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#rhiwrites
multi-fan-dom-madness · 11 months
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Laundry Day (Cal Kestis x reader)
Summary: Cal can’t always control when his psychometric powers grant him a glimpse of the past. And even less so when the object holds a powerful emotional echo.
Or: Cal picks up the shirt you masturbated in.
Warnings: NSFW 18+ MINORS DNI; afab!reader but no pronouns used; no use of y/n; porn with some plot; hints of voyeurism if you squint; sub!Cal if you squint; first kiss; first time; hand job; masturbation; if I missed anything please let me know!
A/N: This is shameless and self-indulgent and hastily written before the motivation left. I will not apologize.
Word Count: 2,205
Read it here on AO3!
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NSFW below the cut!
You clench your jaw, the damp fabric of your shirt caught between your teeth as you struggle to keep quiet. But gods your fingers feel so good circling your clit and you’re absolutely soaked right now and you have to be quiet because Cal is sleeping in the room across the hall.
The thought of Cal overhearing your late-night activities makes your pussy clench around nothing. Eyes falling shut, you gather some more wetness and press more firmly on that bundle of nerves that has you on fire. Images of Cal’s toned forearms, freckled face, powerful thighs flash through your mind. You stifle a groan.
This is so bad, and you know it. You shouldn’t be getting off to the thought of your friend—never mind the fact that he’s a Jedi. But even when he’s only hidden behind a few thin durasteel walls, he occupies your mind. The way his eyes dance with fiery determination when a new opportunity to strike against the Empire arises. The way his plush lips curve up into sarcastic smiles at your jokes. His tenderness with BD. His softness with you.
And that’s what gets you all riled up in the first place: it’s just how genuinely good Cal Kestis is. There’s not a mean bone in his body. He takes care of you, and you of him, and the domesticity of it all drives you absolutely insane.
Which leads you here. You finally plunge two of your fingers into your tight, wet heat, imagining—wishing—it was Cal’s fingers instead. Exhaling a shaky breath, you crook your fingers up against the spongy wall of your cunt and press. Your hips rock involuntarily, and the added friction against your clit has your toes curling. You breathe deep through your nose, loosening your muscles as the wave of pleasure zinging through you crests.
And you cum, teeth unlatching from your shirt as you gasp out Cal’s name.
Once the aftershocks die down, you shuck the shirt off over your head, the neckline entirely damp with your now-cooling saliva. The temperature is uncomfy; you snatch a clean shirt from beneath your bunk to wear instead. Tossing the soiled shirt toward your growing laundry pile, you settle down under the covers at last, curling on your side as sleep finally, finally takes you.
The next morning when you wake, the comforting hum of the hyperdrive engine is silent. You must’ve arrived at your next destination while you slept. Good. Even though it’s only been you and Cal for about a year now, you still try to keep some extra supplies on board in case any of the old crew decide to rejoin you and Cal. And after your last run-in with the Empire, forcing you into hiding for a standard month, all of your supplies are low. You’ll use this opportunity to restock.
But first, you need to wash up. The lights on both Cal’s door and the ’fresher are green, meaning he’s probably up in the cockpit with BD. Slipping into the ’fresher, you lock the door behind you and turn the knob to heat the water up. Your sleep clothes crumple to the floor as you shuffle out of them, trying to focus on creating a mental list of the supplies you’ll need to pick up today. Yet, your traitorous mind keeps drifting back to your solo fun last night—heat throbbing between your legs at just the thought of how hard you came—and you shake your head angrily at yourself.
“Get a grip,” you grumble.
As if summoned by your thoughts, there’s a knock at the door. You jump. Your heart hammers in your throat.
“Kriff, Cal, you scared me,” you call through the door.
“Sorry,” he calls back, and you hear the genuine regret in his voice. “I just wanted to check to see if you had any laundry? It’ll be a bit before we’re able to get it done after today.”
“Good thinking,” you say. “There’s a pile on my floor. I can get it, though; don’t worry about my stuff.”
He doesn’t respond, and you visualize the sardonic, two-fingered salute he’s recently gotten in the habit of giving. A smile quirks your lips.
A smile that is quickly obliterated as a jolt of pure anxiety bursts through you. Gods, knowing Cal, he’s already gone to grab your dirty laundry, and the shirt—the fucking shirt—is right on top, and you know he can’t always control his psycho-Force-whateveritscalled powers.
The ’fresher door slams open and you dash across the narrow hall to your room.
To your horror, Cal is in fact there, gathering your clothes from the floor, and the warning to wait gets choked in your throat as he grabs the shirt on the top of the pile, the one that’s surely still damp with your spit and sweat.
His entire body stiffens, eyes widening, his grip on the other clothes going limp as he experiences the Force echo you’ve left behind. Feeling like you’ve been doused in gasoline and ice at the same time, it finally registers for you that you’re naked in front of Cal fucking Kestis and he’s feeling you cum to the thought of him.
“Cal, I—”
“Oh.” The strangled moan that tears from his throat has your mind reeling, never in a million years imagining that you’d ever hear him make such a lewd noise, let alone in reaction to you.
You reach for him, placing a shaking hand on his arm. “Are- Are you okay?”
He blinks and seems to physically re-enter this current moment. His cheeks are bright pink, his chest heaving. At his wide-eyed once over of your naked form, your knees nearly give out.
“I’m so sorry,” you continue. Panic seizes at your lungs, making it hard to breathe. “I shouldn’t have- I should have- I’m so so sorry, Cal, I can leave if you want—”
“Hey.” He rests both of his large, warm hands on your bare shoulders, forcing you to look him in the eye. “Deep breaths. I’m not- I’m not mad.”
“You’re not?” You try to catch your breath, but the darkening of his green eyes has your breath catching for an entirely different reason now.
He shakes his head. “How long?”
Chewing at the inside of your cheek nervously, you drop your gaze. “Months. Since we first met.”
Gently, he guides your chin up so that you meet his gaze again. His eyes are soft—darker than usual, yes—but there’s that familiar softness to them that unwinds some of the tension in your chest. He holds your gaze long enough for your heart to stop pounding, but you can’t will away the swirling pit of regret pulling at your insides. He’s not mad, which is great, but he’s still not said anything and you can’t figure out what he might say or what he’s feeling or—
“Can I kiss you?”
You blink dumbly. “What?”
A faint smile ghosts over his features. “Can I kiss you?”
“Oh gods yes,” you squeak out.
A true smile tugs at his lips, and then slowly, giving you ample time to change your mind and pull away, he leans down, one hand supporting the back of your head, the other cupping your cheek. Your eyes close and you stand on your toes, meeting him halfway.
His lips are as soft as you imagined, and you can’t help the needy whine that escapes you as he pulls you flush against him. Your bare, heated skin presses against the leather of his chest piece, tantalizing against the sensitive skin of your breasts. Snaking one hand up into his silken hair, your other grips at his muscled bicep, grounding yourself. His mouth moves slowly against your own.
This is really fucking happening.
He breaks the kiss, but doesn’t go far, resting his forehead against your own. You peer up through your eyelashes at him.
“I take it you feel the same?” you ask, breathless.
“Since we met,” he affirms in a low tone. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, and you catch the digit between your teeth and suck. He groans. “Gods, if I’d known...”
You just hum, swirling your tongue around his thumb until he withdraws, only to kiss you again. Electricity feels like it dances along your skin where he touches you. Blindly, you tug him backwards with you until your legs hit the bunk. Lowering yourself, he follows, bracing himself over you with his forearms to either side of your head, caging you in. With a soft moan, you hook a leg over his hips and drag him down to you. The friction of his clothes against your aching core makes you hiss.
“Fuck, take these off, please,” you plead, tugging with weak fingers at his shirt.
He sits up just long enough to rip the offending garments off, and you practically drool at the sight of his toned chest as it is revealed to you. Scars litter the otherwise smooth alabaster, and you know you’ll take your time at a later date tracing them, committing them to memory. Right now, though, your attention is drawn farther down as he shimmies out of his pants. His hard cock, the tip a gorgeous shade of pink, bobs as it comes free of its confines.
“Oh gods,” you groan. “May I?”
“Please.”
You’ve never heard his voice so strained before, and you are nothing if not eager to continue drawing sounds from him. Wrapping your fingers tentatively around the hot shaft of his dick, you hum in delight at the way he twitches in your grip. You slowly work his cock, eyes trained on his face, catching every flutter of his eyelashes, every time he bites his lip, every miniscule reaction you can possibly gain from him.
“I want you inside me,” you say.
He groans. “I- I’ve never—”
“It’s alright,” you soothe. You release him for a moment to gather some of the slick from between your folds—and can’t resist rubbing your pussy for just a few seconds, letting a broken moan fall from your lips. Then you use the slick to lube his dick up.
“C’mere,” you say, your legs widening for him to slot in between. “I’ve got you. Say the word and it all stops.”
“I want this,” he says, eyes trained on yours as he settles himself between your thighs. “I want you.”
You hum in delight and, guiding him, line his cock up with your neglected entrance. Wrapping your legs around him, you press down with your heels to push him into you.
His head falls to your shoulder with a broken, gasping moan. You clench at the burning stretch of him filling you, nails digging into his smooth skin. He’s not even touched you, barely begun to fuck you, and you’re already ready to cum.
“Cal,” you murmur, caressing his back, “you okay?”
“S’alot,” he mumbles against your skin. “Can I—?”
“Yes, please.” You press a kiss to his shoulder. “Make love to me, Cal.”
With a whine, he slowly withdraws, every ridge and vein of his cock dragging deliciously on your walls, and then pushes back into you just as slowly. You moan with him at the sensation of filling and being filled, unsure where you begin and he ends, lost in the feeling of just him. He sets a languid pace, kissing your neck, murmuring sweet words in your ear: “You feel so good. Take me so well. Fuck, I needed this. Needed you.”
When he adjusts his grip on you, reaching beneath your body to support your hips, you laugh breathlessly.
“Gonna cum like this.”
He bites down on the sensitive juncture between your neck and shoulder as he snaps his hips against yours, making you cry out. The agonizingly slow pull out, the moment’s pause where only his tip remains in your dripping pussy, and then the overwhelming burst of pleasure as he slams back into you: it’s all you know. It’s all you’ve ever known, all you ever will know. You babble praises, begging, pleading with him, the coil in your belly growing tighter and hotter the harder he fucks into you.
“Can feel you’re close,” he slurs. “Cum for me. Please.”
That’s what does it, hearing him beg for you to cum on him. You go rigid, white flashing in your eyes as the tight coil snaps. Pleasure floods through you, and dimly you’re aware of Cal growling against your ear as he rocks you through it, his promises of cumming in you only serving to draw out the shockwaves of your orgasm. You think you scream. And then, when you feel his dick pulse as he goes absolutely still, you cum again.
He’s laughing when you come down from your high. He remains in you even as he begins to go soft, his giddy, breathless giggles pure music to your ears.
“What’s so funny?” you ask, twirling a strand of his hair between your fingers.
“I just— this is not how I expected today to go,” he says, still laughing.
You smile. “Maybe you should do the laundry more often, hm?”
He just kisses you, and you’re content with that answer.
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ao3feed-dramione · 2 years
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Why Are You Here
read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/hE6VBl1
by RhiWrites
A strange grouping of former Hogwarts students leads to one night that two people can't seem to forget. They're friends, just friends, aren't they?
Words: 4341, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English
Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Categories: F/M
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Pansy Parkinson, Ginny Weasley, Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Additional Tags: Post-Second Wizarding War with Voldemort (Harry Potter), Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Not Epilogue Compliant, One Shot
read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/hE6VBl1
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strangehunger · 4 years
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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra) Characters: Adora (She-Ra), Catra (She-Ra), Glimmer (She-Ra) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Flirting, Pining, Mutual Pining, Idiots in Love, childhood friends to enemies to friends to lovers, It’s modern but still Etheria/somewhat sci-fi?, Sports, Jock! Adora, Cheerleader! Catra, American Football, School Dances, Fluff and Angst, First Kisses, References to Past Child Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Useless Lesbians are Useless, Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Friends to Lovers Summary:
“Let’s make a bet.” 
Catra straightened, ears perking up. She liked bets. She liked winning them.
“If we win the game tonight, you’ll go to the dance with me tomorrow.” 
Laughter ripped from Catra’s throat. She tossed her head back, fangs bared in open-mouthed giggles. “Wow, you really don’t want to go with me. The Rebels kick our asses every year.” 
“That’s not true!” Indignation sparked and died in Adora’s blue eyes. “Well, we almost had them last year.” 
“Almost isn’t winning, Adora. Besides, if we don't win,” asked Catra, shuffling to fit her arms into the sleeves of Adora’s letterman as discreetly as possible, “what’s in it for me?” 
Adora blinked. “What do you want?” 
You.
Not that she was stupid enough to say that. 
______________
In just a year, high school senior Catra has overcome everything the universe managed to throw at her — a manipulative parent, a broken system, a ruined friendship. If only she could get over something as stupid as a crush.
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magicmagnus-blog · 6 years
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coda for 3.08; malec centric
Magnus’ loft still smelled of magic -- dark, old magic; acrid and overwhelming. The magic of a greater demon. Magnus rubbed at his neck, remembering the burn of Lilith’s magic on his skin as it had coiled around him. The mother of all demons, they called her. She was stronger than any greater demon Magnus had met. Her presence had filled the room as soon as she had entered, power rolling off of her in waves.
Magnus fiddled with a bottle on his desk, restlessly tidying things up as he replayed the nights’ events in his mind. He had excused himself to give Izzy and Alec a moment -- at least, that was what he had told them; in all honesty, he couldn’t escape the nauseating sense of fear that had washed over him when Lilith had stormed into the loft. Seeing Isabelle and Alec fall to the floor, bodies limp and breath shallow,had been more terrifying than the crushing sensation of Lilith’s magic around his throat. Go ahead and kill me, but don’t hurt Alec and Izzy. Magnus had meant it.
The sound of the door opening caught Magnus’ attention. He looked up to see Alec as he slipped into the apothecary, gently easing the door shut behind himself. He was normally so curious and inquisitive in Magnus’ workspace, prodding at jars of herbs and figures of bone. Now, he wore a haunted expression, exhaustion settled across his handsome face. Magnus moved toward him.
“How is Isabelle?” Magnus asked. The two had been so distraught when he left, Isabelle’s eyes full with unshed tears, Alec’s jaw tense with frustration.
Alec sighed and ran a hand through his already mussed hair. “Upset,” he said quietly. “Guilty. Is it alright if she stays here tonight? I don’t think either of us are ready to go back to the Institute.”
“Of course. As long as she needs.” He paused. A remorseful silence filled the room; Magnus took a step closer. “How are you?”
Alec just looked at him, eyes a reservoir of guilt. His jaw was clenched, hands balled into fists at his side. Magnus reached forward and slowly took Alec’s hands in his; he gently unfurled them, revealing a pattern of sharp indentations where Alec’s short nails had bitten into his skin.
“I don’t know what to do, Magnus,” Alec said, in a voice so quiet and tired that it broke Magnus’ heart.
Magnus gently swept the pads of his thumbs over Alec’s palms. The indentations disappeared, and Magnus stared down at the unblemished skin.
“I know,” said Magnus. “We’ll figure this out, Alexander. Together.”
Alec’s gaze dropped to their hands. His shifted in Magnus’, intertwining their fingers together, and he said nothing; he held onto Magnus like a lifeline.
And then, abruptly, he let go.
“What’s this?” Alec asked, hand drifting up to nudge at the collar of Magnus’ shirt. He brushed it aside, revealing a faint red ring that wrapped around Magnus’ neck.
Magnus touched his fingers to it. “Oh. A Parting gift from Lilith, I suppose,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. “It’s nothing.”
Alec looked up, eyes searching Magnus’, and said softly, “It isn’t nothing.”
Still holding the collar aside, Alec leaned down and pressed the gentlest of kisses to the side of Magnus’ neck. It wasn’t heated, it wasn’t passionate -- just a tender brush of lips against skin, an anchoring comfort for the both of them. Magnus brought his arms up, wrapping Alec in a gentle embrace.
Alec reciprocated the touch, pushing his arms up to circle Magnus’ shoulders, and pressed his face into the side of Magnus’ neck.
“It’s going to be okay,” Magnus said, both to Alec and himself. He didn’t know if either of them believed it.
“Can we just... stay like this for a moment?” Alec asked against Magnus’ skin. Magnus leaned his head against the top of Alec’s, bringing one hand to gently stroke at the soft hair at the base of Alec’s neck.
“Of course.” Alec’s arms tightened around Magnus, and Magnus basked in the warmth and comfort of the embrace. Neither of them knew what was going to happen next -- but at least they still had each other. Magnus would do anything to make sure of that.
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witchystump · 6 years
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i rly want to start making my bujo RIGHT THIS INSTANT but for once in my fuckin life, i have no clean notebooks? and the only one i rly like is rly tiny but could potentially work?
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willgaham · 5 years
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☀ congratulations on 4k! can I be agnes nutter in your fandom family? I tag my fic as "rhiwrites" and my quote would be "once upon a time, you rode the dragon & saved your own life." (if it will fit!) again, congrats!
thanks!! you were added as agnes nutter
join my fandom family
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rhi-writes · 9 years
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Sneak peek of the new addition to the #letterstoLily series. #quotes #quoteoftheday #quotesaboutlove #parenting #rhiwrites
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the summertime smells of life
i love life in the summertime because while the winter may smell of apathy and of warm smiles the summer smells of  newly hatched ideas and ambition
i love life in the summertime because while the fall may smell of mirth and of lazing by the fireplace and telling tales of that very room many years ago the summer smells of planning, plotting and scheming and the chasing of dreams too crazy to ignore
i love life in the summertime because while the spring may smell of love blossoming under the budding trees and of every other cliché associated with the flowers pushing against the underside of upturned soil the summer smells of desire and determination and of once feeble fingers digging into the fabric of a once feeble mind and tearing dreams apart at their seams and using the thread to stitch together a broken fate
i love life in the summertime because the summertime smells of life
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multi-fan-dom-madness · 5 months
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Midnight Masquerade - Hunter
Chapter Summary: The bottle lands on Hunter, and you get a classic monsterfuck.
Chapter Warnings: minors be gone; werewolf!Hunter x f!reader, kinks: predator/prey + knotting; desired fear, discussion of consent and rules, thrill of the chase, hiding, oral (f receiving), slightly graphic description of werewolf transformation, pain, unprotected PiV sex, multiple orgasms, creampie, lots of cum, breeding kink if you squint and hold it sideways, mentions of blood, one instance of near dub-con (reader says “i can’t” and Hunter says otherwise), some aftercare
Word Count: 4.0k (i'm not even ashamed of this one)
A/N: please please heed the warnings on this one. while there is a discussion of consent at the beginning, once the werewolf appears, there is no more discussion. I will say right now: reader wants everything that happens. the fear reader experiences is akin to the desired fear one gets from going through haunted houses or watching scary movies. it costs nothing to keep on scrolling if you don't think you're the intended audience for this fic.
also yes i'm posting this on the full moon. and yes it's the Hunter's Moon. i planned this >:)
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...Hunter. 
As the bottle rocks to a halt, you glance up to meet Hunter’s piercing gaze. He’s always been extra perceptive, always had the ability to make you feel like he’s seeing through you, but tonight, with magic coursing through him, his eyes pin you in place. A smirk tilts the corners of his mouth up. 
Your breath shudders out of your chest in anticipation as you let your eyes wander over his costume-turned-reality. Ragged lumberjack plaid stretches over his broad shoulders, torn in places to reveal the continuation of his skeleton tattoo. His teeth have sharpened into points, bared in a grin as the smirk on his face widens. Even his hair, usually so neatly held back by his bandana, is fluffier, longer, wilder.
The strobing, dancing lights reflect yellow eyeshine in his gaze, and you shiver. Arousal already begins to pool in your lower belly, molten heat stirring faintly. Hunter’s nostrils flare as he breathes in. The way his eyes flutter lets you know that he can smell you even amidst the press of sweaty bodies, spilled alcohol, and sickly sweet fog. A whimper falls from you, unheard by anyone except him. 
Hunter twirls a fresh shot of clear alcohol between his fingers. “Well, mesh’la?” 
“U-Um,” you say. The rest of the troopers at the table don’t even bother to hide their smug smirks. “Yeah. Let’s do this.” 
Downing the shot, Hunter slams the glass on the table, shaking his unruly curls out of his face. Then he stands, his broad shoulders and narrow waist drawing your gaze down. Already you catch the hint of a bulge outlined at the apex of his thighs. Your mouth waters, body coming alive with electric desire, and you resist the impulse to squeeze your legs together.
Following his lead, you stand as well. He tucks you against his side and leads you through the crowd. Pressed against him, your senses are flooded with the furnace-like heat he radiates, the unique scent of spice and dirt that fills your nose, the tingling sense of controlled danger where his claw-tipped fingers scratch ever so lightly against your waist. You swallow heavily. Kriff, this is going to be a fun night, and you’re grateful once again to whoever sent you the invite to this party. 
To your surprise, Hunter steers you towards the bar. With gentle pressure on your lower back, he guides you to one of the leather stools, but remains standing himself. He leans his forearm on the sticky bartop next to you, his other hand resting on the swell of your thigh. 
“Need some more liquid courage, Sarge?” you say with a teasing smile, your words sounding much more cool and collected than you actually feel. 
He barks a short laugh. “Hardly. No, I would rather keep this experience between us from start to finish. I...” He trails off, eyes studying your face before drifting down to your body, sitting stiff and wound up before him. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “...want you to know what you’re getting into.”
“And what is it that I’m getting into?” you ask. You lean closer to him, so close you can feel his warm breath puffing over your face.
“An experience that requires a few ground rules.” 
You nod for him to continue.
“One: when I catch you, don’t run,” he says. 
The bottom of your stomach drops out with excitement. “‘When’?” 
The grin he gives you is wolfish—there’s no other word for it. His teeth bare in a smile masquerading as a snarl, eyeshine glinting once again. “That’s right.” 
“W-What’s rule two?” 
“If you change your mind, you fight as hard as you can. And hit the panic button on this comlink.” He slips the small metal device from his jeans pocket and holds it between clawed fingers. “I don’t know how much I’ll be able to stay in control if I transform.” 
Gripping the comlink with shaking fingers, you locate the panic button and, with a nod, tuck the device into your pocket. “Rule three?” 
Hunter tilts his head, seeming to look through you again. You fidget in your seat until you realize he must be listening to your body—you become intensely aware of the way that your heart hammers against your ribcage, pulse racing, and of the heat scorching through your veins only to pool deep in your core. When he refocuses on your face again, your cunt clenches around nothing at the hungry look in his eyes.
“Rule three,” he echoes, “don’t hold back.” 
He tilts your head up to capture your lips in a searing kiss. You moan in surprise, body melting with little resistance into his touch. His teeth nip at your bottom lip, not enough to draw blood, but enough that the quick sting sends a jolt of pleasure through you. Resting your palms on his chest, you delight in the way his muscles flex and how he seems to quiver. Like he’s holding himself back, despite his order for you to do the opposite.
You break away with a gasp. Hunter nudges your face to the side and, growling, presses his nose to the pulse point below your jaw. You gasp as he inhales your scent.
“Fuck, mesh’la,” he rasps, his words only meant for you, “you smell good enough to eat.” 
You bite your lip to keep your moan contained, still aware of the bartender shooting you a mildly amused look and of the dozens of people around you right now. As if he can sense you holding back—because he probably can—Hunter bites your neck. 
“Rule three,” he husks. 
“I’ll follow your rules if you follow them, too,” you gasp out. “Don’t you dare hold back, either.” 
He pulls back from you, hooded eyes meeting yours. Whatever he searches for in your gaze, he must find, because a slow, predatory grin spreads over his face. 
“Deal,” he says. “I’ll give you a head start. And then I’m going to fuck you, wherever I find you. Understood?” 
You can’t stop the whine that slips from your throat. “Y-Yes. Understood.” 
“Good.” He steadies you as you slide off the stool onto shaky legs. “Now run.” 
Your brain is several seconds behind, still stuck on the barely-contained growl in his voice and the way your skin shivers with goosebumps, but your body reacts immediately. Legs pumping, you take off through the crowd. Half-assed apologies tumble from you as you knock into people. You have no idea where you’re running to—you don’t even know how much of a head start he’s giving you. You just know you have to hide. Every instinct in you screams to run, to get to safety, to evade the burning gaze you can feel on your back even as you duck and weave between troopers.
You dash through an open doorway and skid to a halt, chest heaving with adrenaline. Before you lie several choices: a branching hallway filled with doors, an exit dead ahead, or a stairwell climbing up to a second-story exit. Glancing over your shoulder, you don’t see Hunter following yet. Part of you, a depraved, wholly needy part of you, wonders how much you should even try to hide—but an even more depraved part of you urges you to make it a challenge. How long will it take for him to find you if you try? 
Mind made up, you take the stairs two at a time and shove against the push-bar so the door swings open. But you don’t step through it. Instead, you let it shut on its own, then you turn and, emboldened by equal parts thrill and desire, you brace your hands on the metal bannister. Heaving yourself up over it, you try to keep as little contact with the railing as possible. 
Your stomach lurches as you drop the ten feet to the permacrete flooring. Thankfully, no joints sprain, and you don’t feel any pain in your shins from the impact. 
Unharmed and feeling pleased with yourself, you bolt through the ground-floor exit. 
Outside, the cool night air kisses your skin and wicks away the sweat that’s already gathered along your forehead. Head turning in either direction, you frantically search for someplace to hide. There’s the crystal forest, sure—but you don’t fancy getting poked with a thousand tiny shards like the ones you walked across when you arrived. You could sneak around the building and run back to the tiny spaceport. But that feels too...predictable. Why run when you can try to hide in plain sight?
To your right, a ladder leads up to the second-floor rooftop. Grabbing onto the cold rungs, you pull yourself up, hands and feet flying. You reach the top and, panting, survey your options. 
This rooftop is barren, save for the doorway you assume leads to the stairs you leapt off. But the next building over has several clusters of chairs and tables, tucked into the shadows of a decorative art piece that twists with elegant curves towards the cloud-studded sky. 
You go to take a step when an idea strikes you. You rip off your jacket, baring your arms to the chilled air, and drape it over the edge of the rooftop next to the ladder. Maybe the extra body heat, sweat, and scent clinging to the fabric will draw his attention and throw him off?
You slink to the closed doorway, then leap past it. You really have no idea how much of your scent you’re leaving behind, or what clues he’ll use to find you, but leaving as few footprints behind seems like a safe bet. Once you’re past the doorway, you break into a sprint again. The next-door rooftop isn’t too far, and after a relatively easy jump, you stumble toward the table tucked closest to the art piece. 
As quickly and quietly as you can, you crawl under the small, square table and arrange the chairs to block your body from view. It’s not perfect, by any means, but it’s the best you can do. 
And it’s not a moment too soon. The door on the other rooftop slams open. Hunter’s dark silhouette stalks out. Even from this distance, you can make out the way his head twitches back and forth as he tries to sniff out your trail. Clenching your jaw, you do your best to calm your labored breathing and urge your racing heart to slow. Anticipation trembles in your limbs.
Hunter jogs to the ladder and picks up your discarded jacket. He leans precariously over the edge of the roof, searching, and for a moment you think you’ve won. 
The wind shifts. 
Cool air sighing past you, you shiver as the sweat dries on your skin. A moment later, Hunter’s head snaps up, and he looks straight at you.
His teeth shine as he bares them in a dangerous smile.
“Oh kriff.”  
You gather your feet beneath you before you remember rule one: don’t run. All you can do is sit, frozen and shaking, beneath the would-be safety of the small table. Hunter prowls toward you. 
When he makes the jump between rooftops, you whimper, scrabbling backward until your shoulders bump against the swirling art piece, deeper into the shadows. You know it won’t help, but the darkness is comforting. Cold seeps into your bones even as your body alights once more with fresh arousal. Kark, have his shoulders always been so broad? 
He comes to a stop directly in front of the table you hide beneath. For a moment, you hold your breath, and the world around you seems to freeze. What is he waiting for? 
The table and chairs scatter with a crash as he yanks the furniture away from you. 
You yelp, surprised fear thrumming through your veins. Above you, standing tall and imposing, Hunter cocks his head at you. He tosses your jacket in your lap. 
“Nice trick,” he says. His voice grates against your skin, causing you to shiver. “Woulda worked if the wind hadn’t changed.” Then he shakes his head. “Well, it woulda worked for a moment. Could smell your cunt all the way over there.” 
He lowers until he crouches in front of you. In the faint starlight, his skull tattoo stands in stark relief, a terrifying visage of death. Your lips part as you pant with need. 
“Fuck, you have no idea how good you smell,” he murmurs. His dark gaze rakes over your cowering form, his tongue wetting his lips. “C’mere.” 
Clawed fingers wrapping around your ankles, he yanks you towards him. You yelp, body stretching flat, and he uses your momentary surprise to tear your pants from you. The fabric yields with a loud rrrrrrip, only to hang in tatters from your waist. 
“K-Kriff,” you swear. “Hunter—”
He shushes you gently. “Let me taste you.” 
He hooks one claw under the flimsy elastic band of your underwear and, with a sharp tug, the fabric snaps twice against your skin. When he peels back the ruined undergarment, you both groan at the faint, shimmery line of slick that pulls away with it. 
Like a man starved, Hunter presses your legs wide open and buries his face in your wet pussy. All concerns about your ruined clothes flee as soon as he licks through your folds. You cry out, pleasure rippling through you as his warm mouth envelopes your center. Propping yourself up on one elbow, you twist the fingers of one hand into his curls, holding his head against you. Your hips rock in pure reaction. Hunter growls, the noise vibrating against your clit. His eyes pierce yours, dark wells of lust and need. Your mouth falls open as you moan. The sounds of your pleasure bounce off the sculpture behind you.
“F-Fuck, Hunter!” you squeal as he sucks on your clit. 
He drags his nose through your folds, inhaling your sweet scent. “You’re soaked, mesh’la. Did you like running from me, huh? Liked running from the big bad wolf?” 
“Ye-e-e-es!” you keen, throwing your head back as he fucks you with his tongue. Deep in your belly, the molten lava of your desire begins to solidify into something more solid, something that promises bone-melting pleasure. 
Overhead, past the art installation, you watch with hazy eyes as the clouds drift lazily across the sky. Steadily, the night grows brighter. Though your upper body remains in shadow, your legs, and with them, Hunter, become bathed in silvery moonlight. 
Hunter’s grip on your thighs turns painful. His claws press a little too hard against your soft skin. Wincing, you snap your attention back to where Hunter’s mouth closes around your cunt. A moan punches out of your chest as you watch his eyes blink rapidly, shifting from lust-blown to golden and shining, alight with an intelligence that isn’t quite human. 
He shoves himself back from you, stumbling away, his entire body convulsing. “D-Don’t run,” is all he manages to grit out before—
Snap! 
You gasp, unable to do anything but watch with wide eyes as Hunter’s body violently contorts and transforms before you. His limbs elongate, knees bending unnaturally, ribs cracking as a new form tears itself out of his skin. Fear and desire chase each other through your body; you don’t know which one you feel most intensely.
With a deep, sonorous howl, the Hunter you know is replaced by a hulking wolven beast. Crouched on two legs, the werewolf pants heavily, staring down at massive, clawed hands. Hunter’s clothes hang off the beast in rags, shredded by the way his body swelled and grew during the transformation. But what strikes you the most is his fur. Dark gray fur, shot through with white streaks, falls in a shaggy coat all across his body. With a jolt you realize the white fur matches exactly the skeleton tattoo Hunter bears—in his wolf form, the tattoo is still humanoid, reflecting the person now trapped within.
“H-Hunter?” you ask, voice shaky and tentative. 
The wolf snaps his attention to you. Those bright, intelligent golden eyes lock onto yours as a snarl, animalistic and deep, tears from him, his teeth bared. His snout, rough and ridged, twitches as he scents you. Your legs remain open, slick folds still bared and glistening in the moonlight.
Dropping onto all fours, the werewolf sniffs the air again. Then, quicker than you can fully process, the wolf pounces. His claws dig into your sides as he drags you closer once more, a startled scream tearing from your throat. The sound only seems to encourage him. Growling deep in his chest, Hunter—the werewolf—he lowers his head and licks a stripe up your pussy. 
You gasp at the odd sensation. His tongue is long and rough against your sensitive skin, but you find it strangely pleasurable. A shudder runs up your body as the wolf laps at your dripping core; the heat simmering in your lower belly blazes back to life, a raging inferno of need blinding you to the fear of what this wolf really could do to you if he wanted. But you don’t dare move within his grasp.
You fight to keep your hips still as you watch the werewolf lick your cunt. Gasping for breath, you catch sight of something—something thick and red, hanging between his thighs. 
A groan claws out of you. “F-Fuck. Hunter, please.” 
Whether the werewolf understands you or not, you’re unsure, but he withdraws his mouth, the fur around his lips soaked with your juices. You heave a shuddering gasp as he hooks one large hand under your ass, angling your body. His other hand wraps around his large, throbbing cock. Watching in fascination, you moan as the slim, pointed tip drags through your soaked folds. 
“Please,” you whimper. “Please.” 
With another low growl, Hunter thrusts into you, burying his thick length to the hilt. You shout, pleasure and pain biting through you in equal measures, as he splits you open. Walls fluttering around the intrusion, you go boneless, forcing yourself to relax. 
Hunter sets a brutal, punishing pace. His cock reaches parts of you no one ever has before, stretching you in ways that you’re sure will ruin you for anyone else. High, heady moans tumble from you with every sharp thrust of his hips, your nipples pebbled in the cold night air. One of your hands squeezes the soft flesh of your breasts, the other snaking down between your bodies to circle around your clit. Pleasure spikes within you, orgasm drawing closer as you play with yourself. 
“G-Gonna—” You let out a choked moan. “Gonna cum.” 
Maybe the wolf does understand you, because he bares his teeth in a terrifying display, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. Spit drools onto your heated skin. Gathering some of it on your fingers, you return to your clit to rub frantic circles there. 
Hunter adjusts the angle of your hips by a fraction, and you cum with a scream as he drives into that one devastating spot inside you. Back arching off the permacrete ground, your vision whites out as the wolf fucks you through your orgasm. Wave after wave after wave of pleasure crests over you, until you’re sobbing from overstimulation. 
Pushing with weak arms on the wolf’s chest, you somehow manage to get him to pull out of you, to give you a moment to catch your breath and recover. The wolf looms over you, panting and drooling. His cock twitches when you reach down to stroke the strange appendage.
“Good boy,” you mutter, leaning up to press a kiss to the tip of his nose. On a whim, you reach up to scratch behind one of his ears. The wolf’s eyes slide shut, a pleased hum vibrating in his chest.
Then his instincts seem to kick back in. With a huff, Hunter flips you, his nails scratching across the soft skin of your tummy. Chest pressed to the ground, ass in the air, you whine brokenly as he pushes his length into your tight heat once again. You rock your hips, meeting him thrust for thrust, mind melting into incoherency as he fucks against that shattered piece of heaven in your cunt. A second orgasm begins to build in your lower belly, and you desperately chase it, circling your clit once again. 
Hunter is getting close as well. His incessant growls are steadily becoming higher, more akin to whines than snarls. His claws dig into your flesh hard enough to break skin; tiny rivulets of blood slide down your front. You don’t care, just so long as he makes you cum again. Tears form in the corners of your eyes as your body winds tighter and tighter, orgasm threatening to pull you under at any moment. In your slick cunt, Hunter’s cock pulses, and seems to bulge. 
Then, without warning, he buries himself in you as deep as he can go. You cry out, body shuddering with pleasure as his cock—swelling and knotting—presses against your walls. You cum on his knot like that, squealing in delight, nerves obliterated and frayed as he cums with a howl. Knot pulsing, he paints your insides with ropes of hot cum that just don’t seem to stop. He fills you to the brim, and then some—you can feel his hot spend dripping down your thighs where it leaks out past his cock.
Slowly, Hunter begins to transform back into himself. His fingernails shrink, pulling the tips from your body. His fur dissolves into ash, and now against your back, his sweaty skin sticks to yours where he gasps for air. But his cock remains knotted in your cunt, both of you swollen and sensitive. 
You regain the ability to talk before he does. “H-Hunter. Hey. You okay?” 
He hums, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades. 
“I need a verbal answer,” you say between pants. 
“I’m—fuck, I’m good.” He pushes himself off you with shaky arms. But he remains kneeling behind you, locked in your tight walls. “Did I hurt you?” 
“Not in any way that I didn’t like,” you say. “Honestly kind of forgot about the panic button. Not that I wanted to use it,” you hurry to add. “That was... I don’t even have the words. ‘Amazing’ doesn’t cut it.” 
He chuckles, and the vibrations make you both moan. Your pussy clenches weakly around him. With warm, human fingers, Hunter squeezes the flesh of your ass and rocks you gently back and forth. 
“Oh stars,” you breathe. “I can’t, Hunter, it’s too much—”
“You can,” he murmurs. His hands help you move, each gentle thrust loosening the knot still swollen inside you. “You can take it, mesh’la.” 
Keening, your hands scrabble for purchase. Fingers wrapping around his wrists where he holds you, you crane your neck to look back at him over your shoulder. His face is sweaty, hair plastered to his skin, and his lips are flushed and swollen. His eyes are half-lidded and still dark with lust. In a word, he looks debauched. When his gaze meets yours, he smirks.
“That’s it,” he encourages, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your hips. “Just like that.” 
You cum again, preening under his praise despite the way your aching body screams for rest. This orgasm is slow, bone-deep and debilitating in its power. But the extra gush of slick is enough to push Hunter out of you. You both groan at the sensation of separating. 
“Look at that,” Hunter murmurs. When you glance back again, his eyes are transfixed on your cunt. His cum, all of it, wells up and spills out of your spent pussy. Seemingly without realizing it, he gathers some of the sticky substance and pushes it back into your cunt with his thumb. 
You hiss. He withdraws his hands, then tugs you up onto your knees and cradles you to his chest. “You did so well, mesh’la.” 
“You, too, Hunter,” you mumble against his skin. For a long while, the pair of you remain there, wrapped in a comforting embrace, until you chuckle. 
“What’s so funny?” he asks. 
“Our clothes are ruined,” you say. “How are we supposed to go anywhere?” 
He laughs with you, despite not having an answer. That’s alright, you think, it’s an excuse to get him into one of those rooms downstairs....
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Lessons in Anatomy and Affection (Hunter x reader)
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Summary: You decide to put Hunter's anatomy knowledge to the test.
Warnings: 18+ minors begone, here be smut; f!reader, unprotected PiV, creampie, switch!Hunter and switch!reader, teasing, lots of teasing
Word Count: 2k
A/N: Hi guys! I'm alive! I meant to post this months ago, but I've been busy, so with the new TBB season finally airing, I figured this would work now. Enjoy, ya heathens. (If you've sent me an ask, I've seen it! My inspiration has been very low lately, but it's on my radar <3). Originally a gift for @vimse
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Hunter exhales a shuddering breath as you blow a stream of cold air over the stripe you’d just licked up his neck. His hands rest lightly on your waist, his touch warm and comforting, and you delight in the way that his fingers dig into your side just the slightest. Throat bobbing with an audible gulp, Hunter turns his head to find your gaze. His eyes are half-lidded and blown with lust already, and they gleam in the soft, warm glow of the fairy lights of your bedroom. His dark curls splay around his head in a halo. 
“Cyare,” he rumbles. 
You shush him gently, pressing your lips to his. Under your wandering hands, the expanses of his bare, toned body flex and ripple, goosebumps trailing in your wake. Mouths moving together at a slow, unhurried pace, you can’t help the soft moan that escapes you when you curl your hand around his stiff length. 
“Kriff,” he breathes. “N-Need to touch you, cyare, please.” 
“I know, Hunter,” you murmur. Trailing kisses down the opposite side of his neck, you lavish extra attention to the sensitive spots you know drive him crazy. When you’re rewarded with a shaky sigh, his head tilting away from you to grant you better access, you smile against his skin. “But you have to wait. Think you can do that for me?” 
After a moment, his hands fall away from your sides. Pulling back, you study his features. His teeth worry his bottom lip, but his eyes find yours again, steady and dark and desperate. In the twinkling fairy lights, Hunter’s skull tattoo shifts and dances; though you know its base function is camouflage, to you, it’s always been beautiful. 
Glancing down the rest of his body as he’s stretched out on your bed, your mouth waters. The tattoo drips down the entire left side of his body, every bone etched into his skin with precise and accurate detail, from the large, sturdy femur to the smallest, most fragile phalange. He’s always been beautiful to you. And when he’s like this, relaxed and pliant, his beauty is nearly radiant. Anticipation curls in your lower belly and nestles deep, tightening your core with desire. You remove your hand from his cock before you lose track of the game you want to play. 
“I need to hear you say it, love,” you whisper, cupping his face. 
“Please,” he says. “Whatever you want. Just so long as I get to touch you at the end of it.”
“Always.” Pressing a sweet kiss to his chin, you shift so you can kiss down his body easily. “Ready for the rules?” 
Hunter nods.
“Good. I’m going to touch parts of your tattoo—” You ghost your fingertips over the inked-in fifth rib as if to prove your words “—and you’re going to name the correct bone. Get them all right, and you get your reward.” 
His nipples stiffen from your touch and the sultry promise of your words. “And if- if I miss any?” 
Tweaking one of his nipples, you hum while you think. “Miss one, and you can only hold my breasts. Miss two, just my hips. Miss three or more, and you don’t get to touch at all while I take my pleasure from you. Understood?” 
“Y-Yes,” he gasps out. His hips stutter up in anticipation.
Sitting up, legs tucked under you, you let your gaze wander Hunter’s form once again. Sweat has already begun to collect in the dips and valleys of his muscles. At his sides, his fingers twist into the soft cotton sheets in anticipation of the sweet torture you’re about to enact. His chest rises and falls with deep, labored breaths; at the apex of his thighs, his cock bobs gently with each beat of his heart. 
When he begins to fidget, you take mercy on him. 
“What’s this one?” you murmur, trailing your touch along the gentle curve of one of the tattooed ribs. 
“Third rib,” he answers immediately. 
“Very good.” Featherlight, you glide your fingers across his heated skin. “And this?”
“Sternum.” His voice is only the slightest bit shaky.
You move up to his throat and lightly tap the bisected cervical vertebrae that covers the central bump of his throat. “This?” 
He swallows, his throat bobbing under your touch. “C5.” 
Delight skitters over your skin at the way that his voice has already begun to drip with raspiness. Catching your lip between your teeth, you take a steadying breath, trying to ignore the way your pussy flutters with need.
When you’re ready, you move on again. You sweep your thumb in a soothing semicircle over the swell of Hunter’s shoulder, and wait for him to answer.
“Th-That’s the scapula,” he says, a waver in his voice. “The front edge of it.” 
Warmth rushes through you, a heady mix of pride and lust. “Very good, Hunter.” 
Tired of simply touching him with your fingers, you shift down on the bed to press a kiss to one of his arm bones, lips warm and soft against his skin. 
His breath hitches. “Radius.” 
Another kiss to the other bone earns you a sigh of, “Ulna.” 
A pleased hum vibrates through you. Bypassing his hand, you shimmy lower still on the bed to place a kiss to his kneecap.
“P-Patella,” he rasps, voice catching.
Gazing up at him for a moment, your mouth waters at the way that he’s not even looking at you. His neck is strained and his eyes are squeezed shut. Closer at hand, precum beads at the tip of his cock, practically begging to be licked. Tempting though the idea is, you force yourself lower yet again.
You target one of the tiny bones of his foot, and flick your tongue against it. A groan punches out of Hunter’s chest as his fists tighten in the bedsheets. Mouth working, no words sound from him. 
You lick the tattoo again. “What’s this one called, love?” 
“I- I don’t know,” he admits. 
“That’s too bad,” you say, words full of syrupy regret. “One missed. What does that mean again?” 
A strangled sound claws from Hunter’s throat. “It— It means I can only touch your breasts.” 
“Good boy,” you murmur. Pressing a fresh kiss to his foot, you smirk against his skin. “Now, tell me this one.” 
Chest heaving, Hunter squirms. It takes him a long, tense moment, but finally he gasps out, “Second metatarsal!” 
“Atta boy.”
Crawling up his body, you intentionally let your hand brush his cock. 
“Fuck!” he swears, voice cracking. “Please, cyare, please.” 
“Please, what?” you say. Tilting his face to you, you search his expression for any hints of distress. All you find is desperation and need. 
“Please, just...” He swallows thickly. “Need you.” 
“Just a few more, love,” you promise, “then I’ll give you what we both want.” Skimming your knuckles over the blank space of his cheekbone, you raise your eyebrows expectantly. “Tell me this one, Hunter.” 
“Skull,” he says, but his voice is hesitant, guarded. “Zygomatic.”
You kiss his opposite cheek, humming your approval, then reach for his inked hand. He releases the sheets to let you lick a thin stripe up his entire pointer finger. “In order.” 
His hand squeezes yours. “Distal, middle, proximal phalanges.” A shuddering breath leaves him. “Then the metacarpal.” 
He’s done so well for you; you just need one more answer from him. Your own arousal is getting more and more difficult to ignore as slick makes your thighs slippery. Nudging his wrist with your nose, you make sure your breath fans over his skin, warm and comforting. 
“Trapezoid,” he breathes out.
“Oh, Hunter,” you coo, brow furrowing in mock pity. “I’m so sorry, that’s not the right one.” 
“W-What?” His head shoots up, a frantic look in his eyes. “Yes—it is, look it’s—”
He points to the one you just nosed over, frown overtaking his features. You let him process the information for as long as he needs—which is a few long moments, given the way his irises are nearly black and his skin has retained its goosebumps for several minutes now. When you see the realization dawn on his face like the sun, you press a chaste kiss to his lips. 
“S’okay, love,” you mumble against his mouth. “That’s the trapezium, but you were so close. And you can still hold my hips while I ride you.”
A broken groan slips from Hunter, but his hands immediately fly to grasp at you. Swinging your leg over his waist to straddle him, you catch his gaze and hold it as you line his cock up with your dripping entrance and—
Matching moans echo throughout your room as you take him inside you. Dropping your forehead to his, you lower yourself inch by inch onto his cock, until your pelvis rests flush with his hips. No matter how many times you take him, it’s still a stretch, his cock filling you in ways that make you feel complete. Whole.
“Thank you,” he sighs, eyes locked onto yours. His nails are blunt but no less painful where they bite crescents into your skin. “Stars, you always feel so good. So warm, so tight.” 
Bracing yourself with your elbows to either side of his head, you roll your hips instead of answering him. Hooking your feet over his powerful thighs, you set a lazy pace, driven only by the intense, burning need to make him finish with you. His hands never stray from your hips—always a dutiful partner, always willing to listen and follow orders to their conclusion—but even so, his touch burns into you, scorching your very soul. 
You turn your head to rest it on his shoulder, working your hips a little faster. “I love you.” 
“Stars, I love you too,” he murmurs. His fingers squeeze your sides. “Love this pussy, too.”
Chuckling, you flex your core just to hear him grunt. “That all?” 
“‘Course not,” he says. He’s close; you can tell just by how clipped his words are, how strained his voice is. “Love your ass. And your thighs, your tummy, your hands—f-fuck—your eyes.” 
His words drive your hips faster, making you chase a release that suddenly rears its head. Pleasure thrumming under your skin and sliding through your veins, you moan at his praise. You bite into his shoulder, whining. 
“Love how you take care of me,” he continues, voice softening. “Love the way you care about us. I just love you, cyare.” 
“Maker,” you gasp out. “Hunter, I- I’m—” 
“I know, mesh’la,” he murmurs.
His grip turns almost painful as he takes control, dragging your body back and forth over his. Toes curling, your moans muffled against his skin, you delight in the way that he knows exactly how to move you, to make you see stars. 
Somewhere in the symphony you two compose together, of moans and sighs, whimpers and groans, you find the edge of shattered bliss. Hunter can feel it, and he presses his hips up into yours just enough to shove you right over the cliff. Body locking up, you cry out for him, walls fluttering as he fucks you through your orgasm. Pleasure burns through every nerve ending; your ears ring, vision black at the edges for a moment, as you let Hunter give you what you both needed. Through the haze, you’re dimly aware of the way his hips falter as he cums, too. Warmth spilling within you, Hunter pants against your skin, nails digging into your flesh.
When you both come down, you raise your head to meet his gaze. His eyes crinkle in a soft smile. 
“Hi,” he murmurs. 
“Hey,” you mumble. Sleep already begins to curl around your senses. “Thank you.” 
He releases your hip to cup your face. “What for?” 
“I dunno.” Biting your lip, you offer a smile. “Just being you.” 
Hunter brings you down to kiss you, a sigh of, “Always,” fanning your lips.
Because Hunter is your always, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
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multi-fan-dom-madness · 5 months
Note
may I please request
❛ so good for me. look how much you came. ❜ with Hunter 👀
I’m still thinking about the masquerade fic and I am unwell
i am also unwell from that fic and it's clearly rewired my brain chemistry. please enjoy this smutty hors d'ouevres
So Good For Me
Summary: Hunter makes you cum. Really hard. That's it that's the fic. Prompt in bold.
Warnings: 18+ content, minors begone. f!reader, oral (f receiving), fingering, squirting, dirty talk, implied multiple orgasms
Word Count: 484
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Hunter’s mouth suckling your clit as he pushes two crooked fingers up against your g-spot has obliterated all your ability to think coherently. Your focus is consumed by the growing, aching pleasure deep in your core, the impossible tightening of your muscles, and a foreign pressure right where Hunter pumps his fingers. You moan unabashedly, mewls and whimpers of pleasure echoing in the empty ship. 
The vibrations of Hunter’s growling groan against your cunt is what sends you rocketing over the edge. Your vision whites out as your back arches off the bunk, hands curled into claws as you scream. Hunter doesn’t let you move very far—his free hand presses on your hips to keep you steady—the added pressure makes your walls pulse harder.
And the orgasm never seems to end. Every additional stroke of Hunter’s calloused fingertips against your walls has you shaking and falling apart further. It’s only when he withdraws his lips from your clit that you’re able to breathe again. 
Legs quivering, all you can do is laugh uncontrollably, tears sliding down your cheeks. Your orgasm still continues to pulse and writhe within your core, every flex of your muscles making you yelp. Skin plastered to the thin sheets of the bunk, your entire body is damp, equal parts sweat, saliva, and slick. 
Hunter smooths a hand over your thigh, trailing kisses on your heated skin in the wake of the goosebumps that his touch elicits. Weakly raising your head, cunt squeezing around his fingers still buried in your wet heat, you meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and his entire face shines with your arousal. Your release drips from his curls. 
“So good for me,” he husks, placing a delicate kiss to your swollen, oversensitive clit. “Look how much you came. Squirted all over me, sweetheart.”
Laughter dying out, a low whine catches in your throat, inexplicable embarrassment swelling up in a hot rush. You cover your face with both hands.
With a wet squelch, Hunter withdraws his fingers from your pussy to wrap his hands around your wrists. “Mesh’la,” he says, “look at me. S’nothin’ to feel shy about. That was the hottest kriffin’ thing you’ve ever done.”
Squinting at him from behind your fingers, you pout. “Not that time I asked you to breed me?”
He groans, biting his lip at the memory. His sound makes you shiver pleasantly. Relaxing, you let him pin your arms onto the bed once more. His eyes trail down your naked form, drinking in every part of your body. In contrast, he’s still fully clothed, his blacks tented where his cock stands at attention, and the neckline of his top dark with your release. He meets your gaze once again.
“You’re gonna be the death of me, mesh’la,” he says, a gentle smile tugging on his lips. “Now, let’s see if we can’t make you squirt again...”
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multi-fan-dom-madness · 9 months
Note
the way i need enemies to lovers smut with cal where reader is a sith lord and gets hurt but cal being the good man that he is, takes her back to his place and things happen yk 😰
i love this so much and I hope it's alright that I changed the prompt a teensy bit. instead of being sith, reader is just a darkside-user more generally. also gender neutral. thank you so much for the request!
Balance (Cal Kestis x reader)
Summary: You encounter Cal Kestis a few too many times, and you can't explain the way that the Force seems to be conspiring to put you two together in a room.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ minors DNI; gn!reader; inappropriate use of the Force; reader is a darkside user and honestly doesn't know how fucked they are; semi-graphic injuries; porn with plot; toxic relationship lowkey; blowjob; mutual masturbation (sort of); penetrative sex; unprotected sex (pls be safe irl y'all); if I missed anything please let me know!
Word Count: 12,765 my hand slipped
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The first time you encounter Cal Kestis, you nearly kill him.
You’d heard the rumors, of course, whispered with bright eyes and furtive expressions in shithole Outer Rim cantinas of a flame-headed being cutting down Inquisitors and Imperials. When you first overheard a snippet of the tall tale, you’d nearly choked on your cheap spotchka. Right, you remember thinking, a fiery figure opposing the Empire. Did they run out of good gossip today? 
Most rumors have at least a kernel of truth at their centers, and you figured it was the same with this one. And besides, you are indifferent to the Empire, at best; you’ve been avoiding their attention as much as you can, but you suspect that the thick cloak of the darkside you wear like a mantle has kept most of the Inquisitorius oblivious. They’re looking for Jedi, who cannot resist continuing to do good in a galaxy rotted to its core, and you stopped being a Jedi long before the Empire rose to power. They probably pay no mind to one lone figure who straddles the line of light and dark, temptation and virtue. 
But that doesn’t mean Jedi pay no mind to you. Most of them, you can avoid; you fight when necessary. Currently, you’re thinking a fight might just be necessary. You’re on some planet you’ve already forgotten the name of, densely populated and urban. You stand with one foot propped on the edge of a rooftop, neon lights glimmering on wet permacrete. Rain drizzles in a fine mist. You gaze placidly across the gap to the next building—to the flame-headed being. Without even needing to try, you feel his Force signature: he burns in the Force, even as he tries to hide it. His coppery hair ruffles in the slight breeze, stubble darkening his face. 
With a steadying breath, you tilt your head to one side. “Got a name, friend?”
“Not one you need to know,” he calls back. His posture is loose, casual, but you sense the whipcord tension in his Force aura; he’s on the alert. 
As he probably should be. 
“If I tell you mine, will you tell me yours?” You offer him a disarming smile. “Seems only fair, right? Equitable partnership.” 
He snorts. “There’s no partnership.” 
“Fine,” you huff. You tell him your name anyways, and he mouths it silently, but none of that tension dissipates. You take the moment to appraise him a little more closely: lean body, self-assured slant of his shoulders, faded burn scar cut across his face. Heat licks up your spine.
“Cal,” he eventually says. “Cal Kestis.”
You smile wide at his honeyed voice. “Nice to meet you, Cal Kestis. Mind moving out of the way so I can continue on my merry way?” 
“Afraid I can’t do that,” he says, but there’s no trace of regret in that gorgeous voice, only immense exhaustion. 
Your saber hilt twitches against your back as your hand flexes nearly out of habit. Taking another deep, cleansing breath, you shrug as if his answer means nothing. The dark tide of the Force surges through your body, tingling in your fingertips, sharpening the smoggy night air into fine detail. “Well, can’t say I didn’t ask nicely.” 
And then you leap, going from a dead standstill to a flurry of action in the space of a heartbeat. As your unstable crimson blade screeches to life, bathing the rooftops in flickering light, an answering snap-hiss echoes around you. Blue beam clashes with red, showering sparks over both of you. 
Oh, he’s strong, and for some reason that makes your skin flush. You bare your teeth in a mockery of a smile and shove. He staggers back, feet slipping for a moment in the gravel surface of the rooftop, before he recovers. 
“I’ll give you this one chance to stand down,” he says, voice thick and low and oh how it makes you shiver. His eyes glint in the blue light of his saber. 
“Funny,” you snap, “I was just going to say the same to you.” 
A frown tugs at his mouth. Lowering into a defensive stance, his eyes never leave yours as you languidly swing your saber in a half circle around you, content to draw this out. You’ve killed your number of Jedi in the name of self-preservation—necessary sacrifices to ensure the continued balance of Light and Dark—but there’s something about the way his green eyes harden into sharp gems the longer you twirl your blade, the casual power in his veined forearms, the absolutely pure gold energy he radiates in the Force. 
With an aggravated shake of your head, you press the attack. Overhead, backhand, thrust, thrust, parry—you and Cal settle into a dangerous dance. Bright light bursts where your sabers connect, sparks skittering across the gravel. For anyone watching nearby, the pair of you probably look like blurs of red and blue light—another light fixture among this technicolor urban landscape. 
But for anyone skilled in the Force, the radiance of your sabers dims in comparison to the pillars of energy you both become. One golden and bright as a thousand suns, shot through with faint tendrils of inky blackness; one glowing in shadow, a black hole ringed by its event horizon, smears of golden light. 
Both the light and the dark are present in this fight, and you smile grimly. In all things, balance, as your master used to say. 
The memory is a distraction, and Cal manages to break through your guard and punch your nose. Searing pressure spikes through your head, warmth dribbling down your face. 
You merely grin at him with blood-covered lips. “You’ll have to do better than that, Kestis.” 
And again the two of you become a flurry of attacks, parries, counterattacks, feints. In the distance, the low drone of a police siren reverberates off the tall glass buildings of the downtown area. You’ve been spotted. Time to end this now. 
You make a show of appearing to be tiring, breathing coming in heavy gasps, your saber still meeting Cal’s in time to stop him from separating your limbs from your body, but just a fraction slower than what you’d begun with. And you give ground. Just a half step at first, and then several steps. Cal seizes the opportunity to push you back, force you into submission, gain the upperhand—
Not knowing he’d lost this fight the moment he’d placed himself in your path. 
The Force is with you. In the Force, your arms seem to glow with terrible, purple-black ultraviolet power as you surrender yourself to its currents. There is no longer you and your saber; your saber is you. There is no longer you and Cal Kestis; there is you and the last piece of yourself that you’re willing to atrophy. Veins of golden Light criss-cross under your darkly shining skin—and as you stand firm once again with your back to the low roof edge, you will those golden veins to flush, to swell. You’re going to triumph here, and it’ll be with the approval of the full Force.
Cal’s face gleams with sweat, his brow furrowed, delicious mouth curved down in a frown. You lick your lips. 
“Yield, Kestis,” you say. One last chance. 
He just grunts, and in a blur of motion, separates the hilt of his saber. Another beam of blue snaps to life. Fear flares in you for a moment—but the Force remains with you, and you let the emotion siphon into your cracked, bleeding kyber. Plasma spits off the sides of your blade as you block attack after attack after attack; you’re an infinite well of patience—but that siren is getting closer, and you know that time, unlike your patience, is of the essence. 
In a flash of inspiration, you reverse your grip on your hilt mid-parry, then swipe the angry blade out and up. A cry of pain, and one of the blue sabers retracts as the hilt clatters to the gravel. Cal stumbles back, cradling his left arm to his chest, his remaining saber held in front of him. 
You can’t help the surge of pleasure at besting your opponent, even temporarily. As you twirl your saber again, a spotlight suddenly beams down on the two of you. With a grimace, you swing the saber down towards the soft juncture of Cal’s neck where it meets his shoulder—
And freeze when you catch a glimpse of the calm, resigned look in his eyes. Your blade hovers mere centimeters off his skin. 
Amid the roar of hovercraft, the police siren, and the rushing of blood in your ears, he murmurs your name.
“Kark it all,” you spit. Gathering the Force within you, you shove him back. A shout of surprise, a flash of blue, and then he’s tumbling over the edge of the building. You retract your blade and dash in the opposite direction without a second thought. 
Your master had always been honest with you about how little he, or anyone, truly knew about the mysteries of the Force. During your years as a padawan, you spent countless hours in meditation chambers deep below the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, feeling the constant ebb and flow of the Force around you. The first time he brought you there, your master explained in hushed tones how the temple had been built millennia ago over an old Sith temple. The Force resided in a nexus point there; streams of energy flowed from all over the galaxy and converged—and then diverged—from the temple. 
Sitting in meditation now, you breathe deeply and steadily as the memory crests over you. 
“But, Master,” you asked, “if the temple used to be a Sith stronghold, doesn’t that mean the dark side of the Force is strong here, too?” 
His kind, patient eyes crinkled as he smiled. “That is right, my Padawan. In all things, there must be balance. Light and dark only exist because of each other.”
A frown tugged at your lips at that, and you cocked your head to the side. “But aren’t we supposed to resist the darkness?” 
“Yes,” he said. “The darkness is an overbalance—an overabundance—of emotions, passions, fears. The Sith, and all who use the dark side, manipulate the Force to their will, instead of letting their emotions, like the Force, flow through them.” 
Something about that didn’t feel right. “But—” 
Your master held up one hand, forestalling the line of questioning you were about to launch into. He stepped through a large, arched doorway into a dim, echoing room. “Come, Padawan. Perhaps meditating will provide the answers you seek.” 
You inhale slowly and open your eyes, squinting against the bright blue glare of the hyperspace lane. No matter how long or how hard you meditated under the temple, you grew no closer to an answer than by asking your master. Despite your frustration, you kept returning to the chambers below the Great Hall. The Force there was...comforting. Balanced. And yet, so infuriating in its mystery. You could feel both the light and the dark, and neither were good or bad. The Force just...was. Perhaps it was the long hours you spent in the tunnels and vast echoic chambers there that you developed your keen sense for the composition of the Force.
Standing, you groan softly at the ache in your knees. As you settle back into the thinly padded pilot’s seat, you massage at the joints, wondering just when you’d gotten old. 
Probably when that droid shot through your master’s heart on Geonosis, and you’d physically felt the Force tip off-balance half a galaxy away, deep in meditation on Coruscant. The memory is painful, and digs its festering claws into your heart yet again. 
The Council hadn’t even needed to tell you your master had perished in the opening salvo of the Clone Wars. The morning after his funeral, with both his and your sabers in your pack, you’d fled the temple.
The old fool, you think, slashing the memory of him from your awareness.
By now, you’re used to the pit of emotions yawning in your very essence. You hold onto your fears, your angers, your anxieties—but also your loves, your passions, your desires. Without even really thinking about it, you reach for the loose compartment that holds your master’s saber. Its duranium-plated hilt is slowly corroding, matching the slow degradation of yourself. The blade jumps to life with a snap-hiss. The green glow it casts is almost sickly, the blade bright, but thin and tremulous. It’s been weak since he died.
As you stare, eyes burning, into the flickering core of your master’s blade, you reach into the Force for the kyber at its heart. No matter how many times you brush against the crystal with your mind, you’re never prepared. A screech, unending and agonized and fearful, rends through your consciousness. For a moment, the green sputters, crimson taking its place. 
You drop the saber, gasping. The hilt clatters to the floor and blade retracts, and you’re left again in the pressing silence of hyperspace.
In all things, balance, drift the words through you once again. Green against crimson. Crimson for blue. You think about Cal Kestis, his blinding presence; you think of your vacuous silhouette; and you take all the rage you can muster and twist it into your own heart like a dagger. The joists of your ship groan in response.
The second time you meet Cal Kestis, you almost wish you’d killed him all those years ago.
Just a few months after that first encounter on rain-slicked rooftops, you caught wind of a rumor that the flame-headed being attacked the Fortress Inquisitorius itself. This time, you didn’t discount the story, having witnessed first hand—for however short a time—the Force-empowered determination of that single human being. None of the rumors about Cal Kestis surprise you anymore. 
But you routinely have to curse his name as the Inquisitors have now turned their attention beyond just Jedi. The cloak of the darkness is no longer enough on its own to hide you from the long gaze of the Empire. You’ve taken to hiding out on barely populated Outer Rim worlds, hanging around long enough to establish some kind of routine, before the gentle ripples of the Force lapping against your subconscious grow into towering, dangerous waves. And then you hop back in your ship, barely more than scrap welded to a hyperdrive, and scuttle off to the next system. 
Which is where you find yourself now. Koboh could be promising. As you crouch at the edge of an exposed cliff, you study the cosmic anomaly that orbits the planet. The Abyss. You’re not sure what it is, but whatever it is, it creates a strong enough disturbance in the Force that you’re hopeful it will mask your own signature. And, you admit to yourself as your gaze lowers to the breathtaking landscape spread out below you, you’ve hidden in worse places the last few years. Koboh seems promising, indeed.
You spend a few days studying the locals, trying to get a feel for how life works here. For the most part, everyone here seems like they’re from off-world—which is good, because it means you won’t stand out for very long as a newcomer. Everyone here is a newcomer. And everyone here is more concerned, it seems, with the things that lie in the dirt than in the world aboveground. All the better for you. 
Concealing your saber hilt against your back like always, you make sure your ship, bucket of bolts that it is, is well-hidden enough to dissuade any potential scrappers. Tucked high on an outcropping, you hope most folks won’t care too much to check out the shiny metal bits not covered by plant matter. Not when it’s several dozen feet above solid ground. 
And you make sure you look as uninteresting as possible. With your saber out of view, you could pass for a refugee without issue. Force knows you’ve been weeks without a proper shower; you can feel the dirt and grime on every inch of your skin. Your clothing, usually neat and tucked in, is dusty, torn, and stained with dried blood. 
Yes, you’ll fit in nicely here. 
As you pass beneath a metallic archway decorated with a massive horned skull, you reach out in the Force, making sure that none of the town’s inhabitants can get the drop on you. You bypass squat, square buildings that are probably homes of some of the folks here. None seem of interest. Instead, your gaze is trained on the larger, multi-story building near the center of town. As you draw nearer, you realize the sign above the door reads, “Saloon.” Perfect. 
The door opens to admit you into a hallway; at the end, you wait in front of another door for a moment while a mechanical eye studies you. Chattering in a deep, unintelligible voice, the eye withdraws, and the second door whooshes open to reveal the barroom. 
No one turns as you descend the few steps to the floor. Crates and clutter stock most of the booths along the side wall, a few folks talking quietly at smaller tables or sitting alone and nursing a drink. Quiet, staticky radio music plays over the speakers. 
Behind the bar is a tall, four-armed droid who skids to a halt where you lean against the counter.
“You’re a new face,” the droid says. “Name’s Monk. What can I get you?” 
You quirk an eyebrow and give the droid, Monk, an alias, your sixth one in as many months. Then you say, “Got any spotchka?” 
“Indeed I do,” Monk says. “Shall I start a tab?” 
“I’ll pay up front,” you say with a shake of your head. 
Monk gives you the cost as he pours the glowing blue liquid into a clean glass, and you slide the credits across the counter. The alcohol’s familiar burn slides down your throat as you lean your back against the bar. Over the rim of your glass, you study the other patrons here at the saloon. Dusty, tired figures, the lot of them. In the Force, they are marginal, giving off only nominal signatures, no different than most other living beings. Most of them aren’t important enough to even warrant a clear affiliation with light or dark; they just are. Your upper lip quirks in a grimace.
Extending your awareness out farther, you’re not sure what you’re searching for, but you suppose you’ll know it when you find it. The hilt of your saber digs uncomfortably into your skin, but you ignore it, using the pain to sharpen your focus. You sense more townsfolk going to and fro outside the saloon, but none of them of any more note than those inside.
Something in you itches. Frowning, you lower the glass of spotchka and try to focus in on that feeling. It’s under your skin, out of reach, just behind your spine, but if you just push a little farther—
You gasp, cringing away from the sudden supernova that blinds your awareness in the Force. Cal Kestis. It has to be Cal. No one else burns quite like him. 
You yank your Force signature back into your body, hoping he didn’t feel you like you felt him. Figuring you only have moments to get out, you make a split-second decision between the several other doors leading away from this main room. Spotchka glass still in hand, you dart for the nearest door, and it slides open to reveal a staircase that winds upward. You take the steps two at a time. At the landing, you hiss at the sight of a second-floor loft. Stairs seem to continue along the other side, continuing to wind upward, but before you can run for them, a familiar voice drifts up from below. 
“Hey, Monk, good to see you,” says Cal Kestis. 
Your body flushes with warmth. Kriff. 
Monk says something you can’t quite make out. 
“Another newcomer?” Cal says. “I’ll make sure to say hi when I see them.” 
Grimacing, you creep across the floor toward the second staircase. Your foot just touches the bottom step when a voice behind you calls your name—your real name, not the alias you gave the droid. 
You sigh, chin falling toward your chest. “Cal Kestis.” 
“How did you find me?” 
His green gaze burns into you almost as hot as his Force signature. You roll your eyes; typical Jedi, thinking the world revolves around him.
“I didn’t know you were here,” you say. “I’m...laying low.” 
He crosses his arms across his chest, and you’re distracted for a moment by the way his muscles bulge against the fabric of his shirt. “I’m supposed to believe that.”
“Believe whatever you want to, Jedi,” you bite out. “I’ll go find my own desolate planet.” 
“Can’t let you do that,” he says, following behind you as you climb the stairs. 
“I’d love to see you stop me.” 
You feel the disturbance in the Force and brace for it. His attempt to yank you back down the stairs fails as you push against it—but you can’t push past it. Equally matched. Balanced. 
With a growl, you spin on your heel and point an accusing finger at Cal. “Are you really sure you want to do this right now?” 
His eyes narrow at you as you stand there, chest heaving with emotion, both of you crackling with energy in the Force. You down the rest of your spotchka and shatter the glass on the ground. Cal doesn’t flinch. The longer you stand there, the hotter your face flushes. Ignoring the impulse to shudder, you don’t miss the way his green eyes study your face, your posture, your signature. 
“I know you,” he finally says. “From the temple.” 
You snort in derision. “Good for you, kid.” 
“I was still a youngling when the Clone Wars started,” he says. “I...understand what it’s like to lose your master.” 
Your vision pulses black for a moment, and on instinct you reach out with a clawed hand. Cal’s eyes widen in fear as his hands fly to his throat, grabbing at the invisible hand you squeeze there.
“Don’t. Ever. Presume to know anything about me,” you hiss. “You know nothing, Cal Kestis.” 
“You’re—right—” he chokes out. “I’m—sorry—”
You shove, the Force exploding through your palm as he slams into the opposite wall. Sputtering, he coughs, rubbing at his throat. 
“I don’t need your pity, Jedi.” You spit the title like a curse—like the curse that it is—and turn to take the staircase up and out. The door at the top admits you to the open-air roof, the cosmic explosion of the Abyss looming overhead. 
You step over the edge of the roof, calling on the Force to cushion your descent. At the bottom, you ignore the flabbergasted expressions on a few of the locals as you stalk off. Past the saloon, past the stables, through the shallow river—you’re not sure how far you walk, but it’s dark by the time that you realize you’re lost. 
“Kriff,” you sigh. 
Thankfully, whether by luck or by the sheer force of presence of your Force signature, you’ve not been bothered by any of the (frankly terrifying) wildlife on this planet. Tentatively, you reach out, but you find nothing but a few docile Nekkos and, farther off, a dozing bilemaw. 
In the dim light provided by the Abyss and the Shattered Moon hanging heavy in the sky, you determine that a shallow cliff alcove nearby will be as good a place as any to rest until morning. Settling under the rocky overhang, you exhale a shaky breath. 
It’s been a long time since you let your emotions take control like that. You allow yourself to feel them, even to use them to your advantage—but you rarely lose control. Not recently, anyways. 
You bare your teeth at the thought of Cal Kestis. He’s by far only the latest in a string of former Jedi you’ve encountered, but none of them, even the ones who you remember from your years as a padawan, created this amount of turmoil in you. So why him? 
Should probably just ask him myself, huh, you muse, hearing a twig snap nearby. You don’t need to look into the Force to know who it is. 
“Who’s following who now?” you call. 
With a familiar hum, a blue blade sings as it springs to life, illuminating the alcove you’re hunkered in, as well as Cal’s lean figure. You’re too exhausted to be angry at this point, but a different kind of heat licks up your spine as you push up onto your feet. The warmth settles between your thighs, throbbing uncomfortably as he raises the saber overhead, his arm muscles flexing. 
“Had to make sure you didn’t hurt anyone,” he says, halting just a few feet away. 
“No one out here to hurt,” you say. “What are you really doing here, Kestis?” 
He hesitates, shifting his weight between his feet, eyes not meeting yours. Squinting, you extend a tendril of awareness toward him—past the burnished gold aura, past the shell of Jedi honor he projects like a shield, until you brush against one of those tiny black cracks in his signature. He stiffens, shifts his stance into a defensive half-crouch. There is darkness in him. 
And there is lightness in you, sighs a voice that sounds very much like your master’s. 
You ignore it. 
“Well?” you prompt. 
“I- I don’t know,” he says. 
You snort. “Well, when you figure it out, let me know.” Sinking back into a meditative pose, you let your eyes slide shut and effectively shut out all things Cal Kestis.
At least, that’s what you try to do. The karking idiot seems to have decided that you’re not a threat—a poor miscalculation on his part—as his saber retracts and you hear the sounds of someone settling into a meditative trance next to you. Peeking one eye open, you glance over to find him sat back on his heels, palms resting on his thighs, his face blank and serene. He’s beautiful like this, you think. 
“I could kill you right now, you know,” you say, letting your eye fall shut again. 
“You won’t,” he says, sounding so matter-of-fact that you’re almost convinced that you really wouldn’t. 
Then you shake your head. “Don’t be so certain.” 
“You didn’t kill me five years ago. You won’t kill me now.” 
Gnawing at your cheek, you find you have no response for that. 
The third time you face Cal Kestis, you want to hate him. 
Koboh proves to be big enough for two powerful Force users. You keep to the wilderness, and he sticks to the town. For the most part, anyway. You occasionally catch a glimpse of copper hair as he explores the planet, following all the inane rumors of the locals. Why he even lowers himself to their level, you’ll never understand. 
And besides, Koboh has turned out to be a perfect place to continue your search for answers about the Force. You’ve never wanted to stop knowing, never stopped asking “But why?” The Abyss above is a physical presence most days, nearly oppressive in its crushing weight. It absolutely deafens you in the Force whenever you try to reach for it, painful screeching assaulting your senses. There’s something behind the noise, though, but it’s too far, too deep, for you to reach it. 
You haven’t seen Cal in a while now. And you’re fine with that. You’d watched his ship take off in the early hours of the morning a few weeks ago, and it still hasn’t returned. 
Shrugging, you decide that today is as good a day as any to do some exploring of your own. You’ve watched Cal enough to know that there are hidden vaults on this planet, and from what you’ve been able to tell, they’re old. Maybe they’ll have some answers. 
The sunrise peeks over the craggy cliffside, casting a gentle pink hue over the world, still hushed in its predawn slumber. Dew collects on your pant legs as you pass through a small clearing of scrubby bushes. A couple dozen feet up the hill glints a hint of gold. None of the Koboh prospectors would have left this alone unless it were for a reason, you figure. Maybe this is one of the vaults. 
Resting a palm gently on its surface, the gold is cool to the touch. Glyphs in Basic and other languages spiral around the circular door-like structure. When you examine it through the Force, you feel the mechanism that keeps it locked, but no matter how much you push, pull, yank, shove, the door remains sealed. 
“Dank farrik,” you curse. “How does Cal do it?” 
“Very carefully,” a familiar warm voice says from behind you. 
You barely glance over your shoulder, flushing from the embarrassment of being caught unawares, but somehow unsurprised he’s managed to find you. You should have known that even thinking of his absence would cause it to revert. 
“Very funny,” you say. “What secrets are you hiding, Jedi?” 
“Wouldn’t you like to know, Sith,” he says. 
As he sidles up alongside you, you glare at him. “I’m not a Sith.”
“Coulda fooled me,” he says with a shrug. “Red saber, strong in the dark side, angry all the time.” 
Huffing, you roll your eyes. His hair is longer than it has been since you first met him, and there’s another scar, pink and shiny, on his upper bicep, like he’d been cut with a vibroblade. As you study him, you also realize he looks...older. More tired. More weary. 
“You look like bantha fodder,” you say helpfully. 
He hums noncommittally. “Do you want into the vault or not?” 
“You’re gonna let me in?” you say, eyebrows raising in surprise. 
With a half-shrug, he says, “I’ve already explored this one. Nothing left in it for you to gain, except maybe some manners.” 
He reveals a small, handheld device that, when he raises it toward the golden door, blips. The door expands open, revealing a turbolift in the center of the floor. 
“Why are you helping me?” you ask, not moving from your spot. Suspicion bubbles in the back of your mind. 
Cal pockets the device and gestures for you to go ahead, giving you a sardonic two-finger salute. “It’s in my nature.” 
With that, he takes a step back, then another, and then pivots and trudges back downhill, tucking his fiery hair behind his ears. 
The vault teaches you something, alright, but it isn’t manners like Cal hoped. Even two century-old tech and warbled messages from a Jedi named Santari Khri cannot lift the veil of jade that rests over your eyes. The Order has always been faulty. The Order has always been weak. Your master was always fated to die, and you to wander, adrift. You grind your teeth in anger. Is that all that exists for you? For anyone? To live and die at the whim of some cosmic, unknowable power? 
The vault also reminds you of your mortality. As you work yourself into a silent rage about the unfairness of the galaxy, at the cruel and nonsensical nature of the Force, you miscalculate the distance between two crumbling stone platforms. With a Force-assisted leap, your arms windmill as you keep yourself balanced, but your feet only just manage to catch the edge of the platform. You wobble, anger bursting into fear, as the stone grates against itself before your stomach is in your throat as you plummet straight down. 
The rush of frigid air steals the scream from your lungs. Try as you might, the Force refuses to help you grasp onto the quickly receding lip of this chasm. 
And then pain rockets up your legs in jagged, arcing lines from your heels to your hips, and you collapse. 
It’s only by sheer willpower that you don’t black out. Grit your teeth. Take a deep breath. Curse until the pain abates. 
You take stock of your body. Your legs are on fire, and any attempt to move them sends a fresh wave of lava licking up your nerve endings. Otherwise, you wipe away blood from scrapes on your palms and tenderly poke at the bruises already forming on your ribs. Around you, myriad rocks and small boulders litter the cracked, moist ground. Mist clings to the spaces in between. When you look up, the ledge you fell from is completely obscured. 
“No Jedi wisdom for me, Santari Khri?” you croak as you gently shift into an upright position. Your teeth squeak from clenching your jaw against the pain, but you manage to prop yourself up with your back against a sizable rock. 
The mist deadens your words. Instead of an echo, it’s like the words get clipped short before they can fully materialize in the air. The back of your neck pricks. But, studying your surroundings once more, there is nothing for you to do but meditate. Perhaps, for once, the Force will provide.
You have no way of knowing how much time has passed as you sit in meditation, methodically stretching your awareness to its limits, trying to snag onto any signature in the Force that might help you out of this predicament. Your butt goes completely numb, as do your legs—a fact you feel should incite panic in your already-tight chest, but you can’t find it in you to care. By the time that you’re ready to give up searching, your throat tickles with dryness and your stomach begins to feel empty. 
But just as you heave a sigh, rising out of the meditative trance, the Force tugs on your awareness. Furrowing your brow, you concentrate: up, up up up, and to the left. Something steadily growing closer. Something bright, and familiar, and warm. 
Cal. 
For once, you’re grateful for his annoyingly Jedi-like qualities. You track his presence through the Force, unable to do more than monitor as he seems to approach your location with frustrating slowness. 
“Come on,” you mutter, mouth thick. “I’m here. Come find me like you always do.” 
After what feels like another small eternity, you finally open your eyes and peer up through the opaque mist. Above, you swear you hear boots crunching on loose rock, and the distant bwee-boop of a droid. 
“Down here,” you half call, half croak. The words don’t seem to make it past your throat. 
For a terrible moment, you think Cal is going to search the seemingly empty vault and, not finding you within, leave. You can’t tell, through either his footsteps or his Force signature, what he’s doing up there. At the last moment, a burst of panic seizing your limbs, you lean forward with a groan and retrieve your saber, still miraculously tucked into your waistband. 
The spitting crimson blade is a comfort as it screeches to life in the oppressive space.
A voice calls your name, cautious. 
“Here!” you shout, voice cracking painfully in an effort to be heard. 
Blue flame bursts to life somewhere above—much farther above than you initially thought—and you nearly sob in relief. 
“Watch your eyes,” Cal shouts down, and you have only a moment to register what he means before you duck, retracting your blade. The unmistakable sound of saber scoring through rock reaches you, heated pebbles showering down on your covered head, and then the sound of two soft leather-clad feet touching down beside you. 
Wary, you raise your head. Cal crouches next to you, his face painted with a cautious kind of concern. 
“You came back?” You don’t mean to make it a question, but the softness in his eyes, the gentleness with which he ghosts his hands over your many injuries, makes you reconsider your previous anger toward him. At least, for a moment. 
“Like I said,” he murmurs, “it’s in my nature.” 
“Legs are the worst of it,” you say, gesturing weakly to your two limbs stretched in front of you. Both are angry shades of blotchy red and purple, but no bone peeks out from within your skin at the very least. 
Cal casts a questioning look up at you, his palms hovering over your legs. You give a small nod, and he lowers his hands until they make feather-light contact with your skin. Even as careful as he’s being, pain erupts all over again when he brushes over your shin, and you squirm, cursing. 
“Probably fractured the bones,” he says. “Need to get you back to town.” 
You groan. “Unless you plan on carrying me out of here, Kestis, I’m not in any shape to make it all the way back.” 
He studies your face for a moment, really studies it, and you can’t help the way your lips part at the intensity in his gaze. Despite the aching pain in your legs, you can’t suppress the heat blooming up your neck into your cheeks the longer his eyes roam your face. Surely he can sense the way your Force aura grows more agitated. 
Whatever he’s searching for on your face, he seems to find it. Shrugging his shoulders, the curious little BD unit you’ve noticed with Cal peeks its white-and-red head up. With a boop?, Cal jerks his chin at you.
The droid slides down Cal’s back and trots up to you. Tilting its head, the mismatched eyes whir and toggle as the droid seems to study you with the same scrutiny as Cal just had.
“What—”
In the blink of an eye—faster, even—a flash of green light dazzles you, followed by the sharp pain of an injection. But that doesn’t even matter, as a blissful, cool relief spreads immediately from the injection site through the rest of your body. The ache in your legs subsides to a dull throb, and you find that you can finally move the limbs without wanting to vomit. 
“Stim,” Cal explains. He rises to his feet, and holds a hand out. “Come on. It’ll wear off soon.” 
His hand is warm, achingly so, when he grasps yours and tugs you to your feet. Grimacing at the wave of nausea that sweeps over you, you cling to his hand until it passes. 
He’s studying the sheer rockface to either side. “I may be carrying you out of here either way. Come on. Hop up.” 
He turns to retrieve your saber where you dropped the hilt—he stiffens for just a moment, so quick you think you imagine it, before he hands the hilt back to you. And then he remains facing away from you. You realize, with a deep-seated groan, that he’s removed the jacket he was wearing earlier, when he let you into the vault. His shoulders are bare and so strong and pretty and freckled and— 
His soft question of your name breaks you out of your reverie. 
“Right,” you say, clearing your throat. Tentatively, you hook your arms over top of his broad shoulders, trying to ignore the way his skin feels against yours, and he crouches so you can more easily clamber onto his back like a pack. 
“BD, up,” Cal orders, and you squirm as the droid clambers up your back to rest with one foot on your shoulder and the other on Cal’s. 
Even with the stim working through your system much like coolant in your ship’s engine, and even with Cal doing all he can to keep you steady on his back as he Force-propels himself up the vertical rockfaces of this cavern, you bite into your cheek hard enough for it to bleed to keep yourself from yelping in pain. It’s bad enough that he had to save you from a slow death in this Force-forsaken vault; he doesn’t need to know the fire that licks up your nerve endings with every jostle. 
You shuffle off his back as soon as you’re able. A grimace contorts your features as you stumble a few steps, but you wave away Cal’s steadying hands.
“I’m fine,” you grit out. 
“Yeah, you look fine,” he says. 
You shoot him a glare, but you’re more exhausted than you are angry. “You didn’t have to come back for me.” 
“If it makes you feel better,” he says, gesturing for you to step onto the turbolift first, “I don’t expect anything in return. You don’t owe me anything.” 
“Ha,” you bark out. Your stomach lurches as the turbolift shudders into its ascent. “Of course I owe you, Kestis. It’s all about balance.” 
“Balance,” he says, his voice strangely hollow and contemplative. “You murdered Rexan Binette and Sarela Webb and the others for balance?” 
The names of the Jedi you killed reverberate off the curved walls of the lift chamber. Breathing through your nose, you avoid his gaze—and then shake your head at yourself, angry. Why should you be ashamed? It was them or you. 
The lift comes to a smooth halt at the top, and you’re somehow unsurprised to find that it appears to be dawn again. Your eyes find Cal’s green ones. They look nearly black in the early morning haze. His expression bares all of his emotions: hurt, suspicion, concern, worry. But he doesn’t seem...afraid. Not of you, anyways, and instead of filling you with rage, that realization makes you deflate. 
“The galaxy changed,” you say, voice flat. “You change with it, or you die.” 
He fixes you with his stare for a moment more, and then shakes his head and begins the long walk back downhill without a word. Heaving a sigh, you follow him. You can’t repay the debt you now owe him if you die from an infected wound. You tell yourself that the heat bubbling in your chest is hate, hate that you’re now bound to this life debt, hate that of all people you’re in debt to Cal Kestis. But hate has never felt so soft.
The final time that you and Cal Kestis cross paths, you remember why hatred is easier. 
It’s only a few weeks after when you’ve fully healed thanks to Cal’s quick intervention, the extra stores of bacta that you had the good foresight to stash in your ship years ago, and perhaps a nudge from the Force. You’ve retreated to your ramshackle abode in the wilderness; thankfully, the worst you have to deal with upon returning is a stray Bogling. No matter how hard you try to shoo the pesky creature away from your hut, it comes back again. 
“You’re lucky you’re so cute,” you grumble, watching the Bogling scratch at the dirt out front of your hut. It chitters as it works to burrow its den. 
Cal has disappeared again, which works just fine for you. It’s easier to attune to the Force when he’s gone. When you’re not distracted by his burnished radiance, his soothing calmness, his serene meditation posture, his hair that looks as soft as the Bogling’s fur, his...him.
Genuinely, who the kriff does Cal Kestis think he is? Where does he get the right to continue to do good in the galaxy when all the galaxy wants is to kill him? To kill everyone like him? How does he continue fighting? 
For that matter, how do you continue fighting? The sudden self-introspection is jarring. You squint a glare up at the Abyss, the technicolor explosion hanging heavy in the sky, as if it personally arranged your fated entanglement with the Jedi. As if it asked the question of your purpose, not your own conscience.
You have to squint in part because, in the Force, the Abyss is blinding. Stare too long and you’ll be blinking away spots from your vision for hours afterward. As your eyes start to water, you shake your head and bring your gaze back to terra firma. Kark it all, you think, bitter. You continue fighting because you have to. Because you have to know the answer. You have to understand the balance. 
In the Force, you’ve watched for years as the streaks of light in your otherwise void-like existence pulse and contract. Here, underneath the staggering presence of the Abyss, the galactic, even cosmic, struggle between Light and Dark, splashes across your own skin, a microcosm. It makes you angry all over again, as you study the vapors of golden lightness drift around you. The anger is good. The anger makes the darkness pulse and surge and rise; the anger makes you more focused. 
Gritting your teeth, you try to hang onto the anger. 
And then you don’t have to try at all. In your peripheral awareness, the Bogling has scurried in fright into your small hut as the sound of footsteps—many, many footsteps—echoes off the surrounding cliff walls. Your lips curl back in a snarl at being interrupted. Saber hilt smacking into your palm with a familiar weight, the unsteady red blade fills your small clearing with a threatening hum. 
Around the corner comes a full squad of Imperials. For a moment, you have to blink, to make sure that what you’re seeing is correct. But no. The hard white duraplast armor gleams in the midday sun, the mixed group of scout- and Stormtroopers advancing as one giant, grotesque organism. And at its midst, in the nucleus, are two black-clad figures wielding crackling electrostaffs. 
Purge Troopers. 
How dare they. How dare they come to your planet—and you hesitate only a moment over the possessiveness in your anger—and only another moment more when you find that you include Cal’s place on Koboh in that possession. This is your planet, together. The Light, and the Dark. 
In all things, balance. 
“Enemy located,” crackles the voice of one of the troopers. You don’t know, and don’t frankly care, which. 
As the white-clad troopers fan out in a loose semicircle, blasters and batons raised at half-ready, the two Purge troopers continue a few paces forward. They’re nearly identical, all the way down to the way that they settle their weight on their right feet, perfectly unbalanced. 
“You won’t get away,” the one to your left calls, his voice imperious and cold. “Not this time. You’ll be coming with us.” 
“Don’t be so sure,” you call back, feigning disinterest. Through the Force, you mentally draw the battle map, the path of carnage and rage and blood you’ll wreak through the ten troopers in front of you. 
“There are ten of us,” the other Purge Trooper says, voice cocky and self-assured. The battle map in your mind halts, then reasserts itself with a new pattern. One that places Mr. Cocky and Arrogant at the top of your assault. 
You snort. “Glad to know the Empire is teaching its troopers basic math. Let’s get this over with, shall we?” 
You twirl your saber in a half circle around your body, a familiar ritual, a reset button to remind you to keep your head clear. As blasters raise to full height, you take a deep, centering breath, and close your eyes.
A silence takes over your ears, your mind, your very being. You are one with the Force; the Force is with you. Despite all your issues with the cosmic Force, you know it will not fail you now. You don’t hear the order to fire, you don’t hear the clicks of triggers, you don’t hear the scream of blaster bolts. You don’t need to. Guided by the Force, void-like and in command, your arms—your saber—jumps into place. 
Four blaster bolts pelt your way. Four blaster bolts ricochet and catch their originators in the chest. Four troopers fall. 
You open your eyes, lips tugging back over your teeth in a mockery of a smile. Sound returns to you just as one of the scout troopers, shaken, stumbles back with a cry: “St-Stormtrooper KIA!” 
You enact your battle map. 
Gathering the Force to yourself, you push off the ground and shoot forward with a Force assist, your saber swinging up and cleaving back down at the critical juncture between the cocky Purge Trooper’s neck and shoulder. The glowing plasma sinks easily through duraplast, fabric, and flesh alike; the trooper’s groan of pain gurgles as your blade cuts through his lungs. Now there are five. 
You whirl, saber moving nearly of its own accord to intercept each blow that the remaining troopers rain upon you. It’s nearly child’s play to parry their attacks, send them staggering off-balance. In a crucial moment where all your opponents hesitate to move forward again, you bare your teeth. Reaching out with a clawed hand, you grip the throat of one of the troopers, lift him bodily with the Force, then yank down as hard as you can. There’s a satisfying crack when he hits the ground.
You’re doing fine. You’re going to triumph here; the Force has willed it so. The fear of the remaining troopers is palpable and you draw on it, siphoning it into yourself, into your cracked and screaming kyber crystal. With a leaping slash, two trooper heads bounce away.
The remaining two troopers look at each other. You don’t need the Force to smell the fear rolling off of the scout trooper in waves, and you fix him with a feral grin. 
“No more quips?” you ask, voice harsh. 
He drops his baton and runs.
“Just you and me,” the Purge Trooper observes. 
“How very astute of you,” you say. “Your friend was the smart one. You can still run; I’ll let you go. For now.” 
“Not a chance.” The buzzing electrostaff twirls through the air as the Trooper lowers into a defensive crouch. “Surrender.” 
“Not a chance,” you echo, matching his stance. “Now, why don’t—”
A voice, familiar and warm and distracting, shouts your name from above. Like a fool, you hesitate, turning. There’s a glimpse of coppery hair, a blue flame, and golden radiance. You growl at the interruption—
And cry out as the electrostaff comes down across your upper back, singeing into your clothing, biting into your skin. 
You drop to your knees, vision blurry. Stupid. That was stupid. 
The Purge Trooper immediately raises the staff for another strike, but before it can make contact with the back of your neck, a rush of energy steamrolls over you and shoves the trooper fifteen feet back. His heels dig into the soft dirt. 
“Jedi!” If the trooper is surprised to see Cal Kestis coming to the rescue of the likes of you, you can’t hear it in his voice. “Guess this is my lucky day.” 
“Don’t count on it,” you wheeze. Grunting in pain, you shove to your feet and reset, saber singing in the air, the smell of ozone stinging your nose. 
Your name again, gentler this time, and closer. This time, you don’t turn, instead waiting for him to come to you. And he does, just like you knew he would. In the corner of your eye, Cal Kestis and his supernova signature provide something like...comfort. Heat bubbles and sputters in your chest at his closeness. This feeling is hate, you reassure yourself. 
“You’re hurt,” he says, voice pitched low. 
“I’ve had worse,” you say. “You here to help, or to mock?” 
He fully faces you, and you sense more than see his eyes rake over your profile. With a shake of his head, his copper hair flowing nearly to his shoulders, he raises his saber, point-first, toward the Purge Trooper. With a satisfied smile, you swing your saber in lazy circles. Finally. 
The two of you attack at the same time, nudged along by the Force. Together, you flank the trooper, whose training seems to have prepared him for a moment such as this. But for all the training this trooper has, you and Cal have more. You and Cal have more to fight for. More to lose. More to gain. 
Cal’s blur of a blue saber slashes through the air, at every turn blocking the trooper’s pressing attack, forcing the Imp to recalibrate. And when he attempts to do so, tries to even catch his breath, you’re there, the Force driving your swings harder. You know the blows that land on the staffs jar the Imp’s wrists all the way to his shoulders. You know he’s going to falter. You know he’s going to die. 
When the fear once again rises from this trooper, you smile. 
Overconfident, you twirl, blade seeming to bend as it whirls through the air. It will connect with the trooper at his waist.
It does—but his staff connects with you once again at your own waist, and this time it bites into your flesh and holds. 
“No!” Cal’s shout is harsh and angry. With a final flash of blue, the Purge Trooper slumps sideways, body collapsing into the dirt. The momentum yanks the electrostaff out of your side. 
You drop your saber hilt to press against the bleeding wound, hands shaking. Kark, this hurts. Why does it hurt so bad? Cal’s face, with wide, scared green eyes, appears in your field of vision. 
A spark of anger temporarily distracts you from the pain in your side and along your back. “Kestis,” you grind out. “I had it under control.” 
“It’s in my nature,” he says, like that explains everything. You suppose it does. Your anger abandons you, and you stagger forward, into his embrace. 
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against you as he ducks under your arm, taking your weight. “C’mon, we’ll get inside and I’ll patch you up.” 
“Got any more of those stims?” you ask, words slurring a little. You glance down at your side and blink dumbly at the amount of red staining your clothes. 
“A few more,” Cal says. “They’re yours. Just need to get you inside.” 
The several dozen feet to your hut pass in a blur and in a blink—you’re not sure which. Maybe it’s both. But you sigh as you settle down into the familiar comfort of your small cot. In the corner, you’re dimly aware of the Bogling cowering below the small kitchen table. Critter is cute, you suppose. Maybe it can stay. 
You’re delirious. That has to be it. You’d never willingly take in a stray. 
BD hops up on the cot next to you and, at Cal’s nod, ejects a glowing green stim canister. Cal catches it and then plunges the small needle into your side, just above the gash there. Cool relief tingles through you, and you smile at him. 
“That feels good,” you mumble. 
“I’m glad,” he says, an odd note in his voice. “You got medical supplies?” 
You gesture vaguely to the screened-off back corner, your ’fresher. “If I do, s’in there.”
BD stays with you while Cal rummages through your meager supplies, the little droid’s head tilted to the side as though studying you. You blink at him. 
Bwoop-beep? the droid chimes. 
“I don’t speak Binary, sorry,” you say. 
Cal chuckles, returning with a handful of supplies. “He’s wondering if you’re feeling okay.” 
You feel okay enough to feel annoyed at the question, and you shoo the little droid off your bed. When you return your attention to Cal, he’s hesitating, a roll of gauze, bottle of alcohol, and a needle in his hands. 
“What,” you ask, flatly. 
“Need to take your shirt off to clean the wound properly,” he says, and if you knew him better, you might think he sounds nervous. Embarrassed, even. 
But you don’t know him that well, and so you ignore his tone of voice. “Fine.” 
You struggle for a moment to lift your shirt over your head, hissing as the movement pulls at the wound in your side. Once it’s off, you throw it toward the ’fresher. 
Cal still hesitates, his eyes everywhere but on you. Another surge of annoyance flares in you, and you snatch the medical supplies out of his hands. 
“I’d really like to not bleed out here, Kestis,” you admonish. He at least has the sense to look abashed at that, and assists you in cleaning out the wound, stitching it shut, and wrapping you in gauze to keep pressure on it. You don’t let out a single curse, hiss, or groan the entire time, making the inside of your mouth bleed with how hard you bite down. 
“You okay?” he asks once you’re bandaged up. 
“What do you think?” you retort. “M’gonna sleep. You can go.” 
“I’ll stay,” he says. He withdraws, but remains in your small hut, slinging himself into the hand-hewn wooden chair at your dining table. “Rest. I’ll keep watch.” 
“Why?” You can’t help the way the question sounds equal parts frustrated and incredulous.
“Just sleep, Sith,” he says. His voice brooks no argument, and for once, you have none.
When you wake, it’s still light outside. Your mouth feels like it’s been stuffed with gauze and left to dry out, your head not much better. With a soft groan, you roll onto your side and peer into the half-lit room. 
Cal’s already watching you. His gaze meets yours and pierces you, pinning you to the small cot tucked against the wall. Swallowing against the dryness in your throat, you study his features. The dark scar across his face. The lean lines of his torso and muscles. The strand of fiery hair that curls over his forehead and teases his chin. Despite the lingering shards of pain in your side, heat flickers in your core.
“Why did you really come here, Cal?” you ask, voice low, the stillness around you demanding to remain unbroken. “Why did you come back for me at all? You know the things I’ve done. The people I’ve killed. I can’t be worth saving.” 
He is quiet as he contemplates your question, his hands loosely clasped in his lap. Silence stretches between you, slow and languid, and you nearly hold your breath waiting for his response. 
Eventually he gives a half shrug. “There was a time when I believed everyone is worth saving. Since the Empire, things have...been different. I’m not so sure everyone deserves to be saved.” 
“So why come back?” 
His eyes are soft when they find yours again. You want to be angry, want to latch onto the residual pain in your body and sharpen it into a vibroblade, hurl it outward from yourself and hope it hurts him as much as you’ve been hurt. In your gut, the darkness stirs, but in your heart, the light whispers patience. 
“I see too much of myself in you to not come back for you,” he says, so quiet you nearly don’t process the words. 
But when his confession does register, you blink in surprise. You can’t help the chuckle that escapes you. 
“We couldn’t be more opposite, Kestis,” you say. “Do you know what you look like, in the Force?” 
When he remains silent, shifting in the wooden chair uncomfortably, you push yourself up into a sitting position. A sigh sloughs out of your throat. 
“You’re the most...beautiful thing I’ve seen,” you say, hesitating only briefly over the words. “You shine. You’re a beacon of light. Stars, Cal, you’re practically a star yourself.” 
His lips part in surprise, and you can’t ignore the way your core twists at the expression. “But—”
You raise a hand. “There’s darkness there, sure, but you are the light, Kestis. And sure, there may be light in me, but believe me, I’m a void. The void. You’ll never carry the sins that blacken my soul.” 
His toned chest rises and falls with his rapid, shallow breaths. When he swallows, you watch the way his throat bobs, the muscles that strain at his neck, the tightening of his hands into fists. Without even needing to look, you can feel the way his Force signature roils with confusion and surprise. You’ve caught him off-guard, yet again. The knowledge sends a pulse of heat to the apex of your thighs.
“Show me,” he whispers. 
You frown, brows furrowing. “What?” 
“In the Force,” he says. “Show me.”
“I’ve never—” 
“I have a gift.” He grimaces. “Psychometry. It might not work. But I want to see.” 
Ah. You understand how he knew the names of the Jedi you murdered, and glance at your saber hilt resting on the table near him. How much has he seen? 
Apparently, not enough. 
Worrying your lip between your teeth, you shrug. “Fine. C’mere.” 
The cot groans under the added weight, not meant for two people, but it holds. You adjust yourself to sit with your legs crossed, your knees touching Cal’s as he mirrors your posture. A slight twinge tugs at your ribs as you move. Cal’s eyes soften again as you grimace. 
“Don’t,” you grit out. “Save your pity.” 
“It’s not—” He huffs. “Whatever.” 
Glaring up at him through your eyelashes, you nevertheless rest your hands palm-up, fingers outstretched toward him. Cal gently rests his hands over yours. His skin is heated, electric where it touches yours. The thought crosses your mind, fleetingly, what your odds would be if you decided to finally end it here and now; the thought disappears as soon as his calloused fingers wrap around your forearms. 
“Like this?” he murmurs. 
“Feels right,” you reply in the same tone. “Here goes nothing, yeah?” 
You inhale a deep, centering breath, and allow yourself to sink into the currents of the Force. For a moment you have to squint as Cal’s truest form explodes across your perception. This close, you’re surprised he doesn’t radiate any extra heat. You’re also surprised at the imperfections you find in his signature, the small nicks in the otherwise flawless, gleaming golden skin. You have to restrain yourself from leaning forward to examine him even closer. The desire to know him, to pick him apart and put him back together, rushes through you, pulsing in your fingertips. 
When you feel adjusted to his presence, this close, this intoxicating, you squeeze his hands. Focusing on the places where the two of you connect—your palms, your knees, your signatures—you will your unique sight to bleed into his awareness. 
Judging from the way he stiffens and gasps, you figure it worked. Your combined abilities and strength in the Force, overlapping just this once, let him see the world like you do.
“You’re so...” He trails off, voice strained. “Empty.” 
“Thanks for noticing.” You squeeze his hands again. “Do you underst— oh.”
You nearly choke as the Force nudges against your mind. For a moment, you’re no longer in your hut, but instead on an unfamiliar ship, palms pressed against a stranger’s—no, not a stranger—her name drifts to you. Merrin. You’re comparing palm sizes with her, and her hands are nearly as big as yours—as Cal’s. 
You rip away from Cal Kestis and the illusion breaks. 
Heat burns up your neck to your face. “What the kriffing hell was that?” 
“What did you see?” he asks, concern flashing in his eyes. He reaches for you, and you lean away, glaring. 
You don’t even know why you’re angry. Any emotions you’ve felt for Cal have been ones you can explain: anger, frustration, begrudging respect, competitiveness, hatred. You recognize his attractiveness, and you don’t deny the effect his presence has on your baser desires—but the nearly painful flare of possessiveness pulsing in you right now is foreign. Inexplicable. 
“It doesn’t matter,” you eventually mutter. “Did you see?” 
“I saw you,” he says. Tentatively, he skims his fingertips over your leg, up to your knee. When you don’t retreat, he gently snags your hand and threads your fingers together. “I’m sorry.” 
You bare your teeth and tug your hand away—or try to. His fingers tighten around yours, holding you in place. “I told you before, Kestis. I don’t need your pity.” 
“Then don’t see it as pity,” he says. “See it as an understanding. A mutual experience.” 
Sucking on your teeth, your jaw clenches for a moment before you sigh. “Fine. Who’s Merrin?” 
“An old friend,” Cal says, a little too quickly. “She’s... She went her own way a while ago.” 
Something like triumph glows in you. “Good.” 
He fixes you with a confused look, a crease forming between his brows. “Wha—” 
You cut him off, surging forward to press your lips greedily against his. The impulse to be closer to him, impossibly close, is overwhelming in this moment. His palm is warm and steady and grounding against yours. He grunts against you, going absolutely still. 
When you pull away, not moving more than a few inches away, you meet the shock in his gaze with a sense of pride. His eyes flit between yours, searching. You drag your eyes down to his lips, parted and damp and so fucking pink.
His other hand cradles the back of your head and pulls you forward into another kiss. 
You groan into his mouth. His lips are warm and soft and sweet against yours, moving slowly, uncertain. You tilt your head, nudging his nose with your own. With your free hand, you grip at his shirt and claw your way into his lap. You need more. More of him, more of his warmth, more of his touch, more more moremoremore. 
He breathes your name against your lips, and you shush him gently. His body is hard and lean beneath yours, his touch hesitant. Fingers still intertwined, you guide his hand to your waist. Without the barrier of your shirt, his touch burns, scorching you from the outside in. His fingers splay across your skin, trailing molten desire in their wake. Heat pulses in your core.
“Kriff,” you sigh, “please.” 
“Didn’t think you had manners,” he quips, trailing open-mouthed kisses across your jaw, down your neck. 
You reach up and tug on his fiery hair, earning a low groan. “Rude.” 
He chuckles against your skin, his lips brushing against a sensitive spot. A shiver dances up your spine, a quiet sigh passing your lips. When he bites down there, you moan. 
“Kestis,” you pant. 
“Shh,” he soothes. The hand on your waist trails down to your hip and squeezes in time with another bite to your skin. With another groan, you rock your hips down into him. A grin curls your mouth up in pleasure at the feeling of his half-hard cock beneath you. 
“Off,” you order, tugging on his shirt. 
He breaks away from you long enough to yank the offending article up and over his head. Your palms smooth over the rippling muscles beneath his pale, freckled skin of his stomach, and he shudders. Brushing your thumb over a blaster scar under his ribs, you press a kiss to his shoulder. 
“Did it hurt?” you ask. 
“I’ve had worse,” he says. 
“Show me.” 
His green eyes are dark, nearly black, when he meets your gaze with a questioning look. In response, you skim a featherlight trail over his torso, lingering at the scars that mar his otherwise perfect skin—mirrors, you realize, of the imperfections of his golden aura. 
When you trace the pink scar that bisects his face, he shivers. His hand catches your wrist, halting your movement. 
“That one,” he whispers, voice pained. “That was the worst.” 
You recognize, this close, the telltale signs of a saber wound. He’s lucky to have survived that, you realize. 
Kriff. You press your mouth to his once again, wrapping your legs around his torso. His body fits against yours, hard planes to soft edges, and you groan in unison. His kiss is still tentative, but he moves against you without hesitation when you deepen the kiss, your tongue licking across his bottom lip. His tongue is hot against yours. Spit slicking your lips, you groan into his open mouth. 
Fuck, you need more. Pulling at his hair, you urge his head to tip back, exposing the pale column of his throat. You lick a stripe down his skin, tasting his natural saltiness, delighting in the way his cock hardens against your clothed core. 
“Want you,” you mumble against his collarbone. 
He hums. “I’m yours.”
That possessive flare from before practically obliterates any coherent thoughts your brain was still capable of producing. Growling, you push him onto his back, shuffling down, kissing and licking and biting at his skin as you fumble with his pants. The buttons come undone; his hips raise to help you shuck the clothing off. His cock bobs as it comes free of the confines. 
“Oh fuck,” you moan. “Been holding out on me, Kestis.” 
“If I’d known—” His voice cracks. “If I’d known all you needed was to be fucked, we coulda done this sooner.” 
Tingles spark through your core hearing him curse—hearing him talk about something as base and dirty as fucking you. Stars, the heat in your core is nearly unbearable. 
You need to taste him. 
Wrapping your fingers around his heavy cock, you smear a droplet of precum over his flushed head. His body jerks in response, his eyes half-lidded as he gazes down at you, a smirk playing at his lips. Without warning, you envelope him in your mouth. Cal cries out, hips jerking up. You moan in satisfaction around him. Hollowing your cheeks, you sink your mouth further down onto his length, before sucking, tongue teasing the underside of his head. One hand cupping his balls, you relax your throat and take him deep. The curls at the base tickle your nose. 
“Oh stars,” he breathes. “You’re so good at that. F-Fuck.” 
You hum, settling into a rhythm. His hand, broad and strong and warm, rests on top of your head—not pushing, just there, feeling you. His chest heaving, you can’t help but admire the flush rising to his cheeks, painting him in sin. Spit dribbles out of your mouth, coating the parts of him you can’t reach. Your eyes never leave his. 
Snaking your free hand down your body, you moan at the pleasure that zings through you at the momentary relief of touching yourself. 
“No.” Cal’s voice is strangled, strained. He flicks two shaky fingers, and your hand is yanked out from beneath your body by the Force. 
An obscene pop echoes in your hut as you pull your mouth away from his weeping cock. “Either touch me, or I’ll do it myself,” you growl. 
“Then c-come here,” he stutters. 
Shimmying out of your pants, you discard the garments to the floor without a second thought and climb your way up his body. His hands skim your sides, his touch barely there, as your mouth reconnects with his. You don’t think you’ll ever get enough of his mouth, his touch, his cock. He feels too good. 
You hiss when his hand brushes against your aching sex. He breaks the kiss long enough for his eyes to find yours, a silent question there as his fingers find purchase at your core. 
You can only nod, not trusting your voice. When he moves his hand against you, your vision blurs and you press your forehead to his. 
“Stars, Kestis, just like that,” you hiss. 
He rubs his nose against yours. “Let me take care of you.” 
His touch is electric. Your body jerks against him when his fingers move just right, applying just the right amount of pressure. Heat and tension build in your belly, growing more and more taut by the second. Your legs shake on either side of his hips. 
“Cal,” you whine. “Gonna cum.” 
His touch retreats, and you whimper at the loss of contact. 
“You’re g-gonna cum on my cock,” he promises, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. The sweetness of the action contrasts with the filth of his words, and your stomach lurches. 
“Fuck, yes, okay.” You spit in your hand and reach down to make sure you’re ready for him.
He slicks his own palm with spit and jerks his cock once, twice, getting himself prepped. With his hand at his base, steadying his length, you slowly sink onto him. He splits you open inch by inch, the delicious burn of him in your core drawing a pitiful moan from your chest. When he bottoms out, you twitch in his lap, chest heaving. 
“T-Take me so well,” he murmurs, ghosting his fingertips over your face. “Stars, you feel so- so good.” 
You whine. “Cal.” 
“I know, baby, I know.” 
The pet name seems to surprise him as much as it does you. The heat that’s been simmering in your chest for months now, since the first time you encountered him, dulls into something...softer. More muted. More pliant. 
Eyes locked together, you test the waters and raise your hips a fraction. Moans tumble from both of you at the friction, and that’s all you need. Rolling your hips, you work his cock, drawing the most delicious noises from him. He caresses your face, smooths a hand over your back, kisses you sweetly. You find just the right angle where his cock brushes against that bundle of nerves deep inside, and you shudder. 
“Cal, I—” 
“Yes,” he groans. “Don’t stop.” 
You don’t. You drag your hips frantically against his, chasing the sparks bursting in your core with each thrust. His touch turns harsh as you ride him; your hips will surely bear bruises tomorrow in the shape of his fingertips. You moan at the thought. Mine. Mine mine mine mine. 
Rutting against that raw piece of heaven in your core, you’re blind to everything else. Your injury forgotten, the empty void that yawns in your soul, your frustration with Cal Kestis: all of it is irrelevant right now. All that matters is that you keep fucking Cal. All that matters is the way his cock feels sliding in and out of you, dragging against your walls. All that matters is the way he moans your name like a prayer. 
“Need you t-to cum,” he orders, words faltering as you clench around his cock. 
“I’m close,” you say, voice hoarse. The tension in your belly draws hot and tight, ready to snap. 
Cal finally thrusts up to meet you when you bounce down, and you scream. That taut cord in your belly releases, snapping in two, and you see white. Pleasure explodes through you; every nerve lit on fire, tears dew in your eyes from the intensity. You claw at Cal’s chest, searching for purchase as he absolutely rails into you, chasing his own release. 
Through it all, he babbles. “J-Just like that, baby. Cum all over this cock. Fuck, you’re g-gonna make me— I— fuck, ngh, I’m—” 
He stills as he cums, his cock pulsing against your walls, and you jerk at the sensation, oversensitive. 
Your eyes flutter as you look down at him in the gathering darkness. His skin shines with a thin sheen of sweat. As his cock softens inside of you, letting some of his cum drip out, you groan softly. 
“This was a mistake,” you whisper. 
He swallows visibly, and nods. “I know.” 
You capture his lips in another kiss, one he returns with a fervor. Stars, you almost wish you really did hate him. This would be so much easier. 
“What now?” he asks, thumb brushing over your tender hips. 
You shrug. “Same time next week?” 
He huffs a laugh. “Very funny.” 
“Thanks.” 
He hums. “I’m leaving tomorrow.” 
All of the heat of the last few minutes dissipates immediately, and ice knifes your insides. You push away from him finally, his cum dripping down your inner thigh as you stand, bend to retrieve your clothes, tug them on. 
“Okay.”
“That’s it?” 
“What do you want me to say, Kestis?” 
He sighs as he reaches for his own clothes. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” 
“You should have left when I told you to,” you say, arms crossed over your chest as you stare out the single window of your home at the rapidly falling dark. 
“Yeah, maybe.” His hand is warm and familiar where he rests it on your shoulder. “You could...come with me.” 
You narrow your eyes. “And have to live by your Jedi code? No thanks.” 
“No code,” he says, quiet, contemplative. “Just the fight.” 
“Just the fight,” you echo. When he nods, something you sense more than see, you sigh. “I could...tag along. Just this once.” 
“Of course,” he says. His lips press against your temple. “Just this once.” 
Swallowing against the strange metallic taste rising to your mouth, you blink and summon the Force. You’re grateful for Cal’s grounding presence behind you. Your signature is...muddied. Marbled black and gold. When you glance down at his hand on your skin, you find that his aura is the same as yours. Mixed. Confused. 
Balanced.
Yes, you think. Hating him would have been easier.
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multi-fan-dom-madness · 5 months
Note
Hi! *Waves like a weird-o*
You probably already know this, but I absolutely love your writing and you truly are so talented. Please never stop!! Even if you just write for yourself!!!
So I do have a mini request if you don't mind of course. Post-sex cramps? For female reader? Clone of your choice of course and any way you wanna write it; NSFW or NFW.
No rush of course!! Thank you!! ❤️
- Hales
And here is cat + kitten(s) for your troubles. And puppies if you like those better. And a snake if you like those too.
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hiiii friend! *waves back like a weirdo* first of all, thank you so much?? for the kind words?? omg. I appreciate you so much—and the pictures of the baybiessssss! I love all of them, please give them snoot boops for me (if they're yours ofc). anyways, I hope this is somewhat in line with what you envisioned! I opted for the fluff/SFW route because I need that tonight lol enjoy! <3
Comforting Touches
Summary: Some HCs and blurbs about how the commander batch comforts you through some post-sex cramping.
Warnings: no actual sex described but still mature content so 18+, minors get outta here; f!reader, fluff, i guess hurt/comfort?, big strong stoic men being soft and loving
Word Count: 1.1k
dividers by @saradika and @dystopicjumpsuit
Cody
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Like with many other things in his life, Cody is nothing if not thorough. Meticulous in the way that he picks you apart and puts you back together, painstaking in the image of self-confidence and dominance that he exudes when he’s intimate with you. 
And just as attentive to your needs after he makes you finish several times. If you wince in pain from the cramps beginning to twist your insides, despite the many orgasms he’d given you, he’s all over that. 
Tilts your head to the sides to check your vitals, gets you meds, and frowns when you try to shoo him off. “You’re not goin’ anywhere until you’re good, cyar’ika.” 
More than anything, you’re just grateful to still be sitting on the edge of his bunk. Between the shakiness in your legs from the strain of having him buried inside you just a few minutes ago, and the pain tugging at your body, you have no energy to stand right now. Cody sighs, a furrow deepening between his brows; you can’t resist the impulse to smooth his skin with your thumb. You trace the outline of his scar when his expression doesn’t relax. 
“Did I cause this?” he asks. Despite the way he tries to hide it, you can hear the concern underlying his words. 
Sighing, you shrug with one shoulder. “Kinda. But it’s okay,” you hurry to assure him. “It’s, um, most often caused by...intense orgasm. Or just intense sex. Happens now and then.” 
He blinks at you, your words clearly taking a moment to compute. Almost unbidden, a small groan escapes him. “O-Oh.” 
“Mhm.” You clench your teeth as another wave of cramps knifes through you. “Worth it.”
He cups your face in one hand, the other resting on your bare thigh, kneading your soft flesh. “Good. Because I can’t promise I won’t be able to keep myself from making you cum like that again.” 
His words are a promise, and you know Cody never breaks promises.
Wolffe
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Listen I know we all think Wolffe is this hard-ass, mean dom (and he is) but he’s also very caring. Hard shell, gooey insides.
The minute you show signs of being in any kind of discomfort he’s right there, cradling you to his chest, smoothing his warm palms over your thighs, pressing a sweet kiss to your temple. 
“Where’s it hurt, mesh’la?” 
You curl in on yourself within Wolffe’s embrace, your body trying to wrap itself around the dull pain blossoming in your center. Though pleasure lingers in your limbs, this unfortunate side-effect of sex occasionally makes an appearance, particularly after a good romp with Wolffe. Normally it’s not so bad, but right now, you just want to squeeze into a ball and sleep until the cramping fades.
“M’sorry if I hurt you,” Wolffe rumbles in your ear, his voice soft and quiet. “I know I can be rough.” 
“S’not that,” you say with a small smile. “Just...does this when it’s really good.”
“That seems counterintuitive.” 
You bark a short laugh. “Tell that to whoever designed the female human body.” 
Wolffe tucks your head under his chin and presses a large, warm hand over your tummy to act as an impromptu heating pad until the cramps dissipate, his lips pressing chaste, close-mouthed kisses along your neck and shoulders to help distract you. You hum in contentment, drawing lazy circles on his bare hip, relishing how his muscles flex under your touch.
Fox
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If the cramps take a bit to set in, and you’re both already re-dressed and ready to go about your days, Fox will still immediately put his very busy schedule on hold to make sure you’re okay. 
Gives you pain meds, extra water, and kisses you sweetly. “Why don’t you lay on the couch here for a bit until you feel better, sarad?” 
If/when you protest, he simply gives you his best deadpan look—which is quite good, considering he’s perfected it through use on his men—and crosses his arms, cocking his hip. 
You roll your eyes good-naturedly, the slight smile tugging at your lips vanishing into a twisted grimace at the next wave of cramping. Fox sighs and ushers you to the old, ratty couch he’d acquired for his office. He guides you to sitting down at the least, and nods in approval when you draw your legs up to your chest and hug your knees to put pressure on your center where the cramps are the worst. 
When he goes to turn away, you reach out to snag his hand, threading your fingers through his. “Fox?” 
“Hm?” He looks down at you, graying curls sweeping over his forehead. 
“Sit with me?” 
“Of course.” He graces you with a soft smile, retreats for just a moment to retrieve his datapad, and settles into the couch next to you. He rests one arm along the back of the couch; you snuggle into his warmth, grateful that he hasn’t yet put on the top half of his armor, and let your eyes drift shut, listening to the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of his fingers over his datapad while he works. You’d be able to fall asleep there, in post-orgasmic near-bliss. 
Rex
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Rex realizes that something is amiss the moment that you don’t roll over to cuddle him after he returns from getting you a warm rag to clean off with.
When you simply groan your answer, the post-sex cramps clenching your insides a little more intensely than you’re used to, he’s instantly in Protective Partner Mode. 
“I’ve got you, cyare.” 
With strong, steady hands, Rex gently repositions you on the bed so that you’re lying on your front, before settling his knees to either side of your thighs. His thumbs, calloused and rough, rub slow, comforting circles along your spine, from your butt to your neck and back. Though he knows by now that he can’t do much in the way of helping your cramps aside from offering pain meds (which he retrieves as soon as he realizes what’s going on), he can offer you relaxation of other sorts. 
His practiced hands work away all the knots and kinks in your back, urging your entire body into a state of bliss beyond the post-orgasm glow. 
“How’s this, cyare?” he asks, voice quiet, contemplative. 
“Feels s’good,” you mumble, face smushed into the sheets. “Thank you, Rex.” 
“Always.” He leans over you to press a kiss to the side of your head. “I’d say that I’d stop doing whatever causes these cramps, but—”
“Don’t you dare,” you interrupt, playfully glaring out of the corner of your eyes. “You know damn well the orgasms you give are worth this discomfort.” 
He preens just a little at that, and if he happens to give your butt a squeeze or two while resuming his massage, well, that’s his deal. 
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multi-fan-dom-madness · 6 months
Text
Restrained (Hunter x f!reader drabble)
Summary: Hunter finds himself tied up and at your mercy.
Warnings: fully filth y'all so minors begone; bondage, restraints, blindfolding, sensory play, oral (f receiving)
Word Count: 478
A/N: shout out to Free for the impromptu mini-event. enjoy, babes
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You'll never tire of seeing him like this.
The usually composed and stoic facade of the sergeant crumbles at your touch in an instant. His chest heaves with labored breaths, equal parts exertion and exhilaration, his toned arms bulging where he strains against the cuffs binding him to the bed. Ghosting your fingertips delicately up his thigh, tracing the skeletal tattoo, you delight in the deep, rumbling groan the action earns you.
"P-Please, mesh’la," he grits out, "don't be a tease."
"Oh but it's so much more fun when I am," you purr. To punctuate your point, you rake your nails down his flexed abs. The muscles jerk and twitch under your touch, and he squirms, whining.
You've been here before, Hunter restrained and you in charge, but this is the first time he's been willing to remove another facet of control. His bandana sits wrapped like a pretty bow around his eyes. Every new touch, every new sensation, makes him flinch first and moan second. You know from experience how little vision the makeshift blindfold allows; his other senses are working overtime, oversensitive.
Flattening your hands, you smooth over his hips. You shift on the bed until your mouth hovers above his leaking cock. You exhale a warm puff of breath, then flick your tongue out, catching a drop of pre-cum where it beads at the tip.
Hunter's hips jerk and the cuffs snap taut. "K-Kriff, yes."
Letting out a breathy laugh, you repeat the action, earning another stutter of hips up toward your face, and a heady whine.
"You're being so good for me," you murmur, lips barely skimming the velvet sponge of his tip.
"A-Always," he pants, "always for you, mesh’la."
You hum. "I think you deserve a reward."
Above you, he nods his head frantically, another whine tumbling from his lips. You pause to study him for a moment, relishing in the electric feel of control in your core; his skin is dewed with a fine sheen of sweat, a flush high on his cheeks, his lips parted and so fucking pink. A gush of arousal slicks your already sopping folds.
In that moment, you decide his reward.
"Mesh’la, what--"
Confused words are cut off as you nimbly clamber up his body and cant your hips down toward his wet and waiting mouth. He moans like a kriffing holoporn star and cranes his neck to kiss your cunt, his tongue licking a stripe up your folds and circling your clit. With a sigh, you settle your knees further out and lower to properly sit on his face.
"Fuck, thank you," he mumbles into you, and then the only sounds from him are feral groans and needy whines as he suckles, licks, and worships you to orgasm, the first of many for you both tonight.
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ragu list: @the-hexfiles @thorsterstrudle @dystopicjumpsuit @clonemedickix @freesia-writes @littlemissmanga @wolffegirlsunite @anxiouspineapple99 @wings-and-beskar @sinfulsalutations @523rdrebel @sunshinesdaydream @moonlightwarriorqueen @blueink-bluesoul @starrylothcat @deejadabbles @starqueensthings @mandos-mind-trick @idontgetanysleep @eyeluvmusic21 @wintercyan @mythical-illustrator @sleepycreativewriter @jedi-hawkins (if you'd like to be added or removed from this list, click here!)
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multi-fan-dom-madness · 4 months
Note
hello dear. for the kiss prompts, may i please see ‘a possessive kiss in the rain’ with crosshair? 👀
hiiii friend, thank you so much for your patience for the wait. the muse has been extra fickle since October, but I hope this is worth the wait <3
Uncertain Tomorrows
Summary: Actions speak louder than words. Aka, Crosshair isn't good at emotions.
Warnings: blog is 18+; angst (it's Crosshair, what do you expect), miscommunication / lack of communication, pre-Echo, swearing
Word Count: 688
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Chewing on the inside of your cheek so hard you’re liable to draw blood, you can’t help the way you’re glaring at Crosshair’s back. He’s perched on the edge of a high stool at the bar, long legs crossed at the ankle, twirling a whiskey glass between thin fingers. You’re supposed to be enjoying shore leave, the first one the squad has had in months, and yet all you feel is pissy. 
Earlier in the night, you’d deboarded the Marauder with the others, all of you in civvies and in high spirits, even Crosshair. You feel like you’ve finally been able to get a decent grasp on reading him and his moods, and the loose way his toothpick had hung between his lips was clear indication that he was relaxed, ready for a break. You all were. 
Apparently, Crosshair’s idea of a break is chatting up women at the cantina bar. 
You’re not together. You have to remind yourself of that. Despite the mutual longing glances, neither of you have acted on your feelings, whether by mutual respect for one another or by fear of tearing the squad apart. So it shouldn’t sting as much as it does to watch him toss easy smirks at the pretty woman at the bar right now. 
But it does. 
Hunter gives you a sympathetic look as you finally decide you’ve had enough and scoot out of the booth. With Wrecker across the cantina hustling pool and Tech acting as his number two, the only one who will know where you’ve gone at this point is Hunter. Which also shouldn’t sting, but it does. 
The moment you step outside, you’re met with a bone-chilling rain. Breath fogging in front of your face, you shiver, pulling your jacket tighter around you. The spaceport isn’t too terribly far, but you’re already beginning to regret coming outside. 
Whatever. It beats going back inside.
You only make it a few steps, ice needling into your skin, before the cantina door opens behind you. Warm light and laughter spill out, inviting you back. Glancing over your shoulder, you grimace. 
“I’m going back to the ship,” you call. 
“I know,” Crosshair responds.
“You should go back in,” you say, turning to face forward once more, hunching your shoulders against the cold. “She looked nice.” 
He calls your name, but you keep walking. 
You gasp when a hand grips your upper arm and spins you around. Colliding with Crosshair’s chest, you glare up at him and open your mouth to rip him a new one—
Only to grunt in surprise when his lips meet yours. 
Jerking back, you try to break from his embrace. His hands remain on your arms, though he lets you step back. 
“What the fuck, Cross?” you snarl. “You think it’s cool to just—toy with my emotions like this?” 
“No,” he grits out. 
You wait, but that seems to be all he wants to say. Rain streams down your face, the cold an afterthought now with the anger burning through you. 
“That all you have to say for yourself?”
His jaw works as he gazes at you, his short gray hair plastered to his head. Nostrils flaring, he looks away. “No. I’m—I’m not good at this. Clearly. But I don’t know—I don’t know how to—Kriff it! Can I kiss you again or not?” 
All of your anger condenses into a single burning, molten dagger in your heart as you stand there, jaw dropped as you weigh his words. This is so far from how you ever would have expected this confession to go, for either of you, and yet the opportunity is here. If you let it go, tell him no, he’s going to respect that. 
And you’ll have missed your shot. 
You pull him back to you and kiss him. It’s a hungry, desperate, possessive kiss, full of teeth and tongue. Cold rain water sluices off your skin as you swallow his moan. 
You don’t know what this means—you don’t know where to go from here—but Crosshair is in your embrace, and all you know is that you don’t intend to let him go.
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multi-fan-dom-madness · 4 months
Note
I'm gonna ask for something I don't normally ask cuz I read them prompts and the idea struck me!
"the panic beforehand trying to decide if theyre leaning in to kiss or not" with Wrecker 👀
Idk man, sounded adorable and wanted to float it your way!
hello hello friend! apologies for taking so long on this; inspiration finally hit today while I was out shopping, so here ya go! <3 thanks for the lovely ask
Drinks and Decor
Summary: Wrecker finds a unique way to thank you.
Warnings: mostly fluff but this is an 18+ blog; bartender!reader trope, gn!reader, more fluff
Word Count: 1.1k
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Bartending for Cid has its ups and downs, for sure, but one of the most consistent ups lately has been the group of mercs she hired earlier this year. Though the group of men and their little sister is often in and out of the bar without much time to really chat with them, on occasion they hang around. Maybe it’s Cid’s way of saying ‘thank you,’ or maybe they just get tired of wherever else it is that they go when they’re not on a mission and not at the bar, but either way, you’re not going to complain. 
Especially not today. Life Day. 
Cid had insisted that you help her decorate the bar for the holiday season (read: you decorated while she snarked out comments about things hanging crookedly). And you have to admit, you did a pretty karkin’ good job of it. Neatly cut paper snowflakes rotate lazily on their strings where they hang from the ceiling; garland of imported greenery and Mantell Mix arches in pretty curves under the front of the bar; and the usual neon currently suffuses the space with a gentle mix of red and green lights. Heady pine scents the air. Over the speakers, instead of the usual club music, gently holiday music croons.
You’re feeling pretty proud of yourself, and that feeling swells in your chest when the merc group has arrived. The girl, Omega, looks around at the decorations with a bright, beaming smile, her eyes dazzling in the twinkle lights you’ve strung around the edges of the tables. Around her, her brothers gaze around with varying levels of awe. Though you’re glad that they seem to enjoy your efforts, Wrecker is the only one whose reaction you truly care about. 
Face flushing with a pleasant warmth, you watch on in silent admiration as Wrecker turns a full circle taking in the new festive atmosphere. His jaw hangs open, a grin spreading over his scarred face. It’s only when he meets your gaze across the room that a similar jolt of joy sparks through you.
Instead of his usual armor, Wrecker, like the rest, has donned civilian clothing. Black-and-red plaid stretches over his broad, muscular form, the buttons straining at the front. Under the collar, plain white tee peeks out. Darkwash jeans encircle his thick thighs. In a word, he looks delectable.
And he’s walking toward you. 
Embarrassment at being caught staring claws up your insides, but Wrecker’s grin hasn’t faded. In fact, it’s only gotten bigger. And is that a blush you spy creeping over his face? 
“Did you do all this!?” he asks, voice entirely too loud for the space in his excitement. 
“More or less,” you say, shuffling your feet. “You like it?” 
“Cyar’ika, I love it!” He settles onto one of the barstools. “Got any festive drinks?” 
So he either didn’t notice you openly gawking, or he doesn’t mind. You’re not sure which option is worse. With a small shake of your head, you smile—not the falsely saccharine smile you usually reserve for customers, but a genuine, cheek-splitting beam that crinkles your eyes. 
“Sure do!” you say. “Any flavor preferences?” 
“Naw,” Wrecker says with a wave of his hand. “Surprise me!” 
“Alright, big guy.” You gather the liquor and a few new syrups and frozen fruits you’d convinced Cid to get for this holiday, and craft a drink for Wrecker that you’re sure he’ll love. In the months you’ve gotten to know the gentle giant, you’ve discovered that he, unsurprisingly, likes bold food: bright, citrusy colors with deep, rich notes. The drink you pour has all of it. 
Garnishing the drink with a sprig of mint, you slide the glass across the counter on a napkin. “Here ya go.” 
Wrecker eagerly scoops the glass up and takes an exploratory sip. You watch, chewing your lip, as his eyes slide shut, face twisting in an expression of bliss. Your heart skips a beat. 
“Cyar’ika,” he says, eyes fluttering open. “That was the best drink you’ve ever made.” 
A laugh bubbles up from your chest. “Why do I get the sense you’d say that no matter what I put in front of you?” 
“Because it’d always be true!” he says. “You’re a pro.” 
“Well,” you say, leaning your forearms on the bar, “in that case, I’m glad to put my expertise to good use.” 
He takes another sip of the drink, an appreciative hum sliding out of him and sending delightful shiver up your spine. “How much do I owe ya?” 
You’re grateful Cid disappeared to her office a while ago, because it means she’s not around to hear you say what you’re about to. “On the house.” 
Mismatched eyes widening, Wrecker gapes at you. “Are you sure?” 
“Yeah.” You shrug. “It’s my Life Day gift to you.” 
“Aw,” Wrecker says. “Well, I can’t be the only one gettin’ a gift tonight. How can I thank you?” 
His voice has dropped a little in volume; his siblings sit across the room, well out of earshot (save Hunter), but when you catch the look in Wrecker’s eye, your mouth dries. He cocks his head at you, curious, testing. Stars, is he—? 
“I might have an idea,” you say, voice coming out hoarse. 
“Great!” Wrecker leans over the bar toward you. 
Almost of its own volition, your body responds in kind. You have to stand on your tiptoes, but you think you’ll be able to comfortably reach across to hug Wrecker. 
Except, Wrecker’s eyes are trained on your lips. Breath catching, you can’t stop what’s been put into motion—not that you want it to stop. It’s just—kriff, what if you’re misreading this entire situation and he really does intend to just hug you? You know he tends to be a little looser with his physical affection than his brothers, so maybe this is just an extension of that. He doesn’t feel the same way about you that you do about him.
Does he? 
You’re about to protest, and then his large, scarred hand slips across your cheek and tugs you the final few inches across the bar. His lips are warm and smooth against yours, moving gently, like he’s as nervous as you are. In your chest, your heart threatens to burst with affection. He’s so warm, and his hand is so big against your face; heat flickers to life in your core. 
All too soon, though, he pulls back. His eyes remain closed for a beat longer than yours, and a pleased, dopey smile curls over his face. 
“Is that ‘thank you’ enough?” he asks, breath fanning your face, smelling faintly of cranberry and mint. 
Eyes fluttering, you search his face for a moment before biting your lip. “I dunno. I did make the drink custom...” 
Wrecker beams and pulls you back in for a second kiss. 
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