed them again.

You stayed busy. It helped. Kind of.

But the guilt still trailed you like a shadow.

It was probably obvious how abruptly you changed. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your gaze dodged his like it might burn you. You wondered if he noticed, if he thought you'd simply grown tired of him. Maybe he had. That was better than the truth that you couldn’t stand to be near him, not when every glance felt like pressing fingers to a bruise you’d caused yourself.

You had made your choice, professionalism. The kind of cool, curated detachment you admired in Natasha, only it felt all wrong on you, like an ill-fitting coat. You knew it was for the better, not mixing up work and matters of the heart. You’d already let your little crush spiral too far, thinking maybe—just maybe—if you tried hard enough, you’d earn more than a grunt. That he might see you as something more than the charming assistant with her clipboard and her stupid stickers. But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t. And that was fine. It had to be.

You couldn’t afford to fall apart over a man who had no idea he’d broken your heart.

But it was Bucky’s voice, soft and unsure, that startled you from your thoughts. “Hey.”

You paused mid-step and turned, forcing a tight smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes as your fingers curled against the clipboard. “What’s up?”

He shifted his weight, clearly caught off guard by the fact that you stopped walking at all. He was rather devastating to look at when he grew all shy and unsure, fingers fidgeting against the edge of the folder like he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t quite meet your eye as his weight shifted nervously, like he hadn’t thought before he called out.

“Uh. Nothin’. Just—” He raised the folder slightly, an awkward gesture. “You usually give me the rundown. Y’know… what everyone’s doing. Who’s where. Who I’m stuck with.”

You swallowed. Of course, he’d noticed. Of course, he’d grown used to your chatter about meetings and mission rosters, about who was off-world and who was due back, like it was the weather. The casual, effortless way you used to tell him what movie was playing, who cheated at Monopoly the night before, or which team member had stolen the last protein bar. You’d always done it to help, keep him grounded, and make him feel like part of the team, like he belonged.

But after what you’d seen two weeks ago, you were sure he didn’t need that from you anymore. Natasha would look out for him now. She’d keep him balanced, keep him fed, keep him from slipping through the cracks.

“Nothing interesting’s happening,” you shrugged. “Just the usual.”

He didn’t move. “Well… there’s that dinner. On Friday.”

You gave a curt nod, tone clipped. “Yes.”

“Wanda’s dinner,” he added, as if you hadn’t already acknowledged it.

“Correct.”

He hesitated again, brows drawing together in a faint crease of worry. You could see him floundering, stuck in some internal scramble. It made your chest ache because you knew that look. You’d helped talk him down from that look more times than anyone else in the tower probably realised.

You sighed quietly through your nose, against your better judgment, against every wall you’d tried to build in the past week, you caved. He looked five seconds away from spiralling.

“It’s in there,” you offered gently, nodding toward the folder. “On your schedule.”

“Right. It’s just… for me, you usually…” His voice trailed off, frustration and uncertainty knotting in his brow. “Sorry. You’re probably busy—”

That felt like a punch to the gut.

You shook your head and, before your pride could stop you, your feet were already moving back toward him. His eyes dropped as you reached into your pocket for a pen, scribbling ‘Wanda’s Dinner – Friday’ on a green sticky note. Green for personal events, always. You hesitated, then added a smiley face underneath. You peeled it off and stuck it neatly onto the folder in Bucky’s hands.

His eyes dropped to it, finger brushing over the paper like he didn’t quite understand why it mattered so much. “Thanks.”

You just nodded, already stepping back, spine straight, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your throat.

“She said…” Bucky cleared his throat, clearly not done with the conversation. “Wanda said she’s going to do curry.”

You paused, unsure what to do with the information. Why was he telling you that? Why was he still talking?

“That’s nice,” you said carefully, not sure what to do with this strange, lingering version of him.

“Are you going?” he asked suddenly, and you frowned.

“I wasn’t invited—” You began, already covering from the invasive thoughts, already working to mask the sting. You didn’t want to imagine them next to each other over curry, leaning close, whispering in the way people did when they thought no one else was watching. It would only make the crack in your chest worse.

“You should go,” Bucky said quickly, cutting across your thoughts. “I’ll tell Wanda you’re coming.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll be busy that night anyway…” You lied through your teeth, heart thumping hard against your breastbone as Bucky’s face crumpled a bit. You cut in before he could argue any further. “You’re going to be late. For the gym. It’s nearly six.”

“Right, shit, yeah. Sorry, I just…” He trailed off again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ll see you around.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, unsure if you were more confused or stunned by his sudden jitters.

—

Before the whole flowers incident, you made it your unofficial mission to ‘accidentally’ bump into Bucky as many times as humanly possible in a day. Now? It was the opposite. Every hallway was a trap to avoid, every room a potential ambush. Navigating the Tower had turned into something between a tactical stealth op and a personal game of hide-and-seek.

Unfortunately, your strategy for quiet withdrawal hadn’t gone unnoticed.

In fact, Bucky had picked up on your sudden cold shoulder almost immediately. The folder debacle had only been the first of many increasingly awkward run-ins.

There was the time you’d practically sprinted away from the elevator when the doors slid open to reveal him standing inside, a brow raised and coffee in hand. Or when you turned a corner too fast and walked straight into him, muttering a rushed apology before disappearing again like you were being hunted. Then there was the silent, painful breakfast you’d shared at the communal kitchen counter, where you busied yourself with peeling an orange for ten minutes straight while he sat beside you, occasionally glancing over like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to begin.

You’d even pretended to be asleep on the common room couch when he walked in one evening, piles of paperwork scattered, laptop still open, only for him to drape a throw blanket over you before quietly leaving again.

And yet, instead of giving you space like you’d expected and hoped for, he seemed to find any excuse to be around you. He trailed after you like some misplaced puppy whenever he wasn’t buried in a mission or holed up in a meeting.

You’d assumed that the moment you stepped back, he’d naturally gravitate toward spending more time with Natasha. It made sense. Why wouldn’t he want to be around her? They were obviously dating, even if they hadn’t made it official yet. Maybe it was one of those quiet, close things kept just between friends, like Steve and Sam. Who were you to come barreling in and expose their secret entanglement? You expected Bucky to be relieved to no longer be on the receiving end of your babbling, your perfectly-timed coffee deliveries, or the not-so-subtle gifts you littered around.

But if anything, Bucky seemed determined to figure you out. Like your sudden shift had become his new pet project, and he was personally committed to cracking the case.

You’d taken the back hallway, the long, winding route that steered well clear of the gym on your way to the shared office. High-traffic areas were too risky now—too many chances to run into him. But clearly, Bucky had caught onto your little detours, because as you turned the corner, there he was, headed straight toward you.

You froze for half a second, pulse quickening. Turning around would be too obvious. Suspicious. He’d know exactly what you were doing, and then your carefully-constructed avoidance strategy would unravel entirely. If he suspected anything now, you were one panicked backpedal away from confirming it.

It was a nightmare. And a daydream.

A part of you, some soft, hopelessly romantic piece, ached at the sight of him, at the quiet way he seemed to look for you, worry always etched into his brow like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. But the rational part of your mind, the part that had dragged you into this self-imposed emotional lockdown, screamed that letting him get closer again would only undo all the fragile healing you’d managed to piece together.

So you steeled yourself.

Shoulders squared. Laptop and paperwork clutched like a lifeline. Eyes locked on an imaginary point just past his shoulder. If you kept walking and moved quickly, calmly, maybe he’d let you go. Perhaps he’d pretend not to notice how your pace picked up and your gaze carefully avoided his.

You nearly made it.

But of course, he noticed.

“Hey, wait—”

His voice was hesitant, just enough pressure to pull you to a stop. Your footsteps faded into the hush of the corridor, your spine straightening instinctively as you turned. Bucky stood a few paces behind, one hand lifted halfway between reaching and retreating, like he’d almost grabbed your arm but lost the nerve.

He looked sheepish. Timid, even. It killed you.

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

He scratched the back of his neck, boots scuffing lightly against the floor. “Did I… forget to grab my coffee this morning? Or… did you not bring it?”

A pause. Too long. You could feel the beat of your pulse behind your sternum as you forced a casual shake of your head.

“No, sorry. That’s on me. Slipped my mind.”

The lie didn’t sit well in your mouth.

It hadn’t slipped your mind, in fact, it was still sitting on the corner of your desk, cooling beside a stack of unfinished paperwork. You’d brewed it, as always. Even used the brown sugar he liked. But then you’d walked away from it, deliberately, like some idiotic breadcrumb trail you hoped he might follow.

God, you were pathetic.

Your stupid fucking brain couldn’t even decide what it wanted anymore. One half of you was charting escape routes through the tower to avoid him, the other was fantasising about him pinning you to the nearest wall. From the way your thighs pressed together now, breath catching as his voice brushed over you, maybe the answer wasn’t distance at all. Perhaps you just wanted to taste him—

He didn’t move. Just stood there, one brow lifted, faint worry creasing the edge of his expression.

“You’re usually down by the gym by nine,” he said, his voice low. “It’s eleven.”

“I’m running a bit behind today.”

“You usually text me if you’re running behind.”

“Well,” you said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, “I didn’t this time.”

He paused, the silence between you laced with something dangerously close to concern. “Is everything alright?”

You forced a small laugh, trying to shake off how his low, worried voice made heat pool in your gut. “Yeah. Why?”

“You seem off.”

There it was. Soft, plain and far too knowing. He said it in that maddeningly sincere way that only he could manage. Like he actually gave a damn. Like this wasn’t unravelling you by the day.

Your shoulders tensed. “Off?”

“Yeah,” he said gently. “Just… I dunno. You’ve been quiet lately.”

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know about the hours you spent spinning in your head like a lunatic, trying to compartmentalise this crush until it shrank into something survivable. About the way you’d stared blankly at Tinder profiles, your phone clutched in your hand, wondering why no one else ever came close, why none of them were him.

Why you couldn’t stop thinking that if you’d just told him—confessed that stupid crush before Natasha did—maybe you wouldn’t be standing here now like some stray mutt, sniffing around for scraps of attention.

Maybe then he’d be yours.

Maybe then you wouldn’t be fantasising about quitting just to put yourself out of your own misery like some lame racehorse.

“I’ve just got a lot on my plate,” you finally mustered, tone strained. “Tony’s soirée. The fittings. Admin crap. Didn’t even have breakfast today.”

His brows furrowed further. “That’s not good.”

“I’ll survive.”

Would you, though?

Would you survive the heat that flared low in your stomach every time he got too close? Would you survive the ache that gnawed behind your ribs every time he glanced over at Natasha like you didn’t exist? Would you survive the constant, desperate craving to be touched by him? To be looked at like she was looked at?

He didn’t speak for a second, and for a moment, you were sure he could smell the reek of desperation on you.

“The oranges in the fridge are gone.”

You blinked. “What?”

“And the tea. The fancy one,” he added. “The one with the dried raspberries in it. You’re the one who always restocks them, aren’t you?”

You looked down, fingers clenching around your folder. “I’ll add it to the list.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, stepping forward a half-inch, enough to make your breath hitch. “I just… I didn’t realise it was you. Doing all of that.”

Of course, he hadn’t because you’d made it invisible. Seamless. That was the kind of care you practised—silent, anticipatory, never asked for, never returned. You had cared for him with a thousand tiny efforts, but he never noticed until you stopped.

You looked up, and the hallway felt suddenly too narrow. His face was open in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. Gentle, confused, like he was trying to work you out and couldn’t quite bear not knowing.

You dropped your gaze. “I said I’ll do it.”

He paused. You could feel him thinking again.

Then, to your disappointment, he slowly nodded. “Okay.”

But he didn’t move. Not right away. He lingered like someone who hadn’t yet decided if leaving was the right call, like he was caught between concern and curiosity.

“I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just nodded and turned, walking away quickly before he could see your face fall, before he could catch the naked want in your expression, the way your heart was clawing against your ribs, screaming for you to turn around and ruin everything.

—

If time travel were an option, you'd gladly launch yourself into a wormhole and strangle your past self for being stupid—no, lovesick—enough to organise this little errand. You deserve it, really. A swift kick to the gut from future-you for being this hopeless.

It had all started a month ago, when you, like a fool, volunteered to collect the tailored suits and dresses for some little soirée Tony Stark had decided to throw. Of course, in true Tony fashion, what was pitched as a ‘casual get-together’ had evolved into a full-blown, black-tie spectacle. The first warning sign? Tony footing the bill for everyone to have custom outfits made to their specifications. Translation…this was going to be a thing.

You’d spent weeks wrangling Avengers into fitting appointments, helping them choose fabrics and cuts, managing last-minute alterations and tracking shipments. It was exhausting but under control…until the catch. The aggravating, absurdly attractive, brooding catch currently sitting across from you in the tailor’s waiting room, his knee bounced like it was transmitting a detailed morse code manifesto on every possible way he planned to ruin your day.

The plan had been simple: grab an Uber, pick up the garments, pressed, stitched, and boxed to perfection and head back to the tower. But then you got the call. The one that told you Bucky Barnes had missed his final fitting, and that his suit needed some last-minute adjustments...

Of course he did.

Of all your perfectly laid plans, it only took one missed appointment to bring it all crashing down. Now here you were, stuck waiting beside the man who occupied far too much of your brain lately, silently praying the tailor would finish quickly so you could escape before your sanity, or your dignity, completely unravelled.

“I really am sorry,” Bucky said for what felt like the fiftieth time.

Between the brooding and the nervous leg tapping, he’d spent the last five minutes watching the side of your face with an expression so guilty it was practically carved into him.

“Like I said, it’s fine.” You replied, though it came out a little too tight, a little too forced, like you were speaking through clenched teeth. Which, maybe you were. Not that it mattered. Not when you could smell his cologne from how damn close he was sitting. God, you wanted to lean over and bury your face in his chest and just inhale—

You straightened abruptly, shoulders stiffening as the tailor entered the room, and mentally reacquainted yourself with the concept of boundaries.

It had been an hour—sixty minutes of waiting while Bucky’s suit got its final adjustments. An hour of you trying to distract yourself with work emails and unanswered texts, pretending the man beside you wasn’t single-handedly causing your emotional stability to nosedive. At least when he’d stepped away to get re-measured, you could breathe without risking spontaneous emotional combustion.

This wasn’t like you. You weren’t usually this wound up. Maybe it was the exhaustion, days of juggling your regular duties with Tony’s ever-growing list of soirée demands. Perhaps it was the heartbreak. Or the missed meals. Or the fact that you genuinely had no idea what day it was anymore.

“Would you like to try it on before we package it up for travel?” the tailor asked, her voice gentle. A measuring tape hung loosely around her neck, her pinned bun fraying slightly at the edges.

Bucky looked at you again, eyes flicking toward yours like he needed permission. You swallowed what was left of your pride and gave him a slight, strained nod.

“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Go on.”

“I’m sorry—again—this is probably eating into your whole afternoon, I know how busy you are—”

“It’s fine. Really. Just go.”

He offered a sheepish smile before disappearing behind the velvet curtain, tugging it closed with a rustle. You pressed your fingers to your temples, let your head drop into your hands, and exhaled through your nose like it might stop your heart from trying to break out of your chest.

Across the counter, the tailor glanced up at you with a sympathetic look as she readied the boxes for the other garments. “Long day?” she asked gently.

You lifted your head, managing a tight smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Only going to get longer.”

You were still nursing the tail end of your sigh when the velvet curtain swished open again.

And then your brain stopped working.

Bucky stepped out in full formal attire, sharp navy suit, tailored within an inch of its life. The cut of it hugged his frame perfectly. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, long legs. A deep navy waistcoat peeked out beneath the jacket, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the light just enough to look expensive without being flashy. His tie was already perfectly knotted, like he’d done this a hundred times, and the sleeves of his shirt revealed just enough of the polished metal edge of his vibranium arm to make your mouth dry.

He cleared his throat softly, tugging at one cuff. “How’s it look?”

You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it again.

Words? No. Words were gone. Your vocabulary had packed up and left the building.

Bucky shifted his weight, clearly mistaking your slack-jawed silence for disapproval. “It’s weird, right? The waistcoat maybe doesn’t work, I told her I wasn’t sure about it—”

“No,” you said quickly—too quickly. “No, it’s… It’s perfect. You look… great. Seriously.”

His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his face. Relief, maybe?

“Yeah?” he said, glancing down at himself, tugging slightly at the jacket hem. “I feel better about it now. The sleeves fit properly this time. Thanks for waiting.”

The tailor beamed from behind the counter, clearly proud of her work. “Wonderful. I’ll box it up immediately once you’re out of it.”

Bucky nodded, but the tailor turned to you with a friendly smile before he could disappear again.

“And for you, would you like to try your gown on as well before I pack it away?”

You blinked, suddenly snapped out of your holy-shit-Bucky-hot-hot-hot haze. “My what?”

She gestured toward the row of garment bags. “Mr. Stark sent over your measurements earlier this month. There’s a gown here for you.”

You frowned. “That must be a mistake. I’m just the assistant. None of those are for me.”

The tailor hesitated. “I don’t think so… He was very clear. Your name was attached to the order.”

Before you could argue, Bucky cut in smoothly, like he’d seen this train coming and stepped in to redirect it.

“Tony probably just wanted you to look the part, too,” he said, voice low and casual. “You’ve done all the work, he probably figured you deserved to enjoy the night a little. Might as well try it on, just in case.”

You glanced at him, but he didn’t look smug or teasing. Just… earnest. Calm. Like he meant it. Which made it all the harder to protest.

“Fine.” You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face. “Just to check it fits.”

The tailor clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. It’s a beautiful gown, I promise.”

You gave Bucky one last side-eye before following her toward the changing rooms, the fabric bag already in her hands.

From behind, you could hear him chuckle under his breath.

“Just wait 'til you see her,” the tailor murmured to herself, and you weren’t sure whether to be flattered or deeply, deeply nervous.

The gown was heavier than you expected. Luxurious fabric slipped off the hanger like water, pooling in your arms as she handed it over with the kind of reverence usually reserved for wedding dresses.

“I’ll give you a minute,” she smiled, disappearing to finish boxing up the suits.

Left alone in the changing room, you peeled out of your clothes, letting the gown slide on over your hips, your waist, up past your ribs. It clung like it had been sewn directly onto your body, the bodice snug, the neckline just daring enough to make you blush.

You twisted to try to reach the zipper at the back, fingers fumbling and straining, but the angle was impossible. You spent the better part of five minutes twisting in the mirror like a lunatic, trying to reach the zipper that refused to budge. Your arms ached. The corset bodice was half-fastened. You were flushed, annoyed, and far too aware of the sliver of bare spine still exposed.

You were about to peek your head out and ask the tailor for help when a low voice cut in behind the curtain.

“Need a hand?”

You flinched, fabric clutched to your chest. “Jesus, Bucky! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was rougher than usual, like he’d just cleared his throat. “Heard you cursing. Tailor said she’d be a minute out back.”

You hesitated, and your voice came out thin. “Yeah. I—I can’t get it up.”

“Okay,” he replied, oddly determined. “Turn around.”

You cracked the curtain open a pinch. He ducked inside, too broad for the narrow space, his frame practically filling it. He was careful not to look at you directly, at least at first.

You turned slowly, presenting your back. “Just the zipper,” you murmured, barely trusting your own voice.

“Sure,”

A single fingertip, cold metal, dragged up from the base of your spine to the dip between your shoulder blades. It barely touched the skin, but you shuddered from the sensation. Bucky wasn’t even fastening yet, just tracing the line the zipper would follow. The sound you made was too soft to catch.

The zipper came up slowly. Agonisingly. His knuckles brushed your skin every inch of the way, not by accident. No, this was too slow, too precise, to be innocent.

He was savouring it.

His other hand steadied you, palm ghosting just over your hip. His breath fanned warm against your shoulder.

“You’re trembling,” he commented.

You swallowed hard, unable to muster a response.

When he reached the top, his hand didn’t fall away. Instead, he swept your hair off your shoulder completely, fingertips grazing the line of your throat as he let it fall over one side.

He leaned in. Not touching, but close. Mouth just behind your ear. The heat of his breath against your neck.

“Should’ve let me help sooner,” he whispered, voice like a purr. “Would’ve had you dressed in seconds.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your lips parted slightly, breath caught somewhere halfway as your lungs deflated in shock. And maybe it was the gown. Or the silence. Or the way your thighs pressed together of their own accord, but you didn’t move. You didn’t step away.

You leaned in.

Only a fraction. Just enough.

He noticed.

You could feel it in the slight shift of his stance. The faint sound of him exhaling a chuckle through his nose. The way his hand brushed ever-so-slightly along the small of your back before falling away.

And then he was gone.

He stepped back like nothing had happened. Like the tension wasn’t choking the air between you. You turned toward the mirror in a daze.

The dress shimmered in the soft light. Deep, elegant, form-fitting. The neckline exposed the curve of your breasts, the slit at your thigh scandalous enough to make you self-conscious.

You caught his reflection in the mirror. He was watching you, but not with the restrained professionalism you were used to. It was only the sudden reentrance of the tailor that made him hesitate in whatever words were forming on his tongue. He stepped aside, finally giving you space to exit. And you did—legs shaky, palms sweating—like a deer walking straight back into the forest fire, pretending it wasn’t about to burn.

—

Your plan to avoid Bucky after the tailor incident had gone off without a hitch, maybe a little too well. You'd buried yourself in helping Tony pull together the final touches for his ‘soirée’ (which, if you were honest, was less soirée and more ‘black tie circus in a penthouse’).

You'd been so laser-focused on your tasks that you'd almost managed not to think about Bucky in that goddamn changing room. His fingers ghosting up your bare spine like a spark setting fire to dry kindling. You’d folded instantly. Your body betrayed you instantly while your brain screamed to keep it together. Pathetic.

The moral implications of whatever that moment had been were filed away for another day. Were you the other woman? Was Natasha going to slit your throat in your sleep? What was Bucky doing, touching you like that—in a public changing room, no less—when he had a bombshell redhead waiting for him back at the Tower?

No time for that now. Not when Tony’s precious ‘soirée’ was already in full swing upstairs and the caterers had somehow forgotten an entire section of the food. You’d scrambled together an emergency order from some overpriced restaurant Tony swore he was ‘basically family’ with, and by some miracle, they came through in the nick of time.

Now you were in damage control mode, hauling three boxes of overpriced canapés up to the penthouse. Your heels bit into your feet with every step, your dress clung too tightly to bend properly without your tits spilling out, and your patience was hanging on by a single goddamn thread.

You pressed the elevator button with your elbow and exhaled as the doors slid open.

Drop off the food. Grab a free drink. Drown your Bucky-related sorrows. Maybe, just maybe, keep the beast between your legs from waking at the mere sight of him.

The doors began to close. You shifted your weight, careful with the boxes balanced in your arms—

Then someone slipped through at the last second.

Him.

Bucky fucking Barnes.

Tall and devastating as usual in his dark navy suit, his tie loosened just enough to suggest mischief, or maybe carelessness. You weren’t sure which one made you feel worse.

Your breath hitched. Instinctively, your gaze dropped to the floor, feigning sudden, all-consuming interest in the stability of your precarious tower of hors d'oeuvres. But teetering stacks of overpriced finger food or not, Bucky didn’t seem inclined to play along with your avoidance act. Not now. Not when the elevator doors had sealed you in together, finally, and you were without escape.

You winced at the sound of his sharp inhale, the question already pressing past his lips before the elevator even jolted into motion.

“Did I do something to piss you off?”

You didn’t look up. Eyes fixed firmly on the floor, you muttered, “What?”

“I just…” His voice was rough. Tired. “It feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”

Shit.

He stepped forward slightly. Not enough to be invasive. Just enough to make your stomach flip.

“You hardly talk to me anymore,” he continued. “Won’t even look at me unless it’s about work. And even then, it’s like you’re somewhere else. Did I do something to offend you? Hurt you? Just tell me what I did so I can fix it.”

The elevator hummed to life beneath your feet, gliding upward smoothly. You shifted your weight, bracing against the cool metal rail, eyes stubbornly fixed on the buttons, anywhere but his maddeningly perfect face.

“You haven’t done anything,” you said quietly, the words tasting sour the second they left your mouth.

“Then why are you doing it now?” he asked, eyes searching yours. “Why won’t you even look at me?”

“Bucky…”

“Please. Just tell me.”

You hesitated. His hand twitched like he meant to reach for your arm, then faltered, falling back to his side. Your grip tightened on the containers, your fingers slick with sweat. “It’s not you,” you murmured. “It’s me… I just…”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me the truth.”

And that was what did it. The tremor in his voice. The way his brow creased like he couldn’t stand not knowing. Something broke open inside your chest, raw and unhealed. The dam cracked, split, then gave way completely, and the truth came spilling out before you had the chance to swallow it back down. You were exhausted. Wound tight. Running on fumes and nerves and far too many feelings. You’d tell him, you decided. Then drop off the canapés, quit on the spot, and flee the country if necessary. Stark would write you a killer reference. You’d survive.

“Okay,” you said, breath hitching as a nervous laugh bubbled out, half-bitter, half-resigned. “You want the truth? Fine. You’re going to think I’ve completely lost it.”

He stayed quiet, letting you spiral.

“This is so stupid,” you muttered. “I like you, Bucky. There. I said it. I like you. And it was fine—manageable—until it wasn’t. Until I started imagining things. Thinking maybe… maybe you liked me too.”

His eyebrows lifted, surprised but unreadable.

“I’ve had this massive, embarrassing crush on you since the moment I met you. And I know it’s weird, and probably unprofessional because you’re kinda my boss, but not. Technically, Tony’s my boss, but I basically manage everything around here, and—ugh, I’m rambling.” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I like you. And I’ve been avoiding you because it was getting out of hand. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And it felt wrong. Especially since you’re dating Natasha, which just made everything worse—”

“What?” he interrupted, voice sharp. “I’m not dating Natasha.”

Your eyes snapped open. “That’s what you took from all of that?”

“No, I—wait. You think I’m dating Natasha?”

“Yes!” you burst out, cheeks flaming. “I saw you! At the Sunday market about a month ago with the flowers—”

His brow furrowed. “What flowers?”

“The bouquet you gave her.”

“I didn’t give Natasha flowers.”

You let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “I saw you. It was that dumb little market Tony makes me go to for those overpriced vegan pastries Pepper loves—”

Bucky stared at you, confused. And then, slowly, understanding clicked into place. His face contorted like he’d just remembered he’d left his stove on.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “The flowers. Those weren’t for Natasha. They were for Wanda.”

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

“Vision,” Bucky groaned. “It was their anniversary. He was stuck on the phone trying to get a fancy reservation and begged me to pick them up. Natasha tagged along because she was hunting for jewellery for Maria’s birthday. That’s all it was.”

You blinked at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Bucky replied earnestly. “I didn’t know you thought that. I swear, I’m not with Natasha. I never was.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh god.”

“Hey—”

“No. No-no-no.” You squeezed your eyes shut, wanting to sink straight through the floor. “This is mortifying. I literally thought you were in a secret relationship. I’ve been avoiding you like the plague. I’ve been thinking about moving cities. I googled how hard it is to change your name legally.”

He snorted. “You’re not serious.”

You opened your eyes, and the horror must have been plain on your face because Bucky’s expression melted into something far too amused. “Oh, you are.”

“I might never recover from this,” you mumbled.

“Hey, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”

“I confessed my undying crush and accused you of being in love with someone else in the span of like, sixty seconds.”

His mouth twitched, lips threatening a smile. “You’re kind of adorable when you’re spiralling.”

“I’m going to chuck these hors d'oeuvres at your head.”

As if mocking your attempt at dignity, the elevator gave a slight mechanical whirr, nearly at the top floor. The distant hum of the party pulsed just beyond those sleek doors.

You straightened suddenly, panic creeping into your chest. “Okay, I’m going to deliver these and then I’m leaving. Possibly forever. Please never speak to me again.”

But Bucky, ever faster than you, stepped in.

And before you could react, he pressed the emergency stop button.

The elevator jolted to a halt. The tower of overpriced hors d'oeuvres wobbled dangerously in your arms. “Oh my god,” you gasped, teetering.

Bucky was already moving, steady hands catching the top box before it could topple, plucking the rest from your shaking grasp. He crouched to stack them on the floor carefully, then rose slowly, smirking as you stood frozen, mouth agape in pure horrified disbelief.

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

“No more running,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

You could barely breathe. “You stopped the elevator?”

“Didn’t want to risk the doors opening and you disappearing into the night,” he said, a little too pleased with himself.

“I hate you,” you whispered, eyes wide.

He leaned in, just close enough for you to feel his breath. “No, you don’t.”

You were going to die right here in a metal box. With your dignity in ruins and the man of your dumb, desperate daydreams giving you that look.

And somehow, somehow, you didn’t even want to stop him.

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down. Please.”

You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes and immediately wished you hadn’t. They were dark. Hungry. That gaze alone could melt you to the floor.

He stepped closer again. And again. Until his frame caged in you, his arms braced on either side of your head, the heat of his body swallowing you whole.

“I like you too,” he said, low, rough, like it was pulled from deep inside. “Christ, I was so blind. I didn’t see it. It didn’t click until that day at the tailor, until I saw you in this damn dress.”

Your breath hitched.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured. “I’ve been looking for excuses just to be near you. I keep the notes you leave me with the stupid little drawings. I like looking at them. Thinking about you.”

Your heart felt like it might crack your ribs.

“I smelled every shampoo at the store one day,” he confessed, almost sheepish, almost proud. “Hoped I’d find the one you use. Because you smell so fucking good. It’s been driving me crazy.”

“Bucky…”

“I don’t know. You make me feel special. Seen. Like I’m not some monster, like I’m normal. And then one day you were just… gone. I didn’t realise all the little things you did for me that I never noticed.” He groaned, somehow pressing closer. “I missed the sound of your voice… and it made it hurt even more… I lie awake at night, every night, thinking about you and how much I want to kiss you—”

“Bucky.” You interrupted, and he looked back at you with a barely contained hunger. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

And then his mouth was on yours.

Hot. Messy. Desperate.

You gasped into it, and he swallowed it whole, groaning as he pressed harder, deeper, hands sliding down to your thighs as he grabbed one and hitched it up around his waist. You clung to his shoulders, lips parted as he slotted himself between your legs, guiding you up until your ass was perched on the elevator’s handrail bar.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “Tell me that you want this, tell me that you want me.”

Your head fell back against the wall, lips swollen, breath shaking. His mouth travelled to your jaw, your throat, hands digging into your hips.

It was dizzying. Chaotic. Perfect.

“I want you, Bucky.” You panted.

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered again, but this time it was different, lower. Hungrier.

His hand slid along your thigh, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your dress. You panted as he kissed across your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. His hands settled on your knees, then slowly, deliberately, he spread them apart.

“Bucky—” your voice was barely more than a whisper, a tremble of anticipation and disbelief.

But he didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees.

Right there. In the goddamn elevator.

You almost came on the spot at the sight, lips swollen and slick with saliva, pupils blown, the slight smudge of your lipstick on his chin. His hands slid up the back of your calves, kneading into the flesh like he was savouring the shape of you. Your dress inched upwards, his mouth suddenly pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.

Your breath hitched. Your hands shot to the railing behind you, clutching tight.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice wrecked with want, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with something dangerous. Devotion, desire, something molten and drowning. Then his mouth moved higher.

Another kiss. Inner thigh this time. Then another, and another, slow, lingering, like he was memorising you. He disappeared until the fabric of your skirt, only the back of his head, dark locks messy peaking out from between the slit.

You moaned, soft and involuntary, your hips twitching at the heat of his breath through the thin fabric of your panties. He nuzzled in close, his nose brushing against you, and his hands pressed firmly to your thighs to keep you spread.

“I’ve thought about how you’d taste,” he muttered, lips grazing the soaked lace. “How you’d sound.”

You whimpered.

And then, he peeled your panties to the side.

The groan that tore from him was obscene.

“Jesus,” he hissed, voice muffled. “You’re fucking perfect.”

And then, his mouth was on you.

Hot. Wet. Relentless. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in it as his tongue licked into you with precision, with hunger, with something close to worship. He devoured you like he was starving. Slow circles, then quick flicks, his mouth dragging across your clit with maddening rhythm. You writhed against the rail, your leg still wrapped around his shoulder, the other trembling against the elevator wall.

“Oh my god—Bucky—fuck—”

Your words slurred together, breath coming in ragged gasps as he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. One of his arms snaked around your thigh, pinning you in place, as if he thought you might try to escape. As if he’d let you.

His tongue slid down, dipping into you, then back up, his mouth latching onto your clit with a filthy, wet sound that made your spine arch. You were unravelling, fast, dizzy, overwhelmed.

He pulled back just enough to pant. “I could stay here all night.”

His mouth was merciless. His grip was unrelenting on your thighs, mouth working you over like a man possessed—

Bzzzzt.

A shrill, sudden buzz sounded from the elevator’s emergency panel, followed by a crackling voice.

“Hello? This is Tower Maintenance. We’re registering an emergency stop on lift three. Is there an issue?”

You froze. Every muscle in your body went rigid, as if someone had cracked open your spine and poured ice water down it. Dread spread like frost through your veins. Your heart thudded painfully in your throat, threatening to climb up and out entirely.

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

This was it. This was how you died—legs spread, Bucky between them, and Tower Maintenance on the fucking line.

Bucky, in sharp contrast, did not freeze.

He groaned softly with wicked glee, his mouth still very much between your legs. The sound vibrated against the most sinful part of you, and then he doubled down. Mouth and hands working with infuriating, diabolical precision, like he’d just taken the intercom as a challenge.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, the other shaking as you reached blindly for the emergency call button, trying not to sound like you were seconds away from being ruined.

Your voice came out like a panicked squeak. “Hi! Uh—h-hi, yes, sorry! Must’ve been a—a small electrical fault. I’m fine! Everything’s… fine!”

Bucky nipped at your thigh in response.

There was a pause. You could feel the suspicion through the line.

“Ma’am, we’re not showing any electrical inconsistencies in that shaft. Did you press the stop button?”

You shot a wide-eyed glare down at the man currently devouring you.

Another wave of pleasure threatened to knock the air from your lungs. You were barely holding it together, every nerve ending aflame, skin flushed, thighs shaking. The cool metal of the elevator wall against your spine did little to ground you.

You cleared your throat, struggling to piece together something—anything—resembling human speech. “Oh. Oh, that—um, I must’ve bumped it. With my elbow. While holding a tray. It’s, uh—crowded. In here.”

Bucky chose that exact moment to suck hard, and you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the helpless sound that nearly escaped.

A longer pause. You could practically hear them frowning.

“…Right. Well, we’re releasing the stop now. Please remain calm.”

The line disconnected.

The elevator jolted slightly as it roared back to life.

Bucky gave a dark chuckle. “Crowded, huh?” Then—with zero mercy—he sped up.

“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back against the wall, “I’m—I’m gonna—”

You shattered.

It hit hard, hot and blinding. You cried out, thighs clamping tight around his head as he groaned against you, mouth not stopping for a second, drawing it out, milking every twitch, every whimper. You barely had time to breathe, let alone moan, your hands flying to steady yourself just as the elevator dinged cheerily and the doors slid open.

Right into the penthouse. Packed full of people, who by some miracle, were utterly oblivious to your predicament.

You staggered slightly as Bucky stood smoothly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, one arm slipping around your waist to steady you while the other casually reached down and grabbed the stack of forgotten canapés off the floor like he hadn’t just—

“Evening,” he greeted a passing staff member, utterly unbothered.

You were glowing crimson, pupils blown, lips parted, trying hard to fix your face. Bucky guided you forward, his hand warm on your back, keeping you between him and the crowd as your legs trembled. You barely managed to set the tray on the nearest table before someone whistled.

“Well, damn,” came Sam’s voice from the drinks bar. He gave you both a once-over, a wicked grin spreading. “Buck, next time you’re gonna eat face in the elevator, maybe wipe the lipstick off your chin first.”

Bucky only smirked and licked his bottom lip slow, on purpose, you were sure of it.

You nearly combusted on the spot.

“Bathroom?” he murmured into your ear, low and gravelly.

You nodded quickly and wordlessly.

He guided you with all the smugness of a man who had no regrets, his hand just a little too low on your back to be innocent.

---

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skittykitkat · 2 months ago

Text

Another ancient text from my huge backlog, written over many a catastrophic ovulation.

Maul x reader, 9000 words. 18+

cw: ever so slightly dubious consent, graphic depictions of violence

The slave drivers staff rapped sharply against the tiles of the huge hall as he came to a stop in the centre of the room. He leaned his weight on it, bony wrists jutting from the bright silk robes. He white-knuckled the metal and fidgeted foot-to-foot as he waited for the Zabrak to address him. Maul draped across his throne. He inspected his nails, radiating disinterest.

“Is this the troublesome thing that’s been disrupting my mines?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Let me have a look at it.”

Your captor slammed his shoulder into your back to send you forward. You didn’t budge.

“My Lord,” The weaselly man spoke up, grunting as his next shove failed to move you yet again. “I’d be more than happy to dispose of the fucking thing. Right now, if necce-“

“The fucking thing has a name.” You snapped, lurching at the feel of a hand at your waist. Without a better mind to stop yourself, you elbowed your way out of his grip and took a few steps towards the throne. You heart seized as you willingly walked towards the presence across the hall of Mandalore, so ominous that you couldn’t drag your eyes up from the particular tile that they refused to move from. Your skin buzzed with nerves, every motion feeling staggered as your body screamed at you to run away from the owner of the smooth voice ahead. It took you a few torturous seconds you lift you gaze.

The sight of him froze the panic pumping around your body into a pure, cold fear.

Maul reclined in his throne, legs spread and posture straight. He was a goddamned predator. By design and by the murderous intent emanating from him. His red, tattooed skin and those sharp horns were terrifying, but they didn’t begun to compare to the eyes. The yellow eyes locked onto yours. Intense from across all the distance between you. Knowing, guarded, and hungry for blood. He didn’t even need to look at you. Maul could feel the fear rolling off of you in crushing waves. He could feel every emotion - so much clearer than the usual poor soul who found themselves at the foot of this throne. There wasn’t any part of you shielded. It was strange. Intriguing.

For you, he opted for silence, letting you simmer with your own thoughts on the gruesome fates that could quickly be thrust upon you. But as the silence dragged on, you adjusted your stance wider. You squared your shoulders as much as they could with the binders locking your hands together in front of you. You tilted you chin up so that you could meet his glare dead-on - looking down your nose at him. Like a curse, you said your name with a steady confidence. Like it mattered, demanding respect.

Maul’s teeth bared in bitter amusement, and glanced to his left to share a look with Savage. His brother always knew what he was thinking, and his own yellow lips were pulled into a knowing smirk. Lazily, Maul fixed his attention back on you, and in a moment of benevolence, decided to let you in on what exactly was so funny.

“You stand like the Jedi do before they die.”

“The Jedi die with their hands bound?” Your voice felt detached from your body. That bold tone couldn’t have come from you - you were buzzing with the electricity of adrenaline, heart thrumming like a bird.

“No.”

“Fix the picture then, if it amuses you that much.” You offered your bound wrists in his direction.

His brow raised in surprise. He’d killed plenty of smarter mouths for such a comment, but there was something about it. There was a certain intimacy to being privy to you open emotions. He watched as you wrestled your fear under control and condensed it to a point. Perfectly contained. An entertaining insolence.

“Hmm.” He considered his answer, but the slave driver had taken his pause as an invitation to storm up and seize you by the neck. With considerable effort, he heaved you around to face him, dragging you backwards by the hair so that he could lean over you. You, tilted back with a bent spine.

“What did I tell you? You act your place.” He hissed in your face. From this angle, you could make out all the different shades of yellow in his teeth. Your stomach lurched at the hot feel of his breath, and the spray of spit that left his mouth with his words. “Disrespectful little bitch. Let me kill her, my lord.”

If experiencing your fear was interesting, feeling the disgust and hatred was exhilarating for Maul. He shared your sentiment. He never liked this man. The slicked back hair, the ostentatious silk draping his jagged form, and the weasly smile that Maul had to endure far too often. They reeked of his lack of class.

“You’re the one-“ You chocked as he engaged the electro-cuffs. Your body seized into the familiar convulsions and you slumped to the ground, straining every muscle in a futile attempt to fight off the burning seeping into your bones.

“I’m inclined to oblige you.” Maul’s voice vaguely registered above the ringing in your ears. All you could think of was the soothing cool of the tile against your cheek. Little did you know, Maul’s eyes were on you.

“Thankyou my Lord, I’ll gut her outside where the mess won’t be-“

“Oh not you.”

Your vision was still dark as you dragged yourself to your feet, swaying slightly but doggedly staying upright. Something guided your focus to to Maul, who was… smug. A dangerous expression for him.

“You interrupted me, slaver.”

“Apologies, I-“

The slave driver stepped in front of you to grovel for Maul, flattery and bribery falling from his tongue. But you were deaf to it. Mauls eyes had you frozen. From in the shadows of the slavers sweeping fabrics, you knew his intentions were on you, and yours on him. The babbling faded to the background as the two of you stared.

Your vision was tunnelled in on him, so much so that even from across the vast hall, a minute flick of his wrist made you jump in fright. The tiny movement felt so powerful for some reason, why? Your question was answered when you felt the shackles around you wrists shift. Like a cat, you fell into a deep crouch to catch them before they could hit the floor with a telling clatter.

Like two old friends having a whole conversation with the twitches of a few muscles, you flicked yours eyes to the man orating in front of you, then back to Maul. You cocked your head with a raised eyebrow.

Maul nodded upwards, adjusting in his chair as if settling back for a show.

You weren’t about to lose this opportunity.

Shackles in hand, you stalked up to the slaver, his back to you. After all this time wondering how you were going to kill him, this scenario hadn’t made it into your plans. An open stun-cuff lay in your palm, and a snide comment about his skinny neck popped into your head. But at the forefront of your mind - the way he’d treated you over the span of your forced servitude. Fuck him.

Just as he’d so often done to you, you laced your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and yanked off balance. An indignant yell left the man, who squirmed at the minimal pain of having his hair pulled. You tilted him back, his head rested firmly against your chest, and slammed the open cuff around his throat. The sharp curve wasn’t meant to accomodate a neck, so when you clasped the other half of the cuff shut, his voice caught mid-scream. The inhuman gurgles and gasps that followed were damn deafening, they made your stomach lurch in discomfort. As he spasmed desperately and the wet chokes only continued, you calmly threw him to the ground and began rummaging in his robes.

Having seen him reach into that damn pocket too many times, you knew where to find the control device. The shape ingrained in your mind from hours of that fucking thing being used on you. As soon as your fingers grazed the outline of the metal, you squeezed the button, and the familiar sizzle of electricity and the stink of burning skin quickly replaces the choking as the stun cuffs crackled to life around his neck.

Finally, quiet.

Not missing a beat, you plucked his staff from his twitching hands and got to your feet. The two zabrak hadn’t moved to stop you, and were again sharing that look you’d caught earlier. The metal in your hand felt too smooth, too flimsy. Trust a slaver to carry something just for show.

“What exactly… are you planning on doing with that?” Maul questioned lowly. You don’t know what gave you the impulse to walk closer - you just knew you had an urge to see the two of them up close.

“I’m not sure.” You replied in all honestly. “What exactly you are planning on doing with me?”

“I’m not sure.” Maul shot back as you came to a halt at the foot of his throne - only a few steps away. Up close, his features offered a more intimate intimidation than before. Now, you were not only subjected to his intense scrutiny, but every little judgement he made of your character with the twitch of a facial muscle. “I should have you strung up and left for the rats after all the trouble you’ve caused me.”

“Go on then.” Your already anxiety-knotted stomach tightened even more as you struggled to keep your voice steady, projecting from your belly. Who would have thought the voice you used to call orders across the shitty cantina back home would make its way into a situation like this? “I’d think you’re going soft if you don’t. I cost you more credits than I’ll see in my lifetime. Hundreds of slaves. You’ll never get those mines operating again.”

“Are you trying to goad me, little anarchist?”

“I’m just telling the simple truth.”

“Oh there’s nothing simple about it.” His tone was so soft. Your heart quickened again at the thought of all the violent acts he’d committed while never raising from that insidious pitch. He continued, tilting his head, his horns cutting a dramatic angle against the ornate patterns of his throne. “You’re trying to get yourself run through where you stand.”

“Darksaber’s more glamorous than a whip.”

Maul rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. There was nothing dishonest about you. You said exactly how you felt, with no illusions about who you were and no attempt at deceit. Often, the people before him were not only fearful, but so conflicted and tortured. They tried to deny the fear, they cursed themselves for their inadequacies that got them here. You let your terror crash into you and wash away as it pleased. Even within himself and his brother, there was those raging conflicts of identity, purpose and uncertainty. Yet you? Nothing.

Maul reached across himself and before you could even register it, you were staring down the glowing Mandalorian blade. Would a saber strike feel hot? A faint hum filled the air as he swayed it back and forth, tauntingly. He felt a smile overtaking him. Out of all the things that had occurred on this eventful evening, that was the thing that shut you up?

“You want it.” He exclaimed, very suddenly. He identified the faint thrilled longing in you before you did. He was right. For the briefest of moments, your ambitious mind wandered to the potential that the sabre offered. “Do you know how you earn it?”

“By killing you.”

“No, heavens, you bloodthirsty little thing. You just have to defeat me.”

Despite the situation, despite the low opinion of him he’d sensed from you the second you laid eyes on him, and despite the undoubtedly dead body behind you - a spark of good humour bubbled in your chest. He couldn’t believe it. Not a shred of hatred.

“You’re welcome to challenge me for it.” He pressed, and a sudden jolt of excitement ran through you. After all the months chained up underground in the mines, the thought of anything adventurous was welcome, even if your death was an almost guaranteed consequence.

“I’m not wasting my time with you.” You grinned at the ridiculousness of your statement, not meaning a word and not trying hide that fact in the slightest. You gestured flippantly in Savage’s direction. “I’ll take the big one.”

A dangerous chuckle rumbled from deep within Maul’s chest, the blade disengaging as he shifted, looking to Savage to share his amusement. You could’t believe how easily the murderous intent had dissipated.

“Well you owe me much more than time, my dear. I’ll have to do. Ready yourself.”

Your chest seized.

“What?”

“Ready yourself.”

Barely giving you a second, he stood up smoothly and ignited a red lightsaber blade in one fluid motion.

On the balls of your feet, you slunk backwards, toeing past the limp pile of silk over your former masters’s form. Barely able to take your eyes off of his approach, you shot a glance to the pole of metal in your hand.

“Go easy on me if this thing isn’t beskar.” You blurted out, and with a nerve-driven grin, clanged the staff against the tile floor.

It resounded with a painfully synthetic and hollow clang.

You knew giving ground was a sure-fire way to lose the upper hand so ignoring your instinct to run, you planted yourself in a defensive stance. Feet set diagonally and staff grasped in the middle, parallel to the ground.

He paused, eyes flashing with anger for a moment.

“Just when I was beginning to like you.”

If you hadn’t been so charged with panic, you would have blanked at the flash of red flying towards you from your peripherals. He was too fast. Rotating your wrist to raise the staff and ducking away out of instinct you managed to block it, sending it quickly away with a clash. You could feel warmth from his sabre creeping though the metal to your fingers just from that.

“Bad form.” Maul quickly withdrew and began circling you casually. The heavy thuds of your heart felt good against your sternum. Really good. You hadn’t felt anything close to exhilaration in almost a year. “If I’d been trying, your head would be on the floor.”

Your mind flicked back to your academy days, the only free days you’d had, really, to the boys who would take any chance to condescend to you. Maul was one of them. Annoying little-

“Guard your thoughts, dear. They’re awfully loud.”

“Just get on with it.”

Before the words had left your mouth, the blade came again from above. This time, your mind did blank. You weakly swiped your staff upwards in an awkward rotation to meet his.

The force of his blow cleaved the cheap metal straight to the ground in two pieces., and the saber came to hover at your throat. There was no heat, surprisingly, only the tell-tale humming of impending death.

You frowned.

Your wrist had warmth trickling across it.

A gasp ripped from you throat when you saw your hand. The plump flesh where your thumb became your palm - it wasn’t plump anymore. The saber had shaved across it, leaving half a palm of raw flesh there.

You shot a look at Maul. The way he was patiently observing, you knew you weren’t going to die right this second. But what did you have? What did you have?? Nothing. The most dangerous thing on your person was the underwire of your bra. If you had a few minutes to rip the seams open and pry the fucking thing free, you could leave him with some minor scratches as your final mark on the world.

“Again?” You offered with a hopeful smile that became more of a grimace when you clenched your hand shut to slow the bleeding. After spending so long considering it as an equally shitty alternative to being a slave, death didn’t seem like a distant terrifying thing anymore. Even in the face of it, you were still acutely aware of the effect you had on people. It worked even on him - he liked you.

What you weren’t aware of, was how good you looked with the red kyber light illuminating your face and collarbones. The metallic taste of your blood in the air was beyond sweet. Cursing himself, Maul knew he wasn’t going to finish you, and it irked him even more that you’d figured it out before he had.

“Next time, I’ll run you through.” He warned, removing the blade from under your chin.

“I said again.” You tilted your chin up defiantly, face set in a dogged determination.

His eyes burned into you, uncharacteristically still for the moment. They ran down you, lingering on every hint of a curve and every piece of bared skin that wasn't covered with dirt and grease. The eyes flicked behind you, to his brother now lounging on the throne.

"Leave us, Savage. Cancel our audiences for the next hour. Lock the door.”

The smirk the two of them shared. You knew that look. The look of the slave driver when he’d passed you over to a client for his first and final attempt at making a private entertainer out of you. You’d read Maul wrong, you thought him to be above that sort of disgusting thing. You’d read him so wrong. You really thought for a moment that this here was something different, two minds clashing just for the love of it. But, as you should’ve expected, he was just like the rest of them. He just hid it better.

“I can feel your hatred.” Maul taunted as Savage made his way past the two of you without a word. “Now where did that come from?”

Your mind raced again, scanning the room for weapons, escapes, ideas. The slaver. His little vibroblade. His gaudy gold belt with embedded jewels. The layers upon layers of delicate silk.

You snatched up a single piece of the staff with your good hand. Placing quick and deliberate steps away from him, you quickly found yourself crouched by the body, eyes never leaving Maul as you struggled to rip a long shred of silk off the robe. Once torn, you circled it frantically around your hand as a bandage, hissing at the friction as it dragged across the raw flesh of your palm.

He just watched. He stood there and watched, eyes alight like a nexu ready to pounce. As you yanked the gold belt free and wound it around the base of your now short-staff, he didn’t move a muscle. You quickly freed the ornate knife that had been brandished in your direction so many times from the corpse’s belt.

“You’re not putting your filthy fucking hands on me. Darth, Lord, King, Whatever the fuck. I don’t care who you are or what magical shit you can do.” You stood there fiercely, knife and staff in hand, chains draped over your fingers in a makeshift hilt, and blood dripping from the silk to trail down the metal. “I can promise you - touching me will not end well for you.”

“Sweetness.” He took you in. If the particularly stubborn tilt to your chin hadn’t made sense before - it was perfect on you now. At the idea of him forcing himself onto you, you’d transformed into a woman wielding all the strength and hatred of a Nightsister. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

The anger boiled and your lips drew into a thin, disbelieving smile. God, your thoughts were delicious. Without the sour aftertaste of self pity and feelings of inadequacy, your anger was pure, on principal. You were so composed, so smart, eyes regarding him with perception that equaled that of a force user.

But your security in yourself had one downside, he realised.

Self hatred, defeat, all the depressive emotions that riddled people. The denial and the fantasy that they used to keep going meant that their thoughts were hazed and guarded even from themselves. But you? Every little observation and emotion rang clearly in a distinguishable melody. Your respect for him at the start that you had allowed to grow into an easy fondness at his good humour. But now, the potent disdain seeping from you had charged your body with fight to your very bones. The ancestral magic that lingered around himself and Savage was crackling with it.

From start to finish however, your funny little song had a heavy baseline of lust thrumming in the background. Lust for power, for freedom, and for him. Even now it played. He knew you were only fighting him on principal, acting off what you had seen and observed. The hatred wasn’t for him. It was for the past that couldn’t be changed, the present where atrocities were still being committed as you stood there - and for the hopeful future that you intended to fix your damn self. For him, in the absence of amity, the dark side was fuelling your lust along with your anger.

He couldn’t ignore the flames licking towards him any longer.

“What idiot left a woman like you to rot in the mines?” He breathed, disengaging the blade of his sabre and pausing. He didn’t often allow himself to feel exposed.

“The dead one at your feet.” At the slightest hint of movement from him, you crouched, ready to move.

“You’re never going back there, as long as I rule.”

“I know. I blew that thing to hell.”

“You’re not going anywhere else like it.

“I’d rather end up dead in a mine than alive in your silk sheets.”

“Smart mouth.” Maul hummed, his voice layered with a strange affection. He raised his empty hands calmingly. “I’ve had my fun. I don’t want to end up hurting you.”

You remained silent. That voice. If you weren’t bleeding you’d think it was a bedroom voice. You wouldn’t have minded tha-

“Universe.” he continued, paused to muffle a chuckle. “Your thoughts are deafening. I know some things that I think you’d want to remain private.”

“Which things?” Your heart thumped.

“I’d feel rather unsavoury repeating them.”

“Unsavo-“ you blanched, slack-jawing with shock that knocked the thought of the fight right out of you. Holy fucking shit- no-

“Quite the gutter mouth, aren’t you?”

“Shut up. Shut up.” You hissed, gripping the knife and bar in your hand so tightly that they trembled like leaves in the wind. “That doesn’t mean shit. I’ll still kill you for touching me-“

“I don’t doubt it.” He purred, taking a few slow steps closer.

“Stop.”

“Do you want me to?”

“Get away from me!”

“Tell me with your mind. I’m in your head, sweetness. Will me to stop. Picture it. Give me the slightest hint that you want me to.”

You couldn’t.

The logical voice in your head, shaped my society and your experiences was telling you not to give him the satisfaction, that you were about to be used. But your gut? It had a sense of its own, as always. It told you to… trust him?

Different body parts were having very fucking insistent opinions as well.

“Zabrak.” You said, changing the subject the best you could. “Dathomirian?”

“Yes.”

“Your culture holds partnership as sacred.”

“Yes.”

“Do you?”

“Completely.” He was right before you now, within reach if you felt the urge to whack him over the head.

“Yet you allow pieces of filth like him.” You nodded to the slave driver’s corpse. “To do what he does. He tried to make a private entertainer out of me.”

“And now he’s dead, you’ll notice.”

“Because I did it myself. There’s others.”

“I gave them a chance to correct their behaviour. Most of them are fleeing or dead by now.”

“I can not think of a single reason why I would believe a word you’re saying.”

“Let me show you.” He extended a graceful hand to you, eyes burning into yours much more fiercely at that close range. “I’ll show you my thoughts, just as you are so beautifully sharing your own.”

“I don’t doubt a Sith could lie through even his thoughts.”

“Just see.” The hand flexed, waiting patiently.

“I’ll stab you.”

“Here.” You froze at a gentle touch to your wrist. Unwavering, he guided the ornate knife to rest at the junction of his neck and shoulder. The gold of the dagger, and the gold of his eyes shone brightly together. He tilted his head to the side, pulling his skin taunt and flexing the tendons beneath the metal “I believe you.”

“Fuck.” You watched his neck as he spoke, imagining the pulsing artery right beneath his red skin. “Does this move usually work on the girls?”

“That’s up to you.”

“Ugh.” You looked away in disgust. You didn’t know why you were so afraid of your hand slipping and nicking that neck.

“May I?” His hand left yours and reached slowly towards your face, two fingers extended.

“Get on with it.”

The two fingers hovered for another moment, then massaged gently into your temple. His chest rose as he took a deep breath, his eyes closing in concentration, and then your vision blacked out as he opened his mind to you.

Your thoughts were usually noisy, but the bustle of two beings in your head, two sets of emotions almost knocked you out as you struggled to decipher what you were feeling.

“Just relax.” He murmured. “I’ll show you.”

Lust. A specific kind of lust that your culture hadn’t acknowledged enough to warrant crafting a word for. You saw yourself from his eyes - from behind his eyes, where the emotions and opinions circulated tumultuously. The craving for you. He hadn’t been able to ignore your spirit. Your bright spirit that didn’t allow anyone’s grimy hands to dull it. You were the good the Jedi wished they were. Firm in your beliefs to the point that you would risk death to speak your truth. Fiery. You were a fucking fire from the moment you walked into his throne room. You flared with passion when wronged, but even as you stood there peacefully, the embers crackled, waiting for a breeze to fuel them into licking flames. You were so… alive.

There was a reverence to how he regarded you, the way you would expect him to feel for a goddess. With gentleness and fascination you would afford a delicate ornament, yet awe and respect so great that he allowed himself to imagine you at his side, accomplishing some great feat together. Shit, you thought vaguely, Zabraks move fast. Fucking hyperspeed.

That was just your character - things the force had provided him the perception to see. He hadn’t let himself focus on your body. You could feel the tension of him straining to keep himself focused, never following down trails of thought that would take him down the gutter.

“Show me the rest.” Your grip remained tight on the knife.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I see I overestimated the Sith’s abilities to lie.” You smiled, feeling the flood of thoughts hammer even harder to get out as your free hand came to rest over the one at your temple. With wicked laugh bubbling in your chest along with the nervous tension, you drew closer.

He sucked in a ragged breath, the chorus of restrained thoughts growing louder.

“Sweetness. I don’t want to give you the wrong idea.”

“Are you getting flustered, My Lord?” Your mind burst with amusement. Despite his best efforts, you’d been able to glean fragments of what he was holding back. Your voice saying his title had been one of the escapee thoughts and you couldn’t lie - you were enjoying having a beast like him wrapped around your finger. You pushed it further

“I am not- Oh. Ohhh that’s fucking delicious.” He hummed proudly and you felt the swell of his ego In your own body..

Tentatively, you had felt some need to reciprocate, regardless of him being able to feel you this whole time. You sent him your thoughts of his thunderous presence, the ability to command a room without raising a voice. The way he held himself so dignified, and how he let words fall from his tongue so beautifully controlled. Discipline, passion and his pure honesty were what had made you allow yourself to be drawn to him. You didn’t have the force, but you knew. You always knew. People. You could read them like a damned billboard.

You knew your own mind too, and although you never bothered, you could play his game and suppress your own thoughts. You teased him, letting yourself indulge in thoughts of pleasurable scenarios before focusing back in on the here and now. Him touching you, caressing you- but as fast as the image of you in an ornate bed came, the grounding presence of the marble beneath your feet sent it away.

Now, his mind was so full that single ideas were barely distinguishable, everything flurrying and melding together into static.

“Oh you’re a dangerous little thing.” He growled, hand latching onto your wrist and dragging you flush against him. You didn’t realise you dropped the knife, barely registered the clatter. His touch was gone from your temple, but the bond remained. You continued to taunt. Brief snapshots of the potential future. Spread out on the throne, on the ground, against that pillar over there. Gone as fast as they came. “You- By the Divine-.”

With a rough snarl of breath, he seized you by the waist and the back of your neck, and held you even closer.

“You want to see the rest, you’ll get the fucking rest.”

He held you there a moment, a hairs distance between your faces. His yellow eyes were on fire. You felt his nails at the small of your back, and his hot breath on your cheek.

Then, his lips were on yours, slow, but damn hungry. Your lips worked against each other with a strange fervour. His hold on you felt safe, familiar. But that mouth, the sheer heat of it, made your head spin. With every swipe of his tongue, your stomach clenched tighter.

You’d never felt this - weak in the knees from just a kiss. You were holding your own well enough, returning his passion despite gasping for breath. But when he sank a sharp tooth ever so gently into your bottom lip, dragging it into his mouth with a feral groan, you knew you were gone. You’d been desperately withholding the noises that had been straining to be let out, but as he broke the silence, you let go. As he broke the kiss, panting harshly, and began working his way to your jaw, down your neck, sucking and kissing loudly, you couldn’t hold back a shaky moan. Everything echoed in that damn hall.

The hands snuck down and pulled you into him by your ass. With your bottom half held close to him and your top half tilted back by the weight of him at your neck, you clung to him to keep from falling over with your good hand. He was so solid, unbothered by supporting your entire body weight. The hot mouth at your collarbones now completely unfaltering. His hands at your ass were delicious, you felt to pressure of it between your legs, stretching that desperate skin ever so slightly, giving you the first hints of pleasure.

You’d been in this position before, but never had it weakened your knees to fucking jelly. You knew it was because it was him, Maul. So damn ruthless and powerful. He could snap your neck with the flick of a finger. He could read your damn mind. He was the fucking ruler of Mandalore, and you knew you’d secured a foothold in his chest, shallow and precarious as it may be, it was undeniable. . You wanted to make him moan like you were, shaky and broken from the bare minimum.

“Oh. Oh.” He snickered into your neck.

“What.” You hissed out.

He chuckled again, a deep thing that reverberated in his chest. The hands that had remained firmly grasping your ass snuck lower, kneading at the flesh of your thighs. His fingers worked dangerously between your legs, so close to where you needed them.

“What?” You tried to sound demanding, but the word sounded too breathy, too high.

“You’re a power hungry little thing.” He hummed, trailing his tongue up your neck on his way to stare you dead in the eye. “You’d just love to be fucked on that throne over there, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know.” You smiled in anticipation of your own snark. “I can think of a few places I’d rather sit.”

You knew he saw where your thoughts went - to those yellow eyes looking up from between your thighs as you rode his face.

“No. There’s nowhere you’d rather be then up there.” He grinned as your ego swelled. You couldn’t enjoy the compliment for long as suddenly, his touch was gone from you and the room was flying past your field of vision. You let out a small shriek as you were flung across the room with the force. He slowed you before you landed on the throne, but your head spun with vertigo.

Before you could collect yourself, he was there, bracing a hand on each arm of the throne as he caught your lips in a kiss. Indignant from being thrown you shimmied to the edge of the smoothstone seat. Maul had to bend at the middle to keep kissing you and with an evil little grin, you reached up and held a horn in your each hand hand, pulling him even closer and further off balance. You laughed against his lips as, with a grunt, he dropped a hand to your thigh to keep from falling. You enjoyed this little act of power, and slid your tongue into his mouth. He gave you a broken groan.

“You’d be a bitch of a queen.” He craned his neck to rasp the words into your ear.

You let go of his horns, but hissed in pain as the worn, sharp edges of one slid against your open wound. Having forgotten the horrible thing was even there with the adrenaline of it all, the sharp sting sent your head back to smack against the throne. You growled behind clenched teeth as you rode it out.

“Fuck.” Unease shivered down you spine as you clutched your wrist with the other hand, squeezing viciously as if to somehow relieve it.

“Oh darling.” Maul’s eyes were on the wound, his voice a hoarse whisper as he dropped to his knees between your legs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. Give it to me.”

Your breath hiccuped in your throat as you cradled it close to you. “Fuck.”

“Give it.”

“Piss off.” You smacked his outstretched hand, hard. The sound reverberated around the massive hall. He didn’t flinch. He blinked, eyes popping open in offence. His voice grew harder.

“Give me your hand.”

“Oh fuck you,” You hissed, your hand locked into a wide fist around your wrist still. “You creepy fucking dathomirian cat. Bite me. Go chase a ball of twine. Go fucking lick your ass-“

“You’re as temperamental as a rancor.” He sighed, and pulled your hand to him. He didn’t even strain. With the same effort one would draw curtains, he dragged your rigid body close to him.

Just like that, your excitement turned back into fight, and your temper flared. Your lip curled and you twisted to shove a knee into his side. It impacted with a thud, and his breath left his body in a heavy oof.

But again he didn’t shift, barely even flinched, so you drew the knee to the side to do it again.

His hand slapped into your thigh, kneading the flesh in irritation. His eyes never left yours, but they grew dark with irritation.

“Sorry.” You blurted out. Your big mouth had gotten you into near-death situations plenty of times, but this was the first time that it had gotten you well on the way to being viciously railed. “Sorry. It just… Fuck that hurt.”

“That hurt.” He squeezed your offending leg for emphasis.

“No it didn’t.”

“No it didn’t.” He agreed. “I thought if you felt guilty, you’d hold the fuck still.”

“What are you going to do? Kiss it better? Lick it like a fucking cat?” The pain still biting into your hand soured your temper, and the intimacy you’d shared over the past few minutes emboldened your tongue. But what you’d meant to be a demeaning comment, sent his eyes to your hand and made his jaw flex with tension.

“Holy shit. You’d love that wouldn’t you?” You whispered, absolutely floored at the realisation. “Fucking Zabraks. Carnivourous little-“

“Stop it.” Maul said abruptly, his voice stony and solemn. He took your hand from you, slowly. It looked gentle to your eye, but his grip was iron, his muscle barely flexed as he forced your hand closer to him. “Trust me.”

A nervous laugh broke from you. Trust him. What a joke. You trusted him to fuck you, but now you could feel the tautness of the skin along your wrist where the blood had begun to dry. The sting of the open wound along the flesh of your palm, so large that it hadn’t even begun to scab over. You didn’t trust him with this.

He unwound the bloodied silk from your hand and you hissed as it stuck, sending pain jolting all the way up to your elbow. He shot a look to your expression. You were struggling to stay strong, letting your distress translate to anger. Your brows were drawn together and your lip curled as you held back any sound. You sent your glare his way, cursing that you let those yellow eyes draw you in. Maul’s lips curved at the corners in something that was dangerously close to affection.

“So brave.” He murmured. He gently closed his own hand over your own. Your poor severed nerve endings felt every callous on his red hand and you smacked your heel against the floor at the feeling.

“Mmm.” Was all you replied, voice growling in the back of you throat.

“Open your mind up.”

“What the fu-“

“Open your mind up. Like before.”

“Are you going to mind control me?”

He ignored you, closed his eyes and bowed his head, both hands wrapped around your own.

“I don’t know anything about the force, but I can guarantee you’ll have a hard time fucking with my head.”

“Shhh.”

“I’ll stab you.”

“Stab me quietly, then.” He murmured, his own brow furrowing with… concentration?

You watched in silence as he sat there for the stretch of several minutes, the only sound his deep, slow breathing. You took the opportunity to study his face, with the heat from those damed eyes finally turned away from you. When he was peaceful, he was actually quite pretty, you thought. Fine features, like that of a wealthy coruscanti, yet branded with those red and black colours that screamed danger, like a particularly venomous snake.

A calm washed over you. Absolutely foreign, it was Maul’s influence, you knew instantly. You never felt calm, you could be content, relaxed and vaguely peaceful, but you’d never known calm. There was always a train of thought playing at the back of your mind, usually painfully analytical. His calm felt stifling to you, a suppression of who you were as a person, but it was so strong that you couldn’t even begin to summon panic about it.

Then, your palm tingled, something between a tickle and an itch. It was overwhelming, but his strong grip on your hand and mind kept you from shying away. The calm wavered, and then it was gone, and your head was your own again.

“Take a look.” He sat back on his heels and watched as your lifted your hand to your face, eyes wide with disbelief.

The crusted blood remained, but within its perimeter, your skin was healed. Slightly pink and baby smooth, not a trace of damage.

“Why?” You asked. Why would this fucking crime lord be benevolent? He was a Sith, they were fuelled by hatred, not whatever this was.

“I’m not sure.” He said simply.

“Thank you.” The words didn’t capture the gratitude to its fullest extend. After the years of hard labour you went through, that gesture of kindness hit you like a blaster shot. “Thank you.” You repeated dumbly, unable to conjure anything else to express yourself.

“It’s my pleasure, sweetness. Are you… Are you alright?”

You frowned at the undertone. It was nervous, and you didn’t quite understand his timidness. Then it hit you, and you burst into a quick laugh. “You mean…” You pursed your lips to hold the smile back and raised your eyebrows challengingly. “Am I alright to fuck you?”

You burst into another round of cackles as the sheepish grin spread across his face, so uncharacteristically boyish.

“Lord Maul. Darth Maul.” You crooned shamelessly. “On his knees and asking so politely to fuck me. No one would ever believe this.”

“Don’t antagonise m-“

“Come here.”

He froze, midway through his grumble, then, pulled himself up by the arms of his throne and kissed you again.

It was different now. Grateful, reverent. He held your jaw as his lips brushed yours. It went on achingly long, both of you lost in it. Suddenly, he must’ve realised that he was enjoying this simple act of affection far too much, because out of nowhere, he bit into your lip hard. With a gasp, you pulled away in fright, eyes wide. He looked shocked himself, as if he’d done it on a panicked impulse to cut the tender moment short. You giggled openmouthed against his cheek, something compelling you to press a gentle kiss there. He leaned into it, letting out a vaguely humored sigh of his own.

But your laughter quickly came to a halt as he dropped to his knees between your legs. His brow raised mockingly at the astounded look on your face.

“Get rid of these. Now.” He tapped an impatient hand on your thigh and stared at your clothed legs pointedly. “Come on, this is what you wanted. You wanted me to show you the rest. This is the rest.”

You couldn’t conjure a single smart thought, so you obliged, raising you hips off the throne so you could shimmy out of your pants and underwear. The second the pants hung loose over your thighs, he lunged forward and yanked them down your legs, eyes never leaving your centre. He tossed the clothing thoughtlessly over his shoulder and leaned in to lift you closer to him by your ass.

“Oh sweetness.” He groaned, his chest heaved with a heavy, slow, breath. You could feel the bite of the cold air between your slicked legs, you knew how wet you were. He pressed a hand to the inside of each of your thighs, spreading you wider only inches from his face. “Oh seven hells, that’s exactly what you are - fucking sweet.”

The feeling of his warm breath against your inner thighs drove you crazy, but it didn’t even begin to compare to how the sight of him on your knees for you while you sat on his throne made you dizzy. He was right. After living the life you’d lived at the mercy of others, you were power hungry. You were starving for it. You don’t know what possessed you to say:

“Show me then.” Your voice was low. Your next words came out with a hint of mockery; of challenge. “Put your pretty mouth to work, my Lord.”

Maul’s brow shot up in surprise, and a huff of laughter escaped him. Yet you saw how those eyes darkened. He paused for a moment, eyes looking into yours, obviously trying to conjure some smart remark, to show you your place. To your delight, he couldn’t maintain the eye contact, neck curving to glean another look at your cunt. He growled in frustration from the very back of his throat and leaned in to lick a long line across your slit.

You shivered, hands slapping to the thick arms of the throne to brace yourself. But your pleasure was short-lived. He sat back on his haunches stubbornly and glared as your hooded eyes flicked open in surprise. He let the silence stew, before he tilted his head menacingly.

“I’m going to turn that smart fucking mouth dumb.”

You smiled in amusement, but your lips quickly fell open as he closed his mouth over your clit and lapped at it with a flat tongue. You moaned. Loud. He fucked the same way that he ruled; ruthlessly.

“Shirt. Off.” He said briefly, before diving back in. A hand slapped the side of your thigh forcefully to emphasise his point. You quickly pulled your shirt over your head, scared that he might stop if you didn’t.

He hummed his approval, the hand on your thigh gripping it tighter as the other came out to slip under your breast band. He massaged your breast roughly as he slipped his tongue inside of you, letting out a muffled groan. He wasn’t even trying to drive you over the edge yet-

Maul just loved the taste.

He lapped at the inside of you hungrily, eyes closing with enjoyment as he probed and swirled deeper. And shit, you heard his thick swallow, quickly followed by another. You let out a hum of a moan, relaxing completely under his touch. At the sound, his intensity increased, nails digging into the flesh of your thigh and the hand your breast adjusting to roll your nipple between his thumb and his forefinger.

“Fuck.” You breathed, and at hearing you react, he ran his tongue from you entrance to your clit. “Fuck.” You repeated, in an embarrassingly high pitch.

“Are you going dumb on me, sweetness?” His voice came from closer.

You didn’t even realise he’d shifted. You’d just began to shape your mouth around a reply when you felt two of his fingers slide into you. A moan ripped out of you when his mouth closed around your breast, a hand on your back to keep you in his mouth.

“Yes, I think you are.” He said, swiping a thumb over your clit as the fingers of the same hand scissored you open, curling and stroking in turns. “Didn’t even need a cock. You’re dumb from just a few fingers.”

Again, with a fucking evil chuckle, he escalated things before you could reply. He quickly ducked to catch your clit in his mouth again, laving a hot tongue over the whole area. He sucked, mouthed, and started thrusting those damn fingers into you, hard, bouncing you back against the throne with every plunge.

“Mmm. Maul.” You groaned.

“So smart.” He mocked, replacing his mouth with his thumb while he spoke. “You figured out my name.”

“Shut up.”

He chuckled again, ducking back down to work you with his mouth. The muscles in your abdomen tighten on their own, chasing the growing feeling of pleasure.

“Look at you on my throne.” He grinned, lips shiny with slick. “Spread out as if its yours.”

You tried to say something, but he curled his long fingers inside you and all that came out was a moan. At that, he pressed a sloppy kiss to your clit, his suck making an obscene sound as he drew back yet again. His fingers kept moving, lazily, tauntingly, giving you just enough pleasure to keep you squirming, but not enough to drive you over the edge.

“Fucking queen. Fucking slut. So greedy. You want a bigger throne and you want your cunt stuffed with me, you wanted it the second you walked in here.”

“Maul.” Your complaint came out as a plead.

“What? Smart mouth?”

“Make me-“ Your voice cracked as he kissed your clit again, tongue sliding down as his lips tortured you roughly. He was fucking evil. He was playing with you, giving you direct, overstimulating pleasure, and taking it away as soon as the pressure began to build. It wasn’t even edging - he wasn’t letting you get close - just fucking torture. Wanting more, or it all being too much,

“What was that?”

“Maul. Please.”

“Dumb mouth.” He chuckled wickedly, “Fucking dumb.”

“If you won’t make me cum, I’ll do it my damn self.” You hissed, reaching for your throbbing clit.

But he caught your wrist, eyes never leaving yours, fingers still working you lazily. You thought that he was strong before, but now his grip was iron. It hurt. You realised he’d handled you with care before, even when he’d thrown you, it didn’t hurt this much.

You wanted it to hurt more.

You struggled against him harder, loving the electricity of his nails digging into your flesh. His muscles barely flexed, and your hand barely moved despite your efforts. Those damned yellow eyes saw straight through you, bright and smug. He cocked his head, fingers stilling inside you.

“You like this.” He said simply, eyes narrowed as he gauged your reaction.

“Hmm?” You tried to sound coy, but it didn’t come out right. It sounded… dumb and guilty.

He licked his lips, and then his nails bit into your wrist hard enough to sting.

You inhaled sharply, the breath stuttering and catching to produce an undeniably sexual sound. The feeling went straight to between your legs and your knees tried to jolt together. A shaky breath of his own answered yours. Both of you stared at the other, you unable to deny the effect the pain had on you - and him unable to believe it as you pulsed and clenched around his fingers.

“You like it.” He hissed, grip unwavering. The nails plunged deeper. The pain began to throb and burn. You clenched around him again.

“I like it.” You breathed, head dropping back onto the throne, all resistance lost.

“Fuck. Fuck.” Maul growled, something deep and carnal from the very bottom of his chest. He lunged down so suddenly that you jumped. You could only groan as he nipped at the flesh of the inside of your thighs. His hand let go of your wrist and you could feel the shape of the crescent indentations he’d left. The hand slid up, feeling its way along your shoulder until it came to brush the side of your neck. Your breath caught and you lifted your head to look at him.

Those intense yellow eyes were gauging your reaction as his thumb spread along your throat, his hand now encircling your neck.

“You like this too?”

Gods you loved it. You didn’t realise you would. If it was anyone else, you would’ve smacked them for trying. With Maul, it wasn’t an insecure lover diminishing you to uplift themselves. It was instinctive with him. He had regarded each of your desperate moans with reverence, staying composed as if he expected this of himself; as if he held you writhing and begging without him even breaking a sweat as the minimum standard for his performance.

But now? A dangerous mood was unfurling between the two of you. It was creeping up quietly, slowly. Both of you spoke in hushed whispers as it drew closer.

“Mhmm.” You answered softly. You tilted your chin up to bare your throat to him. His grip tightened ever so slightly, not enough to hurt but enough to make your head feel deliciously warm. You groaned, struggling to keep your eyes from fluttering closed in bliss so that you could watch him. His composure was failing. His breath grew heavier and eyes grew ravenous.

“Sweetness.” He breathed. “Oh fuck.” His hand slid up to grip your jaw. His fingers came away from your face for a moment, then he brought them back with a firm slap, not hard, but enough to make a sound. Enough to make your lips part in a gasp of surprise that sounded far too close to a moan. The jolt of the fright was quickly drowned out by the swell of arousal in your stomach. Yet again, you felt yourself flutter around those fucking fingers.

“Gorgeous.”

The fingers dragged down your cheek, two of them resting on your lips. He paused there, waiting, as if he expected something. You stared back, eyes soft with arousal.

You lifted your head and sucked the fingers into your mouth.

Maul gave you a broken groan.

“Of course you like that. Hells above. You’re perfect.”

“Mmm.” You confirmed. You ran your tongue over the rough pads of his fingertips.

“Fuck. Can I bite you, love?”

You stilled from your movements to stare at him with a raised eyebrow. He’d thrown you across the room, choked you, slapped you, and he’s asking if he can bite? After a long pause you hit him with a muffled, condescending, “Uh huh?”

“Watch it.” His fingers bit into the flesh of your thigh as he grabbed you with a growl, leaning closer into your neck and letting his tongue glide up it. “Fucking smart mouth.”

“Seems… fuck… seems obvious. Yes. Please.”

“I mean bite you. Not deep, just enough to draw blood. The taste… It’s like how you’d enjoy fruits and sweets. I know you taste so good, darling. You smell like fucking dessert.”

Hmm.” Your annoying, thoughtful noise morphed into a giggle, and then a breathy moan when he dragged a sharp tooth across your neck. “Make me feel good first.”

“You’re dripping on my floor. I’d say you’re already feeling good.”

“I want to cum.”

“You want to cum? I’ll make you cum then. Demanding little whore.”

He did it so easily. On his knees, he gave you everything at the same time. Those tattooed fingers probed and curled and between each stroke, he pushed his tongue down the whole length of your clit. When his fingers hit your g-spot, he paused, pressed harder and sucked your clit into his mouth. If that devastating syncopated rhythm wasn’t enough, he was in your head too. You could taste yourself through his mouth, see yourself, from his inexplicably reverent eyes. Fuck. Even as your eyes rolled back into your head and mouth hung open with gasps, he thought you were beautiful. You were close already. You’d never had an orgasm that you didn’t have to chase, but this one was building whether you tried or not. It was fucking inevitable. You felt the pleasure in your pussy, stomach, and even flaring down the insides your legs.

It hit before you were ready.

Your hips shoved down onto his hand with a mind of their own, and you slid down in the seat until only your head rested on the back of the throne. You shook. Even your hands trembled with it, and he let you ride his hand through the whole devastating length of it, mouth sealed dutifully to your clit. He kept going long after you were done, tongue lapping until it became too much.

“Fuck. Stop. Stop!” You squirmed away from him, gasping. “Oh o’sik. Stars above.”

He sat back onto his heels, eyes seeming to glow brighter. His hands slid off of you, and he just regarded you, spread out and chest heaving on his throne.

“Satisfied?”

You groaned a weak affirmative, eyes rolling closed.

“Poor thing.” You heard him croon. “Can’t even talk.”

“Yes.” You breathed out. “Fuck yes I’m satisfied.”

“Oh. Suppose you won’t be wanting any more, then?”

You peeked an eye open and found him still sat obediently on his haunches, hunting hound turned lap dog. Head cocked in anticipation of your answer.

“Well… I never said that.”

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