Wrecker X Shop Keeper Reader

"I didn't comment on a fic I liked because I don't think the author would care or remember my comment anyway". fanfic writer here, I still remember comments I got on my fics from seven years ago. I still think about them and they still make me smile. your kind comments are what motivates us and what helps us keep writing.

I personally know writers who take screenshot and print out comments they got from their readers.

TL;DR comments matter to us writers more than you think. if you like a fanfic, never be shy to let the author know ♡

“Duty Calls, Desire Waits”

Boss x Reader

The door to your quarters hissed open, and before you even turned around, you felt him. That familiar presence—silent, commanding, unwavering. Boss was back.

You didn’t need words. The way his heavy boots hit the floor, slow and steady, told you everything. The weight of the mission still hung in his posture, but beneath it, something softer—a need. For you.

He finally looked up, eyes dark behind that helmet’s visor, and you caught a flicker of relief. You stepped forward, your hand reaching for his arm, fingers curling around the reinforced armor. The tension in his shoulders eased, just a fraction.

No words were spoken, none needed.

Your fingers traced the edge of his visor, then slid down to his neck plate, where the cold metal met bare skin. Boss’s hand found your waist, pulling you closer—no space left between you now.

The heat built slowly, burning through the quiet. His grip tightened, and you tilted your head up, brushing your lips lightly over the rim of his helmet as if to remind him you were here. That this was home.

A low, almost inaudible sound vibrated from his chest—a promise, a confession. You smiled, heart racing.

Then, the world faded until it was only you and Boss, the steady beat of two hearts finding their rhythm again.

He finally took off his helmet to reveal his eyes—intense, dark, tired. The kind of tired that comes from seeing too much but still standing tall.

“You’re here,” his voice was low, rough around the edges like gravel, but steady.

You reached up, fingertips brushing over his cheeks. “I’m not going anywhere.”

A shadow of a smile touched his lips. “Every time I leave, I wonder if I’ll come back.”

Your hand slid from his neck to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the armor. “You always do.”

His other hand cupped your cheek gently, thumb stroking as if trying to memorize your face. “You’re my anchor. The only thing keeping me grounded when everything else is chaos.”

You leaned into his touch. “Then stay grounded. Stay with me.”

For a moment, all the walls around him seemed to crumble, and he looked vulnerable—the soldier behind the mask.

“I want to,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “More than anything.”

You closed the small distance between you, resting your forehead against his. “Then show me. Stay.”

The tension between you was electric, but it wasn’t just desire—it was relief, connection, and the unspoken promise that no matter how dark the mission, you were both each other’s light.

He pulled you closer, the strength in his embrace both protective and tender.

And in that quiet space, with nothing but the sound of your breathing and his steady heartbeat, you both knew this was home.

Boss’s hands slid lower, tracing the curve of your waist, pulling you tighter against him. The heat between you grew, the space shrinking until the world outside ceased to exist.

His voice was a low growl near your ear. “I’ve waited too long for this.”

You whispered back, “Me too.”

Just as his lips brushed yours, soft and promising, the sudden buzz of the comms cracked through the silence.

Boss pulled back slightly, annoyed but alert.

“—Scorch here. Uh… I might’ve accidentally blown up the supply depot. Again,” came the familiar voice, a mix of sheepish and panicked.

Sev’s harsh reply followed, “You’re gonna pay for that, Demo. I’m coming for you.”

Boss shook his head, a smirk tugging at his lips despite himself. “So much for a demolition expert.”

You laughed softly, the moment broken but the warmth lingering as Boss reached for his helmet.

“Duty calls,” he muttered, eyes meeting yours one last time. “But I’ll be back.”

You nodded, voice steady. “I’ll be here.”

With that, he was gone, leaving you both wanting more — and counting down until the next time.

“Painted in Dust”

Waxer x Twi’lek!Reader (Numa’s older sister)

Warnings: death, mentions of death

⸻

You never forgot the sound of blaster fire echoing through empty streets.

Even with the sun climbing high above Nabat’s fractured skyline, even with the Separatists driven out and your people reclaiming their homes, the war still sat heavy on your chest.

The battle was over.

But it didn’t feel over.

You moved through the dusty ruins of your home, running your fingers along the cracked walls and scorched doorframe, unsure what to hold onto. So much was gone. So much had been taken.

“Hey,” a low voice said behind you.

You turned—and froze.

It was him.

Waxer.

Helmet under one arm, bald head beaded with sweat, armor smudged with chalk and soot. Beside him stood another trooper—Boil, if you remembered right. He had his arms crossed, smirking in that way men do when they know something they’re not saying.

But you didn’t look at Boil.

Your eyes went to Waxer.

And to your little sister—Numa—curled up in his arms, her head against his shoulder.

“Sorry to barge in,” Waxer said quietly. “She wouldn’t let go.”

“I can see that,” you breathed, stepping forward.

Numa’s head popped up at your voice. “Sister!”

You caught her as she wriggled out of Waxer’s arms and ran to you. She threw herself at your legs, and you dropped to your knees to scoop her into your chest, pressing kisses to the top of her dusty head.

Tears burned your eyes.

“I thought I lost you,” you whispered into her hair.

“She hid,” Waxer said. “Smart girl. We found her in a supply closet.”

Boil added, “She gave us more intel than half the generals on this rock.”

Numa giggled, her tiny hand reaching back toward Waxer.

“I was brave,” she said proudly.

You looked up at him. “She wouldn’t have made it without you.”

Waxer rubbed the back of his neck, a little awkward. “She kept us going.”

Boil let out a chuckle and nudged his brother-in-arms. “You’re lucky she didn’t draw all over your head too, shiny.”

“I’m not shiny,” Waxer muttered without heat. “And I like the drawings.”

You noticed the chalk on his armor now—Numa’s doing. Little stars and hearts and lopsided flowers smeared over white plastoid. One even looked like you.

“She drew me?” you asked softly.

Waxer nodded. “She said you always looked after her. She wanted to return the favor.”

Your heart cracked in half.

“Stay,” you said, almost without meaning to. “Just for a little while. Please.”

⸻

They stayed.

Boil found an intact kettle and tried to boil water over an open flame, grumbling about “primitive” cooking while Numa climbed over his lap and demanded a story. He caved within minutes.

Waxer sat beside you on the remains of a stone bench in the courtyard. The village was quiet now—calm. Your people were rebuilding. But in this moment, it was just the two of you.

“Does it always feel like this after a mission?” you asked.

“Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes worse.”

You watched him for a moment. The slope of his jaw. The cut near his brow. The dark stubble shadowing his skull. He looked young. Too young to have seen so much death.

“You don’t look like a soldier,” you said.

He raised a brow. “I’m wearing full armor.”

“I know,” you said. “But when you’re with her… with Numa… you don’t look like a soldier. You look like a person.”

He blinked slowly. “That’s rare.”

You reached over, fingers brushing his hand. He didn’t flinch.

“She sees you as family,” you murmured. “And she’s usually right about people.”

Waxer swallowed.

“I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t get attached.”

“But you did.”

He didn’t answer.

You turned your hand so your fingers laced with his. “So did I.”

His eyes flicked to your face—wary, stunned, searching.

“I don’t know what happens next,” you said. “But I know what’s happening now.”

You leaned in, and with the softest of brushes, pressed your lips to his cheek—just below the scar.

Waxer sat very, very still.

Boil, across the courtyard, snorted. “About time.”

“Shut up,” Waxer muttered, but he didn’t pull away.

⸻

The next morning, they were set to leave.

Gunships loomed at the edge of the village, ready to extract the 212th.

Boil crouched in front of Numa, letting her tie a flower to his pauldron while Waxer stood beside you, helmet tucked under his arm.

He didn’t speak for a long moment. Then, he said quietly:

“I don’t want to go.”

“Then don’t,” you said, teasing, even as your chest ached. “Desert. Live on Ryloth. I’ll make you dinner.”

He gave a soft, breathy laugh. “Tempting.”

You reached up, cupped his cheek.

“Promise me something,” you said.

He nodded.

“Come back. One day. When the war’s over. Find us.”

His lips pressed into a line. “I’ll try.”

You stared at him. “I want more than try, Waxer.”

He leaned forward, rested his forehead against yours.

“I’ll find my way home,” he whispered.

You let him go.

But your heart didn’t

⸻

The war kept him away—but never silent.

Even when systems burned and the front lines shifted faster than you could chart, Waxer always found time. A few spare minutes between missions, a cracked hologram on a beaten-up transmitter, or the low, static-drenched voice in your ear late at night.

He always reached out.

“Hey, starshine.”

It was your nickname. A joke from the first message, because you said his armor caught the light like a second sun.

You saved every one of his transmissions.

He’d tell you about whatever hellscape he and Boil were deployed on, never in detail, never the real horror of it—but enough to let you know he was alive. You’d tell him about Numa, about how she was growing taller, sassier, stronger. Sometimes she’d grab the comm and yell, “WAXER!!” until he laughed so hard he had to mute his mic.

Sometimes, when he was safe and still and alone, he’d whisper:

“I miss you.”

You always whispered it back.

⸻

Just before Umbara, the transmission came through. Crystal clear.

He was grinning, helmet in hand, dust and soot smudging his cheeks, but his eyes—his eyes held that quiet warmth you’d grown to crave.

“Got something to show you,” he said.

He turned the helmet in his hands. Painted on the side—Numa’s smiling face.

It was rough. A little lopsided. But it was her.

“Maker,” you whispered. “She’s going to lose it.”

“She better,” he said, laughing. “She helped.”

“Boil let you do this?”

“He said it was dumb.” Waxer smirked. “Then asked if I’d paint him next.”

You laughed. You hadn’t laughed that hard in weeks.

He looked away for a second, rubbed the back of his neck. “Hey… when this mission’s done, I’ve got leave. Cody already signed off.”

You blinked. “You’re serious?”

“I’ll be there. You and Numa better be ready. I’m thinking a quiet week. No comms. Just us.”

Your voice caught in your throat. “We’ve been waiting for that since Ryloth.”

“Then I won’t make you wait any longer than I have to,” he said. “Soon, okay?”

“Soon.”

⸻

But soon never came.

⸻

Boil arrived with the 212th’s relief team. Numa ran to him before you saw the look in his eyes. That raw, hollow expression.

He didn’t say anything. Just knelt down and pulled her into a tight embrace. She kept asking where Waxer was. Kept asking why he wasn’t with him.

You stood there. Frozen. Staring.

Boil approached slowly, helmet tucked under one arm. Your heart pounded.

“Where is he?” you asked, already knowing. “He said he was coming back.”

Boil shook his head.

“They were split up,” he said quietly. “He was in a different squad.… no backup.”

You couldn’t breathe.

“I didn’t see him go,” Boil admitted. “But I saw what was left.”

You pressed a hand over your mouth. “He promised—”

“I know,” Boil said, voice cracking. “He meant it.”

He held out Waxer’s helmet. The paint—Numa’s face—was still there. Smudged with ash. But smiling.

You collapsed to your knees. Held it like it was him. Like he might still be warm.

Numa clutched your arm, confused and quiet.

“Did he forget?” she whispered.

You shook your head. “No, little one. He didn’t forget.”

Boil crouched beside you, gaze heavy with guilt. “He talked about you two all the time. You were his anchor. His light. We used to tease him, but… he loved you.”

You didn’t respond.

The helmet said enough.

⸻

You buried it beneath the tree outside your home. Numa placed a flower on top.

Every night after, you looked up at the stars and whispered:

“Just one more call. Just tell me you made it.”

But the silence said it all.

Hi! I’m not sure if you’ve heard of Epic the musical and the song “There are other ways” but I was thinking a Tech X Reader where he gets lost and comes across a sorceress and she seduces him and it’s very steamy? Lmk if this is ok, if not feel free to delete. Xx

“There Are Other Ways”

Tech x Reader

Tech had been separated from the squad before. Statistically speaking, given the volume of missions they undertook in unpredictable terrain, the odds were precisely 3.8% per assignment. He should have been more prepared for it—should have accounted for environmental disruptions, latent electromagnetic fields, or the possibility of the forest itself being… alive.

Still, none of that explained why his visor fritzed out the moment he crossed the river.

Or why the fog grew thicker when he tried to retrace his steps.

Or why the trees whispered his name like they knew him.

“Tech…”

He halted. The voice came from ahead—feminine, melodic. Not from his comm. And certainly not Omega playing a prank. She didn’t sound like a dream.

His grip tightened on his blaster. “Reveal yourself.”

And you did.

You stepped from the mist as if you belonged to it. Bare feet sinking into moss, the water licking around your ankles. The moon crowned you, making the fine threads of your cloak shimmer like woven starlight. Your gaze was ancient. Curious. Smiling.

“I’ve been waiting,” you said, voice like silk over steel.

Tech’s eyes narrowed behind his visor. “Statistically improbable, considering I had no intention of entering this region of the forest, nor becoming separated from my unit.”

“Perhaps I saw what you could not,” you said, tilting your head. “Or perhaps I called, and you listened.”

He ran a diagnostic scan. No lifeforms detected. No hostile readings. The air was too quiet.

“Are you… Force-sensitive?”

You laughed—a soft, knowing sound that made his stomach tighten.

“I’m something like that. Does it matter?”

“It very much does. If you are a threat, I am obligated to neutralize—”

But you were closer now. He hadn’t seen you move. Your fingers touched the edge of his armor with something like reverence.

“I’m not a threat unless you ask me to be.”

His breath hitched. Just once. Just enough for you to notice.

“You’re… a clone trooper. The mind of your little unit.” You circled him slowly. “Always calculating. Always thinking. Never letting go.”

“I find control to be preferable to chaos,” he said sharply.

“And yet,” you whispered, stepping behind him, your hand brushing the nape of his neck, “you walked into the chaos anyway.”

His fingers twitched. He should have stepped forward. Should have recalibrated his scanner. Should have moved—

But he didn’t.

Because something about your presence tugged at the part of him he kept locked away. The part he filed under unnecessary. Indulgent. Weak.

“Your body,” you murmured, lips brushing the shell of his ear, “wants what your mind won’t allow.”

He stiffened.

You smiled, warm and wicked, stepping in front of him again, your fingers now brushing the soft lining between his chest armor and undersuit. “You wear this like a wall. But you’re still a man beneath it.”

“I am not… easily manipulated,” he managed, though his voice had dropped, deeper than he liked.

“I’m not manipulating you, Tech.” You met his gaze. “I’m offering you a choice. You can walk away. Return to your mission. Your team. Your purpose.”

You stepped closer, and his breath caught as your hand slid beneath the edge of his cowl, your touch feather-light. “Or you can let go. Just for one night. Just this once.”

He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. He could list a hundred reasons why this was an anomaly. A deviation. A risk.

And yet—

His hand came up, slowly, almost shaking. Not to stop you. To touch you. To feel you. To confirm you were real.

You leaned in.

“I can show you other ways,” you whispered.

Then your lips brushed his—tentative at first, waiting. And when he didn’t pull away, you deepened the kiss, slow and exploratory, as if trying to map the mind he kept so tightly wound.

Tech’s world tilted.

Because for the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking.

He was feeling.

And when he let his blaster fall to the moss, when his hands found your waist and pulled you against him, when he kissed you back with a desperation he didn’t know he had—

He wasn’t the mind anymore.

He was a man.

His breath stuttered.

Tech wasn’t used to this—not the heat rising in his chest, nor the sensation of lips ghosting down his neck like a whisper meant only for the softest, most hidden parts of him.

Your eyes drank him in—not with hunger, but with reverence. His freckles, his sharp cheekbones, the slight twitch in his jaw that betrayed the storm behind his glasses.

“You’re beautiful,” you said softly.

Tech blinked. “That is… an illogical observation.”

You smiled. “Then your logic needs reprogramming.”

He made a noise—half protest, half breathless laugh—but it caught in his throat when your hands touched the bare skin of his collarbone. Your thumbs pressed lightly into the muscles of his neck. Tech didn’t realize how tense he always was until he felt himself melting beneath your touch.

“Tell me to stop,” you whispered.

“I…” His voice caught. “I cannot.”

You nodded, leaning in until your forehead touched his. “Then don’t.”

He didn’t.

Instead, he kissed you—desperately this time, hands curling at your waist as if anchoring himself to something real, something grounding in the swirling chaos of magic and sensation.

You pressed against him, warm and solid and devastatingly soft. One hand curled into his hair, the other sliding beneath the edge of his armor as you slowly coaxed it free. Piece by piece, you helped him shed it—not forcefully, never rushing. Like a ritual. Like he was something sacred.

When the last plate fell into the moss with a thud, he stood before you stripped of all defenses, chest rising and falling in quiet, stunned silence.

“You’re still thinking,” you said gently, brushing your nose against his.

“I—always think,” he breathed.

“Then let me think for you tonight.”

He didn’t protest when you led him backward into the moss, the magic of the forest warming the ground like a living bed. You straddled his lap, kissing him slow, deep, like you wanted to memorize every stifled sound he made.

Tech’s hands roamed—tentative, reverent, needy. He touched like a man learning to live in his own skin for the first time. Every sigh, every moan, every tremble you pulled from him was a tiny rebellion against the order he clung to.

And gods—how he clung to you instead.

Your magic hummed beneath your skin, wrapping around his ribs like silk. It didn’t control him. It didn’t bend his will. It simply amplified everything he was already feeling, pulling him deeper into you, into this—the illusion, the escape, the exquisite loss of control.

Your mouths met again and again. His glasses were somewhere in the moss. His hands splayed along the curve of your back. And when you whispered his name, over and over, like it was the only truth left in the galaxy—

He whispered yours back like a prayer.

Like he had always known it.

Like logic had never mattered at all.

Hardcase x Medic Reader

⸻

The soft beep of monitors and the sterile scent of antiseptic filled the dimly lit medbay. Most of the beds were empty tonight—except for one, where Hardcase was half-sitting, half-lurking like a bored animal ready to bolt.

You entered with a tablet in hand, already sighing. “If I find you trying to ‘stretch your legs’ one more time, I swear I’ll sedate you.”

Hardcase gave you an innocent grin, all teeth and mischief. “Come on, doc, I was just doing a lap. For circulation. You wouldn’t want my muscles to atrophy, would you?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Hardcase, you have three broken ribs and a hairline fracture in your leg. Sit. Down.”

He threw his hands up in mock surrender and flopped back dramatically onto the cot, letting out an exaggerated groan. “You wound me more than the blaster bolt did.”

“You’re lucky I was there to drag your sorry shebs off the field,” you muttered, scrolling through his vitals. “Next time, maybe don’t charge a tank on foot.”

“I had a plan.”

“You yelled ‘I’ve got this!’ and ran straight at it.”

“…Exactly.”

You looked up, lips twitching. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are. Checking on me. Again.” He tilted his head, gaze softening. “You always come back, don’t you?”

That gave you pause. The playful tone slipped, just for a second. “That’s the job.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “But not everyone does it like you.”

Silence settled between you, not heavy—but charged. Tense in a different way.

You set the tablet down and approached the side of his bed. “You’re a good soldier, Hardcase. But you don’t have to be the loudest in the room to matter. You don’t have to hide behind all that energy.”

He looked at you, blinking. “You see that?”

“I patch up your bones. I hear what your heart’s doing, too.”

He let out a slow breath, the grin slipping into something smaller, more genuine. “You’re kind of amazing, you know that?”

You leaned in, crossing your arms. “And you’re kind of an idiot.”

Suddenly, his arm shot out—gently—and pulled you forward by your wrist, just enough that you stumbled and caught yourself on the edge of his bed.

“If you wanted me in your bed, cyare,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, “you could’ve just asked.”

You glared down at him, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a curse. “You’re lucky you’re injured, clone.”

He smirked. “What happens when I’m not?”

Your hand lingered on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath it. “Guess we’ll find out.”

His grin faded into something warmer. “I hope we do.”

⸻

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Foxy again 😀 Click for higher quality >.> I'm unsure why it looks blurry on my tablet..

Well… I thought it was obvious.