warnings: rough sex, penetrative sex, no foreplay or prep IM SORRY, angry!wolffe, unspecified relationship(?), 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | w/c: 762 | full kinktober masterlist
'You don't fucking listen, do you?'
Oh, you're listening now.
Wolffe pins your body down with a strength you didn't know a man could possess—your back on the medbay table and his hands gripping your wrists at your sides. He grinds into you, causing your legs to instinctively wrap around him and appreciating the friction it provides.
'My orders are meant to keep you safe.'
You scoff, narrowing your eyes at him incredulously. 'We both know it's only so you can look good,' you accuse, having half a mind to shove him off you right now, 'Don't pretend like you actually care.'
Wolffe growls, rolling his hips against you again, clearly having the higher ground. You let him shuck off your pants, moaning excitedly when he pushes aside that last layer of fabric so that he can sink his length deep inside of you. He takes his sweet ass time.
'You undermine me in front of my men,' he scolds, chest seizing with both sexual and actual frustration. His hands find your thighs, forcing them together as he brings your legs over his shoulders. His fingers dig into your flesh to leverage himself as he begins moving in and out of you. 'But don't think that I don't care,' he adds sharply.
You huff, letting yourself succumb to the pleasure brought by his movements. It's rough, but so is the nature of your "relationship" with him. He fills you up just right, with a thickness you can't comfortably achieve with your fingers or any other substitute. He's always at your throat, sometimes in ways you don't mind, but nobody can give it to you as good as he can, and the bastard knows it.
He bares his teeth as you clamp around him, your mouth falling open in a silent moan with his repetitive thrusts. 'I'm gonna cum,' you manage to whimper, and Wolffe grips your thighs impossibly tighter in protest.
'Not until I say so,' he snarks, though his pace does not falter or relent.
'But—'
'That's not what I do, right? I don't care about you, right?'
You have to bite your tongue to prevent a witty response from escaping between your restrained moans, but you're not sure if you can actually make one up with the flurry of incoherent thoughts in your head, telling you to beg, beg, beg.
'I'm sorry!' you cry, hands clawing at your sides, looking for some support, anything to help prolong your orgasm against Wolffe's thrusts.
'You're gonna have to do better than that,' he responds, slowing down his movements and then thrusting hard. You sob as he withdraws his hips again. Where he's sacrificed speed he makes up with power—power in his thrusts and with the knowledge that whether you'll cum is up to him.
'I'm sorry!' you continue, 'I know you care! I- You always take care of me. Always. I promise I'll listen, I—'
Wolffe knocks his head back in a groan, and when he returns his gaze to yours his expression is unreadable, not that you can catch it with his pace increasing.
'Fuck, okay,' he permits, jaw clenched as his orgasm builds up with yours. 'Can you touch yourself?'
You nod desperately, already on the precipice of your release, and whining as you snake a hand down to push yourself over the edge.
Wolffe growls when you cum, fucking you through the aftershocks before he's pulling out of you, separating your legs, pushing your shirt up, and jerking his load onto your stomach with laboured breaths.
You're staring up at the ceiling through it, blissed out and breathless. You vaguely hear Wolffe shuffle around the medbay, only managing to refocus on your surroundings when he brings a damp cloth to your stomach, and then to the mess between your legs.
It's been a long day, and the rough timbre of his voice seems to lull you to sleep. That or, you're just tired of dealing with him all day. 'Next time, you're staying on the ship.'
All you manage is to hum noncommittally as exhaustion overwhelms you, falling slack on the medbay table. You're definitely falling out of it, imagining that he's hauling your body up and carrying you maker-knows where. There's the hint of a dazed smile on your face as you drift away from thoughtful consciousness, not that he could ever prove it. But your last thought seems to be as sober as ever, that you wouldn't mind getting under his skin again when it gets you under him at the end of the day.
@petrichordiam has a headcanon that the clones’ favorite sport to watch in their bars/pubs/clubs is UltraCute Robot Fighting and I was helpless in the face of its brilliance.
[Image I.D. Three clone troopers cheer on as they watch a robot shaped like a cat’s head get ready to tear apart a robot shaped like a cherry with arms. End Image I.D.]
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