my clone headcanons: "who did this to you" wound trope
a/n: yesyesyesyes crash out crash out crash out
gn reader
warnings: none
hunter is impossible to lie to. he finds the injuries and wounds you try to hide from the group all the time, his mouth pressed in a flat line as he crouches to the floor in front of you. “easy, easy…” he murmurs when you flinch away from him. he rubs his hands down your shoulders slowly, leaning in close to meet your eyes. his gaze burns with anger, but his voice is soft, reassuring you that you’re safe. “who did this to you?” he asks.
tech is known to figure things out pretty quickly, putting two and two together like it’s nothing. he sits at your side with his lips pursed together, hesitating before he rests a light hand on your thigh to get your attention. you glance at him, seeing that he’s already looking at you. he speaks so calmly despite the threat laced in his tone. “you can make it easy for the both of us and tell me who did this to you. or i can find them myself.”
wrecker gets scary when he’s pissed off, and that is exactly what he is when you get hurt, suddenly ready for a fight that he knows he’ll win. but he reserves his gentleness for you, cupping your face with his hands that are so large you basically disappear inside his grasp. he caresses your cheeks, the creases on his face deepening with his frown. “who did this to you?” he growls in a low voice, “i’ll take care of ‘em for you…”
crosshair is dangerous when he’s still and silent, his jaw tightening as hot anger boils under his skin. he brushes a careful finger over the tears and blood staining your cheeks, dragging his touch down to your chin where he tilts your face up, scowling darkly. “who did this to you?” he hisses. he wraps his hand around your jaw when you don’t say anything, leaning in so close that he whispers, “staying quiet won’t help him…”
echo just wants you to open up to him—to trust him when you’re in a vulnerable spot. he of all people knows how hard that is, which is all the more reason he craves this intimacy with you. he grips your hands gently, taking the med patches away so that he can dress your wound himself. he’s not looking at you as his stern voice rumbles through the silence. “who did this to you?” then he stares up at you. “i won’t ask again.”
wolffe doesn’t beat around the bush, and he doesn’t let you do so, either. his voice is deep and commanding when he stands over you, folding his arms over his chest. “look at me.” you lift your head slowly, with hesitation, so he cups the side of your face and tilts your face up, brushing his thumb over some tears to swipe them away. his eyebrows draw together in subtle anger ever so slightly, narrowing his gaze at you. “i’m not going to repeat myself,” he breathes quietly. “tell me who did this.”
fox is a stickler for the rules until someone hurts you, and suddenly, he’s a hypocrite who itches to burn whoever is responsible for this. he loses his cool just like that, grabbing your face with a slightly crazed look in his eyes when he demands, “who the fuck did this to you?” his breath comes in fast as he slides his hands down to cup the back of your neck, a possessive grip that reminds you that you’re his to protect.
cody never cowers from a fight worth his time, and you’re worth everything to him. he folds his arms over his chest and asks “who did this to you?” you shake your head, “cody, don’t…” he frowns and crouches low to the floor slowly, kneeling between your legs. “nobody has to get hurt,” he tells you, taking your hands to kiss your bruised knuckles. “you’re lying out of your ass,” you mutter. “and you’re hiding from me.”
mayday grips your waist, holding you still as you try to squirm away from his help. “shh, come here, let me take a look,” he orders softly, his voice spreading over your body like warm, relaxing waters that pull you under. “you’re alright…” he murmurs, stroking the top of your head slowly while assessing the damages. he clicks his tongue in disapproval and lifts his head to meet your eyes in a hard stare. “who did this to you?”
rex touches the back of your neck, slowly tightening his hand to turn you around. you avoid his gaze while he looks down at your body, around your face in quiet observation. “give me a name,” is all he says. you tilt your head and sigh, shaking your head, but he cups your face to stop your movements. he leans in close, staring with a sharp, unwavering determination. “maybe i wasn’t clear the first time,” he murmurs in a low tone.
fives has a temper everyone knows about, and the best way to set it off is for something to happen to you. he plants his hands down around your sitting frame, caging you into his body. your faces are close, your breaths even closer, mingling and shared as he stares into your eyes unflinchingly. “who did this?” he asks firmly. “fives, don’t make a big deal out of—” he shakes his head, “oh, we’re making a big fucking deal out of this.”
kix has a caretaking instinct that prioritizes your wellbeing over anything else. he feels guilty when he’s not there to prevent you from getting hurt, but he’s always there to fix up the damages. his eyes soften into a pained frown as he cradles the back of your head and strokes your hair. he kisses your scalp, whispering, “you’re safe now, you’re okay…” he waits for you to catch your breath. “can you tell me who did this to you?”
jesse is the type of guy to react to your pain like it’s his own. you already know he’s going to be pissed, so it doesn’t come as a surprise when a heavy glare shadows his expression, and he snaps, “who did this to you? which fucker was it—” you cut him off before he gets too riled up, whispering, “jesse, calm down, please…” he scowls and cups the back of your head to pull you into his chest protectively. “like hell i’ll calm down…”
hardcase feels like a bucket of cold water is dumped over his head when you’re hurt. the reality of your pain sobers him up faster than he can blink, and things aren’t so fun and games anymore. he settles you into his lap and lets you lean your weight on him, giving up all your strength. “hey…” he murmurs in your ear, his strong arms around you as you quiver in his embrace. “shit, what happened? who did this to you?”
gregor knows you’re tough enough to handle yourself, but he still freaks out at any blemish big or small. “who did this?” he asks, cocking his head to the side. “you want me to handle them for you?” you wave him off, “gregor, i’m fine…” but he’s not convinced, stroking a hand down your hair as he rasps, “you’re not fine, look at you…” he buries his face into the top of your head, kissing you softly. “c’mon, tell me who it was…”
howzer cups his hands around your face delicately, like you’re made of glass, exhaling raggedly as he presses a long, hard kiss to your forehead. his lips linger against your skin when he murmurs, “who did this to you?” and he slides his hands down to wrap you in a tight embrace. “tell me, and i swear he won’t ever put his hands on you again, yeah?” he pulls back, searching your eyes with his own, whispering, “you trust me?”
emerie concerns herself with taking care of you before asking any questions, but the silence drags on as she furrows her eyebrows and tentatively touches her fingertips to your wound. you don’t seem to react in discomfort, so she presses her hand down over the bandage, smoothing her touch out in a comforting circle. “you’re not going to tell me what happened?” she asks, kissing your shoulder, “who did this…?”
if you've already done this then my b but could we get some Commander Fox headcanons? both sfw/nsfw are fine <333 i love your stuff so much oml
Aw thank you so much 🫶🏼 so sorry this took 84 years to answer
I've never really written headcanons before, but ofc I have some so I'll give it a go. Not sure if this turned out right
Fox x fem!reader headcanons
Tags/warnings: some angst and some NSFW bits
Wordcount: 2.2k
◈ Fox is one of the most loyal, by the book troopers in the GAR. He's been put in charge -- of the entire Coruscant basically -- for a reason after all. He wants to follow the rules, keep his brothers safe and do his duty.
◈ He knows everything that moves on his planet. He knows the comings and goings of his brothers' battalions. He keeps track of everything.
◈ But he is overworked and exhausted, and quickly becomes disillusioned with the reality of Coruscant, senators, and the status the clones have.
◈ Little by little, Coruscant not necessarily breaks him, but forces him to adapt in ways he never really expected. He maintains the appearance of the 'by the book Commander', but constantly exploits loopholes and quickly learns how to manipulate and blackmail people.
◈ But it's never for his own gain - no, it is always for his vode. It's to keep them safe when senators get overbearing or demand the decommissioning of some shiny only because he forgot to open a door or some banthashit like that. His brothers in the Guard remain his priority.
◈ His fear of losing a little brother to decommissioning turns him into a control freak. The best way to protect his vode is prevention, and to do that the Guard has to be perfect. He has to be perfect.
◈ That's how his reputation as an unreasonable asshole starts to spread. He demands perfection. He allows no room for error. If a shiny makes the tinniest mistake, he's running drills until his knees give and he collapses. His men start to be afraid of making mistakes. They start to be afraid of him. Very few know that the punishments he implements are better than the alternative.
◈ Soon he doesn't even need to shout or glare or supervise drills - the men begin correcting themselves. New troopers are already scared of him before they even get their transfer orders to the Guard.
◈ It's a little isolating, but he's fine with it. He doesn't need his men to like him -- he needs them to be safe. And he's fine with everyone thinking he's a tough, uncaring asshole.
◈ So when he meets you -- and suddenly his heart beats faster, stomach flutters, palms get sweaty and thoughts scramble -- Fox is annoyed. He simply does not have the time for a crush and sees you as a distraction.
◈ He's curt and a little brash at first, but not out of malice - more out of circumstance. Relationships with nat-borns aren't allowed. He knows his men must be breaking that rule, but as long as he doesn't hear about it, it means they're careful enough and they can carry on. He, however, doesn't have the time or the need for it.
◈ Now, the months/years spent on Coruscant do eventually change his views on personal relationships - or maybe the loneliness finally gets to him -- but by the time that happens, he's already managed to convince you that he doesn't like you and has no idea how to fix it.
◈ He wasn't cruel -- but he was never warm. Never friendly and open like Thorn or Hound, or even Thire and Stone. His interactions with you were always short and to the point. He never found the time to humour you when you tried to slip in small questions to get to know him. He always blankly stared at you from behind the safety of his expressionless helmet until you stopped trying to make an effort.
◈ But Maker, did he feel it when you stopped making an effort. Like a punch to the gut. He noticed the way your sentences around him got shorter. How your smile always faltered when you entered his office. How you tried to keep your interactions under five minutes. And he hated it -- and himself-- for it deeply.
◈ So what Fox does to attempt to fix it is he watches you. Carefully. Intently. He learns your schedule. He studies the way the other men talk to you and how you talk to them and tries to mimic that. When he suddenly asks you how the concert or movie or art exhibition was - because he was listening when you told Thorn about your plans the other day -- your brain freezes. He's never asked you a personal question before.
◈ Of course, unfortunately for him, he hasn't quite mastered one aspect of casual chitchat. The tone. He asks in the same dry and a little irritated way he usually barks orders. It sounds a little like he's criticizing your choice of entertainment. But he doesn't realise until after you've left his office and he mentally goes over your entire interaction 3 or 4 times.
◈ Now, because he was always working, always focused on the duty he had to his vode and to Coruscant, he's never really socialised much. And that is painfully obvious. Sure, he's at the 79s from time to time, but he goes for his brothers. And usually because Wolffe is on-world and the one to literally -- physically -- drag him out of his office.
◈ He's found people attractive before, but he hasn't acted much on it. He never really allowed himself time for distractions. There's only been a handful of hookups, and always in the freshers of the 79s.
◈ So he knows he lacks experience. But he'd rather die before he asks any of his brothers for help. Fox is smart and extremely stubborn, he'll figure it out himself.
◈ Unfortunately, his attempts are so painfully awkward, you're genuinely confused about what's happening. He's so difficult to figure out because he himself isn't sure of what he wants.
◈ Like, yes, he's fallen for you, hard. And he wants you. But at the same time he doesn't think he deserves you. He doesn't consider himself a good person. Not with everything he's had to do in order to keep his men safe.
◈ And there's also the stretches of time he doesn't remember. Moments where he's gone into the Chancellor's office then blanked for 2-3 rotations, until finally he woke up in his office, with blood stains on his armor.
◈ He shouldn't get close to you. But Maker he's lonely. And you're so beautiful and kind and your laugh always warms his rotten soul. Maybe being near you a little more will fix the gaping hole in his chest.
◈ Fox is the kind of man who doesn't know how to express his feelings... until he's had a few whiskeys. He's still not poetic or good with words - no, the alcohol just helps him blurt his thoughts out.
◈ And that's how it happens. You're at the 79s with some of the other men. Fox watches you have fun from a distance, downing whiskey after whiskey and cursing himself for not knowing how to dance so that he could also make you laugh and be close to you like Hound or Thorn are.
◈ Once he's tipsy enough however, he follows you when you head to the freshers, waits for you in the corridor, then grabs you and pulls you aside. He's doesn't really have a plan -- which is both terrifying and exhilarating -- he just wants to talk to you.
◈ What he manages to blurt out is a rushed "I'm sorry". His hand is on your arm, thumb caressing your skin. You have no idea what's going on. But you couldn't look away from his unfocused and a little desperate eyes even if you wanted.
◈ When you don't reply he panics and keeps talking. He tries to explain but ends up calling you a distraction, which of course, offends you, and you try to slip out of his grasp and leave.
◈ He curses himself when he sees this isn't going as he hoped and just blurts out that he has feelings for you.
◈ Then he lets you go and walks away, leaving you stunned and confused.
◈ It annoys him in a way he can't put into words, but Fox admits defeat and finally goes to talk to Thorn, telling him everything about his crush on you and asking for advice.
◈ So the next time he sees you, he knows what to do. He apologises again and asks you out for caf, fully prepared to be rejected.
◈ When you agree, he can't keep the smile off his face - and Maker he has a beautiful smile, you definitely wish to see it more often.
◈ Your first date is a little awkward. More than a little actually. Fox has no idea how to have a casual conversation that doesn't involve casualty reports or Senate security plans, so he's more than happy to let you take the lead and listen to your stories.
◈ He doesn't kiss you on the first date, no matter how much he wants to. And he doesn't do it on the second either. He wants to do this right, take things slow, enjoy getting to know you and not overwhelm you.
◈ But that plan goes out the window the moment his lips are on yours.
◈ It happens on the third date. He walks you home after a nice, leisurely stroll through the cultural district, and as he leans in your doorway, he can't stop staring at your lips. When you tilt your head up, he accepts your invitation, and he kisses you softly, one hand on your waist, the other cradling your face.
◈ But once he starts, he finds he can't stop. The kiss deepens, turns desperate, and when you pull him inside your home, Fox comes willingly.
◈ Fox is very touch starved, and that is obvious in the way he allows no space to form between your bodies.
◈ He presses you against the wall, greedily touching every bit of exposed skin. And when that's no longer enough, he slides his hands under your shirt.
◈ If you didn't break the breathless kiss and ask him to move to the bedroom, Fox would've taken you right there in the hallway. But once he hears your whispered request, his brain kicks back into gear, remembering he wanted to do things properly, not rush and chase a high he hasn't felt in months.
◈ Unfortunately, it has been a long time for him, and he's permanently exhausted -- so, much to his embarrassment, your first time sleeping together ends faster than he wished.
◈ But he doesn't listen to you when you say it's alright. He's determined to make you feel good. So he trails his lips down your chest and then down your abdomen, tongue and teeth teasing your sensitive skin, until his face is buried in your core.
◈ Maybe he's a little sadistic, but Fox finds immense pleasure in edging you. He brings you close and abruptly stops at least five time, until you're a begging mess, pleading and fisting his hair in the most intoxicating way.
◈ And when he finally pushes you into that valley of pleasure? Maker, the way you scream his name almost makes him come all over your sheets.
◈ Once the act is done, however, he's not entirely sure what to do. He sits back on his knees, wiping your slick from his face with the back of his palm as he watches you catch your breath.
◈ Your eyes are closed and a dazed smile is frozen on your lips - and stars help him it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
◈ But he's never done this before. Never had sex in such a normal place as a bedroom. And never stayed afterwards.
◈ So as the pride swelling in his chest slowly thaws, Fox looks around your room, unsure if he's supposed to lay down next to you or put his clothes back on and go.
◈ A part of him does want to leave. It's that part of his brain that's just permanently trained to be wary of nat-born, wary of showing anything but cold professionalism... of being vulnerable.
◈ But when you hold out you hand, looking up at him through heavy eyelids, your gaze so soft and unguarded -- his restraint cracks enough to allow himself to settle on the mattress, gathering you into his arms.
◈ It feels foreign, the closeness, the raw vulnerability. Yet, as he feels you drift to sleep in his embrace, your face nuzzling into the crook of his neck, a dangerous warmth spreads through his chest -- the kind of warmth that's pure, undiluted devotion.
◈ He's yours now, fully. And you are his. And he will protect you fiercely, at times maybe even a little possessively.
◈ And he will also open his very soul to you, he will give you everything he has to give.
◈ Fox is not soft. He's never been soft a day in his life. But for you? He discovers a gentleness within himself he never through he was capable of.
where clone characters like to cum (my headcanons)
a/n: ewwwww who would write something like this...oh wait...
afab reader
warnings: sexual content
hunter loves to finish inside of you. he slides over you in missionary when close, his gaze mixed with possession and protection. he leans down to kiss you as he slows his hips and cums, letting out a long, raspy grunt when you squeeze around him, milking his cock dry while he drags a finger up your inner thigh to ensure not a drop is wasted.
tech loves to finish down your throat. you love kneeling between his legs and helping him wind down as he leans back in the pilot seat, hissing softly when your lips envelope his frustrated, throbbing erection. he strokes the top of your head, digging his fingers into your hair as he cums before he pulls you up for a warm, loving kiss.
wrecker loves to finish on your tits. he grabs and squeezes them around his cock, groaning deeply as he finishes himself off in rough, sloppy strokes. "gonna cum all over these pretties," he mutters hoarsely, fucking your tits with shameless hunger at the way they bounce addictively, a sight and feeling he can never get enough of.
crosshair loves to finish on your neck (pearl necklace). he wears a sadistic sort of smirk as he throws his head back and cums, covering the purple marks he left behind like snow falling over fresh tracks. he breathes hard and fast while his fingers curl around your neck slowly and pull you into a searing kiss, tangling your tongues together.
echo loves to finish in your hand. hardly anything beats the intimacy of him kissing you softly, moaning against your lips as you massage his swollen length, the tenderness in your touch reminding him how safe he is with you. "fuck, i'm...i...fuck.." his words trail off and he gasps when he finally lets go, letting you take the lead.
wolffe loves to finish on your back. you already know he's a big fan of fucking from behind, just having full control as he pins you down with his hands around your hips or even his whole body over yours, while you moan into the pillow. you're arched up like a cat when he squeezes your ass and cums all over your backside, groaning heavily as his release drips down your curves in a filthy, sexy mess.
fox loves to finish all over your face. the asshole finds agonizing pleasure in punishing your smart mouth. his cum splatters across your lips and drips down your chin in the mess he makes out of you. you know how to set his desire ablaze when you lick it all up, swirling your tongue over your skin as you give him a sultry stare.
cody loves to finish inside of you, specifically with you on top as you straddle his lap, your arms wrapped around his neck weakly. he fucks up into you deep and slow, gripping your jaw to keep your eyes on him so that you're looking right at him when he cums, and both of you feel him leaking down your trembling thighs.
mayday loves to finish in your mouth, but he doesn't let you swallow. he prides himself on being a gentleman, letting out a guttural groan from deep inside his chest as he pulls back and cums on your tongue, making sure there's no mess left behind. he caresses your cheek and grips your chin, gently ordering, "c'mon, doll, spit it out..."
rex loves to finish on your thighs. he loses his shit during a thigh job, his eyes rolling to the back of his head and all. "fuck, squeeze harder—mhm, just like that...oh, fuck me..." he pleads. he just shows this part of you so much undeniable favoritism, also being gentle and kissing your inner thighs softly while he takes care of you after.
fives loves to finish anywhere near your pussy, whether it's inside of you or against your cervix. he kisses you through a deep, raspy groan and presses his thumb against your clit, swirling his release around your walls as you squirm under him. he's teasing another orgasm out of you, murmuring, "yeah...that's it...give me one more, c'mon..."
kix loves to finish inside of you for the intimacy of it. his gentle touch snakes up your forearm to lace your fingers together and press your joined hands into the mattress, eyes locked onto yours. he doesn't look away as he cums, and your legs tighten around his waist when you feel the pressure in your lower stomach, taking it all in together.
jesse loves to finish on your ass, especially watching it travel down the swell of your body that he grabs a handful of every time, slapping for the way your skin bounces back at him. he smoothes his touch over your sensitive skin and kisses your shoulder blade from behind, whispering, "you did so good, baby, c'mere..." taking you in his arms.
hardcase loves to finish on your stomach. he groans a deep and rough, "fuck," in your ear and buries his face into the crook of your neck, his whole body jerking through his release. you hold him close as warm liquid spreads across your skin, obviously leaving a wild mess wherever he goes. "shit, let's get you cleaned up..."
gregor loves to finish on your chest and stomach, greedy for your whole body as his canvas. he doesn't realize how much of a mess he's made all over you until he opens his eyes to the sight of you underneath him. he braces his arms around you like a cage and kisses you sweetly, rasping, "sorry, baby, think i got carried away..."
howzer loves to finish inside of you, but he gets shy making eye contact as if his orgasm face isn't the hottest thing ever. "fuck, i'm close," he breathes and drops his head to your shoulder, moving his hips against yours with impatient desperation. you thread your fingers through his hair and hold him close, cradling him as he cums.
emerie loves to finish on your fingers. her guilty pleasure is seeing you lick her off yourself, the dirty side you wouldn't initially expect from someone so quiet and proper. she blushes when you tell her how good she tastes, latching onto your praise like a magnet. "you shouldn't say things like that...it'll get to my head," she mumbles.
AN: Sorry I haven’t uploaded in ages! I have been so busy with my uni exams but they are done now so I have more time to write! X
The warm Naboo evening wrapped around the two of you like silk. Lanterns glowed softly along the stone path leading to your home, casting gold across the flowerbeds you’d spent months nurturing. The air smelled like night jasmine and lake water drifting in from the distant shore. Somewhere beyond the gardens, insects chirped lazily beneath the violet dusk.
And standing at the front doorway waiting for you was Commander Wolffe. Well, just Wolffe now, mostly.
No battlefield, no blaster smoke, no orders crackling through a comm. Just your husband leaning against the doorway of your shared home with his arms crossed over a dark fitted shirt that strained pleasantly across his chest.
Maker, the man cleaned up unfairly well. His cybernetic eye caught the warm porch light while the other tracked you slowly as you stepped outside in your dress.
That look. That very specific look.
You stopped halfway down the steps, already smiling. “What?”
Wolffe pushed off the doorway slowly, gaze dragging over you without shame. “Trying to kill me tonight?”
“You say that every time I wear this dress.”
“Because every time you wear this dress I lose the ability to think.”
You laughed softly, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from the fabric. “You’re exaggerating.”
“No.” He stepped closer, voice dropping lower. “That slit on your thigh should be classified as a weapon.”
Heat crept into your cheeks immediately and he noticed. Of course he noticed. The corner of his mouth twitched upward.
“You’re annoying.”
“And you,” he murmured, offering his arm, “look so pretty I’m considering cancelling dinner so I can keep you all to myself.”
Your hand slipped around his bicep automatically. Solid muscle greeted your fingers beneath the fabric, familiar and comforting. “Too late. I’m hungry.”
“Mm.” His eye flicked downward knowingly. “I know.”
The restaurant sat near the edge of Theed overlooking the lake country, elegant without being overly formal. Musicians played softly near the windows while candles floated above each table like tiny stars.
Wolffe pulled your chair out before sitting across from you. Even after years together, the sight of him relaxed like this still did something dangerous to your heart.
The war had carved sharpness into him. Hard edges, constant vigilance. Back then he never sat with his shoulders fully relaxed. Never turned his back toward open spaces. Never slept deeply.
Now though? Now he looked peaceful. Still strong and still intimidating enough to make strangers move aside instinctively. But peaceful. And sometimes you caught him smiling for no reason at all. Usually because of you.
“You’re staring,” he said, unfolding his napkin.
“You’re handsome.”
He huffed a laugh, his head shaking slightly before taking your hand in his across the table.
A server came to take your order, and Wolffe thanked her with the polite gravelly tone that always made your stomach flutter. Once she left, he leaned forward slightly.
“You’ve been smiling all evening.”
“So have you.”
“That’s because I’ve got something pretty to look at.”
“You flirt like an overconfident pilot.”
“I’m a clone, sweetheart. We either flirt aggressively or stare silently.”
“Those were the only two options?”
“Yes.”
You laughed again, and stars, he loved that sound.
Wolffe still held your hand over the table, thumb brushing lazily over your knuckles. “You happy here?”
The question softened something inside you immediately. You squeezed his hand. “Very.”
His expression gentled. Not many people got to see that look from him. Most still saw Commander Wolffe, the intimidating veteran with the scarred face and sharp commands.
But you knew the man underneath it. The fiercely loyal one, the protective one. The one who watered your garden before sunrise because he knew you liked waking up to fresh blooms.
“You?” you asked quietly.
He looked out the window briefly toward the glowing lights of Theed. “Naboo’s quiet,” he admitted. “Still not used to that.”
“You miss the army?”
A small shrug. “Some of it.” His cybernetic eye whirred faintly as he looked back at you. “Miss my brothers. Miss the structure.” A pause. “Don’t miss watching my brothers die.”
Your heart squeezed painfully. You squeezed his hand again immediately. His thumb rubbed against yours once. Reassuring you instead somehow.
“But this job?” you asked. “Security commander for the royal transport sector sounds important.”
“It is important.”
“You just like bossing people around.”
“That too.”
You grinned. “At least now they actually pay you.”
“That part’s still confusing.”
Dinner arrived then, beautifully plated and smelling incredible. You immediately eyed Wolffe’s meal.
He noticed in under three seconds. “You’re doing it again.”
“I’m not.”
“You are absolutely staring at my plate.”
“It looks better than mine.”
“You picked yours.”
“Because yours didn’t exist yet.”
Wolffe snorted softly and cut off a piece without another word, holding his fork out toward you.
Your smile spread instantly. “See? You love me.”
“I tolerate you.”
“You brought me to a lakeside restaurant.”
“You invited yourself.”
You grinned cheekily. “You bought me flowers this morning.”
“You looked sad.”
“I had one bad dream.”
“And now you’ve got flowers.”
You leaned forward, taking the bite from his fork while maintaining eye contact deliberately. Wolffe went very still. Then his gaze lowered slowly to your mouth.
“You know exactly what you’re doing.”
You swallowed innocently. “What?”
His voice dropped into that dangerous register again. “Keep looking at me like that and dessert won’t happen.”
Warmth flooded your face and he looked entirely too pleased with himself.
“You’re terrible.”
“You like terrible.” He retorts.
Dinner stretched comfortably around teasing conversation and soft touches beneath the table. Every once in a while Wolffe would catch himself just looking at you quietly, like he still couldn’t believe this life belonged to him.
A home, peace, you.
At one point you caught him smiling faintly into his drink. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Wolffe.”
His eye lifted toward yours again. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
“That if someone told me during the war that I’d end up living on Naboo with the prettiest girl in the galaxy…” He shook his head once. “Would’ve called them insane.”
Your chest melted instantly. “You think I’m the prettiest girl in the galaxy?”
“I know you are.”
“Even prettier than Senator Amidala?”
“You trying to start a fight?”
You giggled. Wolffe leaned back in his chair, gaze openly admiring now. “Besides, Amidala could never look at me the way you do.”
“How do I look at you?”
“Like I hung the moons.”
“Well.” You smiled softly. “In my eyes you did. You make me so happy.”
That hit him hard. You could always tell. His expression shifted subtly, guard dropping for just a second too long.
“You make me happy too,” he admitted quietly.
For a moment neither of you spoke. The music drifted around you softly while candles flickered between the plates.
Then Wolffe cleared his throat gruffly. “Alright. Enough feelings before I develop a reputation.”
“You’re already soft for me.”
“I’m literally one of the most feared clone commanders in the Republic.”
“Former Republic.”
“Still counts.”
“You carried my tooka because his paws were tired.”
“He’s small.”
“You tucked him into a blanket.”
“He was cold.”
You were laughing too hard to defend yourself by then while Wolffe muttered something about unfair accusations.
By the time you left the restaurant, the sky had deepened into rich midnight blue. Theed glowed beautifully at night.
You and Wolffe wandered toward your favorite ice cream stand near the plaza fountains, your arm wrapped tightly around his bicep while his hand rested possessively over yours.
The vendor smiled knowingly when he saw you both approach.
“The usual?”
“Yes please,” you answered immediately.
Wolffe nodded. “And extra caramel on hers.”
“You always remember.”
“Of course I do. You’re my girl.”
A few minutes later you both wandered through the plaza with ice cream in hand while musicians played nearby.
Wolffe’s flavor was some rich chocolate-hazelnut combination. Yours was a caramel toffee swirl. But naturally, you wanted his. You eyed it shamelessly.
He sighed dramatically. “Go ahead.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re staring at my ice cream like a tactical objective.”
“It smells good.”
“You said that about me once too.”
“You also smelled good.”
Wolffe barked out a surprised laugh. “You’re getting bold tonight.”
“You like me bold.”
“I definitely like you bold.”
Your spoon dipped toward his cup before he stopped you suddenly. “No.” His gaze sharpened playfully. “Proper way.”
Before you could ask what that meant, he tilted the cup slightly toward you.
Your eyes widened. “Oh.”
You leaned in carefully, taking a small lick of the ice cream while Wolffe watched far too intently for something so innocent.
When you pulled back, his expression had gone heated again. “You’re doing that on purpose.”
“You offered.”
“Mistake on my part.”
You grinned triumphantly before holding your own cup toward him. “Your turn.”
Wolffe leaned down without hesitation, licking a stripe of caramel from your spoon. Stars. That should not have looked that attractive.
His eye flicked up toward you afterward knowingly. “Sweet.”
“Flirting over ice cream is ridiculous.”
“And yet it’s working.”
Unfortunately, that was also correct.
You continued walking slowly through the plaza, tucked close against his side while the warm Naboo night buzzed around you.
“So,” you said, “how many recruits did you terrify today?”
“Only three.”
“Improvement.”
“One of them called me ‘sir’ six times in one sentence.”
“That’s because you look scary.”
“I do not.”
You stopped walking entirely to stare at him. The scar, the cybernetic eye, the towering clone commander build, the permanently intimidating voice.
“Wolffe.”
“What?”
“You once made a grown senator cry during a security inspection.”
“He was being difficult.”
“You glared at him.”
“He had suspicious luggage.”
“It was fruit.”
“Could’ve exploded.”
You burst into helpless laughter while Wolffe looked entirely unapologetic.
Then something across the plaza caught your attention. A well-dressed man had apparently been trying to impress his date by dramatically tossing a flower toward her.
Unfortunately, he missed. Completely. The flower smacked directly into a passing musician’s face.
The musician yelped in shock, stumbled backward into the fountain edge, and accidentally sprayed water over half the nearby crowd.
There was a moment of absolute stunned silence. Then chaos. The poor man panicked while his horrified date covered her face.
And you, you tried so hard not to laugh. Really. You buried your face against Wolffe’s shoulder immediately, shoulders shaking while he fought visibly for composure.
“I swear to the stars—” he started.
The musician slipped again. That ended it.
Wolffe lost first. A rough startled laugh burst from his chest, deep and genuine and impossible not to join.
Soon both of you were laughing so hard you could barely stand properly. Your ice cream nearly tipped over while Wolffe steadied you against him, laughing into your hair.
“Don’t look,” you wheezed.
“I can’t stop looking.”
“That poor man!”
“He’s never recovering from that.”
You both dissolved again. People nearby started laughing too just from watching the two of you completely lose composure together.
Eventually the laughter faded into breathless giggles while Wolffe wiped at his eye.
“You alright there, commander?”
“Barely.”
Wolffe stared at you for a long moment beneath the plaza lights. “There’s that smile again.”
“What smile?”
“The one that makes me think I survived all that war for a reason.”
Your heart nearly stopped. The teasing vanished from his expression completely now, replaced with something warm and achingly sincere.
You stepped closer automatically.
His free hand settled against your waist, thumb brushing slowly along your side.
“You know,” you whispered, “I think you deserve this life.”
His gaze softened immediately. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You leaned up enough to press a kiss against the scar near his eye. “You deserve peace.”
For once, Commander Wolffe had absolutely nothing sarcastic to say. He just looked at you like you were the greatest thing he’d ever been given.
Summary: After a night of heated confessions, you and Fives are forced back into reality.
Word Count: 4.1k
Warnings: none!
A/N: Happy Revenge of the 5th! Side note - the wonderful feedback on this fic has been meaning the world! Thank you all!
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The sun didn't rise on Ryloth. It practically invaded.
A single, unrelenting beam of light pierced through the narrow crack in the rock. It cut through the stagnant dust from the storm that managed to sneak its way to you. The sunlight hit the far walls first, then crawled slowly across the uneven floor until it found your face.
You didn't remember falling asleep. For a Jedi, sleep was usually a disciplined descent into a meditative state or a controlled shutting down of the systems. This was not that at all. This was more of an exhaustion of the soul, a total collapse into the dark after the fire of the previous night had burned itself out.
Your eyes drifted open, but you didn't move. You couldn't.
You were draped across Fives, your leg hooked over his uninjured thigh, your head tucked into the soft crevice between his shoulder and his chest. His arm, the one that wasn't braced against the cave floor, was wrapped around your waist, his hand splayed flat against the curve of your back. With the storm over, the only terrifying thing was how domestically peaceful the moment felt.
He looked younger when he was asleep. The harsh, sharp lines around his mouth were smoothed out, and the '5' tattoo on his temple looked like nothing more than a smudge of ink rather than a brand of ownership. He didn’t look like a man who was born in a tank. He looked like someone who had a real life.
You watched the way the light caught the stubble along his jawline. You wanted to stay here. You wanted to let the sun bake the world outside into glass while you stayed in this tiny, oxygen starved pocket of false reality.
Then, the chrono on your wrist chimed. It was a faint, tinny sound, but in the silence, it sounded like a thermal detonator.
You winced, the blue light of the display cutting through the amber glow. You were supposed to be at the rendezvous by now.
"Fives," you whispered.
He didn't stir. His grip on your waist actually tightened, pulling you a fraction closer as he let out a long, contented sigh in his sleep.
You reached up, your fingers trembling slightly. You didn't use the touch of a Jedi healer this time. You cupped his jaw, your thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone with a slow, deliberate tenderness. You felt the warmth of his skin, the slight scruff of his beard, and the way he instinctively leaned into the palm of your hand, seeking the contact even in his dreams.
"Fives, wake up," you raised your voice ever so slightly.
His eyelashes fluttered. A soft, hazy smile touched his lips. It was a look of such pure, unadulterated affection. He let out a low, sleepy yawn, his eyes still half closed as he pulled his head back just enough to look at you.
"Good morning, swee-"
The word died in his throat.
The transition was violent. It was as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over his head. The haziness vanished from his eyes, replaced by clarity. The smile didn't just fade - it evaporated. You felt the Force around him recoil, a sudden, frantic spike of adrenaline and pure, unmitigated terror.
"Sir!"
He scrambled backward, his body reacting with the instincts of a soldier who had found himself cuddled up with his superior. But the ceiling was too low and your bodies were too entangled. As he tried to move himself away, his injured leg fought back, a sharp hiss of pain escaping his teeth. He didn't make it more than an inch before his own weight trapped him, leaving you still draped half across his chest, your hand still hovering near his face.
"General, I- I am so sorry," he stammered, his chest heaving. His pupils were blown wide, darting around as if looking for his court martial papers already waiting in the shadows. "I don't know why I-, I wasn't thinking, I didn't mean to-"
"Fives, stop." You cut him off, your voice firm but lacking any edge of command.
You didn't move away. You stayed where you were, almost comforted by the sheer honesty of the way his heart was currently hammering against your ribs. He was panicking, his conditioning screaming at him that he had crossed a line that usually ended in decommissioning or worse.
"It’s okay," you affirmed, softening your tone, "Nothing we haven’t done before."
He froze. He was still holding you. His arms hadn't quite figured out how to let go even while his brain was screaming for him to stand at attention. His hands were shaking where they gripped your shoulders, his fingers digging into the fabric of your tunic.
"But I almost called you-" He couldn't even finish the sentence. The "swee-" he had almost uttered hung in the air like a death sentence.
"You cross the line at terms of endearment?" you questioned, raising your brow, "Really?"
For a long moment, neither of you moved. The panic in him began to subside, settling into a dull, aching throb of mutual realization. He looked down at where your legs were still interlaced, at the way your body fit against his as if you had been carved from the same stone. He didn't pull away this time. Instead, he let his head thump back against the rock.
"We're late," he whispered.
"I know."
"General Skywalker's going to have the 501st scouring this entire quadrant if we don’t show up."
"I know that, too."
Fives let out a short breath that was half laugh and half whine. He turned his head to look at you, and his General wasn't there anymore. Just the woman he told he’d rather be a traitor who felt something for.
"The second we walk out here," he began, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone, "this all goes away."
"No," you countered, reaching up to bridge the small gap between you, your fingers curling into the collar of his upper blacks, "We’re going back to the war, Fives. We have to. But I’m sure I’ll see you around."
He looked at you for a long time, his gaze tracing every line of your face as if he were trying to memorize it before he had to look at you through his HUD. He reached up, his hand covering yours on his chest, squeezing tight.
"It’s going to be hard to take an order from you without remembering how your breath felt against my neck,” he admitted.
"Then try not to remember it," you whispered, "You’re an ARC Trooper. You’ve been through worse."
You finally began the slow, agonizing process of untangling yourself. The loss of his body heat was an immediate, physical blow.. As you stood up, your joints cracking and your head feeling light from the sudden change in posture, you looked down at him.
Fives was reaching for his helmet. It sat in the dust like a skull, cold and white and empty.
"Check your leg," you ordered, the command itself tasting like ash in your mouth.
"It'll hold, General," he replied like a soldier,
He stood up, wincing as he put weight on the injured limb, but his face remained a mask of grim determination. He reached for the rest of his armor plates, the clicking of the plastic seals sounding like the ticking of a clock. Each piece of white plastoid he snapped into place was another layer of the man disappearing.
By the time he had his helmet just over his head, he stopped. He looked at you one last time. You saw the real him. The one who had cried in the dark then kissed the salt from your skin.
"Sir?"
"Yes, Fives?"
Fives dropped his hold on his helmet to his waist, staring into it again.
"General," he began. His thumbs were tracing the scuffed paint of the helmet’s side, "What really happens when we get back?."
He finally looked up, and the honesty in his eyes was brutal. It was the look of a man standing on a ledge.
"The guys. The 501st, they have this idea of me," he said with a short, self deprecating huff, "I’m the one with the jokes. I’m the one who knows his way around the lower levels of Coruscant. They think I’m some kind of ladies' man, some expert in how the rest of the galaxy lives." He shook his head slowly, "But the truth is, I’ve never spent a night remotely close to anything like that with anyone. Last night too. Not before you."
The confession hit you with more force than the crash had.
"You hit a spark in me, 'Six,'" he whispered, using the name from the street like a prayer, "Something I didn't even know was allowed to exist in a Clone. And I know a Jedi General, especially one like you, couldn't possibly be into a piece of Republic hardware as much as I’m into you. But even if I’m wrong, even if you felt exactly the same way-"
He took a step closer, his armor settling into place.
"I’m not worth it," he sighed, "I’m not worth you losing your military status. I’m not worth you getting expelled from the only life you’ve ever known. So, it’s probably best we just forget it. All of it. From the first drink at 79’s to right now. For your sake, we have to let it go."
The words felt like a ship’s hull against your chest. Your inner empath ached with a sharp, localized pain. He was trying to protect you by erasing himself, and it was the most selfless, heartbreaking thing you had ever heard.
"Fives, look at me," you snapped, stepping forward until you were close enough to feel the heat radiating off of him. You reached out, taking his hand, the one not holding the helmet, and squeezing it so hard your knuckles went white, "I am never going to forget a single moment of this. Not the bar, not the hotel, and certainly here.”
You looked him dead in the eye, your voice steady with a conviction that defied the Jedi Code, "I’m going to carry that night, and I’m going to carry every memory of you, until this war finally kills me."
Fives searched your face, his jaw clinching as he fought back whatever emotion was threatening to break his composure. A small smile, the first real one since the sun came up, tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"And what if the war doesn't kill you?" he asked softly, "What then?"
You felt a stray tear threaten to spill, but you forced a small, defiant smile to match his. You reached up and tapped the chest plate of his armor, right over his heart.
You let out a soft, sharp laugh, "Then you’d better stay alive too, Fives."
Still holding on to his hand, you continued, "Because I’ll have one last command for you. And it’ll be your job to find me in order to give it."
The air around you both seemed to vanish. Through the Force, his presence didn't just flicker - it roared. It was a sudden, violent surge of protective possessiveness and raw, unshielded hope.
For a second, he looked like he might throw his helmet at the wall and never pick it up again. His fingers tightened around yours. It was a silent, reflexive urge to pull you back into the dark and stay there forever.
"I'll find you," he promised, the vow sounding more sacred than any oath he’d ever given to the Republic, "I'll find you even if I have to crawl across every planet in the galaxy."
Fives took a final, shaky breath, as if trying to load his lungs the scent of you before the sterile, filtered air of the helmet took over. He gave you one last hopeful look before he finally pulled the helmet down.
The seal hissed shut with a mechanical finality, "Ready when you are, Sir."’
As you both stepped out of the cave, the transition from the cool, dark sanctuary to the blinding gold glare of the plains was jarring. You raised a hand to shield your eyes, but it did little to help.
Behind you, the steady sound of Fives’ steps followed. He was moving with a slight limp in his stride, his weight favoring his uninjured leg, but he didn't complain.
For the first hour, the silence was absolute, except for his deep breaths through his vocoder.. But as the terrain leveled out into a long, winding canyon of sandstone pillars, the silence began to feel less like a tactical necessity and more like a barrier.
Fives was the one to break it.
"Permission to speak freely, General?" The voice was distorted by the helmet, but unmistakable. It was the voice of the man who shined brighter than a Reactor Core yet told you that you were too bright for a clone bar.
"Always, Fives," you replied, not looking back, though you could feel him closing the gap between you.
"I’ve been running the numbers," he hummed, his head tilting as he scanned the ridgeline, "And I’ve come to a conclusion. I’m actually quite offended."
You glanced over your shoulder, eyebrow arched. "Offended? By what?"
"By the 327th," he huffed, his shoulders relaxing, "How in the kriff have I not met you before now? I’ve been through half the Outer Rim. I’ve been on more joint ops than I can count. If I’d known there was a Jedi this attractive hanging around the Star Corps, I would’ve filed for a transfer or personally reached out to Bly sooner."
You stopped mid-step, turning fully to face him. The sun was at your back, casting a long shadow over his armor. Without thinking, and purely acting on the lingering intimacy of the previous night, you reached out and playfully backhanded his chest plate. The smack of your hand against the armor was sharp and satisfying.
"Watch it, Trooper," you teased, "That’s a superior officer you’re hitting on."
Fives let out a short, static filled chuckle, his hand coming up to touch the spot where you'd struck him. He went still for a second, then cleared his throat, "Right. Sorry, Sir. Poorly timed joke. I’ll keep the compliments to a minimum until we’re off the clock."
"But on a serious note," he added softly. "I was thinking about Sledge and Striker."
The names hit you like a physical blow. You turned back toward the path, your heart tightening. Sledge and Striker - the two men who had been your twin shadows for two years.
"I can tell they meant a lot to you," Fives continued, his voice losing the vocoder’s metallic bite, "But, I could see how much you meant to them. I saw the way they looked at you during the briefings back on the ship or with your gunship. It wasn’t the normal dynamic between a General and their men. It looked like it meant much more."
He paused, his feet crunching on a patch of loose dried clay.
"I’ve only known you, the real you, for a few days," Fives went on, his honesty cutting through, "And I already feel- Well, you know how I feel. But they were with you for years. If I’ve caught this much of a spark in just a few meetings, I can’t even begin to imagine how those two must have felt about you. It must have been a hell of a thing to be in their boots."
You slowed your pace, letting him catch up until you were walking side by side. You stared out at the shimmering red horizon, thinking of Sledge’s contagious laugh and the way Striker used to always ensure your favorite flavor ration packs were hidden at the bottom of the crate.
"It wasn't like that, Fives," you shook your head, your voice barely a whisper.
"What do you mean?"
"Sledge and Striker - they were like brothers to me. They were my family," you explained, trying to find the words to describe a bond that the Jedi Order never quite prepared you for, "They were the people who saw me fail, who saw me bleed, and who still followed me into the dark. I loved them, more than I can probably ever explain. But-"
You paused, a small, sad laugh escaping your lips. You looked up at his helmet, wishing you could see the eyes behind it, "The thought of engaging in anything intimate with them? It never even crossed my mind. Not once in two years."
Fives tilted his head, his vocoder letting out a small chuckle of curiosity,"Never?"
"Never," you admitted, a laugh of sheer obscurity almost escaping your lips, "It would have felt like kissing a sibling. It was a different kind of love, Fives. It was the love of the long haul."
You stopped walking then, the heat haze dancing between you. You felt the flush creeping up your neck, and for once, it wasn't because of the sun.
"But you," your voice regained its blunt, daring edge.,"You are entirely different. I’ve known you for less than a week, and I think about the other night more than I’d ever like to admit out loud."
Fives stepped closer. Even through the helmet, you could feel the intensity of his gaze. His focus narrowed onto you like you were the only thing left in the galaxy.
"Yeah?" he rasped.
"Yeah.” A small, defiant smile tugged at your lips, “That’s kind of a problem, Fives.”
You held out your hand, ready to a finger out after each offense you were about to throw onto Fives, “You're a distraction. You're a hazard to my Jedi discipline. And if Sledge and Striker were here, they’d probably be laughing their heads off at the fact that I finally found someone who could make me forget my rank."
Fives reached out, his hand hovering near your shoulder before he caught himself and pulled back, remembering where you were. But the air between you remained charged, a shared secret that made the war feel a million miles away.
"Well," Fives exhaled, his voice dropping to the low, hum you’d come to crave, "I suppose it’s a good thing I’m an ARC trooper, then. We’re trained to handle hazards."
You laughed. For a moment, the grief for Sledge and Striker didn't disappear, but it sat alongside the hope Fives had given you, creating a complex, beautiful tapestry of what it meant to be alive in a time of death.
"Come on," you rolled your eyes, turning back to the ridge. "We have a rendezvous to meet.”
Fives, of course, had a retort for that.
“And I intend to make it to that mission you promised me."
"I'm counting on it, trooper," you mock saluted.
The final stretch across the basin felt like you were walking to the edge of the world. Your robes, once the pristine tan of the Jedi Order, were now dyed a deep, oxidized red from the dust.
Next to you, Fives was silent. His body dipped to the right every time he took a step, but his stride was strengthening. Even though it didn’t heal it perfectly, you were glad your healing had some positive effect.
"Fives," you managed, squinting against the glare, "Long-range scope. Tell me we aren't walking into a graveyard."
Without a word, Fives reached for his helmet’s controls. You watched the subtle tilt of his head as the optics zoomed, scanning the valley floor below. The silence stretched for a moment, two, then the static of his vocoder hissed.
"Movement, General. Heavy. Southeast quadrant." He paused, and you could practically feel his grin forming, "It’s us alright. AT-RTs are flanking the low ridge. And-,” he turned to face you, “I see a blue lightsaber doing some very enthusiastic slaughtering of the local droid population."
You let out a long breath, "Of course. We’re three hours late to our own rescue and Anakin’s already started the fun without us. Typical."
Fives took the calm before the storm as an opportunity to take off his helmet, "With all due respect, Sir. I think we had our own brand of fun back there. Personally, I’m not complaining about the delay."
You gave him a look. It was the one that usually silenced padawans, though it lacked its usual sting.
"Watch it, trooper," you muttered, though your lips twitched, "You’re getting a little overconsumed with the topic. Try to keep your head in the present."
Fives shifted his weight onto his good leg, "The present is exactly what I’m thinking about!"
He rested his helmet on his hip, "I’m thinking about what you said back there. About your mission for me after the war. I’ve spent my whole life fighting because it was the only thing I was built to do. I fought for the Republic because they told me I belonged to it."
He stepped closer, his body brushing your shoulder.
"But now? Ending this war just hit the top of my priority list for a very different reason. Every droid I scrap is one step closer to that mission. Every system we liberate is another step closer to that mission. Respectfully, I’m not fighting for the Republic anymore. I’m fighting to find out what comes after."
The honesty of it was staggering. You looked away, staring down at the distant explosions blooming like orange flowers on the valley floor, "I don't remember Jango Fett being much of a romantic," you joked softly, trying to deflect the sheer weight of his devotion, "Those creeps on Kamino must have forgotten a sequence or two with you."
Fives let out a genuine laugh, "Jango Fett didn't have you looking at him like he was the only man in the galaxy," he countered. "It takes the right woman to come around I suppose."
You turned to him, your expression softening into something more vulnerable than a General should ever show. You reached out, your fingers grazing the cold, hard edge of his pauldron, "I appreciate the sentiment Fives, but I can't have you being a hero because you're rushing toward a dream."
"Too late for careful, General," he admitted. He looked back out at the horizon. For a second, he wasn't looking at the battlefield. He was looking through it.
"I’ve already decided," he chirped. His tone was conversational, like if he were discussing a supply manifest instead of a radical violation of his existence, "When this is over, we’re not staying in a city. No durasteel, no Coruscant noise. I want somewhere quiet. Somewhere with a lake. Somewhere the water is clear and the air doesn't smell like smog."
He continued facing forward.
"We’ll raise our kids there. Teach them how to swim or something. Teach them things that don't involve a blaster."
The word kids hit you with the force of a sonic blast. As a Jedi, the concept of being a parent was a forbidden ghost. That was a path closed off before you were even old enough to understand what it meant. As for Fives, it was something the Kamonoians strived to be a biological impossibility. It was a dream so far beyond the scope of his design that it was practically an act of treason.
And yet, hearing him say it, especially with the absolute, unshakeable certainty in his voice, made your heart ache with a longing so sharp it felt like you were disintegrating on the spot. You didn't tell him that it’s safe to assume that’s impossible. You didn't tell him about the Council, or the Kaminoan conditioning, or the fact that Jedi didn't get ‘lakeside ever afters’.
You just smiled, "A lake, huh?"
"A big one," he promised, “A big quiet one. Where no one can bother us.”
A distant boom echoed through the canyon, a heavy artillery strike from Skywalker’s position reminding you that this dream Fives concocted was still guarded by thousands of droids and a sea of blaster fire.
"Then let's go finish this," you grinned, your voice regaining its clinical edge. You reached out and squeezed his hand one last time, "Before Anakin breaks all the toys."
Fives threw his helmet back over his head, "After you, General."
You ignited your lightsaber, the blade hissing to life. Together, you began the descent towards the battle. You moved toward the screams and the fire, but for the first time in the entire war, you weren't just fighting for peace.
oh my oh my.. requests open once more? never thought I’d see the day 🥹 ahem ANYWAYS this one has been bubbling up in my mind for quite some time now and ik you’ll do it justice sooo… the 501st (rex, jesse, kix, fives, echo, hardcase, tup and maybe dogma too - he doesn’t get enough love 💔) getting badly injured (not like omg they’re gonna die!! but more like ouch i have 3 broken ribs and a minor concussion)
possibly playing it off like it’s not that big of a deal??
possibly trying to continue as usual even tho they’re in pain??
THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU
xoxo ur biggest fan 🫶🫶🫶
501st x gn reader: playing off an injury
warnings: vague descriptions of injury obvi
Rex:
The door slid open and Rex stepped in, his footsteps a weary drag that immediately told you something was wrong. Not the usual exhaustion after a long campaign; this felt more careful, or intentional maybe. Your head snapped up from the datapad in your lap just in time to see him straighten from the doorway with obvious effort.
"Rex," you said, voice tinged with worry as you started to stand up.
"I'm fine," he answered instantly before you could ask. He gave you a tired little half-smile and your eye caught on some faint bruising spreading along his jaw, and your stomach twisted. "It looks worse than it is. Just some bruised ribs and a little concussion. Kix patched me up already."
You balked at him, eyes going wide. "Rex. Bruised ribs? A concussion? That is not 'fine'." You crossed the room before he could protest, hands immediately finding his face. Your thumb brushed over the darkening bruises along his jaw and Rex melted so fast it made your chest ache, the tension leaving his shoulders.
His eyes slid shut briefly. "Missed you." The words came out quiet, and you softened despite the concern still etched over your features. You sighed faintly, torn between admonishing him for trying to play off his injury and just pulling him into your arms and taking care of him. Affection won over in the end, and you leaned in to kiss him gently. Rex answered immediately, one hand settling at your waist while the other braced against the wall beside him like he didn't trust his balance yet.
"You should be resting. Preferably in a medbay," you whispered pointedly against his mouth.
"I'm feeling better."
"I doubt that. You walked here in full armor. I'm surprised you're even upright."
"I wanted to see you."
You exhaled, almost a sigh, and kissed him again, slower this time. He exhaled a little breath against your mouth too, relieved and exhausted. Your fingers skimmed the edge of his chestplate, finding the clasps to take it off. Rex flinched slightly and then stiffened.
"It doesn't hurt that bad," he mumbled preemptively.
"Liar."
He huffed faintly, though the corner of his mouth did quirk up just the faintest little bit. You began removing pieces of his armor one by one while Rex stood there letting you fuss over him, his own hands fumbling with some of the clasps, faint embarrassment coloring his expression.
"You're going to bed," you informed him once his armor was stripped off, pecking his lips one more time before gripping his wrist and tugging him towards the bed. Rex groaned faintly and tugged you back against him, kissing you once more, slower, like making sure you did it properly.
"Mhm. Yes, cyare."
Fives:
Fives was laughing when you spotted him. Not normal laughing, but the slightly manic, breathless kind that came after too much adrenaline. The hangar was chaos around him with troopers moving equipment and medics shouting across stretchers. Fives stood right in the middle of it, blood smeared down the side of his armor. Your stomach dropped.
"Fives," you called, moving towards him.
His head snapped toward your voice immediately, his face lighting up. "There you are." He crossed the distance fast despite the noticeable hitch in his movement. "Hey, c'mere."
Before you could protest, his arms were wrapping around you tightly. The plastoid armor dug into your skin, and beneath it, you could feel him shaking, just little tremors running through him. You pried yourself back to look at him properly, taking in the rough field bandages, his sweat-damp hair, the fresh cut along the side of his neck. "How bad are you hurt?" you asked worriedly.
"Nothing major," he assured you instantly. "Just caught some shrapnel."
"Kriff, Fives--"
"I'm serious." He managed a little smile, too fast. "You should've seen the other guy." The joke fell flat when he winced halfway through it, and your expression hardened a little. He noticed immediately and shook his head. "Don't give me that look."
"What look?"
"The one where you're realizing I'm an idiot."
"You are an idiot. Fives, you need to get to the medbay."
He groaned faintly, leaning in to press his face against your neck as he tugged you back against him. "This first."
Your hands hovered awkwardly at his sides, unsure where you could even touch him since you weren't even sure how badly he was injured. You eventually slid your arm around his waist carefully and started leading him away. "Alright. That's enough. Come on, baby."
He groaned again, but this time there was a rough edge like the pain was finally starting to register, exhaustion creeping into his expression. "Mm. Wait. Don't I deserve a kiss for surviving?"
"You deserve bacta."
"Both?"
You leaned in to press a brief kiss to his lips before guiding him toward the medbay, and his answering smile was soft enough that you almost weren't annoyed with him anymore. Almost.
Echo:
By the third day of Echo's medical leave, you had learned two things. The first was that Echo was absolutely terrible at resting, and the second was that he was apparently willing to suffer through excruciating pain before asking you for help with literally anything.
This morning, you found him in the fresher trying to pull a clean shirt over his head one-handed.
"Echo."
He startled hard enough to nearly lose his balance. "Sweetheart--I, ah--"
You cut him off with a sharp, weary exhale, stepping closer to him. His shirt was tangled halfway down his chest, one arm trapped awkwardly while he tried and failed to avoid jostling his injured shoulder. The movement had clearly exacerbated some of his pain because his breathing seemed a little shallow.
"You're supposed to be resting," you muttered, carefully starting to help him with the shirt. "Not wrestling a shirt."
"Well, the shirt started it."
Your mouth twitched despite yourself, and Echo grinned. You looked up sharply and pressed a finger against his lips. "No. Mm-mm. Don't. You're not joking yourself out of this."
"I would never," Echo retorted immediately.
You shot him a flat look, tugging the shirt the rest of the way down carefully over his shoulders. The fabric tugged just a little too hard against his bad side, and Echo's expression tightened despite his obvious effort to hide it. Your hands immediately stilled against his chest, but he shook his head.
"It's not too bad," he assured you, quieter now. "It really is getting better. Kix did say it'd hurt for a while."
You sighed, resting your hands on his waist and rubbing soft circles with your thumbs. "It'll hurt longer if you keep insisting on doing everything yourself."
He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you into a loose hug. "I don't want to bother you."
The words came a little too easily for your liking, and you wound your arms around his waist, careful to keep your touches soft. "You're never a bother to me, Echo."
He hummed faintly, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. "I know," he admitted quietly. "Just not used to it yet."
You pulled away enough to look up at him, giving him a little smile. "Well. Get used to it."
He chuckled, low and little rough. "Bossy."
"You like it."
"Mm. A little."
You leaned in just enough to kiss him softly, and Echo melted into it with an immediate sigh. "Absolutely hopeless," you muttered against his mouth.
Echo smiled faintly, brushing his nose against yours. "Good thing I've got you, then."
Kix:
It was late when you slipped into the medbay, greeted by the familiar sharp smell of antiseptic. You barely noticed it, your eyes already scanning the cots, expecting to find Kix moving around, checking troopers over and pretending he'd gotten adequate sleep over the last few days.
Instead, you spotted him in one of the cots, and your heart stopped. "Oh my god, Kix?"
He looked up immediately from where he was adjusted his own bandage. Relief crossed his face so quickly it almost distracted you from the bruising visible along his shoulder. "Oh. Hi, sweetheart." He managed a small, tired smile. "You're here."
You crossed the room in seconds, sinking down on the edge of his cot, your eyes scanning over his bandages. "What happened?"
He reached out to take your hand in his, brushing his thumb over your knuckles as if you were the one in need of care. "I'm okay," he assured you, giving your hand a squeeze. "Promise. Just a dislocation and a few scrapes."
"Just a dislocation and a few scrapes?" you repeated incredulously, your gaze catching on the thick wrap around his ribs. "Kix, you look like you can barely sit up straight."
"Occupational hazard," he said lightly, though the joke weakened when he shifted and immediately sucked in a quiet breath through his teeth.
Your expression tightened. "You're in pain."
"I'm sore," he corrected gently. "There's a difference."
"Kix--"
"Hey." His voice softened immediately, and he tugged lightly on your hand until you moved closer. "Don't worry so much, sweetheart. I just need to take it easy for a little while, and I'll be good as new."
You shook your head, still scanning over every visible bruise and bandage. "You say that every time you're hurt."
"And I heal up just fine, don't I?"
You finally looked up at that, only to find him already watching you carefully, concern lingering in his own eyes despite everything. He gave your hand a squeeze. "I'd tell you if it was serious," he assured you quietly.
You exhaled shakily. "I know."
His shoulders relaxed a little, and he lifted your joined hands enough to press a lingering kiss to your knuckles. "Stay with me a while?" he asked quietly as he lowered your hands.
You sighed, a little less worried now, and leaned in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. "Try getting rid of me."
Jesse:
Jesse looked perfectly fine from across the room. That was the problem. He walked into your apartment under his own power, helmet tucked beneath one arm, giving you the same smile he always wore after returning from a campaign. You saw a few scratches across his armor and strip of field bandaging disappearing beneath the collar of his blacks, but nothing alarming enough to make your heart stop. So you smiled in relief and crossed straight into his arms.
"Hey, handsome."
"Hey, gorgeous." His voice came out rough with exhaustion but warm regardless. One arm wrapped around your waist immediately, pulling you close enough to feel the heat of him through his armor. "Miss me?"
"Mm. Maybe a little," you murmured with a grin, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertips.
"Only a little? I gotta stay away longer next time."
You laughed softly and leaned in to kiss him, wrapping your arms around his neck…and Jesse flinched. Hard. A sharp breath escaped him before he could stop it, his body tightening. You froze, your eyes going wide, but Jesse's expression smoothed over fast.
"I'm okay," he assured you.
"That did not sound okay."
"It's nothing."
Your eyes narrowed. Now that you were close, you noticed the strain around his eyes and the careful shallowness of his breathing. "Jesse…" you muttered, your tone almost warning.
"Seriously, baby, I'm fine." He stepped back like he was trying to physically dodge the conversation. "Just sore. I just need sleep, alright? I'm gonna crash for twelve hours and then I'll be good to go."
You gave him a flat look, though the worry behind your expression was apparent. "Jesse, you flinched when I tried to kiss you. How bad are you hurt, really?"
Jesse shook his head, taking a deep breath which faltered a little on the inhale. His hand went to his side, fingers curling there hard enough to tell you exactly how bad it was, and your stomach dropped.
"Kriff, Jesse. You need to go see a medic." You stepped closer again, hands flexing like you weren't sure whether to reach for him or not. Jesse took another careful breath, and reached for you instead, pulling you against him.
"I did. Field patch. It's just some bruised ribs, I'll be okay."
You rolled your eyes, frustrated. "That's not the same thing and you know it. You're not sleeping that off, Jesse. Come on."
He shook his head again, tightening his grip on you a little. "I really, really don't want to be stuck in the medbay," he muttered, almost pleading. The honesty made your frustration soften around the edges, and you sighed, cupping his face in your hands as you looked him in the eye.
"And I really, really need you to be okay," you said pointedly, leaning in to press a soft, careful kiss to his lips before pulling away again. "You're seeing a medic. Right now."
Jesse let out a long suffering sigh, his forehead dropping briefly against yours. "You're lucky I love you."
"I know," you said softly, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone before slipping an arm carefully around his waist. "Now come on, tough guy."
Hardcase:
By the time you reached the medbay, your heart was pounding hard enough to hurt. Nobody would tell you exactly what had happened, only that Hardcase had been injured, he was being treated, and that "he'll be okay" in that careful tone that usually meant it had been bad enough to scare everyone.
The second you stepped through the doors, you spotted him, and immediately stopped in your tracks. "Hardcase."
He was halfway out of the medbay cot, one hand braced against the edge as he awkwardly reached for his armor pieces piled nearby. His blacks were rolled down around his waist, bandages stretched across his ribs and stomach. At the sound of your voice, he looked up, wide-eyed and vaguely guilty.
"…Hi, baby."
"You're joking."
"What do you mean?" he asked almost playfully, immediately wincing as he straightened too fast. "Oh, ow--"
You crossed the room, your hands landing on his upper arms to steady him. "Hardcase. I--what are you even doing?"
"Kix left for a few minutes," he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Which means I've got a small but valuable escape window."
You stared at him incredulously, your gaze dropping to his bandaged torso before flicking back up to his face. "You can barely stand."
Hardcase spread his palms, gesturing to himself. "I am standing."
You rolled your eyes and gripped his arms a little tighter before he could reach for his armor again. "Crookedly. Barely."
He winced a little at your grip, shifting his shoulder uncomfortably, but gave you a pleading look. "C'mon, baby," he coaxed, settling his hands on your hips and giving a little squeeze. "Help me out? You distract Kix, I slip out…maybe we find some empty storage closet somewhere…"
You sighed deeply, looking back down at his torso. "Are your ribs broken?"
"Allegedly."
Your gaze drifted up, lingering on his left shoulder. "And you have a dislocated shoulder?"
"Technically relocated now."
You frowned, opening your mouth to say something else frustrated and admonishing, but then his smile faltered slightly around the edges and a hint of exhaustion peeked through the bravado. You really studied his face for a second, noting the shadows beneath his eyes. Your grip on his arms softened.
"Oh, Hardcase…"
Hardcase glanced away for a second, suddenly quieter. "I'm okay. I swear. I'm alright, babe."
You sighed, bringing a hand up to cup the side of his face. He eagerly leaned into the touch. "You will be," you murmured, your tone a little more confident than you felt, "if you don't do anything stupid like try to sneak out of the medbay before you're healed."
Hardcase groaned dramatically, but his initial playfullness had significantly dulled. He dropped his forehead against yours. "But I'll miss you," he tried instead.
"I'll come visit," you retorted softly, tilting your chin up to brush your lips against his. He made a low, slightly rough sound, his grip on your hips tightening. He tried to pull you in closer and kiss you harder but you broke off with a hum of disapproval.
"Mm-mm. Not till you're healed."
Hardcase rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to argue, when suddenly, from across the medbay, Kix's voice came. "HARDCASE--!"
Hardcase sighed deeply, dropping his forehead against yours again. "Kriff. You know, I would've made it."
Tup:
Tup looked completely miserable. Not too badly injured, thank the Force, but deeply, personally offended by the fact that he was currently confined to a medbay cot with strict orders not to leave it. But the second he spotted you in the doorway, his entire expression changed.
"There you are," he breathed, relief washing visibly across his face. You crossed the room quickly, taking in his condition. His left arm was bandaged, left knee braced, and there was some scattered bruising. He also looked exhausted, dark circles lingering beneath his eyes despite the smile he gave you.
"What happened?" you asked quietly, sitting down on the edge of the cot and reaching your hand towards him. Tup took your hand immediately, holding on tight.
"Nothing bad," he promised. "The ship got hit during extraction. I just landed wrong."
"Landed wrong," you repeated skeptically. "Kix said you're on medical leave."
His expression soured instantly. "For a week," he muttered bitterly. "Which is ridiculous."
You raised an eyebrow. "Tup."
He frowned, his hand fidgeting a little with yours. "I don't want to sit around doing nothing while everyone else goes back out there."
You sighed, bringing your free hand up to gently push his dishevelled hair away from his face. "You got hurt," you murmured. "Rest isn't a punishment, sweetheart."
"I know." He swallowed thickly, his grip on your hand tightening. "Still feels like it." He paused for a moment, thumb brushing over your knuckles. "…Can you stay a while?"
You softened even further, shifting closer to sit next to him on the cot. Tup immediately curled into you carefully. One arm went around your waist as he turned his head to press his face against your shoulder with a tired groan. "You'll make it bearable," he mumbled, squeezing your hand again.
You hummed quietly, tilting your head to press a kiss to his temple. Tup melted against you even more, tension draining out of him.
"Mm," he mumbled sleepily against your shoulder after a moment. "Again."
You huffed faintly. "You're needy."
"I'm injured," he muttered seriously. "You have to be nice to me."
You chuckled. "Oh, so now you're admitting to be injured."
He smiled faintly against your shoulder. "If it'll get you to kiss me better."
You smiled, tilting his chin up so you could kiss him again on the lips this time, soft and slow, and Tup relaxed fully with a quiet, relieved sigh.
Dogma:
The medbay was quiet this late. The lights had been dimmed for the night cycle, leaving the room washed in soft blue shadows and the steady hum of medical monitors. A few cots were occupied with sleeping clones, but Dogma was sitting rigidly upright.
His back was painfully straight despite the bandaging wrapped around his torso, his arms crossed tightly enough to suggest that he was either uncomfortable or irritated. Probably both. But when he noticed you approaching, his entire expression changed all at once.
"Hey," you whispered, sitting down on the edge of the cot. Dogma immediately tried to look less inured than he actually was, shifting to adjust his posture, but his wince gave him away.
"You shouldn't be awake," he said instead, going rigid again.
You blinked. "I came to see you."
"I'm fine."
You gave him a flat look. "Yeah. Sure. You look it."
He frowned, another little wince twisting his expression for a second, and you immediately regretted the statement. You shifted a little closer with a sigh.
"What happened?"
His voice trembled as he spoke. "Nothing I couldn't handle."
"Dogma."
His jaw tightened. "The mission was completed successfully. That's what matters. I'm fine." But there was frustration underneath the words too, maybe at being injured, maybe that you had to see him like this at all. You shifted even closer, carefully sitting next to him on the cot, and some of the stiffness left his shoulders at the proximity.
"Look at me," you coaxed him gently. He swallowed hard, his expression suddenly much more vulnerable. "You don't have to get so defensive with me."
"I'm not getting defensive."
You gave him a look.
"…Maybe a little."
You hummed, lifting a hand to brush along his cheek, and he melted instantly, just like he always did. His eyes closed before he could stop himself, shoulders dropping all at once as he leaned into your palm with a soft, tired exhale.
"There he is," you whispered fondly.
Dogma looked embarrassed for the briefest moment before turning his head to press a lingering kiss to your wrist. "I just don't like you worrying," he admitted quietly.
"I'm always going to worry about you."
His expression softened completely at that, and he leaned forward carefully, one hand sliding around your waist as he kissed you properly this time, slow and affectionate and gentle. "They--they'll get annoyed if you stay," he mumbled against your mouth, as if reluctant to voice it.
You shook your head faintly. "Don't care."
Dogma hesitated, as if debating whether or not he should actually push back, but then just sighed and pressed his lips to yours again. Rules could be bent just this once.
Summary: You and Fives are forced to navigate the deadly heat storm while still avoiding the lingering bitterness of what happened on Coruscant.
Word Count: 4.3k
Warnings: forced proximity, the heat storm isn't the only heat
A/N: You ask and you shall receive.
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You sat in the dark, your back pressed against the wall, listening to the rhythm of each of your breaths. Your own breath was shallow, hitched with the effort of cooling your internal temperature, while the ragged, wet, and heavy one belonged to the ARC trooper slumped a few meters away.
The heat had settled into the cave like an unwelcomed guest. It felt like breathing in dry wool. Every time you blinked, your eyelids felt as though they were scraping across sandpaper. You didn’t move at first. You simply existed in that sensory void, waiting for the ringing in your ears to subside so you could gauge exactly where you were.
"General?"
The word was a rasp, barely a vibration in the stagnant air. Fives didn’t move his head, but you could feel the shift in his alertness.
"Yes?" you answered. Your voice sounded foreign to your own ears, stripped of the authoritative resonance you typically used.
Fives forced himself to crawl toward you. The ground was a graveyard of pebbles and silt, biting into his palms, but he ignored it. When he reached you, the heat radiating off his armor was immense. He had managed to strip off his helmet, thigh plates and the uppermost plates of his chest piece, but his blacks were soaked through with a mixture of sweat and the dark, tacky smear of blood.
The crash spared Fives, but now, the reality of his injuries began to come to light in the quiet.
"Your head," Fives whispered, his fingers twitching toward your forehead.
Without a med pac or a single bit of bacta, you were reduced to whatever you both managed to have in an emergency supply pac.
His fingers hovered just over your forehead, close enough to feel the heat radiating off them.
You leaned away from his touch, looking down at his leg. This time, you reached out, your fingers grazing the jagged tear in his thigh where a piece of the gunship’s fuselage had carved into his skin. Even with his blacks on, the wound looked angry, its edges puckered and grey with dust.
“I’m more concerned about your leg,” you countered, wincing at his injury.
Without hesitation, you swung your legs around, trading the support of the wall for a burn in your thighs. You sat back on your heels and angled yourself towards Fives, giving him your full attention.
You closed your eyes, reaching for the Force. It was difficult here. You had to reach deeper, pulling from the core of your own discipline.
As your palms finally made contact with his skin, pressing down firmly, Fives let out a groan. He went rigid, his head thumping back against the stone.
"I know," you murmured, leaning closer until your forehead almost brushed his. "I know it hurts. Just breathe with me."
You didn't perform a miracle. You couldn't knit the muscle back together or replace the blood he’d lost. Instead, you focused on the nerves. You visualized the flares of his pain and you began to dampen them. You sank your consciousness into his, creating a bridge of calm.
Slowly, he lifted his head off the rock and pushed his forehead against yours - just like he did in the hotel on Coruscant when you were simply strangers.
Yet somehow, this was more intimate than that night ever was. There, it had been about the friction of skin and the desperate need to forget. Here, it was about the interlacing of the living Force. You felt the steady beat of his heart. He felt you too, You could tell by the way his hand suddenly found your wrist in the dark, his grip bruisingly tight as the pain receded into a dull, manageable ache. For a moment, rank ceased to exist.
When you finally pulled back, you were breathing deeply. The effort had left you lightheaded, your vision swimming with dark spots.
“Better?”
"Better," he managed, his voice a fraction steadier. He didn't let go of your wrist immediately. “You didn’t have to do that."
"It's my job to keep you alive, Fives," you exhaled, trying to regain the shield of professionalism.
"Liar," he whispered, his eyes meeting yours.
You moved away to hide the flush you knew was creeping up your neck despite the heat. To occupy the silence, you turned your attention to the small pile of supplies you both had dragged into the crevice.
You pulled the dented emergency canteen toward you. It was supposed to be a standard issue three day supply for a full squad, but the crash had ruptured the secondary seals.
When you unscrewed the cap, the sound of the water sloshing inside was the most beautiful and terrifying thing you had ever heard. You looked at the gauge.
One liter.
One liter of recycled, lukewarm water for two people in air that was still hovering at forty degrees Celsius.
"How much?" Fives asked. He was watching you, though in those eyes, you could still see the lingering pain from his leg injury.
"Enough," you lied again.
You took a small collapsible cup and poured a small amount. It was barely more than a few mouthfuls, but regardless, you handed it to him.
Next, you pulled out the ration bars. There were four left. Two for him, two for you. Or, more realistically, three for him if you wanted him to survive the incoming infection, and one for you to keep your focus long enough to get to the rendezvous.
You laid the items out on a flat stone in front of you like an altar. The water, the bars, the single remaining thermal detonator, and the broken comms-unit.
"We wait for the sun to go down," you decided, your voice regaining its clinical edge, "Once the surface temperature hits the safety threshold, we’ll climb to the ridge. Then, we’ll see if we can get a transmission out to the other units. We’ll confirm their location and meet up with them there."
"And if they don't respond?"
"They will."
"You say that like you can see the future, General. I thought you Jedi said the future was always in motion,” Fives huffed.
You looked over at him, "I don't need the Force to know that Anakin Skywalker won't leave one of his men behind."
"General Skywalker, maybe not," Fives muttered, leaning his head back again, "But this war doesn't usually wait for two people to hold out for a storm and finish a conversation in a cave."
You didn’t have a response for that. Instead, you gathered what little you had and tucked it back into the emergency pack. Fives was right, you knew he was. But he was injured and the air outside would cook both of you alive - you had no choice but to stay.
You let his remark fade into the air as you shifted your focus back onto his wound, “I’m going to try to patch up the ripped fabric.”
Fives cleared his throat. It was a harsh, dry sound that seemed to grate against the very walls of the cave. He started to form a word, but he aborted it before it could take shape. He shifted again. He wasn't looking at you. His gaze was fixed intently on the scuffed toe of his right boot. His fingers were lazily tracing the patterns in the dust on the ground.
He took another breath, deeper this time, his chest expanding against his upper blacks.
"Sir," he began, then immediately winced at the title. He bit his lip, his brow furrowing like he was trying to find his next words, "I- I haven’t exactly been making this easy. Not the crash, not the campaign. Not any of it."
He stopped again. The air between you felt like it was thickening. For a clone, vulnerability was a foreign language, one they were never taught on Kamino. They were built for tactical analysis and battlefield bravado, not for the delicate navigation of regret.
"I was out of line," he finally admitted, the words coming out in a rush, as if he had to expel them before they choked him. "At the briefing. On the ship. I shouldn't have said the things I said."
He finally looked up, though his eyes didn't quite meet yours. They landed somewhere near your collarbone, his pupils blown wide in the dim light. "It was seeing everything as a lie. I mean, we’re soldiers, we get that. Deception is a tool. But it was the fact that I didn't see it. I'm an ARC trooper. I’m trained to see through every feint, every disguise, every thermal signature in the dark." He let out a short, self deprecating huff of air, "And I spent a whole night with a Jedi and thought I was just talking to a girl who liked the way I looked after a few drinks."
He paused, and the weight of his embarrassment rippled through the Force.
"I was embarrassed," he sighed, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "I felt like a cadet who’d been tricked by a training droid. I took that out on you. I decided that if you could play a part so well, then everything you did from that moment on was just another performance. I treated you like a tactical problem to be solved instead of- instead of you."
As he spoke, your heart began to hammer a frantic, uneven rhythm against your ribs. The sound of it seemed to fill your ears. You felt a desperate, almost tidal pull to close the distance between you with an embrace. Every muscle in your arm tensed, your shoulders twitching toward the space between your seated forms. You wanted to reach out, to lay a hand on his forearm, to tell him that his "failure" to see the General was the greatest gift anyone had given you in years.
But you didn't. You remained anchored to where you were seated, your hands curled into tight fists in your lap. The Jedi Code stood between you, reminding you that every inch you moved toward him was an inch further away from the detachment your station demanded. You felt the ache of a physical hollow in your chest that nothing you could have could fill.
Fives seemed to misinterpret your silence as judgment. He finally met your eyes.
"I've been a karking nightmare since I found out," he said, his voice regaining some of its characteristic grit, "The attitude in the briefings, the 'yes, generals' that sounded more like insults than acknowledgments. I was trying to turn you into my superior. I figured if I was rude enough, if I was difficult enough, I could force you back into that box. I could make myself forget that I actually know the sound of your real laugh, not the one you use when in a briefing."
He looked away then, back at his feet, the confession hanging in the air like smoke. "I’m sorry. You’re the General. You’re my CO and you were doing what you had to do to push through the war. I shouldn't have punished you for wanting to breathe for a night."
The apology was absolute. It was a surrender more profound than any he would ever give on a battlefield. You watched the way his shoulders finally dropped, the tension leaving his frame as he finished the thought. He had stripped himself of his defiance, leaving only the man beneath the armor, waiting in the hot, dark silence for a response you weren't sure you were allowed to give.
Your throat felt tight, scorched by more than just the Rylothian heat. You realized that while he was apologizing for being rude, he was actually apologizing for being hurt. And as much as the General in you wanted to accept the apology with a professional nod, the woman who had stood on that Coruscant balcony wanted to tell him that she was the one who was sorry for being the reason he had to hurt at all.
"It wasn't a game, Fives," you shook your head, your voice barely a whisper, yet it seemed to fill the hollow space around you. You finally looked at him, not with the piercing gaze of a General, but with the tired eyes of the woman he had met at 79’s. "Being a traveler wasn't just a cover story I pulled out of a manual. It was a vacation. It was the only way I could find to step out of my own skin for a few hours."
"Every morning I wake up and I’m not just a Jedi. I’m an army General," you continued, the word General sounding like a curse, "I put the title on like a suit of heavy armor. It’s stiff, it’s cold, and it’s designed to keep everyone at a distance. It’s designed to make sure that when I look at a casualty list, I see numbers and tactical setbacks instead of faces. It's designed to make the men look at me and see a symbol of the Republic instead of a person who is just as terrified as they are."
You let out a deep breath, the heat of the storm pressing in.
"That night I just wanted the armor off. I wanted to be someone who didn't have the power of life and death in her hands. I wanted to be someone whose only responsibility was getting a drink and watching people like me let loose. A map reader? She’s invisible. She’s unimportant. She doesn’t have to worry about whether her next order is going to send a hundred men into a meat grinder."
You opened your eyes and found him watching you with an intensity that you could feel in your chest.
"I lied because I wanted to see if I still existed without the title," you admitted, the vulnerability of the statement feeling more dangerous than the heat storm, "And for a few hours, with you, I did. I wasn't the Jedi who was supposed to have all the answers. I was just a woman in a bar. It was the most honest I’ve felt since the war began."
Fives sat silent for a long time. The heat storm outside kicked up enough dust to block out nearly all the sunlight, making your shelter darker and darker by the minute.
When Fives finally spoke, there was barely any light left. His voice didn't have the edge of a soldier. It had the resonance of someone who had spent his entire life looking through a visor at a world he wasn't allowed to join.
"You think I didn't know you were lying about the job?" he asked softly.
Your heart skipped. You looked at him, startled.
"I knew you weren't someone who worked behind a desk," Fives continued, a faint, ghost of a smile touching his lips, "No one like that carries themselves the way you do. They don’t have eyes that look like they’ve seen the end of the world and decided it was inevitable. I just didn't care what the lie was because when I looked at you that night, I didn't see a job title. I saw someone who looked exactly how I feel every time I’m standing at attention on deck."
His hand moved as if to reach for yours, then hesitated. Against all better judgement, you moved towards him, settling right as his side, and taking his hand.
"I saw someone who was lonely," he breathed out deeply, the word ‘lonely’ hitting you with the force of a physical blow, "Not just quiet lonely or bored lonely. I mean the kind of loneliness that comes from being surrounded by thousands of people who only know one version of you. I’m a clone, General. I’m one of millions. My face is everywhere. My voice is everywhere. But I can go weeks without anyone actually seeing me. They see the armor, they see the rank, they see the ARC armor. But they don't see me."
He looked towards the narrow tunnel leading to the outside, then back to you, "That night on Coruscant, you looked at me like I was the only person in the galaxy. And you looked like you were hoping I’d do the same for you."
The luxury of the Coruscant hotel and the misery of the Ryloth bled together in that moment. Both were places outside the war. One a dream of silk and passion, the other a nightmare of heat and dirt.
"I hated you for it," Fives whispered, his honesty cutting through the warm, stagnant air, "When I saw you in the briefing room, I hated you for being the General because it meant the woman I saw- The one who was just as lost as I was- That woman was supposed to be my superior. It meant I had to go back to being a number, and you had to go back to being the person who gives the orders. It meant the only time we could be real was when we were pretending to be someone else."
You felt a tear trace a hot, salty path through the dust on your cheek. You didn't wipe it away. It added to the resonant ache of the truth. You were both property of a greater order that demanded you be icons, not individuals.
"Fives," you started, but your voice failed you.
"I know," he said, and for the first time, the "sir" was gone and it didn't feel like a violation of protocol. It felt like a recognition, "I know. We're back in the armor now. But I'm not going to forget who’s inside yours."
Through the Force, his presence was no longer a swirl of defensive anger. It was a vast, open landscape of longing. You felt the raw edge of his individuality. In his eyes, you weren't a Jedi, you weren't a General in the GAR, you weren't even that traveller from the lower levels. You were a woman who had seen the core of him and hadn't looked away.
Your gaze was still locked on his, your faces on the edge of being dangerously close. By now, the rogue tear on your cheek began to evaporate, leaving a trail of salt in its wake. But, the longer you kept eye contact, the more the threat grew that another one would soon follow. In his eyes, you saw the toll of the war, the impending end of the storm that would force you both back into your roles, everything, all compressed into a single, agonizing point. Each breath you took seemed to come deeper and heavier than the last.
If you were to blink at the wrong moment, you would have missed the flicker of his gaze down to your lips and back to your eyes. It was a silent question. You saw the vulnerability in the twitch of his jaw, the way he seemed to be bracing himself for a rejection he expected.
“I see you Fives.”
With that, the snap was instantaneous.
It wasn't a slow movement. It was an inevitable collision. You leaned forward at the exact moment he surged toward you, the space between you vanishing like a dream right before you wake up.
The kiss was a desperate, primal reclamation of yourselves. It was passionate and uncoordinated, fueled by suppressed tension and the sudden, violent realization that both of you craved each other. Fives’ hands, calloused and steady, found your face, his fingers tangling into the sweat matted hair at your temples with a possessive grip. He kissed you with his forehead pressing hard against yours, as if he were trying to memorize the taste of you. As if this were the last time he would see you in his lifetime.
You met him with a ferocity that surprised even yourself. Your hands gripped the edges of his damp blacks, pulling him closer until the hard plates of his remaining armor pressed painfully against you. You didn't care. The pain was grounding. It was a reminder that you were both solid, both alive, both here in the dark.
All while being careful to avoid the gash on his leg, he scooped his arm behind your back and pulled you up onto his lap, deepening the kiss.
At that moment, the dam finally broke. The first sob caught in your throat. You felt the hot, wet trail of a fresh tear slide down your cheek, catching at the corner of your mouth as you moved against him. You weren't the only one. Against your skin, you felt the dampness of his own tears, spilling from eyes that usually kept the composure of a conditioned soldier.
For a clone, tears were a defect. For a Jedi, they were a failure of discipline. But here, they were the only honest things left.
He tasted of salt and grit and the bitter tang of the ration water, but beneath it was the heat of a man who had spent his whole life being told he was a copy, finding proof in your arms that he was singular.
Every time your lips parted to draw in the stifling cave air, you could feel the moisture on his skin, the salt mingling with yours until you couldn't tell whose grief was whose.
In that kiss, there was an apology for the lies on Coruscant, a goodbye to the roles you were forced to have, and a defiant, silent scream against the destiny the Republic had carved for each of you. There was no rank here. There was no Jedi Code. There was only the sensation of his breath against yours and the devastating, beautiful truth of what you had become to one another.
The heat in the cave was no longer coming from the storm. It radiated from the two of you like a feverish, desperate energy that refuses to dissipate. The kiss deepened until it was no longer just about passion. It was about a frantic need to be anchored. You pull him closer, your fingers clenched to his hair, while his hands remain locked on your face, his thumbs tracing the curve of your jaw with a bruising pressure.
You stayed in that collision until your lips felt swollen, the salt of your combined tears stinging the small cuts caused by the sand in the air. When you finally pulled back, it wasn’t because you wanted to. It was because the oxygen starved air of the cavern demanded it.
You both retreated only a few inches, just enough to catch a ragged breath, but you didn’t break the connection. Your foreheads remain depressed together, your eyes closed, listening to the frantic, synchronized beat of two hearts trying to find their rhythm again.
Before you can pull away, Fives broke the space you. It was a tiny, infinitesimal movement as he moved his head just enough to press one last kiss to your lips.
It wasn’t like the others. There was no desperation in this one. It was soft, lingering, and devastatingly gentle. It felt like a promise. Like an acknowledgment of the woman he found in the dark, a quiet "I see you" that meant more than any order. When he pulled back this time, he lingered for a second longer against your skin, his breath warm against your cheek, before he finally let his hands drop.
You sat on his lap, paralyzed by the sudden, sharp clarity of the Force. You saw yourself not as the woman who had just found solace, but as a Jedi who had just shattered a vow that had been the spine of her entire life. Every teaching, every warning about the "path to the dark side" and the "shackles of attachment," began to ring in your ears..
Under you, you felt Fives go rigid. The tenderness of the last kiss hadn't faded, but it was being rapidly overtaken by a frantic energy. You could hear his heavy, uneven, and terrified breathing.
"Sir?" he whispered. The title was back, but it sounded broken.
You didn't answer. You couldn't. You were staring into the dark where you knew his face was, feeling the immense, terrifying weight of the Jedi Order between you. You looked at your hands, the hands that were supposed to belong to the Jedi, and realized they were still trembling with the memory of his skin.
You weren't a free woman. You were a General. He wasn't a free man. He was a soldier created in a lab, marked with a serial number, and owned by a government that didn't recognize his right to love the person leading him.
The guilt hit you then, a physical blow to the stomach. You had given him something he could never safely keep.
"Fives," you started,but found yourself stumbling over words, "We. We-”
"No," he rasped, “No. No. No. Don't tell me this was just the delirium of the heat, or-."
He reached out, his hand catching your shoulder, his grip almost painful in its desperation. Even without the light, you could feel the intensity of his stare.
"Fives,," you whispered, reaching up to cover his hand with yours, but your touch felt like a betrayal, "If anyone finds out, we’d-"
"Let them," he cut you off, snaking his arms around you and pulling you into his chest.
He brought his lips to the side of your head, and mumbled an oath into your ear, "I’d rather be a traitor who felt something than a perfect soldier who felt nothing."
how clone characters tell you that you're pretty (my headcanons)
a/n: ugh i love my soft silly stupid boys do u guys just get cuteness aggression when you watch tcw and tbb bc i def do agghh <33
fem reader
warnings: none
hunter doesn't draw much attention to his compliments. he prefers to murmur them in passing, between kisses as he tucks your hair behind your ear and sighs, "you're so beautiful," before closing the distance between your lips again. he brings his mouth close to your ear from behind you when you're out together, his sharp gaze noticing everyone who's staring at you. "looks like you've got quite the fan club."
tech can keep a lot of his thoughts about you to himself, but he can't and won't tell a lie. he's mesmerized as you ask him, "how do i look?" and the silence worries you at first until he blinks and clears his throat, swiftly crossing the room to adjust some stray hairs or wrinkled fabric. he leans down and kisses your shoulder, murmuring, "stunning as ever" in a tone that indicates he's not surprised, not one bit.
wrecker is loud and proud about how beautiful you are until he's saying it to your face, suddenly a bit shy as the sight of you flusters him. there's something about such a big and strong man like him getting all nervous in front of you, but that's the effect you have on him, and he rubs the back of his neck, chuckling, "wow, look at you..." trailing off like he's at a loss for words. "think you're too pretty for me..."
crosshair observes everything about you with meticulous interest. he's the first to notice when you've changed your hair or worn a new top, even if he's not the first to bring it up. he tilts his head to the side a bit, smiling at you as he says, "you look nice today." you tease him, "so i don't look nice every day?" and he snickers under his breath. "don't push it," he teases back, but the softening in his eyes says otherwise.
echo thinks you're pretty all the time, but he tells you when it means the most to him. like in the morning, waking up in his arms, your hair still a mess. he kisses you softly, whispering, "morning, beautiful..." even though you feel like the opposite. or when he's complimenting something specific, murmuring, "there's that pretty smile" after making you laugh, especially if you were upset just a few moments ago.
wolffe tells you that you're pretty through direct orders. it's less of the actual words themselves and more the way he mutters, "wear that little dress tomorrow, the black one." or when he catches you in the middle of your makeup routine, tilting your chin up at him as he frowns and says, "you don't need this shit." you swat his hands away, telling him, "it's not for you, silly, i like it." he rolls his eyes, murmuring, "alright, pretty girl..." under his breath, but you hear it, and you know you have his soft side all to yourself even though he's usually not the type for lovey dovey compliments.
fox gets a little defensive when you catch him looking at you, muttering an excuse like, "something on your face," but when you reach up to brush it away, he sighs and grabs your hand, staring into your wide eyes. "i lied." then he pauses. "you look good." the words feel foreign on his tongue, but he sees the way your expression lights up, and his face warms as he realizes he should've said something sooner.
cody can't think straight when you look good around him, which is all the time. "you're distracting me all day," he says in a low tone, his nose brushing the side of your face. "can't focus 'cause of you," he mutters. "i'm sorry—am i bothering you, commander?" you tease him, leaning into his proximity as he kisses your cheek, his lips curving against your skin with a smile. "not a bother, beautiful," he says.
mayday is the type of gentleman who prefers to use the words "beautiful," "pretty," and "cute" to describe you; he thinks anything else is pretty much childish. he wraps a strong arm around your shoulder to pull you close, kissing your temple as he murmurs, "my pretty lady..." in your ear, smiling when you start to giggle softly. he sighs and rests his lips on the crown of your head, saying, "i'm a lucky man..."
rex worships you like no other. sometimes it's casual, like when he smiles at you and says, "you look nice, baby," at your outfit and other times, it's desperate, his eyes staring into yours as his lips trail down your stomach, tickling your squirming body with soft kisses. "you're so beautiful," he whispers, "you know what you do to me? hmm?" and either way he just needs you to know how crazy you make him.
fives isn't afraid to be vocal about how beautiful you are to him. he sneaks these compliments into your everyday conversations. you call out his name to get his attention, and he slowly glances up with a smile while replying, "yeah, gorgeous?" grinning wider as you start to blush. he greets you with some variation of "hey, sexy," or "missed you, pretty girl," and kisses you no matter how many eyes are on him.
kix has these moments where he just looks at you when you're not paying attention, absentmindedly smiling to himself before he casts his gaze away, blushing a bit. you glance over to see that he still has that smitten look all over his face, so you ask what's got him smiling like that, only to blush as well when he answers, "my pretty girlfriend." you laugh and roll your eyes, calling him corny, but he knows you like it.
jesse is bold in calling you things like "cutie" and "hot stuff" all the time, especially to make you laugh, but telling you that you're pretty gets his heart racing for a reason he doesn't understand. he just thinks he's gonna fuck up every time the words are on the tip of his tongue, even though it's always so easy when he cups your face and looks into your eyes, smiling as says, "you're my pretty girl, you know that?"
hardcase pretends he's still courting you when he compliments you. he pulls you close by the waist, whispering, "wow, you're gorgeous...you got a boyfriend?" and you play along, replying, "mhmm, i do. he's quite handsome, actually..." he grins and says, "dunno, i think you're out of his league," both of you laughing together before he kisses you, letting his hands roam around your hips, squeezing playfully.
gregor shamelessly whistles under his breath every time you walk into a room where he immediately perks up to look at you, smiling in excitement. "damn, you look good," he chuckles. it doesn't matter how long you've been together, he always has the same reaction and can't get his hands off of you, reaching for you as he mumbles some bullshit about how "your lips look so kissable right now." silly boy.
howzer feels his breath catch as the sun hits your face a certain way, and your eyes start to glow in their color. he swallows hard, facing forward as he loses his train of thought, falling silent. you glance at him curiously, and he stares at the ground. "i feel like an idiot," he chuckles, shaking his head. "you're so pretty, it's making me nervous." then he looks at you, his chest tight from how beautiful you are.
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This is my gift for the #cloneficgiftexchange, for the lovely @arctrooper69! I'd heard Jesse was the least requested character in this event so I think I have to pick him from your list of options for this prompt! 😁 Poor guy just needs some love...
Please go check out the @cloneficgiftexchange blog for all the other contributions to this great event! Fics are being posted all throughout today (4/8). Spread the love for fandom writers/creators by reblogging!
Prompt: "I know you said you were falling for me but I didn't expect you to actually fall."
Jesse was a huge flirt.
Everyone knew it. He knew it. For reasons you couldn't comprehend, the skilled and strong ARC trooper, with so many good qualities to his name, put an incredible amount of effort into making "huge flirt" his identifying trait. From little winks to obvious showboating, from cute nicknames to devastating pick-up lines, Jesse made his way around the galaxy with nonstop charm.
You'd been amused at first. You'd never known someone so unabashedly flirtatious as him. It was always the highlight of your day to see him saunter up to your desk with a silly eyebrow wiggle or a teasing comment about your glamorous life as an accountant for the GAR. Even seeing him flirt with others made you laugh. Their reactions to him, ranging from bashful giggles to exasperated eye rolls, broke up the monotony of your day like nothing else could. If you'd had to pick back then, you would've said Jesse was your favorite of the clone troopers.
And then one day, he'd crossed a line. Not in an inappropriate way or anything; no, somehow he always managed to be respectful in that regard, even with his more suggestive comments. It was a line that, once crossed, took your feelings into actual "crush" territory. That, you now suspected, was the start of all the misery you currently felt.
He'd called you a hottie. Not the most intimate or special of names, but it had struck a meaningful chord in you.
"Are you kidding? You're a hottie. A total babe. There'd be a line out the door of guys trying to buy you a drink. Right fellas?"
He was responding to an offhand comment you'd made about not being the type of girl to fit in at 79's. Jesse and a few of his brothers were trying to round up a group to visit the clone bar later that night. Maybe the others had agreed with his flattering response, but you hadn't listened beyond that one word.
Hottie.
Not once in your life had anyone described you that way. Hot, sexy... heck, even just attractive... those weren't words anyone associated with you. The few times your appearance was complimented, it was more along the lines of cute. Maybe pretty if you dressed up a bit. You'd spent your whole adult life up to this moment believing you were undesirable to the opposite sex. Jesse changed your mind.
And after that, he was the only man you had eyes for.
His flirting stirred something different in you. It was a mixture of both pleasant tingles and sour pain. Pleasant when his comments were directed toward you. You ate it up, not bothering to hide your blushes as it only egged him on. You wanted his attentions, as much as you could wring out. And sour when he approached others with the same moves. You didn't just want his attention; you wanted all of it. Seeing him make someone else blush and laugh reminded you of all your insecurities, all the ways you knew you were inferior. You wavered back and forth between loving Jesse and all his charms, and hating how quick he was to just give it away so freely.
The 501st had been back on Coruscant for R&R an almost two full weeks now. Plenty of time to send you spiraling. You saw Jesse almost everywhere you went. In the mess hall, in random hallways, at your own desk because apparently it got good sunlight in the afternoons and he cared about that sort of thing.... The only place you could find reprieve was your living quarters, where you found yourself crumpling into bed with emotional exhaustion each evening.
Even when you didn't see Jesse you still heard about him. All of your friends and colleagues around the base were chattering about whatever smooth compliment he'd paid them that day. There was an ongoing debate in the accounting office over who the sexiest clone was, and your ears couldn't help but turn red every time you heard someone arguing for Jesse. And it was guaranteed you'd hear some story over the caf machine about his moves on the dance floor at 79's the night before. You often scurried away before you could catch any further details, like whether he took anyone home with him. Even if it meant you never got to make your caf the way you liked it.
It was ridiculous how crazy this guy was making you. You were convinced he'd only called you a hottie because you felt sorry for you. Right? How else could he put you in the same category of all these other people who were clearly so much better looking. But sometimes, just for a few minutes in the morning, you'd look in the mirror and pretend you were attractive to him, and this lovely feeling of butterflies washed over you. It was the best feeling, to think that someone like him, Jesse, could want you.
And so you'd carry that light and fuzzy feeling around until you inevitably heard another bar story or saw him flash a smile to some random civvie, and then you'd come crashing down in insecurities all over again.
Just when you were considering maybe seeking some professional help, you found yourself crossing his path just outside the training rooms.
"Whoa!" Jesse exclaimed as you both rounded the same corner and almost collided. He quickly reached out to grasp your shoulders and keep you from falling over. His chest, you immediately noticed, as it was mere inches from your face, was bare and dripping in sweat.
"Easy there, cutie," he chuckled, the first to recover from the surprise.
Cutie. A far cry from being hot. You shuffled back and mumbled an apology, finding it difficult to meet his eyes. Equally difficult was not staring at his shimmering muscles. Your eyes flitted around, searching for something else to fixate on instead.
"What are you doing down here? I thought you said accountants didn't work out. Something about your bodies only being a transport for your heads?" He gave another chuckle and started dabbing his face with a towel. You were surprised he'd remembered that joke you'd made months ago.
"Oh, um..." You were still awkwardly looking around the hallway and it took you an embarrassing amount of time to remember why you were there. "Yeah no, I was uh, meeting with a manufacturer. Had to get some quotes to replace some of the exercise equipment."
Jesse's face lit up just as your eyes flicked to his. Your stomach twisted pleasantly.
"We're getting new equipment? Finally! Half my workout is just trying to get the kriffing treadmill to turn on."
"We'll see," you quickly tried to warn him from getting his hopes up. "It's not cheap, and with the increases in spending for munitions this quarter, there's not a whole lot of funds left to allocate for things like this. I'll have to make a pitch to shift some assets around, or possibly delay that upgrade to the... what?"
You noticed Jesse was chuckling again.
"Oh I love it when you talk budgets to me, sweetheart."
You could feel your cheeks heating up. You weren't sure how to respond, which seemed to amuse Jesse even further. He playfully swatted the towel toward your side as he started to go past you, ready to move on to wherever he'd been headed before.
"Hey, you doing anything later? You know, after you're done with all those funds and assets and whatever?"
You turned to see him walking slowly backward, waiting for your answer. Was he asking you out or merely making chitchat? It didn't seem like a casual offer, or an afterthought, though you couldn't be sure.
"Um, depends." It was your default line anytime someone asked about your availability. Vague enough and non-committal in either direction. You never got trapped into plans you didn't want to be part of, and you were never impolite about it.
"Depends?" he quirked his eyebrow and stopped walking. "Well aren't you a coy one. Didn't realize I'd need to impress you so much."
You weren't sure how to respond to that either. You were all sorts of tongue tied and you were still doing a poor job of not checking out his chest.
"Okay, okay, hear me out," he went on, not seeming too put out by your response. "I know you're not into the bar scene, but there's gonna be this local band at 79's tonight... they do more acoustics and vocals, so, you know, it'll be pretty low key. And a lot of the guys are set on getting tattoos tonight which means it won't be as crowded. I don't know, figured you might be more into that?"
"And... this would be... with you?"
For the first time, you started to see cracks in Jesse's confidence. Just barely. Hairline fractures. Subtle enough to fool anyone who wasn't paying attention, but as evident to you as if they were your own. Jesse cleared his throat and slung the towel over his shoulder, trying to play it off.
"I mean, yeah. If you wanted to. I just have tonight, we finally got our next deployment and it'll be a while so... well, you know, just wanted to spend my last night here with some good company."
This time you did know how to respond, but for some reason your voice wouldn't cooperate. You wanted to holler Yes! and jump for joy, wrap your arms around his neck and give him a smooch. ARC trooper Jesse, the debonair soldier, the only man you had eyes for, was asking for your company.
You heard your name followed by a Hellooo? and suddenly there was a hand waving in front of your face.
"I'm trying to ask you out, girl. You gotta give me something here!" Jesse laughed, and the warmth in his smile brought you back to reality.
"Yes," you breathed, and then swallowed and said more clearly, "yes, of course! I... I would love to."
"Really?"
You nodded enthusiastically. Jesse made a little fist pump.
"Yes! You had me worried for a second there." He started walking backwards again. "But okay, cool. Um, I gotta clean up, and then we got a few mission briefings. Let's meet there at, say... 5? Happy hour, so first round can be on me."
He winked and you giggled, feeling your cheeks heat up again.
"5 o'clock," you confirmed.
"Can't wait, beautiful!" he called over his shoulder as he finally turned around skipped through the fresher door at the end of the hall.
* * *
The rest of your day went by at an agonizing pace, but you finally got off work and could have a little moment of celebration in your quarters, complete with squealing into your pillow and dancing all around. You didn't have too much time to get ready, which ended up being a blessing as you would have surely spent hours cycling through various outfit combinations. You were able to pick the first outfit that came to your mind - cute, comfortable, and very you - without doubting or changing your mind. You spent the rest of your time taming your hair and calming your nerves.
Your anxieties only crept in occasionally, asking such annoying questions as whether you were the only one he'd asked out like this during his time off, or whether he would've found a way to ask you even had you not run into him in the halls.
But there had been joy in his smiles, relief in those tense and deliciously muscular shoulders when you'd agreed. He'd seemed so genuine. How could you worry about whether you were good enough when he'd very clearly asked you out?
So you shoved those pesky thoughts to the side, in a way you hadn't known how to do earlier when there were so many unknowns and uncertainties about the situation. Jesse liked you, he wanted to spend time with you before leaving. That was that.
You got to 79's only a few minutes early and placed yourself comfortably at the bar to wait. He'd been right, it was not crowded or boisterous at all. There were still plenty of people, clones and civvies alike, but enough booths were still open that you wouldn't have trouble finding somewhere to really relax once Jesse showed up.
You gave him about twenty minutes without worry. His meetings could've run long, or the Coruscanti traffic could've held him up. No big deal. You asked for a water from the bartender so you didn't seem rude, and patiently sipped through it while you scrolled on your datapad to pass the time.
As 5:30 drew nearer, though, you began to get concerned. Was he okay? You cursed yourself for not asking for his number, just in case. You glanced around the bar, wishing someone from his troop was here so you could ask. You decided to chance talking to an older, bearded clone who sat just a few seats from you.
"Excuse me, you wouldn't happen to know anyone from the 501st, would you?"
The clone nodded back with a little laugh. "I know some. The ARC troopers, anyway. They're regulars. Doesn't look like they're showing up tonight though. Were you wanting to meet them?"
"Well, I had a date with one. Jesse. I guess he's running a little late. Wasn't sure how to get ahold of him, make sure he's okay."
The clone's eyes narrowed.
"Jesse? Huh, didn't picture him for the dating type. Well, anyway, maybe you're right, just running late. Here, let me order you a drink while you wait."
Now you felt awkward. Silly. Just a silly little girl, sipping a silly little cocktail, waiting for a silly little date she was probably too excited for to begin with. That was always the danger, wasn't it? Get your hopes up too high and it hurts that much more when they come back down.
5:30 turned into 6. Couples passed by, filling up seats around the band that had finally started playing. Clones came up to the bar to order, passing you a pitying look before taking their drinks back to their pretty dates.
6:05. What if he had meant 6? What if you had mis-remembered the time? No, you were pretty sure he'd mentioned happy hour, and there were signs all over the bar about that hour being from 5 to 6.
6:10. Whatever you would've found to do on your datapad had you stayed home for the evening didn't seem to exist now that you were here. You fiddled with a napkin, folding and unfolding until it was falling apart.
6:15. You started thinking about what time you should call it quits and head home. Was it weird you hadn't left by now? Should you have tried harder to get ahold of him sooner?
6:17.
"Hey beautiful! Oh good, you got a drink." Jesse was suddenly by your side, draping an arm around your back and placing a quick peck to the side of your head. He then leaned forward to catch the bartender's attention, not seeing your look of incredulity. Behind him was another trooper, one of the 501st medics, who gave you a polite nod but otherwise looked too grumpy to be there.
"Sorry I'm late, Kix here was moping in the med bay and I had to literally drag his ass off the floor to get him over here."
Jesse was all smiles as he leaned an elbow on the bar and finally took a look at you. He whistled.
"Damn, you look great!"
You were momentarily speechless. You didn't know what to make of this. The casual apology for his tardiness, the fact he'd brought someone else along. But then a couple beers were placed on the counter and he swept them up, nodding his head toward the wall of booths in the back.
"Come on, let's find some seats!"
You hesitated only for a moment before getting up to follow. He'd finally shown up. The evening wouldn't be a total waste. You could talk to him about it later, and definitely make sure to swap numbers so this wouldn't happen again.
Jesse and Kix slid into opposite sides of an empty booth in the far corner, positioned slightly behind where the band was set up so there wasn't a great view. Jesse patted the seat next to him for you to join and gave you another dazzling smile as you slid in.
"You really do look great," he said in a low voice by your ear, making you blush and conjuring up memories of that time he'd called you a hottie. He had his arm along the back of the booth, just behind your head, and you could feel the warmth radiating off him from such a close position.
"Thanks, so do you," you whispered back. He laughed and shook his head, but you meant it. He had a blue sort of vest over his blacks that made him look fit and clean. He also smelled nice and it took all your willpower not to lean in to take a big whiff.
"Hey, lighten up, grouchy pants," Jesse called over to Kix, who was glaring into his beer like it had personally offended him. Jesse raised his own beer in a salute. "This is way better than crying on the floor."
"I wasn't crying on the floor," Kix huffed. "And how is this better? I can't even see the band from here."
"Music's meant to be listened to anyway," Jesse shrugged him off.
"What's his deal?" you asked.
Jesse rolled his eyes. "Some girl he liked made fun of his tattoo idea and now he won't get one."
"I shaved my head for it and everything," Kix lamented.
You held back a snicker. You wished you could ask Jesse why his brother's woes meant he needed to join your date. But not only did you not want to seem rude, but the band switched to a new song that had a faster tempo and for some reason the volume also increased as a result. You were having a hard time hearing your own thoughts; conversation with Jesse would be even more tricky.
The next hour passed in an awkward blur. Jesse flagged down a waitress to refill your cocktail, calling her all the same names he'd been calling you today. Sweetheart, cutie... You tried to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach.
Two more rounds came after that, and you gladly downed each drink just to give yourself something to do. You tried asking him a few questions to get to know him better, but he'd end up turning his answer into some kind of a joke. Most of them were pretty funny, but after a while you got frustrated that he wasn't actually sharing anything with you. He did try to maintain a few conversations, but it was hard to keep things flowing when the band alternated between soft, twinkly instrumentals, and noisy, upbeat rock vocals. And then there was Kix, who had taken up sketching new tattoo ideas on napkins and would ask every five minutes to give your opinions on them.
And then the rest of the 501st piled in, proudly showing off their new ink around the club. Jesse seemed delighted to see them and waived them over, much to your disappointment. He pulled at your arm to get you to slide further into the booth with him, making room for a few clones to slip in, clunky armor and all.
"What you do think?" Hardcase stood at the head of the booth, unabashedly holding up his shirt to reveal a continuation of the blue lines on his head down across his torso.
A chorus of opinions and stories erupted. Fives was trying to reenact Hardcase's squeals as he'd gotten tattooed. Rex was trying to get the clone to pull his shirt back down. Several were ragging on Kix for not joining. And Jesse was laughing hysterically through it all.
You loved to see him so happy, you really did. And maybe it was just the four drinks that were now messing with your head, but you couldn't shake how out of place you felt, sitting in a booth surrounded by clone troopers on what was supposed to be a date between you and Jesse. You had nothing to contribute, no reason for them to pay you any attention. You sat in the middle of a group of people you barely knew, feeling more alone than you had when you'd been waiting at the bar.
Just as you were wondering how you could possibly get out of the booth without making a scene, Kix finally caved in to Fives's nagging about getting his original tattoo idea after all, and the whole lot collectively shimmied out of the booth. You felt Jesse's hand on your elbow, guiding you out. You turned to him once you were both standing.
"Are we really going to a tattoo parlor now?" you asked, hoping he'd see how badly you didn't want to be part of this plan.
"It'll be quick. I think there's an ice cream place near too, we can go there when we're done."
He flashed a reassuring grin and it almost gave you a little bit of hope back. You couldn't remember if you'd ever told him you loved ice cream or if it was a lucky guess. But when you tried to ask if you could just hang out at the ice cream place while the others went for more tattoos, Jesse had already turned to jump on Kix and give him a hard time about crying in the med bay again.
Your ears were ringing from a combination of alcohol, loud music, and annoyance. You couldn't take it anymore. You stepped aside from the group and just gazed at the man who had supposedly wanted your company, and now seemed more content to be in the company of others.
You felt a hand on your shoulder and turned to see Rex, looking over you with concern. "Are you alright? You don't look so good. Do you want us to take you home to rest?"
You shook your head, all you could manage in response at first. Tears had suddenly sprung into your eyes, you weren't sure why. Maybe because it was the first time someone had offered to do something you wanted tonight.
"Are you sure? I can get you some water or...."
"No, thank you," you finally found your words. "I can get myself home. I'll be fine."
"We can take you..."
"No, really, I'm fine. Just, tell Jesse I'll see him tomorrow before he leaves, okay?"
You hurried off before he could offer any further help, and before you would be caught with tears down your cheeks. You didn't want to make a scene, you didn't want to ruin Jesse's fun. But you didn't get far before the clone was calling your name, grasping the back of your arm and turning you to face him.
"Hey, what's the matter, sweetheart?"
If he hadn't used a nickname, you might have tried to play it off. But you remembered distinctly, even in the midst of your intoxication, the last person he'd called a sweetheart was the waitress in the busty crop top. Something in you snapped.
"Am I a joke to you?"
And there they were, those small cracks in his confidence, reemerging and widening before your eyes. Realization pulled the edges apart more and more as you spoke.
"You made me wait for over an hour. Do you know how ridiculous I felt, sitting at that bar all by myself, wondering what time meant you didn't actually care? And then you did finally come, and not only did I barely get an apology, and definitely no acknowledgement of how much my time you wasted without good reason, but I also didn't even get a proper date. I had to sit through all your flirting, only it wasn't directed at me, but to another woman who's paid to pretend your jokes are funny. You didn't answer any of my questions about yourself. You didn't even ask if I wanted a different drink, you just kept ordering the same one. The music also sucks, by the way. And now we're headed off to hang out with your brothers, people you see every day? While I'm the one you're going to leave tomorrow when you deploy?"
You weren't shouting, and somehow you'd even managed to hold in most of your tears, but your exasperated rant did have the intended affect of making Jesse feel like shit. You could see it written all over him. Remorseful eyes, pleading hands on yours, mouth opening and closing in a desperate attempt to find the words to make things right.
"And you know what really sucks?" you continued, feeling your speech start to slur a bit more in your emotional exhaustion. "I do still like you, Jesse. In fact, I think I've fallen for you. You're normally so good, so attentive and... and... simply wonderful. I just don't understand why you couldn't be that way tonight. For me."
Something dawned on you, something you'd suspected before, all those times you caught him flirting around the base with everyone he came across. Those insecurities found their way back to the surface and claimed their victory.
"It's because it's me, isn't it?" you choked. "You don't really care for me, do you?"
The tears were definitely going to fall now. You could hear him saying your name, you could feel him gripping your hands more firmly, but just then the rest of the 501st went marching by, oblivious to the moment you two were caught in, hollering after Jesse to get his ass out the door before they kicked it. It was distraction enough for you to slip out of his grasp and make a beeline for the refreshers.
The ladies room was on the second floor, a narrow flight of stairs serving as the only barrier between you and your chosen hideout. Unfortunately, it created the perfect storm. You were halfway up, alcohol complicating your ability to balance, tears clouding your vision, and apparently at some point earlier in the evening, someone had left a nice puddle of their insides on one of the steps.
You heard your name being called from behind, startling you, just as your foot made contact with the vomit. You turned, slipped, and next think you knew, you were tumbling painfully down the steps. Later, you'd be grateful that you were unconscious by the time you reached the bottom, crumpled on the floor beneath the only man you had eyes for.
* * *
You regained consciousness with a splitting headache and a heavy heart. You remembered everything almost immediately.
It took a few moments for your vision to swim back into focus, revealing a curtained-off corner of the med bay where you were laid on a gurney with a thin blanket draped over your frame. You could tell you weren't wearing the same clothes from before based on the odd, stiff texture you felt against your skin. Possibly a medical gown? One of your arms was also hooked up to an IV, the monitor glowing faintly off to the side.
In front of you, in what little space was left between the bed and wall, was Jesse, pacing. Back and forth, back and forth. He was clearly in distress, wringing the edge of his shirt and looking for all the world like he was waiting for news on whether you'd live or die.
As conflicted as you still felt about your first date with him, you figured you'd better put him out of his misery.
"It's not that bad, is it?" you croaked out.
The clone wasted no time in rushing to your side, trading his shirt for your free hand, grasping it so tightly you winced. His palms were sweaty.
"No, no Kix said you were going to be fine," Jesse reassured. "Just a cut on your head, there, above your eye."
You touched at the indicated spot, feeling a short row of stitches along your eyebrow.
"And a few bruises on your back," he added. Made sense why you were now in a medical gown, they had to check for further damage. "And the IV is for your hangover.
You groaned. "Well if this isn't the most embarrassing thing I've done..."
Jesse made a sort of gasping laugh, like he was surprised to remember there was humor in the galaxy. "Yeah. I know you said you were falling for me but I didn't expect you to actually fall."
You glared over at him, but only for a moment. He was a deer in headlights, waiting to see if his attempt to lighten the mood had gone too far. You started laughing, a silent laugh that still shook your chest enough to hurt. You went back to groaning.
"You know I'm still upset with you."
"I know, I know," Jesse hurried to affirm. He scooted a chair over to be closer and looked up at you with those soft, brown, desperate eyes you'd last seen in the bar. He truly looked miserable. "You have every right to be. The date was a disaster and it was all my fault. I was an idiot, I never meant to make you feel that way."
You nodded but didn't have anything else to say that you hadn't already.
"And for the record, you're not a joke. You're far from it. You're... you're..." He was stuttering, licking his lips as if parched. You'd never seen him - Jesse, the huge flirt - act so unsure of himself, especially when trying to pay a compliment.
He reached for your hand again but held it more gently this time, more reverently. He studied it, as if the words he needed were written on your skin. "It is you, but not in that way you thought. It's always been you. For me. But I guess I did a piss poor job of making sure you knew that tonight."
He flicked his eyes back up to yours, questioning, cautious.
"So..." you tried to wrap your head around what he was confessing. "All those things you've said, about how I looked, and how smart I am... all that. You meant it?"
"Of course I did." Jesse gave you a small but sincere smile.
"But... you've said all those things to other people, too. Did you mean it to them?"
His smiled fainted as he thought about your question and what his flatteries looked like from your perspective. He bowed his head for a moment before looking back up at you. "I just want people to feel good about themselves. One of my first experiences off of Kamino, I came across this woman who'd lost her husband, and that wasn't something we were prepared for. All the ways the war actually hurt people. But then I started talking about her hair and how it looked like silk, and she just lit up. And I don't know, I guess I got addicted, making other people feel good like that. You never know what someone else may be going through. They can be smiling and still need that little pick-me-up, you know?"
Your gaze never wavered from him as he spoke. This was more than you ever knew about the man, and you couldn't deny how it made your chest feel simultaneously tense and mushy.
"And yeah, maybe I lay it on a little thicker sometimes when I'm actually interested for myself, you know, not just making someone's day better. And you don't know who may fire back until you shoot your shot. But I'd always hoped it'd be you. That's why I never gave up, even when everyone told me to. They said you weren't interested. I thought you were just shy."
"I am," you whispered, suddenly self conscious. It was clear now that the soldier had frequented the accounting office more than he had any other reason to, that it was not the only office to get good sun in the afternoons if that was truly his excuse.
"I wish you'd told me," you added. "This is the sort of thing I was trying to learn about you earlier."
Jesse's rueful eyes returned. "Ah, yes, on the worst date in history, brought to you by this dummy."
"It wasn't the worst. Bad, yes, but sadly I have been on worse."
Jesse didn't seem comforted by that. He shook his head. "Would it surprise you to know I, uh... I've never been on a date?"
You blinked at him in surprise.
"Not that that's any excuse," he quickly added.
"Right, but, you didn't know what to do." You felt like you were starting to understand him more. "You did what you knew. What you were comfortable with."
"I kept making jokes because I thought if you weren't laughing then you weren't having a good time. I kept ordering the same drink because I didn't know you might want something else, I thought that was what you wanted and I wanted to..."
"You wanted to make me happy."
"And you wanted to feel special."
You gazed at each other for a long moment, exchanging looks of regret and realization. It was an unfortunate evening, but probably not avoidable. There had been enough misunderstanding from both of you that would've always led you to the same moment. You couldn't have known how the other felt, what they wanted, where they were coming from, until you'd gotten to know each other. And you couldn't have gotten to know each other without the misalignments being revealed.
He was the first to speak again, still feeling miserable about the whole thing. "I was late. I could've at least got that right. I lose track of time, sometimes. I don't know why."
He hung his head but you gave his hand a reassuring squeeze to show him you were okay, and he relaxed in your grip in return, giving you a relieved, though still sheepish, smile.
"I wish you weren't leaving tomorrow," you said quietly. "I feel like we need a do-over on our date now."
Jesse perked up. "What do you mean? This first one's not over yet! There's still time to redeem it."
You looked about the room. "Doesn't seem very romantic. No food. No music. I'm in a tacky gown."
"Nonsense, you look hot."
Jesse held up a finger and ducked behind the curtain. He was gone for only a minute, but your cheeks were still flushed by the time he got back.
"What, you like that one? Hot?" he grinned.
You looked shyly away but still gave a nod.
"Noted."
He had a handful of what looked to be protein bars and a datapad that he deposited onto the bed beside you.
"Food, aaand..." he tapped a few times on the pad until some sort of lo-fi jazz started playing, "... music."
You giggled. "You stole these from Kix, didn't you?"
"His office is in the next room," Jesse laughed with you. "I know it's not glamorous and you deserve a much better do-over from me, but..."
"It's perfect," you whispered, grabbing his hand again. "There is one thing, though."
"Yeah?" he asked eagerly.
"Well, this cut on my head is kind of hurting. Maybe you could... kiss it better?"
You couldn't believe the words that were coming out of your mouth, but you knew with Jesse they'd be received well. And boy did his face light up.
He wasted no time in leaning over you, carefully placing a hand by your side to brace himself, and bringing the other up to cradle the opposite side of your face. His breath ghosted over the stitched up cut, sending pleasant shivers down your spine. Then he finally planted his lips softly over it, letting them linger for a few seconds before pulling back.
"What other names do you like?" he asked, his voice low but tinged with a sort of playfulness that kept the mood light in the midst of these more intimate gestures. "We'll take them off the table for anyone else. They'll only belong to you."
He'd sat himself down next to you and was now lifting up the hand with the IV. You watched, enamored as he brought it toward his lips.
"I like sweetheart," you breathed.
He kissed just above where the IV was taped, a smile behind his action. "Sweetheart. What else?"
"Beautiful."
"I meant, what else is injured so I can kiss it?" he teased. You used your hand to swat at him, even though it hurt a little, and he laughed.
"There were bruises on your back right?" he pretended to lift your gown and you swatted again, this time with your good hand.
"That sort of behavior is for the second date, sir," you laughed. "Or maybe the third or fourth. We'll see."
Jesse brought a pair of protein bars around and made a mock salute with you. "To future dates, then, beautiful."
Those gen nsfw hcs for Rex where you mentioned him folding for Readers dominant side awakened something in me 😭 I'm begging for you to do some sub! Rex headcanons plsplspls 🙏
sub!rex headcanons
a/n: tbh i just love the idea of him leading one of the most elite legions in the gar like a boss bitch diva but then letting u walk him like a dog... rex i know what you are...
fem reader
warnings: nsfw content
sub!rex who uses his stern "captain" voice as he says, "and who do you think you're talking to like that?" in response to your bossiness, but one look at your raised eyebrows is all it takes for him to fold. he purses his lips shut and ends up doing what you told him to do, so obedient that it would send his 501st brothers into shock. he's such a "yes ma'am" boyfriend in private and wouldn't have it any other way.
sub!rex who gets desperate when you're mad at him. you stand over him with your arms folded, trying to look displeased as he holds your hips to pull you between his legs. his sad, round, brown puppy dog eyes stare up at you, and he kisses your stomach, softly begging, "i'm sorry, baby, tell me how i can make it up to you...talk to me, please..."
sub!rex who lets you touch him wherever and whenever you want, giving you free rein over his body. you slowly rub your hand over his pants, feeling his erection start to rise underneath. his breath hitches in surprise, and he throws his head back against the couch, groaning but not quite telling you what to do—to stop, or keep going, or anything. you massage him gently, playing with him as you please. he gasps your name at his breaking point, and you smile, teasing, "c'mon, rex, ask me nicely..." your soft, sultry voice pushing him closer to the edge, and your touch keeps him there until he shows you the manners you want to see.
sub!rex who loves being dominant in bed and throwing you around to switch positions, but sometimes he just wants you to take control and ride him senseless after he comes back from a long, grueling mission, his mind empty as he exhales everything out in harsh, heavy pants. he's only thinking about the way you squeeze and suck him into your tight body, the warmest, wettest escape he could ask for. he kisses your neck and moans, "need you...oh, fuck..." in a low, whiny voice, his mouth dripping in needy praises instead of the harsh orders he cycles through every day.
sub!rex who didn't know he was into being choked, until you grabbed his neck and kissed him while on top, your soft fingers squeezing him just enough for him to feel a slight pressure as your lips pry his open. he grunts in surprise and tightens his hands around your waist, his callouses digging into your skin so hard that they're sure to leave marks. you moan into his mouth, your tongues sliding in the slow, dirty pace he rolls your hips over his, letting you control the kiss while he controls your movements.
sub!rex who is a giver and actually enjoys getting his head pushed deeper between your legs when he's eating you out (but he will NEVER push your head down if you're giving him head). his lips suck on your clit more ravenously as he feels your desperation in your touch—the way you palm his head and force him down, your legs shaking and spreading apart to beg for more without actually saying it. he licks up the center of pussy with a smug smile, his voice raspy as he murmurs, "that's it, pretty girl, give it to me..." and devours you like you're his last meal, his nose rubbing against your clit from how hungry and furious he buries himself into your pussy.
sub!rex who has cried maybe once or twice during sex...it was a vulnerable moment for him after coming home to you from deployment, and he just missed you so much; all he craved in the moment was to lay you out under him and kiss you slowly, his cock thrusting even slower, feeling every inch of your body take him as you moan and writhe in his arms. he pressed his forehead to yours, and you didn't notice the glassy look in his eyes until you felt the wet streaks on his cheeks. you know how hard it's been for him, and you don't bring it up to embarrass or force him to address it, you simply kiss his salty tears away and tighten your arms around his neck, letting him make sweet, safe love to you.
little bonus note for those who scrolled to the end because i HAVE to talk about this omfg just look at him...i know the context of this scene is technically NOT the time to be thirsting but oh my lord please forgive me. i'm so sorry.
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can you write a fic similar to the vacation one you did with fives but with wolffe? and maybe the two of you have a baby, a daughter perhaps because wolffe gives such girl dad vibes. just the three of you relaxing on the beach, maybe bringing your daughter into the ocean for the first time, her trying ice cream for the first time and maybe a smutty moment when the baby is sleeping and wolffe and reader get some alone time. all over hot dad wolffe and him being protective of his girls.
love your writing btw:)
Waves
Warnings: Smut, oral, piv, teasing
WC: 4148
The first thing you notice about the island is the heat, it's soft, golden, wrapping around you like a second skin. The second thing is how relaxed Wolffe looks, which might be even rarer than the crystal-clear water stretching endlessly before you.
He’s usually sharp, guarded, always watching.
But here? Here, he’s barefoot in the sand, shirt unbuttoned, the sun catching in his slightly greying hair, and your daughter balanced easily on his hip like she belongs there, like this is the life he was always meant to have.
“She’s staring at the ocean like it’s about to attack,” you tease, adjusting the strap of your bikini as you step closer.
Wolffe snorts. “Smart. It’s big, unpredictable.” He glances at you sidelong. “Remind you of anyone?”
You bump his shoulder. “You’re comparing yourself to the ocean now?”
“She’s got the same healthy distrust,” he says, lowering his voice as your daughter clutches the front of his shirt and buries her face. “That’s my girl.”
Your chest tightens a little at that, my girl. The way he says it, low and certain, like it’s the most natural thing in the galaxy.
“She’ll love it once she tries,” you say gently. “You’re just scaring her.”
“I am not scaring her,” he protests, though his grip on her tightens protectively. “I’m assessing the threat.”
“You’re assessing the waves,” you laugh.
“Waves can be dangerous.”
“Wolffe.”
“What?”
You reach out, brushing a bit of hair from your daughter’s forehead. “Come on. Let’s take her in. Just a little.”
He hesitates. For a man who’s faced down battle droids, faced Ventress and survived, it’s almost funny, the way he looks at the water like it’s the one thing he can’t fight. Then your daughter lets out a small, curious sound, peeking up again. And that’s all it takes. “Fine,” he mutters. “But we stay where I can see the bottom. And if anything looks wrong—”
“You’ll wrestle the ocean into submission,” you finish, grinning.
He gives you a look that says don’t tempt me.
The water is warm, gentle against your legs as you wade in together. Wolffe moves slowly and carefully, like every step matters. One arm stays locked around your daughter, the other hovering near you as if he expects you to slip at any moment.
“I’m not going to fall,” you say.
“You might.”
“I won’t.”
“You’re distracted.”
You furrow your brows. “By what?”
His gaze flicks, very obviously, down your body. Your bikini. The tiny red one he likes. The one you picked on purpose.
“You tell me,” he says.
You grin. “I think you’re the one who's distracted.”
“I can multitask.”
“Mhm.”
But his hand does settle a little more firmly at your waist, steadying you anyway.
You step deeper until the water laps gently against your daughter’s toes. She startles at first, tiny fingers clutching Wolffe’s shirt. But then, looks down and kicks. A small splash and a delighted squeal.
Your heart melts. “Oh my stars,” you whisper. “She likes it.”
Wolffe blinks, like he wasn’t prepared for that outcome. “Huh.”
“She loves it,” you correct, laughing as she kicks again, more confident this time. “Look at her!”
Your daughter leans forward, reaching for the water now, completely fearless. Wolffe huffs a quiet laugh, something softer than you usually hear from him. “Told you she was brave.”
“You literally said she was suspicious of it two minutes ago.”
“Strategically cautious,” he amends.
You roll your eyes, but then he shifts closer, lowering her just a little more so the water brushes her legs and she giggles again, louder this time. And the way he looks at her, it stops you. All that hardness, all that instinct to protect, sharpened over years of war, it doesn’t disappear. It softens.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs.
“So are you.”
“She’s my daughter. I’m allowed.”
“And I’m not?”
His gaze flicks to you again, slower this time. “You’re allowed,” he says quietly. “Always.”
Later, wrapped in towels and sun-warmed air, the three of you settle under a wide umbrella. Your daughter sits between you, still buzzing with excitement, tiny hands patting at the sand like she’s discovered something magical.
“She’s going to eat it,” Wolffe warns.
“She’s exploring.”
“She’s absolutely going to eat it.”
You glance down just in time to see her bring a sandy fist toward her mouth.
“Okay, maybe she’s going to eat it,” you admit, catching her hand gently. “Not food, sweetheart.”
Wolffe shakes his head, reaching into the freeze bag. “Good thing we brought something better.”
He pulls out a small tub. Ice cream.
Your eyes light up. “You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“For her?” you ask, surprised.
“For us,” he says. “But she can try it.”
You grin. “Best day of her life.”
“Let’s not set expectations too high,” he mutters, though he’s already opening it.
You scoop a tiny bit onto your finger and offer it carefully. Your daughter coos curiously but quickly leans forward to taste. Her entire face changes. Her eyes wide, mouth open, as if she's awaiting more. You laugh. “Oh, she’s hooked.”
Wolffe watches, equal parts amused and wary. “That might have been a mistake.”
“Too late now.”
She reaches for more immediately, tiny hands grabbing for the cup.
“Hey, easy,” Wolffe says, holding it just out of reach. “You don’t get the whole thing.”
She protests, a small, indignant noise. You smirk. “She’s got your attitude.”
He gives you a look. “That’s your influence.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re the one who pushes boundaries.”
“You married me.”
“I know,” he says dryly. “Questionable decision.”
You lean in, lowering your voice. “Didn’t seem questionable last night.”
His gaze snaps to yours, sharp and dangerous. You smirk, leaning back just enough to put space between you again. “But I guess you don’t remember.”
He watches you carefully now, like you’ve just issued a challenge. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says quietly.
“On vacation?” you tease. “Relax, Commander.”
His eyes darken slightly at the title, but he says nothing. You let it stretch on purpose. Let him sit in it, stew in it.
Your daughter is still happily occupied in the sand, patting and grabbing and occasionally trying to taste something she absolutely shouldn’t, and Wolffe keeps one eye on her, always, but the other keeps drifting back to you.
Watching, waiting.
“You’re awfully quiet now,” you say after a moment, brushing sand from your thigh. “Thought you’d have something to say about last night.”
“I do,” he replies evenly. “Just deciding how much of it you’re about to regret bringing up.”
You grin. “Oh, I don’t regret it at all.”
“No?”
“No.” You lean closer again, voice dropping just enough to feel conspiratorial. “I’m just saying, it's funny how you're all quiet now because last night…”
His jaw tightens just slightly as he cuts you off. “Don’t.”
You ignore that entirely. “Something like…” You tap your chin thoughtfully, pretending to think,“‘’You feel so good around me.’”
“Alright,” he cuts in quickly, low and sharp. “That’s enough.”
You blink at him, all faux innocence. “What? I’m just reminding you.”
“In front of her?” he mutters, glancing down at your daughter, who is currently trying to grab a handful of sand with intense focus.
“She doesn’t understand,” you whisper, barely holding back a smile.
“She understands tone,” he shoots back.
“Oh, so you admit there was tone?”
He exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, the same way he does when he’s trying very hard not to react. “You’re pushing it.”
“Maybe,” you say lightly. “But you did say it.”
His gaze flicks to yours again, and there it is. That faint flush creeping up along his cheekbones.
“And if I remember correctly…” You continue, tilting your head, “There was also something about how ‘You could stay inside me forever.’” You tease cheekily.
“That,” he stops himself, jaw tightening harder now. “That was—”
You raise your brows. “Was what?”
“Private,” he finishes.
You hum thoughtfully. “Didn’t sound very private at the time.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A lot,” you admit.
Your daughter lets out a happy squeal at that exact moment, smacking both hands into the sand like she’s applauding your chaos.
You laugh. “See? Even she agrees.”
“She does not,” Wolffe mutters, though one corner of his mouth twitches.
“Oh, I think she does,” you tease. “She’s got excellent taste.”
“In trouble, maybe,” he says dryly.
You giggle, but you don't miss how Wolffe shifts slightly, adjusting his posture, but it doesn’t hide anything. If anything, it makes it more obvious.
You bite back a laugh. “Careful,” you murmur. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”
“I’m not trying to be subtle,” he says.
“No?”
“No.”
There’s a weight to that no. The kind that settles somewhere deep in your chest. You tilt your head. “So what are you trying to be?”
He studies you for a long moment. Then leans in just enough that his voice doesn’t carry beyond you. “Patient,” he says quietly.
Your breath catches, just slightly. “Patient?” you echo.
“For now.”
You swallow, heat curling low in your stomach. “Big emphasis on for now,” you say.
His gaze flicks, just briefly, toward your daughter, still content, still distracted. Then back to you. “Keep talking like that,” he murmurs, “and you’re going to find out exactly how limited my patience is.”
You grin, because of course you do. “You didn’t seem very patient last night either.”
He closes his eyes for half a second. “Maker,” he mutters under his breath.
You lean closer again, relentless. “Or was it when you said…what was it? ‘you’re going to be the death of me’?”
His eyes snap open. “That one stays between us,” he says firmly.
“But it’s so memorable,” you counter sweetly.
“You’re impossible.”
“And you love it.”
“I do,” he admits again, quieter this time.
There’s that warmth again, that steadiness. But it doesn’t erase the edge underneath. If anything, it sharpens it.
Your daughter suddenly reaches up, grabbing at his arm, demanding attention again. Wolffe immediately softens, all that tension redirecting in an instant as he adjusts her in his lap. “Hey,” he murmurs to her, brushing sand from her hands. “None of that.”
The afternoon drifts by in a haze of warmth and laughter.
Your daughter eventually tires herself out, curled up against Wolffe’s chest as he sits back on the sofa, one large hand resting protectively along her back.
You watch them for a while. The rise and fall of her tiny breaths, the steady, grounding presence of him. His fingers absentmindedly tracing soft circles.
You move closer, brushing a kiss against his temple. “She’s out,” you whisper.
He hums. “Finally.”
“You sound relieved.”
“I am,” he admits. “Means she’s safe. Means she’s resting.”
You smile softly. “You’re a good dad.”
His jaw tightens just slightly, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that. “I’m trying,” he says.
“You’re succeeding.”
He glances at you, something vulnerable flickering there before it settles again. Then his gaze drops. To your bikini, again. “You did that on purpose,” he says.
You tilt your head. “Did what?”
“That,” he gestures vaguely, though his eyes are very specific. “The tiny…” He sighs, “everything.”
You grin. “You don’t like it?”
He lets out a quiet, humourless laugh. “Didn’t say that.”
“No?”
“No,” he repeats, voice lower now. “I said it’s distracting.”
You lean closer. “You said you could multitask.”
“I lied.”
You laugh softly, careful not to wake your daughter. “Then what are you going to do about it?” you murmur.
He studies you for a long moment. Then carefully, he shifts, putting your daughter in her travel cot, before standing and reaching his hand out to you. “Come with me,” he says.
“And her?”
“She’s not moving,” he replies. “And I’ll still hear her if she does.”
You hesitate just a second. Then take his hand.
The bedroom is cool compared to the outside, curtains swaying gently with the ocean breeze. The moment the door closes, the energy shifts. Wolffe doesn’t rush. That’s the thing about him, everything he does is deliberate.
His hand slides to your waist again, grounding, familiar. “You’ve been teasing me all day,” he murmurs.
“Maybe,” you admit.
“Why?”
You shrug lightly. “It’s fun.”
“For you.”
“For me,” you echo, smiling.
His thumb brushes along your side, just enough to make your breath catch. “You’re trouble,” he says.
“You love it.”
“I do,” he agrees, without hesitation.
Before you can say anything in reply, he crashes his lips to yours, full of hunger and need. His hands start to roam your body but evidently land on the swell of your ass. “You have no idea what you do to me,” He grunts, his mouth momentarily detaching from yours.
His hands move to untie the knot at the back of your bikini top, your breasts spilling free. He cups them softly, his mouth never leaving yours before moving you towards the bed. You crash against the bed, moaning before disconnecting your lips from his. Your hands immediately reach to the waistband of his swim-shorts, pulling them down to reveal his hard cock.
Wolffe groans as you take him in your hands. “Fuck, sweetheart.”
You smirk up at him, eyelashes fluttering. “Can I suck your cock, Wolffe?”
That earns you an even louder groan, his hand reaching down to cup your face. “Go ahead, baby. Know it's what you've wanted all day.”
You spit in your hand, pumping him a few times before taking the red-hot tip of him in your mouth. His hands land on the top of your head, fingers tangling through your hair. “That's it, baby.” He groans.
You hum at the compliment, and wrap your lips further around his head and suck, fluttering your lashes as you look up at him. At your current position, you have a clear view of the ladder of dark hair that drives you crazy, your fingers reaching to brush over it. With your gaze still on him, you slowly lower your mouth over his cock, your tongue gliding over him as you take him halfway before pulling off again.
Wolffe slides his thumb over your cheek, his other hand pushing the back of your head to get you to take him deeper. Without any resistance, you let him, you're quick to relax your throat and take him to the back of it and you don't stop until your nose is pressed into the dark hair at the base of his cock.
Wolffe holds you there, his head thrown back for a moment before switching his gaze back to you. “You take my cock so well.”
His hips thrust forward, you gag ever so slightly, your nails sinking into his tan thighs, tears beginning to gather around your eyes. Wolffe moans at the sight, a low, rough sound that travels right through you, wetness pooling in your bikini bottoms. You pull off of him, spit dripping from the corners of your mouth, and look up at him.
“Such a filthy girl.” He mumbles as you take him back into your mouth.
With your hands on his thighs, you let him guide you. Your mouth open and tongue lolled so he could fuck himself down your throat, just the way he liked. He kept it somewhat slow, lazy pumps of his hips and pushes of your head to make you take all of him. He was starting to get loud, quiet breathy moans and grunts of your name echoing around the room. “Feel so good, baby.” He manages through his moans. “Don't wanna cum like this.”
He quickly removes his cock from your mouth, bending down to kiss the top of your head. He grabs onto your waist and swiftly moves you so that you're lying face down on the bed, and he snatches your bikini bottoms to bring them down your legs. You turn your head to look at him from where you're lying, your eyes sultry and full of need. “Wolffe,” You whine. “Want your cock.”
Your husband lets out a low chuckle. “I know, sweetheart. Been wanting it all day, haven't you?” He brings his cock to your wet folds, sliding it back and forth. “But I don't think you deserve it after all that teasing .”
You whine, and your head falls back to the sheets in frustration. “Please, baby. I just needed you.”
Wolffe lets out a quiet groan. “Fuck, I know.” He continues to tease you, but knows he can't hold off too long, his own need to be inside you overtaking him. “You gonna be a good girl and take it, huh?”
You whine again, your head nodding up and down in response. “Please, Wolffe, I’ll be good.”
With that he slides into you, both of your breaths hitching. His warm hands grip at your ass as he starts pounding into you at a steady but rough pace. “Always so tight f’me.” He groans, sweat starting to bead down his forehead.
Your moans fill the room, loud but quiet enough to ensure you don't wake the baby who is peacefully asleep in the room next door. Wolffe continues to pound into you, quiet groans continually falling from his lips. You turn to look at him, and the sight of him nearly makes you cum on the spot. Light sweat is dripping down his torso, highlighting his abs, his eyes and eyebrows furrowed in that look of pure concentration and with the sight of his hips meeting your ass, it's too much to bear.
“Wolffe.” You moan out as you meet his eyes. “I’m gonna cum.”
He smirks. “Yeah? You gonna cum all over my cock, sweetheart?”
His filthy words make you cum right then and there, your pussy squeezing around his hard length. Your hands are gripped tightly into the bed sheets, with your teeth biting into them.
“That's it, sweetheart.” He groans, and you can tell by the hitch in his voice that he's not too far away either.
As you calm from your climax, you let out a breath and look back at him, your gazes meeting. “Wolffe, baby, want you to cum inside.”
You watch as his head falls back at that, his lips forming into a subtle pout. “Yeah?” He mumbles. “M’gonna cum, gonna fill you up.”
You incessantly nod at that, your gazes never parting. “Fill me up, baby.”
At that, he cums with a hard groan, stilling inside you. He's quick to flop himself on top of you, breaths falling from his mouth. He leans over slightly to drop a kiss on the side of your face, making you rotate to look at him properly. “Always take me so good.” He mumbles, dropping more kisses to the side of your face.
After a few moments of him lying on top of you, the two of you catching your breaths, he shifts to hover over you, removing his cock from your now puffy folds, his cum swiftly drains out of you. Wolffe lets out a chuckle at his artwork, and you can just imagine the look on his face, making you groan and hide your face in the sheets.
“Don't be acting all shy now, baby.” He drops another kiss to the back of your head. “Let's get you all cleaned up.”
The room is warm with the last light of the day, golden and soft as it filters through the open curtains. The sound of the ocean drifts in faintly, steady and calm, a quiet backdrop to the low hum of the evening settling in.
You stand in front of the mirror, smoothing your hands down your dress for what feels like the third time. It’s light, flowy and backless, perfect for the heat, but the strap on one of your shoulders was uncooperative. You twist slightly, trying to tighten it again. And fail.
“Wolffe?” you call.
From behind you, there’s a quiet shuffle, followed by his voice. “Yeah?”
“I need help.”
“With what?”
You glance at him through the mirror. He’s sitting at the edge of the bed, your daughter perched in his lap, one large hand resting securely around her middle while she plays with his fingers like they’re the most fascinating thing in the galaxy. “The strap,” you say. “Unless you want me going to dinner like this.”
His gaze drifts up, slowly from your legs, to your back, to where the strap on your dress hangs just slightly down your arm. He exhales through his nose and carefully shifts your daughter upright. “Alright, c’mere, sweetheart,” he murmurs to her, pressing a quick kiss to her temple before setting her in the middle of the bed, surrounded by pillows. “Stay put.”
She babbles in response, completely unconcerned.
Wolffe stands and crosses the room toward you. You watch him in the mirror, barefoot, shirt half-buttoned, hair still slightly damp from his shower earlier. There’s something unfair about how effortlessly put-together he looks.
“Turn around,” he says.
You do, lifting your hair over one shoulder to expose the back of the dress.
His fingers brush the top of your shoulder as he finds the adjustable part. “You could’ve asked sooner,” he mutters.
“I tried to do it myself.”
“You’re terrible at asking for help.”
You smile faintly. “Only when I don’t need it.”
He huffs softly, but there’s no bite to it. The strap tightems up slowly.
“You’re taking your time,” you say.
“I’m making sure it doesn’t snag.”
Before you can respond, a delighted squeal erupts from the bed. Both of you turn. Your daughter has managed to roll onto her stomach and is now very proudly attempting to crawl directly toward the edge.
Wolffe moves instantly. One step, then two, scooping her up before she gets anywhere close to danger. “Absolutely not,” he mutters, settling back onto the bed with her securely in his arms. “You stay where I can see you.”
She giggles like this is the best game she’s ever played.
You shake your head, smiling as you turn back to the mirror. “Can you watch her while I finish getting ready?” you ask.
“I always am,” he replies.
You catch his reflection again as you reach for your earrings. He’s sitting back against the headboard now, your daughter tucked comfortably against his chest. One arm holds her close, the other idly tracing along her back as she watches you with wide, curious eyes.
Wolffe glances down at her, then back up at you, something soft settling into his expression. “She's beautiful, huh?” he murmurs to her.
Your hands still for just a second.
“She’s got no idea what she’s doing to me,” he continues quietly, voice low and fond. “Walkin’ around like that.”
Your daughter babbles enthusiastically, like she’s contributing to the conversation.
“Oh, you agree?” he says, nodding seriously. “Yeah, I thought so.”
You laugh under your breath, slipping your earrings into place. “You’re ridiculous,” you say.
“And she’s right,” he adds.
“I didn’t hear her say anything.”
“I speak her language.”
“Oh, do you?”
“Fluently.”
You shake your head, but your smile lingers as you finish getting ready. And when you turn back to them, really look, Wolffe sitting there, your daughter in his arms, both of them watching you like you’re the centre of their world, your chest tightens in the best way.
“Ready?” you ask softly.
He nods once. “Yeah.”
Dinner is warm and lively, the air filled with quiet conversation, soft music, and the clink of glasses. Your daughter sits in a small high chair between you, legs kicking happily as she babbles nonstop.
“Mm, I see,” Wolffe says seriously, leaning slightly toward her. “And then what happened?”
She squeals, and you laugh, shaking your head, which earns you a pointed look from your husband. “She’s telling me a story,” he says, completely straight-faced.
“Is she?”
“Yes.”
You glance at her. “What’s she saying, then?”
He listens for a moment, nodding like he’s processing something important. “She says you took too long getting ready.”
You gasp. “Excuse me?”
“She also says you were ‘very distracting,’” he adds.
You narrow your eyes. “She did not say that.”
He shrugs. “That’s what I heard.”
Your daughter bursts into giggles, like she knows she’s being included in something important.
“Oh, now you’re encouraging him,” you tell her.
She leans forward, reaching for Wolffe’s hand. He takes it immediately. “Go on,” he says gently. “Tell me more.”
She babbles again, louder this time.
He nods. “Mm. That’s serious.”
“What is?” you ask.
“She says you should share your dessert.”
You laugh. “Convenient.”
“I agree,” he says.
“Of course you do.”
Your daughter squeals again, delighted by the back-and-forth, and the entire time, Wolffe doesn’t miss a beat. Every sound she makes, every tiny gesture, he answers like it matters.
And the way she lights up for him, it’s everything.
Pairing: Wolffe x fem!Reader / Wolffe x Doctor!Reader
Words: 11,182 / 26,845
Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! this part is 90% smut 10% hurt/comfort, wolffe domesticating himself bc he loves you, he's so awkward, love confessions, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, handjob for like a second, pinv, rough sex, marking, wolffe's breeding kink teaser, he's freakyyy, old married couple speedrun edition
Summary: Your relationship with Wolffe is complicated at best, antagonistic at worst. After months of waiting for him to finally admit that he wants you the way you want him, you've given up trying. But Wolffe can't seem to let you go. (prequel to Man or Commander but can be read standalone)
A/N: A bit of a different tone than what we started off at, but I think it blends well into the next (first?) installment. Ugh i just love this man sm.
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You wake up to the sound of rain. It’s coming down in sheets, drumming against your windows in a rhythm that has you burrowing further into the blankets. You groan and pull your pillow over your head, taking inventory of your body. Headache, dry mouth, sore back, but not terrible. It could be worse. You must’ve eaten last night before you—
Wolffe.
Your eyes shoot open, and your head rears back enough to make it feel like your brain is rattling against your skull. You wince, squeezing your eyes shut again, but it can't block out the memory. Of you, drunk, kissing him. Of him, less than drunk, kissing you back. Of the two of you, together, in bed, touching, talking, sleeping.
Together.
You blink your eyes open again, trying to get your bearings.
It must be late morning, or close to it, based on the amount of light streaming in from behind the curtains. You're still on your side, your hands clutching the blanket, the sheets twisted around you, but there's something missing.
There's no one in the bed next to you.
Your heart drops.
"Shit," you mutter, sitting up and dragging a hand through your hair. It's sticking up everywhere, no doubt, but the ache in your temples makes it impossible to care. You'd been sure that, once Wolffe had gotten some rest, once he'd had some time to process, he would've stayed. He'd promised. But apparently, promises mean nothing when they're made to you.
You glance around, trying to see if he's left any trace of his presence. His clothes are gone, the side of the bed where he’d slept made with the same military precision you’ve come to expect from him. If it weren’t for the way the scent of him lingers, you could almost convince yourself that it had been nothing more than an alcohol-induced fantasy.
You groan, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes, trying to push back the headache, the tears. Kriff, you can't believe you'd been stupid. You'd actually thought he'd cared, that he'd changed his mind. You'd actually thought that, maybe, after everything, the two of you had finally found your way back to each other.
But it's obvious that's not the case.
He'd done exactly what you’d been afraid he would. He’d gotten spooked, and he ran, pulling back just when things were getting too real. And he'd left you. Again.
With a sigh, you toss the blankets aside and swing your legs over the side of the bed. The cold tile of your refresher is a shock against your bare feet, and you shiver, wrapping your arms around yourself as you turn the shower on as hot as it will go. The steam fills the small space, fogging the mirror as you find your medicine cabinet and measure a dose of painkillers. You’ll give yourself five minutes of wallowing, and then you’ll be done. There’s no point dwelling on what could’ve been now.
You stand under the spray for a long time, your head tilted back, the water beating against your skin. You try to empty your mind, to focus on the feeling of the water, the heat of it, the sound of it, but your thoughts keep drifting back to him. He’d seemed so… different. Softer. More open. You’d thought, finally, you were getting through. That he was letting you in.
Maybe you’d imagined it. Maybe it was just the alcohol. Or maybe it was you, seeing what you wanted to see, hearing what you wanted to hear.
You shut the water off with a sharp twist. It’s only then, underneath the sound of the last drops of water splashing against the tile, that you hear it. A loud clatter, a muffled curse. The unmistakable sounds of someone in your kitchen.
You freeze, your hand hovering over your robe. Your heart hammers against your ribs as you listen, straining to hear over the pounding of your own blood in your ears. Another crash, followed by a string of expletives that could only come from one person.
You're out of the refresher before you can think better of it, grabbing the robe from the hook on the door and hastily tying it around your waist as you storm into the living room.
And you freeze.
Wolffe stands in the middle of your kitchen, his back to you, wearing the same clothes from last night. There's flour on the floor. On the counter. On him. He's holding a mixing bowl with lumpy batter dripping down the side, a furious scowl on his face as he glares at the cafmaker, which appears to be sputtering and spewing grounds all over the drip tray. Two mugs sit next to it, along with plates, silverware, and a half-empty carton of eggs.
You check your pulse. Elevated, but normal. You pinch yourself for good measure. Ow. Not dreaming.
He didn't leave. He's still here.
"Wolffe?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.
He spins around, the bowl in his hand sloshing more batter onto the floor. His eyes widen, his jaw drops, and for the first time in your life, you see Commander Wolffe, Hero of the Republic, completely and utterly speechless. He stares at you, at the mess, back at you, before he sets the bowl down with a clumsy thud.
“Uh…hi,” he says after clearing his throat. He gestures toward the cafmaker with a flour-dusted hand. “It’s…defective. Sabotage, probably. Seppies."
Your lips twitch. "Separatists sabotaged my cafmaker?"
"It's not out of the realm of possibility,” Wolffe insists, but there’s no real conviction in his tone. He just looks… embarrassed. He’s a wreck. His hair is a mess, there's a streak of batter across his cheek, and his shirt is covered in flour. He's the furthest thing from the stern, stoic commander you've ever seen, and you feel something warm start to build in your chest.
“You weren’t supposed to see this,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair and leaving behind a white powdery streak. “I was going to have this ready for you.”
“Ready for me?”
He gestures vaguely at the mess. “Breakfast.”
Your eyes widen. "You’re making me breakfast?"
"I’m trying," he corrects, scowling down at the bowl. "The datapad made it look easier. I followed the instructions. Exactly."
You move closer, peering into the bowl. "What is it?"
“What do you mean? It’s pancakes,” he scoffs, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the galaxy. He stirs the lumpy mixture with a spatula, sending more batter sloshing up the sides. It's lumpy, with flecks of something…eggshell, maybe. "Or, it was supposed to be."
“Ah.” You lean against the counter beside him, crossing your arms, fighting the urge to laugh. “And the cafmaker?"
“Like I said. Sabotage,” he grumbles, yanking open the filter basket. A stream of wet grounds spills onto the counter, joining the other various forms of chaos. He lets out a frustrated sigh and drops the basket back into the machine.
“You know, for someone who can disassemble and reassemble a DC-17 in the dark, you’re having a surprising amount of trouble with a simple kitchen appliance,” you tease, bumping your hip against his. "This one is probably not your fault, though. I think this thing hates me."
Wolffe’s scowl deepens. “No, it’s me. I’m not…good at this. This civilian stuff.”
Your smile softens. He’s trying. For you. He's stayed, he’s making breakfast, he’s putting himself in the one place he’s not in command. He’s trying, and he’s failing, and it’s the sweetest, most ridiculous thing you've ever seen.
You reach up and wipe the smear of batter from his cheek. He flinches slightly, his eyes widening as your thumb brushes his skin, but he doesn't pull away. His gaze softens, the hard line of his jaw relaxing as he leans into your touch.
"I think you're doing just fine," you murmur, and you bring your hand to your mouth, licking the batter from your thumb. "Just needs more sugar."
A gentle smile spreads across Wolffe’s face, the kind that starts in his eyes and works its way down, transforming him from the stern commander into the man you’ve only ever caught glimpses of. He reaches out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and lets the back of his fingers drift down your cheek. His touch is feather-light, hesitant, but the warmth of it sears into your skin, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
“I’m guessing you haven’t changed your mind,” he murmurs as his thumb traces your jaw line, his calloused skin rasping against you. "About last night."
“Have you?” you whisper, tilting your head into his touch.
He shakes his head, his gaze dark and serious. "No, sweetheart. Not for a second."
“Good.”
You lean forward, pressing your lips to the corner of his mouth. He turns his head, capturing your lips in a soft kiss. It's slow and unhurried, his tongue sliding along your lower lip before dipping inside to tease yours. You sigh into the kiss, reaching up to grip his shoulders, your fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt.
"How's your head?" he asks, pulling away with an amused huff.
"Not great," you admit. "Yours?"
"Surprisingly clear," he says. He cups your cheek in his palm, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin underneath your eye. "I think I woke up on the right side of the bed this morning."
“Or you just got more than three hours of sleep for once,” you tease, leaning into his touch.
“Or that.”
He leans in for another kiss, but the cafmaker chooses that moment to let out a loud, angry gurgle, spewing a fountain of hot water all over the counter and floor.
"Son of a bitch," Wolffe snarls, jumping back to avoid the spray. "That thing is definitely sabotaged."
You can't help but laugh, quickly stifled by your hand. Wolffe turns to you, his expression sour, but the corner of his mouth twitches.
"Oh, you think this is funny?" he growls, advancing on you. You back away, your hands raised in surrender, a wide grin spreading across your face.
"Hilarious," you giggle, stumbling back. "You, the great Commander Wolffe, brought to your knees by a cafmaker. Wait until the boys hear about this. This is going to be all over the feeds by lunchtime."
"You wouldn't," he warns lowly.
"Try me.”
You turn to make a run for it, but he's faster. He lunges, wrapping an arm around your waist and lifting you off your feet. You squeal and kick your legs as he hauls you back toward the counter, your laughter echoing off the walls.
"Let me go, you big oaf!" you gasp, wriggling in his grasp. "You're getting flour all over me!"
“Serves you right for laughing at me,” he grunts, and sets you down on the counter with a soft thud. He cages you in with his arms, one on either side of your hips, and leans in, his face just inches from yours. "Still think this is funny?"
"No," you breathe, grinning. "I think it's adorable."
His playful scowl deepens. "I'm not adorable."
“I beg to differ,” you laugh. Your hands find his wrists, brushing against the bare skin there before trailing up the corded muscle of his forearms. His eyes follow the movement, his expression softening as your fingers come to rest on the hard plane of his chest. “You made me breakfast, you're fighting with my appliances, you’re covered in flour… it’s cute. Very domestic.”
“Is that what you want? To be domestic?” he asks quietly, his gaze searching yours.
“I don’t know,” you admit, your hands sliding up to rest on the sides of his neck. “But I like this. I like waking up to you. I like watching you try to make pancakes. I like that you’re still here.”
“Of course I’m still here,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the galaxy. “I told you I would be.”
“People say things,” you murmur, tracing the line of his jaw with your thumb. “They don’t always mean them.”
He gently takes your hand and brings it to his mouth, pressing his lips to your palm. The scratch of his stubble sends a shiver through you, and your breath catches.
“I mean what I say,” he says, his gaze holding yours.
He kisses your wrist, the inside of your forearm, the inside of your elbow, his lips leaving behind tiny trails of fire in their wake. He continues his way up, across the swell of your shoulder, over the collarbone, along the line of your neck. By the time he reaches the sensitive spot just below your ear, you're clutching his shoulders, panting, unable to form coherent thought.
"Wolffe," you sigh.
"Mm?"
"What are we doing?"
He pauses, his breath warm against your neck. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," you start, swallowing hard. You turn your head and meet his gaze. "What is this?"
Wolffe pulls back, searching your face. He's quiet for a long moment, thinking, before he lets out his breath in a soft huff. "Honestly, I don't have a damn clue."
"Oh." Your heart sinks, and you drop your gaze, your cheeks heating.
"Hey, now, wait.” He cups your cheek, tilting your face up to his. There's a hint of amusement in his eyes. "What do you think we're doing?"
"I... I don't know," you stutter. "We've spent this whole time pretending we were nothing more than colleagues. And now, you're here, and I'm here, and... I don't know. I guess I assumed we were..."
"Assumed we were what?" he presses, a smirk on his face.
"You know," you mutter, shrugging.
"Do I?"
"Wolffe," you whine and drop your head back to rest on the cabinets behind you. He follows you, his lips finding the underside of your chin. His mouth moves down the column of your throat, pausing at the base, his tongue darting out to taste the skin.
"Say it," he orders, his voice muffled against your skin.
"No."
"Come on," he coaxes, kissing his way up your throat. He nips at the sensitive spot beneath your jaw, and you gasp. "Tell me."
"Why?"
"Because I want to hear it," he murmurs, and you feel the smile against your skin.
"This is coercion," you complain, your hands drifting up to run through his hair. A pleased grunt escapes him as your fingers catch on a tangle, and the sound goes straight to the pit of your stomach. "It's unethical."
"I'm the Commander," he reminds you, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear. "You have to do what I say."
"That's not how this works," you gasp, your eyes fluttering shut.
"I think you'll find it is," he chuckles.
"Wolffe—"
"Say it."
"Fine," you grumble, pushing on his shoulders until he looks at you. "I assumed we were finally... together."
"Together," he repeats, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he grins. "Is that so?"
"Yes," you huff, and you give up the pretense, leaning in to kiss the smug look right off of his face. "And I expect to be treated like a lady. Which means I demand a proper breakfast, and a cup of caf. And a kiss. At least one. Possibly more.”
"Well.” He tilts his head in mock consideration. "I can do the kisses. The rest... I make no promises."
You laugh and wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. Wolffe stumbles into you, catching himself just in time with one hand on the counter, the other landing on your thigh. His eyes dart down to the expanse of soft bare skin under his palm, and the laughter in them fades. He swallows hard.
"Maybe we should skip the pancakes," he murmurs. His thumb hooks into the knot of your robe and tugs, loosening it until the fabric falls away, baring your chest to the cool morning air. The hand on your thigh presses dimples into the soft flesh before it slides higher, pushing the fabric up. "What do you think?"
"I think..." you begin, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. You guide his lips to yours, tongue darting out to taste him and delighting in the low groan that rumbles through him. "I think I'm hungry for something else."
"Thank the Force," Wolffe groans, and then he's kissing you, hard and fast and messy.
He yanks the knot of your robe completely undone, and his hands are everywhere. On your breasts, your stomach, your hips, the swell of your ass, the back of your thighs. It feels like the last thin sliver of self-control has snapped, and now, he can't get enough of you. And, stars, you can't get enough of him.
He lifts you again, this time without breaking the kiss, and carries you toward the bedroom. Your back hits the mattress with a soft thud, and he follows you down, settling his weight over you, his knees nudging your legs apart.
He pulls away just long enough to pull the shirt he’s wearing over his head and toss it aside, revealing the broad expanse of his chest you'd admired last night. In the dim light of day, he looks softer, more real. The scars and muscles, the soft layer of fat underneath dark hair, it's all real. It's Wolffe, Commander Wolffe, the man who's spent the better part of the past two years pushing you away, now naked and wanting in your bed.
And you're the one he's looking at.
You reach for him, but he 's faster. He leans down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his lips and tongue tracing the sensitive skin. His hands are busy, too. One is tangled in your hair, holding you in place while the other roams your body, grabbing greedy handfuls of whatever he can reach.
"Kriff, you're beautiful," he mutters, his breath hot against your ear. His lips close around a tender spot between your neck and collarbone, and he sucks hard, just on the edge of pain. "Have I told you that?"
"No," you gasp, your back arching as his teeth scrape against your skin. Your hands move to grip his shoulders, nails digging into the hard muscle. "You haven't."
"Should have."
He moves lower, his tongue tracing the line of your clavicle, the dip of your breastbone, the swell of your breasts. The warmth of his breath fans across your skin as he comes to a stop there. Just hovering, waiting. Looking his fill.
You can't take it anymore.
You slide your hand into the thick strands of his hair and tug, guiding him to you, and he goes willingly, his lips parting as they brush over the point of your nipple. You can't help the noise that escapes you as his tongue makes contact, curling around the stiff peak before his lips close over it. He suckles gently, then harder, until the slight scrape of his teeth has you squirming beneath him.
"Wolffe," you gasp as he closes his calloused thumb and forefinger around the other. "Please."
"Mhm," he hums, his tongue swirling. His teeth graze the tender bud, biting down ever so slightly, and all other thoughts scatter. He moves to the other, and you feel the smile against your skin as you arch into him, desperate for more. For all of him.
Wolffe finally releases you when your skin is raw and tingling, and you let out a frustrated groan. His only response is to press a kiss to the space between your breasts, before moving down, down, down.
You feel the scrape of his stubble against your stomach and the wetness of his tongue as he drags himself lower. He dips inside your navel with a teasing lick, and you giggle breathlessly, but the laughter fades when he presses a kiss to each hip, his thumbs digging into the hollows there. The alternating rough and soft touches is already enough to make you dizzy with want, heat pooling in your core and slicking your thighs. Trying to anticipate what he'll do next, how he'll touch you, is impossible. All you can do is lay back and let the sensations wash over you. Let him lead.
He finally settles between your legs, and your entire body goes taut as his nose brushes the inside of your thigh, his breath warm and tantalizing against the sensitive skin there.
"Spread your legs for me," he murmurs, his thumb drawing lazy circles on the inside of your knee. "I want to see all of you."
You obey without thinking, spreading your legs as wide as you can, and Wolffe lets out a low curse, his gaze darting between your legs.
"Fuck, sweetheart. So pretty."
He presses another kiss to the inside of your thigh, and you whimper, your hips rocking up. His arm slides around the back of your leg, his fingers splaying over the soft flesh of your thigh and pushing it back, exposing you further.
"Wolffe, please," you whine.
"I've got you," he whispers. His lips move closer, and closer, until you feel the first brush of his tongue against your slick flesh. You nearly shoot off the bed at the sensation, and Wolffe's hand moves from your leg to your stomach, holding you down. He looks up, his eyes finding yours. "Okay?"
"Yes," you gasp, nodding. "Don't stop."
The corner of his mouth quirks up. "I won't.”
He lowers his head again, tongue tracing the seam of your folds. He teases the entrance with the tip, just enough to gather the wetness, before moving higher. The slick glide of his tongue against the aching nub of your clit has you moaning, your head tossing against the pillows, but his grip on you is firm enough to keep you still. He licks a circle around your clit, once, twice, before his lips wrap around it, his teeth grazing it with just enough pressure to send sparks shooting up your spine.
"Yes," you hiss, your heels digging into the mattress. "Just like that."
His free hand slides up the inside of your other thigh, spreading you open even further. He traces the edges of your cunt with one finger, collecting the wetness there, before slowly sliding it inside. Your inner walls clench around the sudden intrusion, a welcome relief from the ache that's been building since he’d started touching you. He groans against you and begins to thrust, matching the rhythm of his tongue. It's slow at first, a gentle, teasing pace, but he builds steadily, driving you higher and higher, until your back arches off the bed and your eyes roll back in your head.
"Wolffe—"
"I know, sweetheart, I know," he whispers as a second thick finger slides in to join the first. He pulls his mouth off of you with a wet sound and sits back, watching you. The sight of him is almost too much. He's a mess, his hair tousled, his lips shiny and swollen. But it's his eyes, his good eye nearly black with need, that make you want to cry.
"Come here," you beg, reaching for him.
Wolffe tears his eyes away from the place where his fingers disappear inside of you, and moves to hover over you. He takes a moment to brace himself with the hand not currently buried deep in your cunt, then captures your lips in a messy, open-mouthed kiss. You can taste yourself on him, and it only serves to drive you closer to the edge.
"You feel so good," he mutters, curling his fingers in a way that makes your entire body jerk. Wolffe's breath hitches sharply in his chest as you begin to move against his hand, riding his fingers with desperate, needy rolls of your hips. The muscles in his forearm tense, bunched tight with restraint.
"Please," you gasp. "I need— I need—"
"Anything," he growls, his eyes searching yours. "Tell me."
"More," you groan, rolling your hips harder. The pressure in the base of your spine builds, coiling tighter and tighter. "Harder. Please."
"Shit, Doc, you're killing me," he breathes, his eyes wide, but his fingers pick up the pace, sliding in and out of you at a brutal pace. His gaze is a brand against your skin, his good eye nearly black, fixed on the way your breasts bounce with each movement, how your mouth parts on a soft gasp when he hits a particularly sensitive spot. "Stars, look at you."
Your hands find his shoulders, fingers digging into the thick muscle. Your breath is coming faster now, harsh pants that match the rapid, almost violent motion of your hips. You’re trembling and shaking, trying to take him deeper, to get more. To take him in every way possible.
"Is this what you wanted?" he growls over the sounds of skin slapping against skin. "Is this what you were thinking about last night, when you were trying to get me in your bed?"
"Yes," you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Fuck, yes."
"Good," he grunts . His head dips to kiss a path up the column of your neck, teeth grazing the skin. His lips move to your ear, and his next words come out in a harsh whisper. "I was thinking about it, too. Thinking about how good you would look, laid out underneath me."
Your only response is a strangled moan as the pressure reaches a fever pitch. He leans down, and you feel the sharp edge of his teeth against the side of your neck. It's not hard enough to break the skin, but it's enough to leave a mark, enough to make you cry out. The pleasure-pain of it washes over you, sending a fresh wave of wetness dripping down the inside of your thighs.
"That's it," Wolffe groans as his fingers twist and curl inside of you. "Let go, Doc. I've got you. Let go."
And you do.
You cry out, back arching off the bed as the coil of pressure snaps, and the world falls away. Your thighs squeeze together, trapping his hand between them, and your body is racked with wave after wave of pleasure. It's like nothing you've ever felt before, white hot and blinding, and your entire body tenses, trembling and shaking under his weight.
"That's it, that's it," Wolffe murmurs, pressing soft kisses to the side of your neck. "That's my girl. Kriff, look at you. You're perfect."
You gasp, your head tilting back as the orgasm washes over you. It lasts an eternity, and no time at all, until you collapse back against the pillows, panting and boneless.
Wolffe is there, his fingers still buried deep, but he's gone still, letting you catch your breath. When you finally come back to yourself and open your eyes, you find him watching you with an intense expression.
"What?"
He shakes his head slightly. "Nothing. That was..."
"Amazing?"
"Yeah," he chuckles. He presses a kiss to the top of your shoulder and slowly withdraws his fingers. You gasp as he slides out of you, but the sensation quickly shifts to a dull, empty ache. You squirm, your thighs pressing together, searching for some kind of relief, but Wolffe's hand catches you around the back of the knee. "Open. I want to watch."
You whimper and do as he asks, letting your legs fall open, exposing yourself completely. Wolffe's gaze travels down, his lips parting on a low curse.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, tracing the outline of your pussy. The tender flesh is puffy and swollen, sensitive to the touch, and you shudder as his fingertips draw through the mess of fluid. He brings them to his mouth, and his tongue darts out, licking your slickness from each digit. Heat spreads up your chest and neck , and you're surprised to feel yourself growing wetter , aching to have him fill you up again.
"Wolffe," you breathe.
"Stay still," he orders as he leans forward to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. You taste yourself on him, the scent of you mingling with the salt of his skin, and you can't help but reach for him, your hands sliding down his back to grip the firm globes of his ass.
"Wolffe—"
"Shh," he murmurs, pulling back and shifting until he’s kneeling between your spread legs. He reaches for the button of his pants, and you watch, mesmerized, as he undoes the button and slides the zipper down. “You wanted more, didn't you?"
You nod, unable to form words, and watch as he pushes the fabric down over his hips, revealing a line of dark hair that leads downwards. He frees his cock, and you inhale sharply. You'd felt him last night, but seeing him like this, hard and wanting, is a different story entirely. He's beautiful. A work of art, all raw power and masculine beauty. You can't help but stare.
Wolffe chuckles, and the sound drags your gaze back up to his. He's smirking, the corners of his eyes crinkling, but the smile falls away when he reaches for his cock. He gives himself a few slow strokes, his thumb circling the glistening head, and you watch as he spreads the beads of fluid there.
"This what you were thinking about?"
"Yes," you breathe, your thighs squeezing together. "Gods, yes."
"Me too," he groans.
He wraps his fingers around his cock again, his hand moving slowly, lazily. Your gaze is fixed on him, mesmerized by the way his cock grows impossibly harder as he touches himself, the veins throbbing, the flushed head leaking a steady stream of pre-come. He’s putting on a show for you, and you appreciate the effort. But you're tired of watching. You want to participate.
You push yourself up onto your elbows, a smirk spreading across your face. "Are you going to keep that all to yourself?"
Wolffe's breath catches, and his eyes darken, the amber of his good eye nearly black with need. He strokes himself again, slower this time, squeezing just beneath the head. His lips part on a soft groan.
"Depends," he grunts, his gaze drifting down to where your legs are still spread for him. "Are you going to be a good girl and let me have my way with you?"
"Maybe," you purr, and you slowly spread your legs wider, giving him an unobstructed view. "Or maybe I'll make you beg for it."
A slow, dangerous grin spreads across Wolffe’s face. He leans forward, caging you in with his body. He’s close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him, the head of his cock brushing against your inner thigh and smearing a sticky trail of precum across your skin.
"You think you can make me beg?" he asks, his lips brushing against yours. You shiver as his tongue darts out, tracing the seam of your lips, before dipping inside to taste you. "I've been trained to resist torture, sweetheart. You're going to have to do better than that."
"I think I'm up for the challenge," you whisper against his mouth. You reach down between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around him, and he lets out a ragged gasp, dropping his head to bury his face in the crook of your neck. He's big and heavy, and hot in your hand, and you can't help but squeeze, just to see what he'll do.
"Fuck," he groans, his hips thrusting forward, and you take that as encouragement.
You begin to stroke him, slowly at first, getting a feel for him. Your fingers glide up the thick vein running along the underside, tracing the ridge around the head, rubbing the wetness from his slit over the sensitive skin. You're rewarded with a curse, his hips stuttering into your grip, and a soft groan against your skin.
You stroke him again, your other hand coming up to cradle his head. Your fingers curl around the strands of hair at the base of his skull, and you tug, forcing his head back so you can look at him. He lets out a ragged groan as his head drops back, his hips rolling, thrusting his length into your palm.
"That's it," you coo, squeezing him just below the head.
"Fucking hell, Doc," he gasps.
"Mhm," you hum, releasing him and bringing your hand to your mouth. You lick your palm, swirling your tongue around the tip of each finger, before reaching down and wrapping your hand around him again.
Wolffe curses, his hips jerking at the new sensation. You watch, transfixed, as his cock slides through the ring made by your thumb and forefinger, his hips rocking forward and back in time with your movements. He's lost to the pleasure, his face flushed, his eyes glazed. It's a sight to behold.
"I think you're close," you murmur, releasing him and bringing your hands up to push on his shoulders. Wolffe's gaze snaps to yours, and he blinks, as if coming out of a trance.
"What—"
"I think I've got you right where I want you," you continue, pushing again until he falls back. You follow him, climbing on top of him and straddling his hips. You slide your palms over his chest, admiring the expanse of warm skin and muscle under your touch. "Ready to beg."
Wolffe's breath hitches, his fingers digging into the meat of your thighs. “Yeah? You want to hear me beg?"
"Mhm." You reach down, grasping him again. You stroke him a few times, spreading the wetness down the length of him, before positioning him at your entrance.
You feel his fingers dig into the soft flesh of your hips, his body tensing beneath you, as you rub the head of his cock against your folds. Your inner walls flutter, the memory of the delicious stretch of his fingers making your stomach tighten with anticipation. This is torture for you, too, but it’s worth it. Worth it to see him come undone just for you, and only you, the way you’ve always wanted.
"Come on," he grunts, his jaw clenched. "Don't tease me."
"Beg," you repeat, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his chest. His breath hitches as your tongue finds one flat nipple, laving it. "Beg for me, and I'll give you what you want."
"Stars, you're a kriffing brat," he huffs, but there's a smile in his voice.
"Is that all you've got?" you ask, trailing kisses down his chest, over the hard plane of his stomach.
"I've got a lot more," he growls.
You sit up, smirking down at him. "Prove it."
He glares at you, but the heat in his gaze is anything but angry. There's a playful challenge there, and your heart flips at the sight, a real smile tugging at the corner of your lips. This is fun, you realize, with no small amount of wonder. It's fun, and light, and easy. Not what you were expecting, not after everything the two of you have been through, but not unwelcome.
Not unwelcome at all.
"Fine," he grunts, releasing his hold on your hips and reaching up to lace his fingers behind his head. "Have it your way. You win. I'm begging."
"Yes?" you prompt.
"Yes," he repeats. "Please, will you put me out of my misery and just—"
"Okay," you laugh, reaching between your bodies.
"Oh, thank the fucking—"
You sink down onto him, taking him inside of you in one long, slow slide. Wolffe cuts off mid-sentence, his words turning into a choked groan as you swallow him whole. He feels even bigger like this, with him deep inside, the thick head of his cock pressing against the end of you. It takes your breath away, sparks shooting out in all directions in your veins, and it takes every ounce of willpower you have not to fall apart right then and there.
Wolffe seems to be experiencing something similar.
"Fucking hell," he grits out. He's gripping the pillow above his head, his entire body tense, his jaw clenched so tight that the muscle at the side is bulging. "Give a guy a little warning next time, will you?"
"Sorry," you say, not sounding sorry at all. You wiggle a bit, getting used to the feel of him stuffing you full. You lean forward and brace your hands on his chest, rolling your hips. "You good?"
"Yes," he grits out, his eyes closed.
"You're not moving."
"Because if I do," he says, his jaw clenching, "it's going to be over."
"Oh," you murmur. A warm flush spreads through your chest, and you bite your lip. "I guess I'm just that good."
Wolffe cracks an eye open. "Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late," you laugh, and then you're moving. You rise up on your knees, just far up his length before letting gravity do the work. The feeling of him dragging out of you is almost as good as him pushing back in, and you can't help but sigh as you move. It's a slow, steady pace at first, and Wolffe's eyes stay locked on the place where the two of you are joined with a kind of hungry fascination. You're watching him, too, fascinated by the play of muscle and tendon, the way the skin pulls taut over his ribs with each movement. He's so beautiful like this, all laid out for you, his face flushed and his eyes heavy-lidded.
His hands slide up the curve of your waist and ribs to cup your breasts. He gives the sensitive buds a light pinch, and your movements falter , a moan catching in the back of your throat. He takes that as encouragement and does it again, twisting and pinching, the slight twinge of pain making your inner walls clench around him.
"Yes," he groans, his head falling back against the pillows. His fingers slide down, dancing over the swell of your hips before digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. His thumbs find the place where his cock disappears inside you and spread your folds wide.
"Wolffe," you gasp as you feel him throb inside of you.
"So pretty," he breathes, his eyes locked on the sight of you riding him. He pets the slick flesh, rubbing circles around the place where the two of you are joined. "Look at you. All spread out for me, taking my cock like you were made for it."
You whimper his name again, chin tucked against your chest, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip. You can feel yourself dripping at his words, slick pooling around his cock and in the space between your bodies. The sticky wet sounds fill the room as you pick up the pace, riding him faster, harder, until the headboard is smacking against the wall in a steady rhythm. You plant your hands on his chest to steady yourself, your fingers tangling in the dark hair there, and leverage your weight.
"Look at me," he orders. You lift your head, your gaze finding his. "That's it. Just like that. Let me see you."
His praise coils in your belly, liquid heat that spreads through your veins like molten metal. The urge to give him everything, to break yourself open for his viewing pleasure, is overwhelming. You want him to own every part of you. Your movements grow more purposeful, your hips rolling in deliberate waves, grinding down onto him until his pelvic bone grinds against your swollen clit.
"That's it, sweet girl," Wolffe groans.
His words send a shudder through you, and your eyes flutter shut. His fingers press into the soft skin of your hips, guiding your movements as you start to falter. He plants his feet and thrusts up, meeting you with each downward roll of your hips. It's almost too much, his thick length filling you so completely, rubbing against the spots inside of you that make you see stars. But you can't stop. Can't pull yourself away from the building pressure.
"There you go," he grunts, his eyes fixed on the way your breasts bounce with each thrust. "That's it. Take it. All of it."
"Wolffe," you whimper, your head lolling back on your shoulders. The muscles in your thighs are screaming with the effort, and sweat rolls down the column of your neck and over the swell of your breasts . It's a battle between the urge to collapse and the need to keep going, and you're not sure which one will win. "Oh, please—"
"I've got you," he growls, sitting up. One of his hands cups the back of your head, and the other bands around your waist, crushing your body to his. “Hold on.”
You wrap your arms around his neck, clinging to him as he flips you onto your back. There’s barely a pause in the rhythm, just a new angle, a new depth that has your entire body arching off the bed. He’s over you now, caging you in with his hair falling into his eyes and his lips pulled back from his teeth.
He looks feral. Unhinged. As if his self-control has snapped completely.
And he's looking at you.
He's watching you again, studying the way your face changes as he fucks into you. His gaze is fixed on the spot where the two of you are joined, watching the way his cock disappears into your body over and over again. His gaze travels upward, watching the way the force of his thrusts makes your breasts bounce.
It's filthy.
You've never felt this way. Exposed, laid bare, as if every secret thought and desire is written across your skin. Like you're an open book for him to read, to study, to consume.
You don't think you'll ever get tired of being under his scrutiny.
You lock your legs around his waist, ankles hooking together behind his back, and pull him flush against you. That's all it takes to break him. Wolffe's control shatters, the last thin thread of restraint snapping as a guttural growl rips from his chest.
He pounds into you, each thrust deeper than the last, his hips snapping forward with brutal force. The sharp slap of skin against skin echoes through the room, mingling with the slick, obscene sounds of your body greedily accepting him. You're helpless beneath him, pinned under his weight, completely at his mercy. And you never want it to end.
"Fuck, you feel so good," Wolffe grunts against your throat. He presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the side of your neck, then bites down. Hard. The sharp sting makes your eyes water, and you keen, your nails raking down his back. His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you closer, his hips grinding into you with an urgency that matches the rising pressure inside of you. "So fucking tight. So fucking perfect."
"Stars, Wolffe," you gasp, and your back bows, pushing your chest against his. Your legs clamp down around his waist, heels digging into his ass. "More."
He laughs, but it sounds more like a growl. "Greedy little thing, aren't you?"
"Yes," you breathe.
His head dips, his teeth closing around the soft flesh of your breast. You whimper and bury your fingers in his hair, holding him to you as he nips and sucks, marking you. You don't care. You want him to mark you, to claim you, to make you his. And he does, leaving a trail of red, aching marks from your breasts to your neck.
"Please," you beg, turning your head to press your lips to his hair. You're so close, the tension in your lower belly growing tighter and tighter. "Wolffe, I'm—"
"I know, sweetheart, I know," he pants. He lifts his head, his mouth finding yours in a desperate kiss that is all teeth and tongue. "Let go. I've got you. Come for me."
His hand slips between your bodies, finding your clit. The touch is enough to tip you over the edge. You break the kiss with a cry, your entire body going taut as the pressure snaps, the waves of pleasure crashing over you with a force that steals your breath. It feels like it goes on forever, the world fading away and narrowing down to the place where the two of you are joined, to the feeling of his cock filling you until there’s nothing left but him.
By the time you come back to yourself, Wolffe's thrusts have slowed. He's still hard and thick inside of you, and when you lift your heavy eyelids, he's watching you. His eyes are glazed and unfocused, his lips parted and kiss-swollen, but he's still focused on you.
"Fuck," he mutters, leaning down and capturing your lips in another messy kiss. You taste blood, and you're not sure if it's from your lips or his. "Fuck. Sweetheart."
You mewl, unable to form words, and reach up to run a hand through his hair. "Wolffe..."
"You good?" he asks, his voice gruff.
You nod. "Mhmm."
He groans, and his hips pick up their pace. Your head lolls back against the pillows , your eyes slipping shut again as the pleasure starts to build a second time. You're not sure if you can take it, not after coming so hard, but you're not going to stop him. Not when he's this close, this desperate. You want to see him fall apart. Want to feel it.
"You feel so good," Wolffe groans. His arms slide underneath your thighs, pushing your knees up to your chest and changing the angle. He's even deeper like this, filling you so full you can barely breathe. You're going to feel him for days, and the thought alone makes your toes curl.
"You're so deep," you whine, and Wolffe's head drops to your shoulder with a shuddering moan.
"I know," he pants. His hips stutter, his rhythm faltering as he loses himself to the pleasure. "Fuck, one more. Give me one more. You can do it."
"Please," you gasp, wrapping your arms around his neck.
He groans, his head dipping, and captures your lips in a hard kiss. His tongue licks into your mouth, and you kiss him back with the same urgency, sucking his tongue, biting at his bottom lip. He groans into your mouth and pulls back, his forehead pressed to yours.
"Fuck, look at you," he pants, his fingers digging into the backs of your thighs. He pushes them higher, folding you in half, and the next thrust sends a spark of pleasure so sharp it borders on pain. Tears prickle in the corners of your eyes, and you cry out, the sound lost in the slap of skin against skin. "So kriffing perfect."
"I'm— oh, fuck, I'm close," you whimper.
"I know, baby, I know. Me, too."
You cling to him, trying to hold on for just a few moments longer, but it's not long before the pressure begins to coil. Wolffe’s hand leaves your thigh to wedge between your bodies, his thumb circling the sensitive bundle of nerves above where the two of you are joined.
"Come," he growls, pressing down and sending a fresh wave of sparks shooting through your veins.
You don't have a choice.
Another orgasm tears through you, smaller this time, but no less intense. It rips a hoarse scream from your throat as you clutch Wolffe's head to yours, your fingernails digging into his scalp. Your inner walls clamp down around Wolffe's cock, the rippling contractions milking his shaft in a rhythmic vice that makes him gasp. You can feel every ridge and vein pulsing inside you as he drives deeper still, chasing his own release.
"Yes," he hisses, and his hand slides from your thigh down the curve of your ass, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to leave bruises. He tilts his head back, and his lips find yours in a sloppy, desperate kiss, all tongue and teeth. He breaks away panting, a string of saliva connecting your mouths for a moment before it snaps. His forehead rests against yours as his hips slam into yours with a frenzied urgency. "There you go. There you go. Such a good girl."
The praise makes your heart stutter in your chest, and you whimper.
Wolffe curses and buries his face in the crook of your neck. He's gasping for air now, his hips driving into you faster and faster. He's close, and you want to see him, want to watch him let go.
"Wolffe," you pant, tangling your fingers in his hair and giving a sharp tug. His head falls back, and his eyes find yours, glazed and unseeing. The harsh line of his jaw and furrow in his brow smoothes out as you trace his scar, brushing the sweaty strands of hair off his forehead.
His lips part, and the look in his eyes shifts. The desperation morphs into something else. Something tender. He looks at you the same way he had last night, and this morning, with something soft and vulnerable in his eyes.
You recognize it for what it is, and it makes your breath catch in your chest.
This isn't the man who'd spent the last two years pushing you away and keeping his distance. This is the man who'd stayed the night. Who had woken up before you, and tried, and failed, to make you pancakes. The man who was willing to show you he was vulnerable.
The man who'd been in love with you, whether or not he was ready to admit it.
"Let go," you repeat, and you roll your hips against his, clenching your inner walls as your thumb strokes the curve of his cheek. “I've got you.”
Wolffe's breath hitches. You watch, mesmerized, as the tension in his body builds, the muscles in his back and arms straining with the effort. "I'm... ah, fuck...cyare."
The words dissolve into a guttural groan as his entire body goes rigid. Tendons stand out in stark relief along his neck, and his face contorts into an expression somewhere between pleasure and pain. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, muffling the sound against your skin as his cock pulses inside you, flooding you with heat. It feels like it goes on forever, each aborted thrust of his hips accompanied by a low, helpless groan, his fingers flexing and tightening against the soft flesh of your hips.
When he's finished, he collapses over you with a groan. You wrap your arms around his neck, cradling him close, and you press a kiss to the sweat-damp strands of his hair. You can feel his heartbeat thumping wildly against his ribcage as the two of you fight to catch your breath.
"Shh," you whisper as you run your fingers through his hair.
"Cyare," he repeats, muffled against your skin.
"Yeah," you murmur, and you blink back the tears that threaten. "I'm here. You're okay."
"Cyare."
"Mhm."
You don't know how long the two of you stay like that, locked together, but eventually, his breathing slows, and the tension in his muscles ebbs away. You trace mindless patterns across his back as you watch the rain run down the windows in rivets between the cracks of the curtains. And you feel…settled. More than you have in a long time.
You could get used to this.
Wolffe's arms tremble with exertion as he pushes himself up, muscles straining, glistening with a sheen of sweat that catches the dim light of your bedroom. Before he can separate you completely, you clamp your legs around his waist, holding him inside of you.
"Wait," you whisper.
He blinks, looking down at you. His eyes are soft, the amber of his good eye warm and clear. There's no more hardness. No more fear. Just him. Just Wolffe.
"Don't go," you continue, and you reach up to brush the sweaty hair off his forehead. "Please."
"I wasn't going to," he says, his voice rasping. He presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist, and the simple gesture makes your heart flutter. "I was just... I don't want to crush you."
"Oh," you laugh, releasing your legs. "Right."
Wolffe chuckles and carefully rolls off of you, taking you with him. You burrow into his chest with a sigh, your cheek pressed against the warm skin over his heart. The hair on his chest tickles your nose, and you can't help but smile, pressing a kiss to the firm muscle beneath your lips. His arm tightens around you, pulling you closer, and you feel the brush of his lips against the crown of your head.
The two of you lay there for a long while, wrapped around each other, listening to the rain. It's a comfortable quiet, not the heavy silence you've grown used to between you. This one feels different. Easy. Peaceful.
Eventually, Wolffe shifts, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head. "That wasn't bad."
Your head lifts, and you turn to look at him. He's smirking. You roll your eyes and smack him lightly on the chest. "Not bad? That was the best sex of my life, Wolffe. Don't you dare ruin it by being modest."
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest underneath you. "No, it was... yeah. It was."
You prop yourself up on an elbow and grin down at him. Your finger prods the space between his brows, drawing a line down the bridge of his nose, over the ridges of his scars, and finally tracing the curve of his lips.
“And you didn't even have to beg that much,” you tease. “Next time, I’ll have to make you work for it.”
Wolffe snorts, and his hand moves from your head to the curve of your ass, giving it a light squeeze. "Next time, you’ll be lucky if you can walk afterwards. I'm just warming up."
"Ooh," you purr, and you lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth. "I'm looking forward to it."
He shifts, turning onto his side to face you and making the sheets pool around your waists. His fingers trace the line of your shoulder, then your collarbone, before resting his hand on your hip, his thumb stroking the curve of your bone. His eyes are soft, the amber of his good eye warm in the dim light, but there’s still a seriousness in them. A question.
You answer it before he can ask.
"I'm okay, Wolffe.”
"Are you sure?" he presses, his gaze searching yours. “You were crying.”
"Good crying," you say, and you lean in to press another kiss to the opposite corner of his mouth. "The best kind of crying."
"Okay," he nods, though you can tell he's not entirely convinced. He tucks your hair behind your ear and lets his thumb linger on the shell of your ear. "But if you're not, tell me. I don't want to hurt you."
"You're not hurting me," you reassure him, and you reach for his hand, lacing your fingers together. "This is... this is exactly what I wanted. You are exactly what I wanted."
Wolffe's expression softens, and he lets out a quiet breath. "Me too."
He tugs you closer, and you go willingly, molding your body to his as he presses a lingering kiss to your forehead. He continues down your jaw, stopping at the edge of your bottom lip. He doesn't close the distance, letting his lips hover there, and your body aches with anticipation.
"Wolffe..."
"Shh," he murmurs, and he nips at your lower lip with a soft growl. "Let me."
You let out a shuddering breath and close your eyes, tilting your head back to give him better access. The constellation of bites and bruises he'd left across your neck and shoulders is bared to him, and you can feel the ghost of a smile against your skin as he examines his work. He presses a kiss to each one, his tongue darting out to soothe the ache, and you sigh in pleasure.
"Feels good," you whisper.
"Yeah?" His hand moves to your chin, tilting your head back further, and his lips find the spot beneath your ear. He traces the shell of your ear with his tongue, and your fingers curl against his chest. “Sore?”
Your eyes flutter. “A little.”
“Hm.”
He follows the path he's forged, taking his time, rediscovering the dips and curves of your body, the sensitive spots he’d mapped out earlier. His lips are gentle now, slow and deliberate. There's no urgency. No rush. Just exploration. Possession. He kisses his way down the valley between your breasts, over the soft swell of your stomach, the curve of your hip, before pausing at the top of your thigh. He looks up at you, his eyes dark, and presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the bruised flesh where his fingers had dug into your skin.
"I think I like you marked up like this," he murmurs, his lips moving against your skin. "Knowing you're mine."
Your breath catches, and you can't stop the soft whine that escapes you. "Wolffe..."
He hums and dips his head, his tongue darting out to soothe the ache, before his teeth close down around the sensitive skin, marking you again. Your hips lift off the bed, seeking contact, and you feel the scratch of his stubble against the inside of your thigh as he moves lower, and lower, until he settles between your legs again. He pushes them wider, letting the cool air of the room wash over your sensitive flesh. You can feel yourself twitch, and he makes another appreciative noise at the sight.
You squirm, your cheeks heating under the intensity of his stare. "Wolffe, stop looking."
"No. I like looking," he says, and he leans down, pressing a kiss to the soft swell of your belly. He nips at the sensitive skin, smirking when you jump. “Especially after I’ve made a mess of you. And now that I know you like it…”
He presses a kiss to the crease of your thigh, his tongue darting out to lick a path to the center of you. His nose bumps against your clit, and he groans. You can't take it. You reach for his head, burying your fingers in the mess of his hair.
"You're insatiable," you hiss.
"I've been starved," he says, his voice muffled. "Can you blame me?"
"Absolutely."
The warm puff of air against your folds makes you shiver, but he doesn't move any closer. Just hovers there, breathing you in, making you wait. Making you want. And he's right, you like it. You like the way he looks at you, the way he touches you, the way he wants you. You love it, actually.
Your stomach chooses that moment to let out a loud, rumbling growl that echoes in the quiet room. Wolffe pulls back, startled, and his gaze snaps to yours.
"Was that you?" he asks.
Your face heats, and you pull a pillow from behind you to cover your embarrassment. "Shut up."
There’s a beat of silence, before he ducks his head and laughs, pressing his forehead against your thigh. Your momentary mortification fades in the face of the sound. It’s not the quiet huffs and snorts you’re used to, but a full, rich laugh, deep and warm and infectious. You grin down at him, unable to help yourself, and he looks up at you with bright eyes.
“Okay,” he says, and lifts himself up. “Let's get you fed. But you're on caf duty. I'm done with that thing."
"Deal."
Wolffe presses a final kiss to the side of your knee and pushes himself up to roll off the bed. He winces as he straightens, rubbing the small of his back, and you can't help the smug smile that spreads across your face. He catches it and scowls.
"What's so funny?"
"Nothing," you say, shaking your head and sitting up, pulling the blankets with you. "It's just, I've never seen you move so stiffly. I thought you clones were made of stronger stuff."
He narrows his eyes, but there's no heat in it. "And I thought you were a doctor. Shouldn't you be taking notes? Instead of making fun of your patient's... injuries?"
“Oh, yeah. I’ll make sure to add it to your chart,” you grin. “Commander Wolffe, presenting with lower back pain after a morning of strenuous, acrobatic—”
A hand closes around your ankle, and you let out a yelp as he yanks you toward the edge of the bed. Wolffe kneels down and leans in, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear. "If you know what's good for you, you'll stop talking."
"Or what?"
He doesn't respond, just smirks. Then his hands are under your knees, and he's tossing you over his shoulder, his hand landing with a sharp smack on the bare skin of your ass.
"Wolffe!"
"That," he says, giving the other cheek a swat. You squirm, kicking your legs, but the grip on the backs of your thighs is ironclad. "Stop moving, or you're going to make things worse."
"Put me down," you huff, pushing up on his back.
"No," he grunts, heading toward the refresher. He smacks your ass again, and you hiss, the sting of it sending a fresh wave of heat straight to the apex of your thighs. "I've got work to do."
He sets you down on the counter with a soft thud, the cool tile a welcome relief against your flushed skin. Wolffe leans in, one hand on either side of you, caging you in with his body. He looks different. The lines around his eyes have smoothed, the hard set of his jaw is gone. He looks relaxed. Content. He looks like a man who's just woken up after a good night's sleep and a thorough roll in the sheets.
In your apartment.
With you.
"So," you murmur, your hands coming to rest on the solid warmth of his chest. "What's the plan, Commander?"
"Plan?" he repeats, raising an eyebrow. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. It's slow and sweet, and you sigh into it, your fingers curling into the hard muscle of his shoulders.
"The plan for the rest of the day," you clarify. "After we have the terrible, sabotaged pancake breakfast. Are you going back to the barracks?"
Wolffe pulls back, his hands moving from the counter to your thighs. He traces the curve of your legs with his thumbs, and his gaze follows, a thoughtful expression on his face.
"I don't have to," he says quietly, looking back up at you. "My schedule's clear."
"Yeah, but the boys—" you start.
"Can handle it," he finishes. He reaches for a washcloth, turning on the water and testing the temperature with his wrist. The domesticity of it makes your chest ache. "They're big boys. They can manage a day without me. Besides," he adds, wringing out the excess water, "I'm on leave."
You blink, surprised. "You are?"
"As of an hour ago," he confirms. He steps forward, wedging himself between your legs, and gently begins to wipe you down.
"And you decided to spend your leave here?" you whisper, your breath hitching as he moves high, his knuckles brushing against your folds. "With me?"
Wolffe looks up, his expression serious. "Is that okay?"
You reach out and cup his cheek in your palm. "Yeah," you murmur. "It's more than okay."
“Good.”
He turns his head, pressing a kiss to your hand, before continuing his work. You watch quietly as he cleans the remnants of your morning from your skin, and when he's finished, he tosses the cloth into the sink. You expect him to move away, to give you space, but instead he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you against his chest. Your legs circle his hips, and you lock your ankles behind him, holding him close.
"Doc," he sighs, tucking his head into the crook of your neck.
"Mhm?"
"I meant what I said last night," he says, his voice muffled. "About not knowing what the hell I'm doing."
"I know," you say, running your fingers through his hair. "It's okay. We can figure it out together."
His arms tighten around you, and you hear him take a deep, steadying breath. "I love you," he whispers, the words rushed, as if he's afraid you'll change your mind if he takes too long to say them. "I think... I've loved you for a long time."
You close your eyes, the words washing over you like warm water. You've wanted to hear him say that for so long, you're almost afraid to believe it. But there's no mistaking the sincerity in his voice, or the waver in it he's trying to hide. He means it. With as much conviction as he says anything.
"I love you, too," you whisper back, and you pull his head up to press a kiss to his forehead. "So much. It kind of sucks, actually."
Wolffe lets out a surprised laugh, his eyes widening. "It sucks?"
"Only because it took us this long to admit it," you explain, cupping his face between your hands. "But I guess we'll just have to make up for lost time."
His smile is brilliant, his eyes shining. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You lean in, brushing your lips against his in a chaste kiss. "I'm willing if you are."
"Sweetheart," he murmurs. "I'm willing. More than willing."
"Then it's settled," you say, dropping your hands and giving his chest a light pat. "Now, let's have breakfast. And then you can take me back to bed and make up for all that lost time."
Wolffe's chuckle rumbles against your mouth. "Yes, ma'am."
You press one last kiss to his lips before pulling away and sliding off the counter. Your legs wobble , and he catches you around the waist, steadying you.
"Easy," he grins. "I'm not the only one who's feeling it."
"Shut up," you laugh, giving him a light shove. "Go. Food. Now."
"Alright, alright," he says, his hands up in surrender. He gives your ass a light smack as he turns to go, and you yelp, spinning around to glare at him. He just smirks and ducks out of the refresher, turning to call over his shoulder as he goes. "Put some clothes on. I can’t have you distracting me. We have a war to win against your appliances.”
You roll your eyes, but your smile is wide as you watch him go. You've been waiting for this. For the moment he'd let you in. Let you close. And now that you have it, you're not going to take it for granted. You're not going to let him slip away again.
The two of you might be figuring this out, but you're figuring it out together. And that's enough for now.
dancing at the club with your bf!clones (my headcanons)
a/n: manifesting a date with wolffe at 79's...it'll happen someday...
gn reader
warnings: mature content
♡ THE BAD BATCH
bf!hunter who protects you more than he dances, standing behind you with his hands firmly planted around your waist to guide your movements. he's not easily loosened up, jaw tense as he focuses on making sure the seedy men around you are keeping their hands to themselves. but you distract him when you drag your body down against him, and he throws his head back with a soft groan, pushing his hips toward you to feel that pressure, that friction between your bodies as he curses, "ah, fuck," under his breath.
bf!tech who couldn't be more awkward at the club, but you're there to show him some things are better without overthinking them. he swallows hard as your arms snake around his neck and your face appears just inches away from his. he's not sure what to do with his hands, but you take the initiative to grab them and place them on your hips. he squeezes you softly, following your lead, never once looking away from you like you're the only person in the room, and he proves yet again how quick of a learner he can be.
bf!wrecker who is a bit of a mess at the club because he keeps bumping into people and accidentally starting fights he can easily win, but he's just there to have fun with you. he's your protective wall and dance partner at the same time, so it works in your favor that his large size doesn't fit well in cramped spaces. you're safe in his embrace as he sways you to the music, leaning down to give you a drunk, sloppy kiss that you feel everywhere, especially between your legs when he pushes himself up against your ass.
bf!crosshair who doesn't really consider himself a dancer; he's the mysterious shadow in the corner watching you have fun, ready to intervene if someone gets too close. he tries to resist your attempts to drag him to the floor, but you're quick to throw your arms around him, tired of him staying on the sidelines. he sighs and tugs your body flush against his front side, squeezing your ass like a silent reminder not to get carried away. "you're lucky i'm in a good mood tonight," he mutters in your ear. "really? i couldn't tell," you tease.
bf!echo who thinks he's just going to embarrass you, shaking his head as you pull him close with a mischievous smile that tells him he's in trouble. your hand is at the collar of his shirt to tug him into a kiss that blends your bodies through the crowd, and you sidle into his arms when they come around you, his lips chasing yours in the darkness. you're grinning as you lean back for air, and he knows it's because you're not letting him get away until you get a dance out of him. "alright, you win," he grumbles.
♡ COMMANDERS
bf!wolffe who acts like a bodyguard whenever you go out, and a nightclub is no different. in fact, he's even more serious, never once letting you out of his sight. he stands behind you with his arm around the front of your shoulders, kind of keeping you in a headlock situation that tightens protectively whenever someone walks into you or comes too close. you tell him to lighten up and dance with you, moving your body a lot more fluidly than his stiff demeanor. he grips your face as he feels your ass rub against him, knowing that you're doing this on purpose—that you want to tease him until there's no more restraint left under that bored scowl. his fingers are firm around your jawline, forcing you to look up at him as he leans in close, being the even bigger tease with the way his lips brush yours, but don't fully touch. "behave, or we're leaving," he whispers, his voice soft yet commanding, melting you right where you're weak for him.
bf!fox who swears he doesn't dance, won't dance, can't dance, whatever the excuse is, you think he's just going to blow you off, but he actually can't stand the thought of leaving you in the middle of a bunch of other men trying to get their hands on you. you're dancing your consciousness away when suddenly, you feel a familiar set of hands plant around your hips, and you look up with wide eyes to see fox raging with jealousy. he craves your attention, and his stare burns hot despite his cool murmur, "sorry, didn't mean to scare you." you wind your arms around his neck to pull him into your movements, tilting your head with a cheeky smile. "you should be sorry for keeping me waiting," you whisper back.
bf!cody who surprises everyone, including you, with how ready he is to dance with you. he doesn't often initiate it, calm as he sits back and sips on his drink, telling you to "go on ahead" if you want to dance. the moment you tell him you want to dance with him, though, he pauses a bit and smiles, letting his playful side slip out. maybe it's the alcohol or your presence unwinding him, or both, but he teases "you think you can keep up?" softly in your ear, and you're reminded of all the fun he's hiding under his reserved maturity, the glimpse of the person he is outside of all his responsibilities. "guess you have to dance with me to find out," you tell him.
bf!mayday who is more of a slow dancer, the type of guy to take you to a romantic jazz bar and serenade you under the moonlight. clubbing might not be his go-to scene, but he still finds ways to make the night feel intimate, holding you close as he buries his face into the crook of your neck from behind and lets you grind back against him. he chuckles into your skin and smooths his hands down the side of your figure, down your hips hungrily. "easy, now, or we'll have to call it a night," he murmurs, even though sleep is the last thing on his mind right now.
♡ 501st
bf!rex who switches up from calm and sweet as he look into your eyes through the flashing lights, to giving deadly glares at the people pushing into you carelessly. he puts a protective arm around your shoulder and tucks you under him, keeping you snug and safe in his side as he tells them to back up and give you some space, his voice deepening with authority. his gaze softens once it's back on you, though, and he kisses your forehead, murmuring, "where we we?" letting his hand trail down your body until it finds your hip again.
bf!fives who has a drink in one hand while his other arm is wrapped around your waist. he never loses focus on your safety, super quick to snatch up the drinks that are forced into your hands by untrustworthy people who are too drunk to slow down. "mm, don't drink that shit, baby, i got it," he kisses the top of your head and adds, "c'mon and dance with me." he pulls you away from the crowd trying to swallow you up, his hands around your waist and his forehead pressed to yours as he starts to move your hips in rhythm with his, grinning wide right before stealing a kiss to your mouth.
bf!kix who cozies up to you in a corner where nobody's in your business, flirting and stealing kisses as the music blares over your conversation. his arms are holding your waist from behind, and he leans over you to hear your voice and softly presses your lips together, jokingly whispering, "wow, you're beautiful...are you here with anyone?" you roll your eyes and laugh, "nice try." he laughs back, slowly but surely moving your hips to the music as you lean back against his chest, surrendering to his touch.
bf!jesse who acts like he's hot shit but actually needs a little bit of liquid courage to dance with you; nothing makes him more nervous than seeing you look so good and feeling your body so close to him. he plays it off with an arm thrown around your shoulder as he pulls you into his side, leaning down to talk in your ear, "you feeling alright?" and smiling when you nod at him reassuringly. he smiles back. "then dance with me," he says, raising his eyebrows in anticipation of your response, his eyes widening when you start pulling him toward you playfully.
bf!hardcase who can dance with you ALL night. he honestly doesn't need alcohol to have fun. he's the life of the party, goes absolutely crazy for catching your ass and feeling you rub up on him. there's nothing innocent about the way he dances with you, but sometimes when he's super hammered, he just wraps his arms around you from behind and starts swaying slowly from side to side, murmuring, "you know i love you, right?" which is how you know it's time to go home.
♡ MISC
bf!howzer who puts your hands around his neck and drags his touch down your forearms, leaning in close as the music nearly muffles his words, "stay close to me—don't want you running off." you nod and squeeze his shoulders, which causes him to smile and pull you closer, gently bringing your front sides flush together. he tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes, and he holds this quiet stare through the deafening music, focusing on nothing else but you.
bf!gregor who dances with you everywhere, whether it's in the kitchen while he's cooking for you, in the living room as you're winding down for the night together, and most certainly at the club where he just LOVES to show off. specifically show you off, because nothing makes him prouder than having you on his arm as you dance together, and he goes all out, laughing and spinning and twirling you and hugging you in his arms to the sound of the music.
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➜ Chapter Summary: With Anakin’s return to the 501st, Rex is haunted by a dual burden: the dangerous secrets buried in Ryker’s logs and the realization that his feelings for you have irrevocably changed the clone behind the Captain's armor.
➜ Word Count: 5.1k
➜ Chapter Warnings: Angst
➜ A/N: Can I say I think this is my favorite chapter?
Touch Me Like It's Treason Taglist
Touch Me Like It's Treason Masterpost
Chapter Eleven on Ao3
The words hung between you like a delicate balance that had just been shattered.
They were two realities that couldn't exist in the same space. One was a soldier’s duty to a dark truth, and the other was a fleeting, forbidden peace that neither of you could afford to indulge in any longer.
Rex’s grip on his hand didn't tighten, instead, his fingers twitched slightly before he slowly brought them to his thighs. He cleared his throat, the rasp in his voice replaced by the sharp, familiar clip of a commander.
"The springs were a lapse in judgment," Rex sighed, angling his body towards you; though he didn't quite look you in the eye. He straightened his posture, putting a deliberate few inches of distance between his shoulder and yours, "One we can't repeat."
You nodded, pulling your robe tighter around you, the professional mask sliding back into place, "You're right. Besides, if Ryker was targeted because of what he found, then every second we spend looking backward is a second we aren't preparing for whatever is coming. Nothing will really matter if we’re next on the chopping block for looking through his logs."
Rex reached for the datapad on your cot, his movements efficient and devoid of the hesitation from before. Once he grabbed the carbon-scored datapad, he set it firmly on the tray. The metal clinked against the ration plate signaling the end of the quiet.
"I’ve been trained to spot a trap, and Agamar was a textbook setup," Rex said, his eyes finally meeting yours with a hardened focus. "But if the Republic, if our own command, is the one setting the snare, then 'protocol' is just another word for a death sentence. We need to know exactly what Ryker found before we report to General Skywalker."
"Or to the council," you suggested, leaning in toward the tray, your focus shifting entirely to the datapad. "It’s best to leave uh,” you paused, “personal distractions on the surface. Let's see what this old thing is hiding."
Rex tapped the display, and the blue glow of the screen flared to life, casting sharp shadows across the room. His fingers moved across the keypad, entering the string of numbers Rex knew Ryker would choose as a passlock. The interface flickered, bypassed a dozen security firewalls, and finally settled on a directory that made your blood run cold.
"Look at the header," Rex whispered, his professionalism wavering just for a second.
The file was labeled: “List of Contingencies - Tentative”
Beneath it, a sub-file was highlighted in red: “Variable Analysis: Jedi”
The blue light of the datapad reflected in Rex’s eyes, illuminating the hard, professional focus that had finally replaced the lingering softness of the springs. He was a Captain again, analyzing a threat, his finger hovering over the screen as the first lines of the “Variable Analysis” began to scroll.
"It looks like he was analyzing the training structure on Kamino compared to that of the training we get once under Jedi command," Rex murmured, his voice tight, “It appears he found a difference in-"
He never finished the sentence.
A sharp, authoritative knock echoed through the small room, followed immediately by your comlink buzzing.
Rex moved with a violent, instinctive speed. In one fluid motion, he snatched the datapad and shoved it under the tray. He was off your cot and standing in full alertness before you had even fully processed the sound. His hands were hovering habitually near where his DC-17s would usually be.
"You in there?"
The voice was unmistakable. It wasn't one of the men coming to find Rex. It was Anakin.
You stood up, pulling the edges of your robe tighter around your chest, trying to smooth your damp hair with one hand while the other surreptitiously straightened the rumpled sheets of the cot. The Force around Anakin was a whirlwind of restless energy - impatient, bright, and entirely too perceptive.
"One moment, Anakin!" you called out, your voice sounding steadier than you felt.
You shot a glance at Rex. He looked like a statue, his face a mask of military discipline, but through the Force, you could feel the jagged edges of his panic. He was out of his armor, in your private quarters, in the dark, with a tray of food and a stolen datapad. The "professional" explanation was thinning by the second.
"Rex," you hissed in a whisper, gesturing toward the door near the refresher, "in there?"
He didn't move toward the alcove. Instead, he exhaled, his jaw set in a hard line. He wasn't going to hide like a cadet caught out of barracks. He was going to stand his ground, even if the consequences seemed disastrous.
You took a deep breath, centered yourself in the cold reality of the ship, and waved your palm to trigger the door release.
The door opened to reveal Anakin. He was still in his full Jedi robes, his mechanical hand resting on his belt, looking as though he hadn't slept in many rotations. He started to speak before he even crossed the threshold.
"We just got the full casualty report from Agamar, and I wanted to check-" he stopped mid-sentence, his blue eyes flicking from you to the lone Captain standing in the shadows of your room.
Anakin’s gaze lingered on the ration tray, then on Rex’s lack of armor, and finally back to you. The Force between you and him shifted. Not to suspicion, not yet, but to a sharp, inquisitive curiosity that made the air feel raw.
"Captain," Anakin nodded, his voice dropping an octave, "I didn't realize you were delivering the debrief personally."
"Fives was concerned about the General’s health, sir," Rex replied, his voice a perfect monotone, "I was ensuring she received rations before she missed out on meal service. I was just heading out to check on the rest of the men."
Anakin stepped into the room, his presence suddenly making the small space feel microscopic. He looked at the tray on your cot for a fraction of a second too long.
"Is that so?" Anakin asked, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. It was the kind of look he usually reserved for Ahsoka when she was hiding a prank, "Because I just saw Fives in the mess hall, and he seemed more concerned about the protein cakes than anything else."
"Sir," Rex managed to get out, his voice dropping into that deep, rasping tone that signaled the end of a conversation, "I best be checking on the men now. We’ll conduct an inventory check in the armory. See what we have."
Anakin continued flicking his eyes between the two of you with a sharp, disconcerting intensity. He didn't move from the doorway, forcing Rex to step around him if he wanted to leave,"The armory can wait until the morning, Rex. I was going to ask about the frequency on the ridge. Echo says it was unusual."
"It was," Rex replied, his tone clipped. He didn't offer more. He didn't look at you. He just moved toward the door, his shoulder nearly brushing Anakin’s as he passed, "I’ll have the inventory check completed by the next rotation, General Skywalker."
With a sharp, stiff nod to you, a gesture so formal it felt like a cold splash of water, Rex stepped out into the corridor. The door hissed shut behind him, cutting off the sight of his retreating back and leaving you alone with Anakin.
Anakin didn't sit down. Instead, he paced the small length of your quarters, his leather boots clicking against the durasteel floor. He stopped at the ration tray, looking down at the half-eaten food and the two cups of tea.
"Rex is a good man," Anakin said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. He turned to look at you, "One of the best. But something seems a little off with him."
He walked closer, his presence filling the room with that restless, kinetic energy that always preceded a storm, "And you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Was it just the ambush, or did something happen out there that isn't going into the official report?"
You clutched the lapels of your robe, your heart hammering against your ribs. The weight of the datapad in Rex's pouch felt like a physical heat you could still sense down the hallway.
"It was a hard mission, Anakin," you groaned, trying to keep your voice from trembling, "We were pinned down. We lost comms. It takes a toll."
Anakin studied you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours for the lie. He knew about secrets. He was the master of them. For a heartbeat, you thought he was going to push and ask why Rex was in his body glove, or why the Force he was in your quarters to begin with.
Instead, he just sighed, the tension in his shoulders dropping slightly, "Get some sleep. You have a briefing with the Council in twelve hours. They want to know why a simple scouting mission turned up those frequencies."
He turned to leave, but stopped at the door, looking back over his shoulder, smirking, "And tell Rex to get some sleep too. If he’s checking inventory, he could use a sharp mind."
The door shut, and finally, you were truly alone. You sank back onto the cot, your legs finally giving out. The spot where Rex had been sitting was still warm.
Anakin paused with his hand on the door sensor, the hiss of the door stuttering as he turned back. His expression had shifted from inquisitive to something more somber. Like the face of a man delivering orders he knew weren't going to be well received.
"One more thing," Anakin peered his head in, his voice dropping into a flatter, more formal tone, "Since I’m back and the 501st is officially under my command again, the Council has sent word. They’re requesting your presence back at the Temple on Coruscant."
The air in the room seemed to vanish. You remained seated on your, the dampness of your hair suddenly feeling like ice against your neck. "Coruscant? Anakin, the Agamar debrief isn't even finished. We still haven't processed the tactical data from the ridge."
Anakin offered a small, sympathetic shrug, though his eyes remained sharp, "They were pretty clear. With me back in rotation, you’re technically surplus to requirements for this sector. They want a full personal report on the mission, and then, well, they didn't say. But the transport leaves at 0800."
He looked at the empty space where Rex had been standing just moments before, then back to you, "I know you’ve quickly built a rapport with the men. Rex especially, but the Council doesn't like it when Generals linger after their tour is up. You know that. I’ll see you on the hangar deck in the morning."
The door shut for the final time, and the silence that rushed back into the room was agonizing.
You sank back into your cot, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. This time it wasn't just a reassignment, it felt like it was a separation. The Council was pulling you away right as the mystery of Ryker’s logs was making your life interesting.
If you left now, you were leaving Rex alone with the logs, and the idea that his long presumed gone brother might still be out there.
You looked at the chronometer. 0200.
Six hours.
You had six hours to find Rex, finish the decryption, and decide if you were going to tell the Council the truth, or if you were going to walk onto that transport and leave the 501st to a fate they couldn't stop.
The decision felt like a cold stone settling in the pit of your stomach. You arose from your cot and stood in the center of your quarters, staring at the closed door, the phantom heat of Rex’s presence still lingering in the air.
If you sought him out now, if you went to his barracks or the armory to finish that decryption, you were inviting a disaster neither of you could survive. Anakin was already suspicious. To go to him now was to leave a trail of breadcrumbs right to what you didn’t want exposed.
Six hours until the transport would take you back to the sterile, high-vaulted silence of the Jedi Temple.
By 0300, you made your decision.
You didn't reach for the comm. You didn't send a localized signal to Rex’s datapad. You knew that if you heard his voice, or if you saw the repressed panic in his eyes one last time, you wouldn't be able to walk onto that transport. You would stay, and staying meant- You didn’t know what staying meant, but you weren't sure if the risk was worth it.
You laid back down on the cot, pulling the thin, scratchy regulation blanket up to your chin. The spot where Rex had sat was cold now. You closed your eyes and tried to fall into a Jedi trance, to find the "chaos-free bliss" you had tasted with Rex at the springs, but it was gone. In its place was only the heartbeat of the Resolute’s hyperdrive. Every thrum felt like a second ticking away. You were going to leave him with the logs.
You spent the next five hours in a state that wasn't sleep, but wasn't quite wakefulness. It was a grey, hollow in between. You watched the shadows shift across the ceiling as the ship’s artificial day-cycle began to bleed into the corridors.
At 0730, the soft chime of your morning alert went off.
You stood up, splashed cold water on your face, and smoothed your robes. You looked like a composed, detached, and ready to give orders Jedi General again.
The walk to the hangar deck was a blur of soldiers and the smell of overly recycled air. You kept your gaze fixed forward, refusing to look for a specific set of jaig eyes in the crowd. You could feel the 501st all around you but you kept your own Force signature pulled tight, a locked door that no one could open.
As you reached the boarding ramp of the Jedi shuttle, Anakin was there, leaning against a crate with his arms crossed. He looked at you, then at the empty space behind you.
"No goodbye for the Captain?" Anakin asked, his voice casual, but his eyes were like flint.
"He has a squad to account for, Anakin," you rolled your eyes, your voice remarkably steady, "And I have a Council to report to. I didn't want to disrupt the flow."
Anakin studied you for a few seconds too long, "Right. Professional to the end. Master Windu would be most impressed."
“I only learn from the best,” you half snorted as you turned and walked up the ramp. As the hydraulic sizzle signaled the closing of the shuttle doors, you finally allowed yourself one look through the small viewport.
Down on the hangar deck, standing far back near the shadow of a gunship, was a lone figure in ARC armor. He didn't wave. He didn't move. He just stood there, a small, white-and-blue helmet tucked under his arm, watching the shuttle rise.
It was 0830 now. The hour when the artificial day-cycle hit its peak brightness, flooding the training bay with a sterile, white glare that offered no place for shadows to hide. Below the overhead lights, the rhythmic thud of sixty clones in synchronized motion created a heartbeat for the room, a steady pulse of discipline that usually acted as an anchor for Rex.
But today, Rex wasn't looking for an anchor. He was looking for an outlet.
He was pushed deep into a high intensity rep circuit that would have leveled a standard recruit within the first ten minutes. Wearing only his blacks, the sleek, tactical fabric was slick with sweat, clinging to the corded muscle of his back and shoulders. His movements were a blur of violent precision. He was hammering into a heavy combat droid, the durasteel reinforced body groaning under the weight of his blows.
Every strike was fueled by a restless energy that had kept him pacing the barracks for the five hours since he’d left your quarters. His mind was a chaotic loop of the ridge, the cold data on the pad, and the way the blue light of your room had caught the damp strands of your hair. He felt like a man walking a wire over a thermal detonator, waiting for the spark.
"Careful, Captain," Fives called out, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. He was leaning against a nearby weapon rack, chest heaving as he caught his breath from his own drills. He wiped a towel over his hair, a lopsided, knowing grin spreading across his face that usually signaled trouble, "If you hit that clanker any harder, the mechs are going to charge you for the repairs out of your own credits. You’ve been at it all morning. Even the droids are starting to look tired."
Rex didn’t stop. He didn't even acknowledge the jab. He pivoted on the ball of his foot, a roundhouse kick rattling the droid’s internal processors with a sickening crunch.
"We have a rotation on Umbara coming up, Fives," Rex rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel, "Intelligence says the local militia uses heavy pressure tactics and atmospheric interference. If the squad’s timing is as sloppy as yours was on Agamar, we’re going to have a problem that a jogan fruit protein cake won't fix."
"Sloppy?" Fives laughed, not at all deterred by Rex’s playful insult. He glanced over at Jesse, who was currently hunched on a nearby bench, carefully stretching out the leg that still bore the fresh, pink scars of a bolt, "I think the Captain’s just a little high-strung today, Jess. Must be the altitude from the ridge. Thins the blood, makes you cranky. Right?"
Jesse snorted, wincing slightly as he adjusted the tension on his bandage, "Altitude? Is that what they’re calling it now? I don't know, Fives. I saw the Captain heading toward the General’s quarters last night with a tray of food and a very serious look on his face," he shot Rex a look that was half-mischief, half-curiosity, "Must have been a very thorough tactical debrief."
A few other troopers nearby offered muffled chuckles, their own drills slowing as they tuned into the banter. In the 501st, the brotherhood was absolute, and that meant privacy was a rare commodity. They had seen the way Rex looked at you on the ridge. They had felt the shift in the air on the transport ride back to the Resolute. To them, it was the greatest joke in the galaxy; the untouchable Captain finally falling for the one person he was forbidden to have.
Hardcase grunted and he set down a stack of weights, “Yeah vod. You might want to clear that all up before Echo chews your head off. I haven’t seen him this mad since Jesse’s Rishi Moon joke.”
Fives raised his brow, the smug smile on his face shrinking, “I actually haven’t seen him since the mess hall last night. Perhaps he walked the General to her shuttle.”
"I’m surprised you didn't walk her to the hangar this morning, Rex," Jesse added, his tone softening into a more playful, brotherly jab, "Fives said the shuttle was prepped for 0800. We figured you’d be there to give her a proper 501st send-off. Or at least a salute to make it official. Supposedly Echo was the only one watching."
Rex froze mid-strike.
His fist stayed buried in the combat droid’s chest plate, the metal still vibrating from the impact. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the steady chatter of troops in training bay turning into a high-pitched, deafening ring in his ears. He slowly pulled his hand back, his chest heaving as he turned to look at Jesse. His expression wasn't angry, but it was hollow.
"The shuttle?" Rex’s voice was dangerously low, sharper, more desperate, "What shuttle?"
Fives’ grin faltered instantly. The humor drained from his face, replaced by a look of genuine, sudden confusion. He exchanged a quick, worried glance with Jesse.
"The Jedi transport, Captain," Fives explained slowly, as if explaining a basic tactical maneuver to a cadet, "General Skywalker said the Council recalled her to Coruscant. Direct orders. It took off just a bit ago from Hangar 3. We thought you knew. We thought that was why you were down here, working it out so early."
Rex didn't say a word. He didn't grab his towel. He didn't even shut down the combat droid, which began to reset its defensive posture with a series of mechanical clicks.
He turned and made his way towards the exit.
"Rex! Hey! Captain!" Fives called after him, stepping forward as if to follow, but Jesse reached out and caught his arm, shaking his head. Rex didn't hear them. He was already through the doors, its closing sounding like a guillotine blade behind him.
He didn’t quite run, but he quickly maneuvered through the sterile, grey corridors of the Resolute with a desperation he hadn't felt since the first day of the war. His mind was a storm of static. You were gone. You didn’t send a comm. You didn’t leave a coded message to his holopad. You had simply vanished into the dark abyss of space while he was pacing back and forth across the barracks, trying to figure out how to look you in the eye.
He had spent the night rehearsing what to say and how to address how he felt about the cheek kiss on the ridge, the tension in your quarters after the "Springs" versus the "Logs." He had been trying to find the professional words for a very unprofessional feeling. And while he was practicing his duty, you had followed yours.
He reached the observation deck near the primary hangar, his breath coming in burning gasps that tasted like copper. He slammed his hands against the cold transparisteel, his fingers leaving smudges on the glass as he stared out into the infinite, cold black of space.
The starfields were indifferent. They were silent, empty, and vast.
There was no shuttle. There was no shimmering ion trail. There was only the distant, vanishing ripple in the Force that he couldn't even sense, and the cold reality of a ship that had already jumped into hyperspace.
He was too late. The 0800 departure was a hard fact, a tactical certainty that he had missed because he was too busy being a soldier in a gym.
Rex stood there for a long time, his forehead pressed against the freezing glass until the chill seeped into his skin. His reflection looked back at him - haggard, sweat-streaked, and hauntingly lonely. The idea of solving the mystery of Ryker’s logs without you felt wrong.
In the silence of the observation deck, with the hum of the ship vibrating through his skull, the Captain of the 501st felt a sensation he hadn't experienced since he was a cadet on Kamino. It was the crushing, suffocating weight of being just a soldier again. For once, he believed he had a greater purpose in the galaxy. But now, without Ryker’s logs, he felt like another number in a system.
"General," he whispered, the word fogging the glass in front of him.
But there was no one to answer. There were only the stars.
Rex remained pressed against the transparisteel, his breath hitching in his chest, the faint fog of his breath clearing slowly from the pane. He felt hollow, like a suit of armor with the center scooped out. The departure of the shuttle hadn't just been a military maneuver - it felt like a tactical withdrawal of his own soul.
The door to the deck hissed open behind him.
Rex didn’t turn. He didn’t have to. He knew the sound of all his closest vod’s footsteps.
"The hangar is empty, Rex. In case you were wondering if the shuttle turned back for a final salute." Echo’s voice was flat, devoid of the sensitivity he usually carried. He walked up to the glass, stopping a respectful but pointed distance away from Rex. He didn't look at the stars, but instead he looked at Rex’s reflection.
"I know it's empty," Rex replied, his voice a ghost of its usual command. He straightened his back, trying to force the Captain back into his spine, "I was just checking the Venetor's orientation for the jump to Umbara."
"Liars usually pick a more believable excuse," Echo countered. He stepped closer, his face illuminated by the blue glow of a passing nebula, "We’ve only had the General for one mission, Rex. One. And yet, she’s managed to leave an impact on the 501st more than Separatist bombing. Fives thinks it’s a joke. Jesse thinks it’s a stroke of luck. But I was observant Agamar."
Echo turned his head, his pupils narrowing slowly as he focused on Rex’s profile, "You were missing with her for half a rotation. No comms. No location pings. Just you and her in the brush. And when you finally came back to the extraction point, you weren't looking at her like a CO. You were looking at her like she was the only thing left in the galaxy."
Rex finally turned, his jaw set in a hard, defensive line, "The terrain was dense, Echo. Interference was high. We were focused on survival, not data collection. Whatever you think you saw, it was the stress of being stranded. That’s the end of it."
"Don't lie to me Rex," Echo snapped, his arm twitching at his side, "I know what it looks like when a soldier starts seeing the galaxy in a different light. And I saw the way she looked at you when we returned to the Resolute. She’s a Jedi, Rex. She’s not supposed to look at any of us that way. But especially not you."
Rex’s hand tightened into a fist at his side, "Especially not me?”
Echo huffed out a breath.
Rex continued, “She left without a word because she has a duty to the Council. That’s how the Jedi Order works. They come, they lead, they leave. It’s professional."
"Professional?" Echo let out a harsh, dry laugh that sounded like grinding gears, "She spent the last three days treating us like men, Rex. Not like clones. She looked at me. Really looked at me, and didn't see a number. She looked at me and I felt a sort of way I have not felt since I was pulled out from the rubble at the Citadel. And you took it all for yourself."
Rex went still. The air on the deck suddenly felt electrified, "I didn't take anything, Echo."
"You did," Echo stepped forward, closing the distance until he was standing directly in Rex’s space. His hand reached out, his fingers curling around the railing of the observation deck, "You were the one with her on that ridge. You’re the one who got to spend half a rotation in the quiet with her while the rest of us were trekking through the mud. I felt the shift, Rex. Something happened out there. Something that made her run back to Coruscant the second Skywalker showed his face."
"Nothing happened," Rex whispered, the lie tasting like copper in his mouth.
"You're lying to your own brother," Echo hissed, his eyes flickering with a restless, "I see the way you're standing. You're guarding a memory like it’s a classified file. You got to have the one thing I… the one thing the rest of us will never have. You got her attention. You got her care. And now she’s gone because you couldn't keep your head in the game."
Rex’s hand went to Echo’s chest, pushing him back a fraction, his voice rising in a rare show of temper, "You think I wanted her to leave? You think I’m happy she’s on that shuttle?"
"I think you’re selfish," Echo countered, refusing to back down, "You’ve always been the favorite, Rex. The one who gets the special missions, the one General Skywalker trusts. And now, the pretty General comes in, and you’ve already made it so complicated she can't even look the rest of the squad in the eye before she jumps to hyperspace."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Rex looked at the ARC trooper he had rescued, the man who was supposed to be his right hand, and realized that the jealousy wasn't just about the time alone with you, it was about the humanity you had ignited in both of them, and the fact that Rex was the only one who got to keep the flame.
"Get to the armory, Echo," Rex commanded, his voice cold and final, "We’re jumping to Umbara next rotation and General Skywalker still needs a full tactical brief of Agamar. Try to focus on the war, since that’s the only thing the galaxy actually needs us for."
Echo straightened his spine, the professional mask sliding back over his face, though it didn't quite reach his eyes, "Try to focus on the war, Captain. Since you’re the one who drove what could have been my reason to fight it off the ship."
Echo turned and walked toward the door, not looking back.
Rex remained by the glass, his heart heavy. He had known that falling for you was dangerous, but he hadn't realized that the fallout would burn his brothers too. He looked out at the stars, feeling the immense, cold distance between the Resolute and Coruscant.
He straightened slowly, his discipline beginning to reassert itself like a cold shroud. He wiped the lingering sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He couldn't stay here. He had to be the Captain. He had to lead the 501st to Umbara.
As he turned to leave the deck, his gaze lingering one last time on the empty starfield, his jaw tightened. You had vanished without a word. And in the silence you left behind, Rex began to wonder if the "Variable" Ryker warned about wasn't about numbers and orders.
You wrote Dom!Wolffe SO well! I love that side of him, but I’m also really soft for the moments when his tougher edges start to slip - when he’s exhausted, worn down, and the war has just taken everything out of him 😔
Would you consider writing something where Wolffe comes home to the reader? He’s injured, aching, and just running on fumes. I feel like those are the moments when he’d be a little more emotionally vulnerable, when the walls he usually keeps up aren’t there anymore. He just wants reader to take care of him, patch him up, ease the aches etc.
If you’re comfortable writing it, that care could turn a little more intimate and spicy by the end. When he’s that tired and malleable, it feels like one of the rare times Wolffe might actually let go of his usual dominant side and allow himself to be taken care of instead. 🥺
After The Mission
Wolffe x gn reader
description: Wolffe comes home after a long deployment exhausted and injured. You take care of him and then help him relax.
warnings: vague descriptions of injury and blood. Explicit sexual content near the end. NSFW 18+
notes: I hope you know I absolutely love your requests, this was so good! enjoy <3
The knock at your door came long after night had settled in. It wasn't the usual sharp, authoritative knock you were used to, but slower and heavier: three dull thuds spaced just far enough apart that something in your chest tightened. You were already moving before the last knock landed, pressing the button to slide the door open with a soft hiss.
"Don't start," Wolffe muttered before you could say a word, his voice roughened by exhaustion and something deeper, something that scraped like broken glass beneath the surface. He didn't look at you as he stepped inside, setting his helmet on the table with less care than he usually would. "I'm fine."
You blinked, your brow furrowing in confused concern as you watched him. He'd been deployed for the last two weeks, with few updates. You'd been worried; and, as you looked at him now, you began to feel that your worry had been justified. His shoulders were drawn tighter than usual, his steps a little slower, like each movement had to be forced through resistance. You could swear that you could see a line of dried blood along his neck.
"You're bleeding," you observed, your tone quiet but clearly concerned.
Wolffe huffed under his breath, something halfway between annoyance and acknowledgement. "I'll get it cleaned up." The statement was dismissive, like he didn't want to linger on the topic. You knew he hated being fussed over; but after two long weeks of deployment and then him finally showing up at your apartment injured? You weren't going to let him get away with taking care of himself.
So you stepped closer anyway. Up close, his weariness was more obvious: the stiffness in his shoulders, the faint tremor in his hand as he flexed his fingers, the darkened edge of his armor where blood had dried and soaked through.
"Sit," you murmured, already guiding him toward the edge of the bed.
"I said I'm--"
"--fine," you finished gently. "I know. Sit anyway."
Wolffe exhaled slowly through his nose, pausing for a second before relenting. He let himself sink down on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, his head dipping forward for a brief second. You moved without rushing, fingers finding the clasps of his armor. "Let me," you said softly, and this time he didn't even pretend to protest.
You eased his armor off of him and then peeled his blacks down enough to see how injured he was. There was bruising darkening under his skin, especially along his shoulder, some shallow cuts and scrapes, and a deeper gash along his upper arm. Your breath hitched despite yourself, and Wolffe's gaze flicked sharply to you.
"Looks worse than it is," he muttered, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him.
"Mm," you hummed, unconvinced, your fingers brushing carefully around the injury. "You always say that."
"Because it usually is."
You didn't answer that, instead getting a medkit and then settling between his knees so you could work properly.
"Did a medic look at you?" you asked as you started to clean the gash carefully.
He hissed under his breath at the first touch of antiseptic, then went rigid to force himself to stay still. "Didn't feel like waiting around the medbay."
You frowned at him. "Because?"
He didn't answer, but you knew why. It was because if he had, they probably would've made him stay. If he had, he wouldn't be here with you. And he'd wanted to see you. Your hands slowed with the realization, just slightly, something softer threading through your touch. "You could've at least let them patch this," you murmured, though there was no real reprimand in it.
"Didn't want anyone else fussing over me," he muttered. His gaze had dropped somewhere near your hands, watching the careful way you worked.
You give a faint huff, almost amused. "Only me, huh?"
His hand shifted and came up to rest at your hip, fingers curling there in a sort of silent answer. He didn't say anything else; just sat and let you work, his thumb brushing over your hip absently. You continued to finish patching up his wound, your hands soft and careful. You were both silent for a long moment as you worked.
"Always so gentle," Wolffe muttered eventually with a near scoff that was almost fond.
Your lips curved faintly. "Someone has to be."
He just huffed and gave your hip a little squeeze.
You finally finished with his injury, smoothing a bacta patch over it carefully. "There," you murmured softly. "Now you have to relax. Don't let that tear."
"Can't promise anything," he replied, a little wearily. The tone of his voice made your gaze flick to his face, and you brought your hands up to cup his face, tilting it up towards you so you could look at him properly. Your thumbs brushed faintly over his cheekbones.
"You're exhausted," you said gently.
"Been worse," he answered automatically, though his shoulders sagged a little further in confirmation.
You didn't call him on it. "C'mere," you murmured softly instead, sliding your hands from his face to his shoulders and guiding him gently to lie back onto the bed. For a split second, there was the faintest hint of resistance: habit, maybe, the part of him that never let himself be anything but in control. But then it slipped, and he lowered back onto the pillows with a quiet exhale. You climbed onto the bed beside him and then, to his mild surprise, gathered him in.
One arm slid beneath his shoulders, the other across his chest, drawing him in close until his head rested against you. It was a position he would've resisted on any other day, but now he only shifted slightly, settling into you. His hand came to rest against your side again as he slowly let himself relax. You smiled faintly, pressing a soft kiss to his temple.
That made him still, like he hadn't expected it, like something in him didn't know what to do with it even though you'd kissed him a million times before. So you did it again. Another kiss at the edge of his hairline, and then one to his forehead, lingering a second longer. His grip on you tightened slightly.
"…you're spoiling me," he muttered gruffly, though there was no real protest there.
"Mm," you hummed softly. "That's the idea." Your hand trailed down his chest slowly, lingering to trace shapes along his waist. "I haven't seen you in two weeks. You're tired and hurt. Just let me take care of you," you whispered. "Just for a bit."
Wolffe made a quiet sound, like a deep sigh, and turned his face slightly into you. You caught the hint, tilting your head just enough to press your lips against his in a slow, gentle kiss. His hand tightened at your side as he deepened the kiss slightly, his body shifting against yours as he got a little lost in the kiss.
Your hand at his waist drifted lower and brushed his inner thigh, and you felt him shiver slightly, breaking the kiss and exhaling against your lips.
"Careful," he murmured, voice just a little rough. "I might get the wrong idea."
You exhaled through your nose, trailing your fingers along his inner thigh. "Whatever idea you've got is the right one."
He grunted faintly, reaching down to grab your wrist, stilling your hand. "You sure about that?"
"Mm," you hummed, pressing another brief, gentle kiss to his lips. "Whatever you need."
He took a breath that you could swear was just the tiniest bit shaky, his grip tightening on your wrist for a second before he guided your hand over his growing bulge. You immediately cupped it through his underwear, giving it a gentle squeeze. Wolffe groaned, his hips twitching faintly. He released your wrist in favor of pushing his waistband down to free himself, communicating clearly exactly what he wanted.
You obliged immediately, wrapping your hand around his length and beginning to stroke it slowly, feeling it harden in your hand. "Better?" you murmured, pressing another kiss to his temple.
Wolffe grunted again, rocking his hips up subtly into your hand. "Much."
You chuckled softly, tightening your grip just slightly but keeping your pace slow. Your thumb swiped over his tip, spreading the bead of precum there. "I like you like this," you teased quietly. "All needy. Makes me wonder if you should show up on my doorstep exhausted from battle more often."
Wolffe tilted his head so he could shoot you a deeply unamused look, his hips abruptly stilling as he bristled a little with irritation. But then you squeezed him and twisted your wrist on the next upstroke and his expression cracked as his breathing stuttered.
"Don't give me that," he snapped, though his voice was rough with pleasure. "I'm not--" His protest was cut off as you swiped your thumb over his tip again, circling lazily over his slit. His thighs tensed, his cock twitching as he fought the urge to thrust up into your hand. "Stop teasing," he said gruffly instead, his hand slipping under your shirt to grip your waist.
You laughed softly again, watching with satisfaction as he tried and failed to maintain a scowl. "You love it," you murmured, leaning down to press another kiss to his forehead before resuming the slow massage of his cock.
Wolffe grunted in mild protest, but the tension melted out of him under the the slow, soothing touch of your hand. His breath hitched a little when your hand twisted again, and this time, he didn't try to fight it. He arched into your grip, hips rolling lazily, chasing the friction. "…Maybe," he admitted grudgingly, voice rough.
You smiled faintly, your arm under his shoulders tightening around him a little to keep him pressed close. "Knew it," you murmured, your hand speeding up a little, stroking him in earnest now.
Wolffe let out a low groan, his hand leaving your waist to tangle in your hair instead, pulling you into a deep, slightly messy kiss. He was still achingly slow to build, exhaustion dragging at him, but the warmth of your touch was coaxing him closer.
When he finally came, it was with a shuddering exhale against your lips, his fingers tightening almost painfully in your hair as he spilled hot and thick over your hand. He slumped against you immediately after, breath ragged, his body going slack. You kept stroking him through it until he was oversensitive before finally pulling your hand away.
You pressed a final, lingering kiss to his lips, adjusting the blankets around the both of you and holding Wolffe firmly against you again. "Sleep," you murmured against his temple. "I've got you."
Wolffe didn't argue. He just exhaled, sinking into the warmth of your hold, and finally let sleep overtake him.
