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sleepyelliee · 21 days

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jack marston x reader.

before you read !

FEM reader, not really proofread, mostly contains fluff but mentions his parents and past, couple small mentions of the van der linde gang, reader is mentioned to have long hair that's normally braided - no specific hair color! no y/n used. this is my first time writing fanfiction like this, so lmk if I did an mistake or forgot to add another warning !! <3. also you're a farm girl !

credits.. @reddorkredemption for the Jack header! @/xxxbimbobunny @/v6que for the dividers.

<3.

your father always spoke about not to get yourself into wrong groups of people, he always mentioned to stay away from outlaws, gangs or bad men in general, to be aware of people whenever you go out in public because he claimed that people weren't always truthful about their status and reputation.

you always went along with his rules — he was right, there was always something on the newspaper you would receive in your mailbox of your ranch stating another missing girl or someone getting shot or killed. Normally, you would try to avoid any of those circumstances happening to you by staying in your ranch and helping out your father with duties along with your younger siblings.

That all changed when you met a certain boy around your age, Jack Marston. He was a lean man with a slightly muscular build, he seemed to be those cowboys from the past with his hat that was black and gray with a feather poking out from the brim ever so slightly, he always had a serious expression on his face and hardly ever shown a sign of vulnerability. You thought he was good looking, but you would never admit that to anyone with how he carries his gun around his hip in a threatening manner for someone who lived in a sheltered life like yours.

You didn't know how you managed to get yourself tangled into an *outlaw* — something you tried to avoid your whole life but here you were, laying in your bed as you fantasized about the young man and how cute he looked whenever he would visit your farm to buy different diary products off your father because how cheap the price was. This small crush you thought you had eventually became a *huge* and noticable crush as time went on and how often he would visit your families ranch.

....

The cold breeze brushed against your body as you wiped off sweat from your forehead, sighing as you felt the hard labor in today's work before you heard a familiar horse riding up into your ranch. Turning your gaze away from the horses you were taking care of today onto the young man deemed as a gunslinger.

"Hi, miss. Wonderin' if I could get eggs, sorry to disturb you, notice that your father wasn't out here today." He spoke, instantly sending butterflies into your stomach with his quiet grumble when he noticed that his horse wasn't staying put like he told it to be.

"Hey, mister, sorry to inform you but we are out of eggs recently." You muttered as you moved to stand where he was leaning against the fence. You swore you could feel his gaze on you for a brief moment, analyzing each move as your fingers moved to comb the messy strand of hair that managed to slip out of your braid.

Jack stayed quiet for a minute before nodding as he replied, "Alright, then. Thank you for ya help anyway." He soon started to walk away from the fence and mount onto his horse before he called out to you, "Have a great one, miss." Then he quickly left the ranch, the horses footsteps slowly but surely, going quieter as he rode into the distance.

...

Ever since that day, he has been visiting your ranch more and more often, sometimes even ordering large batches to keep the conversation going. You thought he was quiet, but he looked so memorized anytime you would speak about your day in your tired, raspy voice. Jack always claimed that it was just due to not wanting to go home because his *parents* grounded him. But even your younger siblings could've sworn that he had the biggest crush on you and they would tease you endlessly for it.

Your denial of liking or loving an outlaw was soon evaporating when he started to invite you out to different places. As time grew on, he soon found himself more comfortable to take you out to play Blackjack and have you comfortable in his lap, his free hand that wasn't holding the cards would protectively wrap around your waist and hold you close. Jack would soon also allow you to hold his guns, but he would make sure that you wouldn't accidentally pull the trigger and shoot yourself — he was afraid of loosing you too. You start to notice that the initial of your first name would be carved in all of his guns in the same exact spot — on end of each handle so it felt like he was holding you whenever you weren't with him.

God, what would your father think about when he found out about you and your gunslinger of a boyfriend? That question was always back of your mind each time you were with him.

Yet, you guys weren't really dating yet, he was very paranoid and protective of you. That's what you were trying to convince yourself to believe for a very long time before one late night when you were riding together.

...

Jack told you to get off your horse and told you that he had a surprise for you, something very out of the ordinary since most days he was much more direct of whatever he speaks about.

He takes your hand in his, interlocking each finger of yours with his rough hands as he shows you the beautiful stars above you. You were about to question his motives before you got caught off guard with a soft and gentle kiss on your cheek, almost jaw dropping from how gentle he was with you — let alone seeing him this vulnerable.

...

Soon enough, your relationship status was a secret, your father, friends nor your younger siblings knew you were with an outlaw most days. After all, you would simply lie and say you would hang out with your girl friends.

You never imagined to be visiting his ranch, or whatever you want to call it since the land was dry and it was quite dusty, also you noticed that there was hardly any animals living on that farm.

But here you were, sprawled out on his bed as he clung onto you like you were going to disappear magically at any moment as he muttered about the truth about his parents.

"...My mother? Well she...." Jack went silent like a lasso pulling at someone's throat, he was trying to suffocate a cry, to try not to look so vulnerable in front of his sweet girlfriend that he believed he didn't deserve. He knows he killed a man, he was an outlaw, a gunslinger, and a young boy raised in a gang before he became a monster he thought he was.

"Mhm." You hummed, listening to him speak as your free hand that wasn't wrapped around him combed through his black tangled locs. "it's okay, baby." Your lips found his forehead, pressing a couple kisses before you pulled away and rested your head on his chest. You tried to never push him to speak about his past whatsoever, you just listened most of the time and that's what he absolutely adored about you.

thank you sooo much for reading! sorry if this was kinda bad, this was my first time ever writing something like this. ALSO I HAD TO WRITE HIM SINCE THERE IS LITTLE TO BASICALLY NO WRITTING ABOUT HIM!! also, please don't post or copy my writing anywhere else. masterlist.

#adult jack marston #rdr2 john #red dead redemption two #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #red dead redemption community #red dead fandom #rdr1 #john marston #rai's rambles.#jack marston nation #rdr1 jack #jack marston x reader #jack marston #rdr2 x reader #fanfiction #rdr2 headcanons

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freesia-writes · 8 months

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Tech + Vel Chapter 28: Resonance

I have to post the fanart by @nika6q instead of the header for the story this time, cause it's SO DARN PERFECT! I love seeing how everyone envisions her. I could cry. <3 You'll see the context of the scene down below. :)

During the Clone Wars, the Bad Batch is tasked with a variety of missions across the galaxy. An unexpected addition to their team throws a wrench in the mix, particularly for Tech, who finds a particular connection with this disillusioned Padawan-turned-mechanic named Vel throughout the events in this action-adventure romance. COVER ART BY @zaana!!

Master List of Chapters

The feeling of his lips on hers and the intoxicating delight of his affection was all Vel could think about for the next number of days. She'd been yearning to revisit it at any chance they could get, but they'd been sent on another mission, and Tech was right back into "work mode", executing his duties with flawless precision and efficiency. She had plenty to do as well, even being coerced into joining them in the reconnaissance stage. After days of lurking about the Coruscant underworld, Hunter had cornered their target, calling the rest of the team to close in.

Then the weasel escaped.

How, Vel couldn't figure out, and Crosshair made sure to interrogate Hunter about it later, but for now, the Rhodian was scuttling down an alley toward a parking lot of speeder bikes. Tech and Vel were closing in quickly on either side, narrowly missing him as he shot off into the Coruscant traffic lanes. They each grabbed a bike as well, Vel whispering a silent apology to whoever the unfortunate owners were, and darted after him.

Careening around corners and weaving between other ships, Vel shortened the distance between them, navigating expertly amid the cacophony of the night sky. If she was being honest, she was slightly smug about the opportunity to show off her skill on a speeder bike. It hadn't come up in their conversations or missions, but she had significant experience from a somewhat adventurous adolescence. Tech was an admirably adept pilot, but speeders were different than full-sized ships, and she yearned to outperform him in something other than the occasional mechanical fluke.

Tech was close behind, scanning possibilities from behind his visor and simultaneously paying attention to the erratic twists and turns of his quarry. Angry honks and yells followed the racers as they narrowly missed a crash every few seconds, each taking increasingly dangerous risks to try to outwit the others. A quick review of the layout of the sector they were currently in gave Tech an idea, and he peeled off and disappeared from view.

Hair whipping behind her, Vel leaned further down, coaxing the little bike faster and faster. Her jaw was set in determination, the wide galaxy-colored eyes of the Rhodian fueling her need to capture him... to prove herself... She wobbled for a moment as she fetched her blaster from her thigh holster, cursing as a hovertrain temporarily blocked him from view. Twisting the accelerator even harder, she shot past the train, seeing her chance to corner him in a convergence up ahead.

But at the last minute, Tech came out of nowhere, dropping in front of the Rhodian with perfectly-executed timing that caused the alien to jam on the brakes, skidding sideways and smacking into the building before falling onto the ground in a dazed stupor. He was struggling to pick himself up from his splayed position when Vel landed close behind, running to ensure he didn't get away this time. But Tech was on him in an instant, having leapt from his own speeder in an impossibly lithe movement, broken with a smooth roll that brought him to the Rhodian's side before he could reach his feet.

The squawks of complaint were useless as Hunter caught up, taking the target by the electrocuffs and steering him firmly away, leaving Tech and Vel in the dark alleyway. Pulling off his helmet, Tech leaned against the parked speeder bike, pulling out his datapad and immersing himself in it immediately. The glow from the screen illuminated the light sheen of sweat on his forehead, and the accentuated rise and fall of his chest told of his exertion.

Vel thought she had put on a good show, but Tech's unmatched skill and agility, prowess and power, grace and calculation... It all rushed through her mind, casting a wave of tingles through her. He seemed so business as usual, as if he didn't just perform some kind of superhero move while making it look as simple as if he were brushing his teeth. Whether it was the adrenaline still coursing through her veins or the long-simmering attraction she held for him, she bit her lip as she gazed at him with an undeniable desire.

Tech was oblivious, fingers tapping deftly on the screen as he re-crossed his legs in front of him, butt resting on the speeder seat. Vel's approach would have startled him if he weren't always aware of his surroundings, although his awareness didn't always extend to the nuances of the emotional climate. She walked to him slowly, eyes roving from his angular features to the gaps between his armor plates, thrilled and terrified by the growing heat in her core. He looked up finally as she stood beside him, emanating an inexplicable hunger and intensity that caught his attention. He furrowed his brow, shifting to his feet and facing her fully.

"Is everything alright?" he asked pertly, tilting his head and sending another spark of affection through her.

"Yeah..." she said breathily, swallowing hard at the perceived risk of putting herself out there. "It's just that... you were... are... really amazing."

He rested a hand on his hip, jutting it out to the side as he appeared deep in thought, as though her words were puzzling to him. He searched the ground for answers, brown eyes roving here and there as he pondered what could possibly be so impressive. Vel took a step closer, bringing herself into his personal space, and placed a tentative hand on his chest plate.

"It's... really hot," she continued, eyes shifting sheepishly off to the side. Her gaze was averted, but her body ached for his, leaning forward imperceptibly to almost rest against him. When she finally turned her face back to him, she lifted a hand to his cheek, relishing the sharp inhale of surprise from his beautiful mouth. "You're really hot," she said with a smile, lips slightly parted as she memorized every detail of his irresistible face.

"What are you doing?" Tech said suddenly, causing Vel to pull back in shock and, though she hated to admit it, a good amount of hurt. She stared at him, eyebrows drawing together as she clasped her hands anxiously.

"I... uh... Geez, Tech. I was trying to kiss you... Didn't you like it the last time?" her words came in a flood of embarrassment at his interruption. "I mean... I'm sorry, not to be accusing or anything... I'm just... I'm just confused."

"Ah," he said, realization dawning upon him, although there were still some mysteries to it. "But... It does not seem like a fitting time for physical affection... We are on a mission, and the setting is neither leisurely nor romantic."

An exasperated sigh cushioned her words as Vel shook her head with a smile. She could be quite compartmental in her own thinking, although not to the extent that he was capable. "I'm sorry," she repeated, stepping closer one more time. "If it's jarring or unwelcome, I totally get it. I just.. um..." She fidgeted with her fingers, looking down at them, "I just find it really attractive. Your strength and capability. I know you think it's no big deal, but... it makes me feel things." She laughed at the last phrase, agonizing in the awkwardness of having to explain it but wanting to make sure her motivation was understood.

Razor-sharp comprehension glimmered in Tech's amber eyes, accentuated by the magnifying effect of his goggles. He cleared his throat, a tiny smirk touching the corner of his lips. For someone who was so quick to share calculations and expertise, receiving a genuine compliment was still a bit of a novel experience for him. His strength and capability were... expected, baseline. His only value in a galaxy at war. But perhaps that was not entirely true.

"I am sorry for... surprising you," he took a stab in the dark. "I did not perceive any of my actions to be particularly noteworthy. But... I appreciate your... admiration." His voice had a husky tone to it now, catching Vel's attention, and she studied him intently, hoping it meant what she thought it did.

"It's okay," she said softly, in a simple vulnerability that Tech somehow found magnetizing. Something shifted in his brain, and he took a look around the alley they'd been left in, assessing a great many factors before determining his course of action. He lowered his chin slightly, moving forward purposefully and placing his hands on Vel's waist, and pushed her backward, up against the dark wall of a building.

Fireworks were exploding in her heart, her mouth going dry with shocked delight. The look on his face was... inexplicable. It was a flickering flame finding dry kindling to feed its appetite, alight with a warm glow and radiant heat. She opened her mouth to speak, not really having any idea what she was going to say, but the press of his lips on hers took away the need to decide.

His kiss was harder than before, his body heavy against her with his legs staggered between her own. It felt possessive... commanding... overwhelming in the best way. He turned his head, meeting her mouth again and again, lingering more and more each time until he finally opened his lips a bit, gently sucking her lower lip in one smooth movement. Her body was on fire, mind swirling in utter bliss, and Vel wrapped her arms around him, pulling his plastoid frame as close as she could.

Tech kept going. Kissing, turning, cupping her face, kissing her again. He tried his open-mouthed technique again, sending a shiver down her spine. His breathing was growing heavy again, as was hers, in the few gasps of air she was able to suck in through her nose. His passion was like ocean waves on the shore, rolling in steadily and gracefully, crashing into her with waves of bliss before receding. Again and again. She never wanted it to end, completely losing herself in the taste of his mouth, the scent of his sweat and armor. A tiny noise escaped her lips, a soft moan of euphoria, and her hands splayed across the hard plates on his back.

He pulled away, assessing her face immediately, alerted by her noise. The sudden departure of his intense presence opened Vel's eyes in surprise, and she looked at him quizzically. And sheepishly. Was that a turnoff for him? Had she done something wrong?

"Do you want to stop?" Tech asked, as frank as if he were asking if she wanted a glass of water.

"Never," she sighed, smiling stupidly at his flushed face. "That was a happy sound. You're incredible."

"You appear to think a great number of ordinary things are incredible," he murmured, and she truly couldn't tell if he was joking or not. Either way, it was ridiculous and endearing, and she laughed freely, turning to bury her forehead against his shoulder. His following words were even more heartwarming.

"It bodes well for me that you are so easily impressed."

artwork by @vimse! <;3

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#the bad batch #tech fanfiction #tech x oc #tech romance #star wars fanfiction #tbb #bad batch #star wars the bad batch #the bad batch fanfiction

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literallydontlook · 1 year

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Atonement - part 1

Pairing: Crosshair x f!sex worker!reader

Rating: Explicit (minors, skidaddle)

WC: 5.7k

Series summary: After Cody deserts, Crosshair comes to terms with his place within the Empire and the things that he’s done in its name. As the inhibitor chips begin to degrade, his building guilt finally pushes him to defect himself. Life on the run is harder than he imagined, but he’s found moments of comfort and true peace from an unlikely source. Can he ever atone for the crimes he’s committed or is he condemned to a lifetime of guilt?

Series CW: canon typical violence, swearing, sex work, lots of negative self talk, PiV, masturbation (m and f), probably oral at some point; reader has a back story but no physical descriptions; lmk if I missed anything

Unwhitewash the bad batch disclaimer: these guys are straight up white in the show and that is not ok with me. My descriptions and headers are made to combat canon designs. If you don’t like that pls leave.

A/N: SOOOOOOO ONCE AGAIN I’m on my Crosshair shit even though almost 0 of my followers are here for this. I wanted to explore what it would take for him to find redemption. TO BE CLEAR a lot of the stuff he says on the show and his attitude and superiority complex in canon are straight up disgusting, but I can’t help but wonder if I’d be strong enough to defect if I were put into a similar situation. In an age where we are so quick to condemn people for their mistakes (god knows I’ve made my share), how can we nurture the good in people instead of pushing them farther away? Also I was horny lol

—

Sharp eyes scan the cantina over the rim of his drink. Others are like him — sitting at tables obscured by the darkness. They’re scheming and dealing, keeping low profiles as they search for their next gigs. The dim lighting blurs their faces and the air is hazy with smoke. But Crosshair still sees everything.

But he also listens.

“…Black Sun…—ot take kindly to…”

“…we’ll need a qui—….to pick off…”

“I don’t want no part of…-mperial control…”

There are a number of promising-sounding leads and he indulges in a little bit of cautious optimism. It’s been 2 months since he’d defected and two rotations since he’s eaten. He never thought he’d ever miss the Imperial slop they served at the mess, but it’s starting to sound pretty good right about now. His stomach rumbles.

Finding jobs was proving to be more difficult than he’d anticipated, especially for a man looking to disappear from the Empire. Most bounty hunters belong to the Guild, but he can’t risk leaving that kind of a record. It leaves him with the kinds of jobs that are actively avoiding official channels.

A spineless-looking gentleman dressed far too expensively for the establishment looks over his shoulder before taking a seat across from Crosshair. He runs a hand through greasy, slicked back hair and fiddles with the gaudy rings on his fingers, twisting them nervously. Crosshair acknowledges him with a silent nod.

“That’s quite a rifle you’ve got there,” he says, attempting to sound nonchalant.

Crosshair hums in response, taking a sip of his drink. The man looks around again and dabs at the sweat around his neck before leaning in.

“I’m looking for some help,” he says, voice lowered to almost a whisper. There’s an awkward silence as he waits for a response but he’s met with Crosshair’s usual brand of stoicism.

He waits for the man to continue and it takes almost all of his willpower not to roll his eyes and scoff. “What’s the job,” he asks finally.

“Ah, yes — well, I’m looking for someone who can be discreet. This cannot be traced back to me,” he says, looking over his shoulder again, “and my associate spoke very highly of you.”

Crosshair narrows his eyes. “And who, exactly, is this associate?”

He leans further over the small table, lowering his voice even further. “Gini Millegi,” he whispers conspiratorially.

“Hmm…” Crosshair considers this information carefully while absentmindedly stirring his drink with a toothpick. Millegi was a notorious gangster in the region who’d hired him for a hit just a few weeks ago. Something about rival gang politics — he couldn’t care less, to be honest. The pay was good and the job was surprisingly easy. What more could he ask for?

The man clears his throat and Crosshair’s returning glare nearly burns a hole in his forehead. “Go on,” he says impatiently. The man jumps in his seat and pats down his pockets nervously.

“The target will be at Safa Toma, just across town tomorrow.” He frowns, mumbling something to himself before exclaiming, “The little brat — she can’t just waltz in here out of nowhere and take our family’s hard-earned fortune! Who does she think she is?!”

He closes his eyes and places a hand over his heart dramatically.

“My father is not long for this world and she needs to be eliminated before he passes.”

Crosshair holds up a hand, “Spare me the details. What’s the bounty?” He didn’t need to hear a long winded story about greedy families vying for an inheritance. The less he knows, the better.

The man sits back and huffs indignantly. “Five thousand credits. Double if you can make it look like an accident.”

Five thousand credits. That's enough to buy some stability for at least a month. He locks eyes with the man and something in the pit of his stomach turns as he considers the proposition. It sounds easy enough, but he’s learned quickly that in this line of work, nothing is ever as simple as it seems.

Especially when the client is avoiding official Guild channels.

His stomach grumbles.

“Fine. But I want fifty percent up front. Those are my terms,” he says, leaning back and folding his arms across his chest. “You won’t find a more discreet hunter.”

The man hesitates, chewing on the inside of his cheek in consideration. Finally, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a coarsely woven bag. He sets it on the table, but his hand lingers over it. “How do I know you won’t just run off with the credits?” He asks with narrowed eyes.

Crosshair plucks it from below his palm. “You don’t.”

—

Safa Toma is boisterous, a hub of raucous activity and a host of unsavory characters. The main draw is riot racing, a dangerous sport akin to Tatooine’s pod racing with the addition of officially sanctioned weapons usage. Crosshair had heard of it. Many clients in his new line of work were enthusiastic participants with racers of their own, but he’d never had an interest. The place is decidedly too cacophonic for his taste.

He peers at the stadium through his scope, searching for the reflective discs he’d strategically placed the night before. With any luck, he’d be able to mask his location with a shot rebounded from the opposite direction.

He’s perched high on an abandoned building, several kliks away. By now, the toothpick dangling from his lips is gnarled and ready to snap. He can’t shake his nerves and the vague feeling of foreboding he’s had about this job. His commlink crackles to life.

“The target is en route to the viewing suite. Do you remember the hand signals?” His client’s voice is low and his speech is rushed, nervous and impatiently demanding some sort of comfort to placate his anxious energy.

Crosshair rolls his eyes before responding. His scope swings across the stadium in search of a group matching the provided description. An older, heavier-set woman with a severe expression and dressed impeccably. Another woman in expensive robes and perfectly coiffed hair carrying a small child. And two greasy-looking men in suits wearing jewelry worth more than Crosshair’s entire ship.

“I have a visual. Awaiting your signal.”

The link goes silent as he watches the client dart out from behind a column and speed walk down the hallway to catch up, arms pinned rigidly to his sides in a ridiculously short strut.

So much for playing it cool.

Now that they’re all together, it’s clear that these people are the client’s family. The resemblance between him and the two men is unmistakable. And they’ve all clearly inherited the older woman’s chin, who he figures is their mother. The connection to the younger woman and the toddler is less clear.

He’s focused on tracking the group but registers the sound of stray blaster fire and a unified gasp from the crowd. The announcer’s voice booms and even from this distance, Crosshair can hear it.

“A friendly reminder to all our spectators: be mindful of blaster fire. Safa Toma Speedway is not liable for any injury, death, or disintegration. Thank you.”

He absentmindedly rolls his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. Hmm, he thinks, that’d be a convenient cover if the timing is right. Maybe I can double the bounty after all.

Steadily, he follows their movements with his scope until they reach the suite. The two men plop down on a luxurious looking sofa and turn on a large screened TV, where they’re able to watch several sporting events at once. The client pulls out a seat next to the window for the younger woman and Crosshair tenses in preparation, recognizing that this placement is surely intentional. She must be the target.

She sits and places who Crosshair assumes is her daughter on the ground. The child toddles towards the window, pressing her small, chubby hands against the glass, looking down at the speedway with wide, innocent eyes.

He exhales a stuttered breath and closes his eyes.

The kid will be fine, he reassures himself. The family’s loaded anyway.

When he peers through the scope again, he sees the client approach the child, kneeling down to meet her eye level. He places a hand on her shoulder and gestures down toward the track with three fingers, wagging them three times.

Crosshair sucks in a breath.

The hand signal.

Maker. What in Malachor has he gotten himself into? The toothpick snaps between his gritted teeth as he focuses on the small child. She ohs and ahs, clapping clumsily as the speeders pass by. And as if she knew he was there, she turns towards Crosshair’s position, looking straight into his scope and smiles.

Finger hovering over the trigger, he contemplates the job. He’s so close to the easiest payout of his life, but he’s struggling to make the shot. His head begins to throb violently.

Just do the job.

The faces of every innocent child he’d ever executed flashes in his mind.

You must do what needs to be done.

“You know what makes us different from battle droids?”

Just fucking pull the trigger.

“We make our own decisions. Our own choices.”

You were born for this.

“And we have to live with them, too.”

The pain crescendos — an acute, stabbing — until he can’t take it anymore, releasing his rifle with a clatter as he grits his teeth and sits back, hands gripping his scalp and eyes squeezed shut.

He can’t do it.

He won’t.

—

It’s late by the time Crosshair arrives at the agreed-upon meeting spot. The sun has long set and the only respite from the bite of cold evening air is the occasional puff of putrid-smelling steam released from an underground pipe. He leans against the damp alley wall, eyes cast downward. Anger and frustration swirl but at who and about what? He’s not sure.

His brooding is interrupted by the splash of stomping feet approaching. The client is cloaked, a hood pulled over his head, but Crosshair doesn’t need to see his face to know that he’s pissed.

“What the kriff happened back there?”

“You failed to mention the target was a child,” he growls, jabbing a finger into his chest.

The client, seeming to forget Crosshair’s physical advantage in this altercation, doubles down on his outrage.

“What happened to ‘spare me the details’?!” He shouts, slapping away the accusatory hand. “What part of non-Guild work do you not understand?”

The toothpick in his mouth snaps in frustration, knowing it’s his own fault for taking this job, so he only responds with a silent glare.

“I’m not a child murderer,” he seethes. He pulls the burner commlink from his belt pocket and throws it on the floor, crushing it under his heel.

Not anymore, he thinks.

The client rears back with his jaw hanging open. He points a condemnatory finger towards the sniper.

“You —“ he shrieks, “you’ll pay for this.”

“Enjoy the fucking credits. I hope it’s worth it,” he says darkly before spitting at his feet and disappearing into a mysterious speeder just arrived at the end of the alleyway.

The leather of his gloves squeak as he tightens a fist and inhales slowly through his nose. He exhales a steadying breath and closes his eyes.

At least he’s got the deposit.

The coarsely woven bag sits heavy in his other hand but lifts a weight from his shoulders. Enough credits for a few weeks. He stares blankly at it until his stomach protests, reminding him that he’s close to death. He lets his feet take him to his next destination.

His boots splash murky puddle water as he mindlessly travels to the closest source of food. The shop is crowded but the warm, comforting smell of stewed nuna and protatoes is too enticing to ignore on such a frigid night.

He waits in the crudely formed line outside. There’s no indoor seating, only a dark window where credits are exchanged for a piping hot bowl of stew passed anonymously by a clawed hand. A Rodian man shoulders his way past Crosshair and anger flashes hot in his chest before the hollowness in his weakened limbs reminds him of his vulnerability.

The air is moist by the time he gets his bowl, the hazy fog settling heavily and blurring his surroundings. He finds privacy in an unoccupied alley to enjoy his meal and absorb its warmth. After the first taste, his eyes widen before he tilts the bowl back and gulps the stew ravenously, nearly choking on the large chunks of meat.

He tosses his trash into a dumpster and begins the long trek back to his ship, docked outside the city’s limits. He hasn’t had enough credits for docking fees and had been making the long journey into town by foot each day.

He absentmindedly scans the fliers posted to a communications pole. It seems like a popular spot judging by the absence of any free space. Some locations are stacked thick with flimsi and everything is damp from the dewy droplets formed on the metal shaft. Many fliers are out of date — faded and torn, pasted over by newer announcements and ads.

Lost Tooka - REWARD. Last seen at central market.

Waste removal services. Discreet and quick. Comm for pricing.

Rhodian Underground LIVE at the Spotchka A GoGo

Midtown Inn — long term and nightly rates available

Crosshair digs into his utility belt, fumbling for the credits. Weighing the bag in one hand, he deliberates his lodging options as he calculates the cost of ship repairs and ammo and food. His body aches and the thought of sleeping on a real bed is tempting, to say the least.

He looks at the time, knowing he’s got another hour or so until he reaches the ship. He makes a spontaneous decision to stay in town, allowing himself to indulge for one night. It’s a short walk to the Midtown Inn, but by the time he gets there, the “no” has been illuminated on their vacancy sign.

He sighs. Just his luck.

He runs a hand over his head, his shoulders sagging in defeat, as he looks around for another option. The immediate surroundings look like a bust. Just closed businesses shuttered for the night.

The inn itself is tucked into the neighborhood, surrounded by a maze of small streets and alleys that eventually link up to the main road. He’s not sure anymore what the fastest route would be so he takes an educated guess and follows the small road past more closed shops below crumbling housing, using the tracking equipment in his vambrace as a guide.

He’s so focused on the little red dot on the radar that he nearly misses it.

The repeating pattern of one junk building after another is finally broken by a small pathway nestled between two closed restaurants. It’s remarkably void of trash. In fact, everything he can see of it from the road is uncharacteristically pleasant. He stares at it for a long time, looking back at his vambrace to determine if this could lead to the main road.

He approaches it skeptically, standing at the mouth of it and finding it to be very well maintained.

Cautiously, he follows the path, each side flanked by tall, solid stone walls that tower even above his significant height. They’re lined with lamps hung close to the ground where they cast a warm, otherworldly glow, keeping most of the way shrouded in darkness. The tranquility here is a sharp contrast to the grit of the rest of Ord Mantell City. He feels as if he’s entering a secret space and he’s careful to stay vigilant as he travels deeper down the path.

Finally, he reaches a crossroads. To the left, the path continues, turning sharply around a corner and out of sight. To his right stands a nondescript two story building, perhaps a house. On one side a large tree’s branches reach up and over its flat roof. And while the walls are painted a dark color, adding to the home’s mystery, there’s something welcoming about it. There aren’t many windows, but the lights are on in most of them, the curtains all drawn shut. Barely visible, painted in a hue just one tint lighter than the walls, is a small sign reading “House of Desire - walk ins welcome” in aurebesh.

Ah.

He thinks again about the credits in his pocket. Doesn’t he deserve one night of relief? He could certainly use it.

Reluctantly, he approaches the door and stands at the entrance. The cylindrical eye of a TT-8L gatekeeper droid extends abruptly from the peephole, focusing on Crosshair’s face before quickly retreating with a slam. The door slides open.

The entryway opens directly into a comfortable living room with a plush sofa set behind a low, circular holo table. A set of stairs runs parallel against the back wall where he sees two sets of legs disappearing up to the second floor. An older pantoran woman stands regally at the center of it all, her hands clasped low in front of her body.

“Welcome to the House of Desire. How can I help you?” She asks, motioning for him to take a seat.

Crosshair reluctantly approaches the sofa, carefully unholstering his rifle so he can sit comfortably. The woman seems entirely unbothered by his armored appearance and weapon as she takes a seat across from him.

“Can I offer you anything to drink? Perhaps an herbal tea?”

He simply nods and she immediately comms someone to bring them a pot.

“It’s your first time here, I gather,” she says with a smile, tapping the table’s control panel and projecting a menu of options. “Let’s start with some questions,” she suggests.

Crosshair visibly stiffens and she smiles knowingly, “Don’t worry, we understand the…sensitive nature of our business. There's no need to divulge your full identity here, only what’s necessary to ensure the safety of our girls.”

He hums in acknowledgement as she asks him for a name, to which he declines, instead opting for an identification number — ironic choice for a clone who’d only ever wanted to be recognized as a person, but different times and all that.

She conducts a full health screening, including a body scan for signs of contagious infections and disease. Finding him healthy, she takes note in his registration file as she explains the rules of conduct within the House. He agrees, signing his newly issued identification number.

“Alright, that about does it,” she says, navigating the holotable program to a roster of the House’s available girls (although the word “girls” is a fairly restrictive industry term it seems, as the catalog features people of all life forms and genders). He peruses a catalog of full body, three dimensional holos, each one including detailed information about their specialties, likes, and dislikes.

The options feel endless and he swipes through each one almost mindlessly, trying to narrow down his criteria. It seems like there’s something for everyone here.

He’s on the verge of making a random selection until one catches his eye. He’s not sure exactly what draws him to you specifically, as many of the girls are what he’d consider pretty — he wouldn’t have a hard time getting in the mood with many of them, truthfully. But there’s something about your entry that makes him stop and piques his interest more than the others.

He silently glances at the madame and she smiles, making note of his selection in his file and sending a message to you.

“Oh, you’ll like her,” she says, pulling a small card from the holo table. She hands it to him before inviting him to follow her up the stairs.

“This is your membership chit. Bring it whenever you visit,” she explains, “you can also plug it into your data pad to make appointments with or contact any girls you’ve had sessions with before.”

He pockets the chit as they walk up the stairs and down the hall to a door marked simply with the number 04.

She knocks gently and a voice answers from within, granting permission to enter. The door slides open to a dimly lit bedroom awash in the dreamy, soothing glow of candlelight. Taking a tentative step inside, he immediately feels his tense shoulders relax as he breathes in the light scent of jogan-blossoms and Felucian jasmine. The gentle plucking of strings, the song more atmospheric than melodic, plays quietly in the background.

“Enjoy your visit.”

Crosshair whips his head around, startled from his reverie by the madadme’s farewell. She shuts the door with a swish, leaving him suddenly feeling very self aware of how dirty his armor is.

“Please make yourself comfortable,” a voice calls from the adjoining refresher, “you can store your rifle and armor in the wardrobe. Unless you’d prefer to keep it on.”

Still hesitant, he finds the aforementioned wardrobe and shrugs off his weapon, next unclipping each piece of armor slowly. Once down to his bodysuit, he looks around the room feeling uncertain about his decision but ultimately resigned to it. He sits down on the sofa, hands clasped together and body hunched over, one leg bouncing anxiously in anticipation.

“Well hello there.”

He stills before finally lifting his gaze. Fuck. You’re even more beautiful in person. The holo doesn’t do you justice.

You walk towards him slowly, exaggerating the sway of your hips, each step shifting the hem of your deep red negligée in the most tantalizing way. This thing was designed specifically to send him to an early grave — he’s sure of it.

You stop in front of him, trying to suppress a smile, mirth dancing in your eyes. He realizes his jaw has been hanging open and he shuts it immediately, averting his eyes. Caught.

“May I?” You ask with a chuckle, motioning to the seat beside him. He continues to avoid your gaze but nods once.

Cautiously, you lay a hand on his bicep.

“There’s no need to be embarrassed,” you coo, “you can look. Isn’t that why we’re both here?”

He’s got a lot of shame and pride, you think to yourself when he doesn’t acknowledge you.

You smooth your hand up to his shoulder and down his back, feeling the defined muscle beneath your palms.

“Let’s get the boring stuff out of the way first,” you say, shifting to a more businesslike tone. He finally turns to look at you. “Lay down some ground rules and talk about what you want to do.”

You forge ahead. “I ask all my guests to wear a biosheath for the duration of our sessions.” You reach into a jar sitting on a side table, pulling out a foil packet and handing it to him. He accepts it with a silent nod and you smile, pleased that he seems unphased by this request. A good sign.

“Additionally — and I’ll understand if you’d like to find another girl — I will not kiss my guests on the mouth.”

Crosshair raises a brow, surprised by this rule, but nods in agreement. You sigh with relief.

“At any time, you and I are able to renegotiate any activity if either of us begins to feel uncomfortable.

I like to use a color system. Red means stop. Yellow for proceed with caution. And green for go. Does that work for you?”

Another nod.

You laugh. “Talkative I see.”

He shoots you a withering look and you laugh harder.

You move to stand in front of him, using a gentle hand to push him back against the seat.

“Relax,” you say lowly as you swing a leg over his lap to straddle him, running your palms up his firm chest. “Is this okay?”

You grind your hips down against his experimentally, feeling him grow hard beneath his pants. His breath hitches and you take this moment to firmly place his hands on your waist.

“Is that a yes?” You ask, only to be met with obstinance and his silent, piercing gaze. You tsk, “I need to know you want this.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes, “why else would I be here?”

What a brat.

“People come here for all kinds of reasons,” you explain, soothing your hands over his shoulders. “Some people come to watch or be watched,” you grind down again, nipping at his ear, “some people just want me to hold their hand.”

“Now,” you whisper, “what about you? What do you want?” You ask, letting your breath fan against his neck. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat attempting to adjust himself, but there’s no hiding how turned on he is beneath the skin tight bodysuit.

Truthfully, he hadn’t thought this far. The entire journey had been fairly spontaneous and he didn’t think he’d have, well, options. He’s never had options before. Not any so straightforwardly given anyway.

You crawl off of his lap, dancing your fingers along his shoulders as you circle the sofa to drape your arms around him from behind. Your hands explore his upper body and you feel his muscles begin to relax when you massage his neck.

“I…want to watch you,” he says finally. “And then I want to fuck you until you scream.”

You hum in agreement. “That sounds like a good plan. You’re so tense,” you muse, digging your thumb into a particularly large knot. He groans involuntarily — something between pleasure and pain.

“How about a massage first? Then you can watch me play with myself.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, palming himself over his pants. You smile impishly.

“I’m gonna take that as an enthusiastic ‘yes’,” you tease, leading him to the bed and slipping your fingers below the hem of his top. He pulls it over his head, and you nearly gasp. Brown skin pulled taut over some…significant muscle development has your eyes bulging. You thought his body suit was leaving nothing to the imagination but apparently there was much more to see.

Maker, you think to yourself.

It’s now his turn to smirk, making you look away embarrassed, caught off guard.

“There’s no need to be embarrassed,” he teases, “you can look. Isn’t that why we’re both here?”

You roll your eyes. “Get on the bed.”

He doesn’t respond, but he smirks at you knowingly as he lies face-down.

“So tell me,” you start, massaging the scented oil over a particularly nasty scar across his shoulder blade, “what do you do for work? I’m guessing you’re a bounty hunter.”

“…something like that,” he answers evasively. You hum thoughtfully, finally deciding to cater to his preference for silence as you work over his tired muscles.

He sighs and you smile to yourself, pleased to be able to offer this man some relief. You crawl onto the bed, swinging a leg over his hips to straddle his back as you continue.

Your fingers work into a tattoo of a skull over the number 99 written in aurebesh and you wonder about its meaning knowing you shouldn’t push him too much. The man is like a stray, injured tooka — skittish and deeply suspicious but desperately in need of affection and attention.

“What? No more inane questions?”

You chuckle - Maker this man is infuriating. “Tons. But I won’t pry. You’ll tell me everything I want to know in your own time.”

He scoffs, “Awfully confident, aren’t we?”

You only smile and hum in response as you dig your fingers into a particularly tense knot of muscle. He hisses, turning his head in an attempt to scowl at you. You laugh.

It’s not everyday you’re actually attracted to a guest, but there’s definitely a level of sexual chemistry here that’s unusual for your experience. His kriffing back of all things is getting you hot and bothered. Without even realizing it, you begin to grind yourself down on his ass, your breath growing heavy as you mewl softly.

Crosshair can feel you becoming needy and it makes him feel ready to burst. He’s been rock hard since you’ve entered the room and he knows that if he so much as ruts into the mattress he’ll come in his pants like some shiny fresh from Kamino.

He growls, finally flipping you over and caging you in between his arms.

“I said I wanted to watch,” he breathes, pupils blown wide with lust. You swallow and nod, almost paralyzed by his hungry gaze, before he releases you.

He pulls up a chair and takes a seat, lounging with his legs spread wide and one hand cupping his bulge. Grabbing the hem of your negligée, you begin to pull it off but he stops you suddenly.

“Leave it on.”

He looks like a king. The way one arm drapes casually over the seat’s back. The way his eyes devour you. Everything about him thrills you, shooting electricity down your spine. It’s been ages since you’ve felt this nervous energy performing for a guest.

You make a show of it. Biting your lip and massaging your breasts. You tweak a nipple and mewl in pleasure as your chest begins to heave with heavy breaths.

“Fuck, kitten, yes” he groans, using every ounce of self control not to stroke himself, “play with your pretty pussy. Show me what you like.”

Obediently, you sit back against the pillows, letting your legs fall open to put yourself on display. You pull your soaking panties to the side and run your fingers through your glistening folds to gather the wetness. Without breaking eye contact, you bring them to your lips and dart your tongue out to lick them before sucking with an obscene moan.

Crosshair grinds his teeth together so hard they nearly break. He doesn’t even know what to focus on anymore. The outline of your pebbled nipples through the silky fabric? Your lips wrapped deliciously around your fingers? The other hand rubbing circles over your clit?

“Fuck your fingers,” he demands, voice painfully strained. You obey, releasing your fingers with a pop before plunging them into your cunt. “Such a fucking good girl,” he praises.

You can’t help but to cry out in frustration as you try to reach that impossible place within you, working both hands feverishly to chase your high.

“That’s right, kitten, is that how you like it? Add another finger for me,” he grits.

You comply, panting heavily, your eyes screwed shut in pleasure. Before you know it you hear the violent clattering of the chair being upturned. You feel his hand wrapped around your wrist, yanking your hand away. Your cry of frustration quickly morphs into one of pleasure as he plunges two fingers into your tight hole, scissoring them until you snap, coming with a scream as his fingers fuck your through your high.

By the time you’re able to see him again through heavy lids and the aftershocks of your orgasm have subsided, he’s desperately rolling the biosheath down his thick cock.

“Hands and knees,” he rasps, barely in control of his desire.

You scramble to obey, arching your back deliciously and presenting yourself to him with a wiggle of your ass. He kneads your cheeks, reverently admiring the way his fingers sink into the plush meat there.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes. Fuck me,” you respond breathlessly.

Grabbing you firmly by the hips, he finally guides himself into your waiting heat and, finding no resistance, sheathes himself to the hilt in one stroke.

You both groan in unison as he stretches you open for the first time.

He hunches over you, fondling your breasts. “I won’t be gentle,” he whispers into your ear. He feels your walls clench around him as he ruts into you.

“Good,” you breathe.

Fuck, you’re going to be the death of him.

Raising himself back up, he grips your hips and begins to pound into you mercilessly, taking out years of pent up frustration as his fingers dig deep into your flesh. For the first time in a long time, he feels in control, using you for his own pleasure.

“You’re such a fucking good girl. Listen so well. Letting me destroy this tight cunt,” he growls.

You can do nothing but grip the sheets as he pistons his hips into you, the bed frame slamming into the wall with each thrust. You’re sure the other girls can hear it. The lewd squelching. The slap of his hips against your ass. Your pathetic moans. Apparently this man is silent except during sex.

“Yes. I’ll do anything you ask, sir. Make me feel so good,” you mewl. His rhythm begins to falter as he reaches his high, finally plunging himself deeply as he comes undone. His release triggers your own and you scream, your walls clamping down on his cock, milking him until he’s spent.

Panting, he pulls out, carefully removing the biosheath and disposing of it, only to collapse back onto the mattress when he returns.

“Maker,” you breathe with a hand resting on your sweaty forehead, “that was —that was…“ you laugh in disbelief as you struggle to catch your breath. He doesn’t respond so you enjoy a moment to come down from your high.

The candlelight is beginning to dim as some candles flicker out. The music has long since reached its last track. The two of you lay in contented silence for some time as you softly caress his bare skin, walking your fingers up his arms and smoothing your hand down his back in soothing motions.

You get an inkling when you feel his pliant body first becoming tense beneath your touch.

Before you know it, he’s trembling, his shoulders shaking more and more violently as he begins to sob. It starts as silently but soon devolves into wretched cries, his voice rough with pain. You gather him into your arms, letting him hide his face in your neck as you cradle him, gently rocking your body until you both fall asleep.

—

By the time your alarm chirps and the sun begins to stream in through the curtains, he’s gone. You wake up to an empty bed and a stack of credits on the nightstand.

You lay back down, clasping your hands behind your head and sigh contentedly.

You wonder if you’ll ever see him again.

—

A/N: 🫠 uh i Guess i hope you enjoyed?

#tbb #the bad batch #crosshair x reader #crosshair x fem!reader #tbb crosshair x reader #atonement #crosshair x f!reader #crosshair smut

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