James sat in the cockpit of his X-wing, drifting among the asteroid field, his ship latched onto a floating rock that did not look like it would collide with another for a good while. The cockpit smelled of warm circuitry, recycled air, and stale breath trapped inside his helmet.

Outside, stone giants rolled through the dark, slow and silent, their cratered faces catching thin strips of starlight. His targeting computer blinked in standby. The engine core gave off a low, buried hum beneath his boots.

He had killed every active system except life support and passive sensors. No beacon. No comms. No movement. Just the magnetic clamps biting into asteroid iron with a faint tick-tick-tick that traveled up through the frame.

Somewhere beyond the field, Imperial scouts were combing the sector.

James watched one sensor blip slide past the edge of the display, then another. Too wide to be debris. Too steady to be luck.

He stayed perfectly still, hands resting in his lap, shoulders tight against the seat harness.

His comm beeped.

James frowned inside his helmet, the sound sharp against the low hum of the cockpit. For a few seconds, he just stared at the blinking light on the console, watching it pulse red against the dark glass of the canopy. Then he reached across the cramped space and pressed the button.

Static hissed.

“So,” a woman’s voice said, smooth and amused, “you got a name?”

James blinked.

He grinned despite himself. “James. And you?”

“Maela Voss.”

“Nice to meet you, Maela Voss.”

“And you, James.” Her voice softened, almost regretful. “Sorry I have to kill you.”

He laughed quietly, leaning back against the seat harness. “It’s war. Shit happens.”

“True,” Maela mused. There was a faint crackle over the line, then the low sound of her breathing. “You sound cute.”

James’s grin widened. “You sound hot.”

“Go on,” she said. “Ask what you want to ask.”

His brow creased. “I don’t follow.”

The line went still for a beat.

“The same question men always want to ask when they find out there’s a woman on the other end of the comm.”

James huffed a laugh, half-disbelieving, half-intrigued. “How big are your tits?”

“Thirty-six C.”

“Fuck,” he muttered, sinking back into his seat. The cockpit suddenly felt warmer, the recycled air thick beneath his collar. “Do you mind if I masturbate?”

There was a pause.

Long enough for the silence to become its own answer.

Then Maela’s voice returned, quieter now, threaded with amusement.

“By all means,” she said. “As long as you don’t mind that I listen.”

Shit, this could be fun.

The biggest problem they had here was the ordinance. Neither of them had much left besides damaged lasers and stubborn pride. Half of James’s weapons were busted, and from the way Maela had stopped firing during their last pass, half of hers had to be gone too. They had put each other through one hell of a dogfight before he fled into the asteroid field, hoping the tumbling rocks would scare her off.

It had not.

Like a bantha scenting water across dry flats, she had followed him in.

It had taken him an hour of white-knuckled drifting, dead engines, and silent prayers before he lost her among the rocks. Now she was somewhere out there in the dark, close enough to reach him over comms, far enough that neither of them could finish what they had started.

“So,” Maela said, her voice lazy through the static, “you’re Rebellion?”

James worked himself out of his trousers, his cock jutting long, hard, and thick into the cramped cockpit air. He spat into his palm and dragged it over the head with a slow, slick stroke.

“You mean New Republic?”

“Sure,” she laughed. “Whatever.”

“Are you tight?”

There was a pause as he rubbed his thumb over the thick end, smearing wetness down the shaft.

“Yeah,” she said at last. “I haven’t had many lovers.”

“Oh, God,” he groaned, hips twitching against his own fist. “So you’re not a virgin?”

“No.”

“What position do you prefer?”

Maela chuckled softly, the sound warm enough to make his stomach clench. “Missionary. I like to look at my lover.”

“God, I bet you’ve got pretty eyes,” James moaned, louder now, his breath fogging the inside of his helmet as his hand moved faster. “Hn—hnnnn.”

The cockpit felt too small around him, all hot breath, tight straps, and the wet drag of his palm. Outside, asteroids rolled past in silence while Maela listened from somewhere in the dark.

“Are you cumming?” she asked.

“Yes,” he cried out, his thighs tensing hard beneath the flight suit.

His release hit hard. Spunk blew out over his knuckles in thick, hot pulses, streaking across his trousers and speckling the edge of the dash. James groaned as he milked it out, his wrist slowing only when the last twitch dragged through him and left him breathless in the cockpit.

“Fuck,” he panted, head falling back against the seat. The smell of sweat, stale recycled air, and his own spend filled the cramped space. “I’d love to fuck you. Bet you’ve got a nice pussy.”

A faint laugh crackled through the comm, but it came out shaky.

“My last lover loved eating it.”

James swallowed, still holding himself, thumb dragging lazily over the oversensitive head. “Would you let me?”