Summary: You were “like a little sister to him”—or so Fred said. Please. Anyone with half a brain could see there was something way more between you two.
A/N: For the sake of this fic just imagine that GoF and OotP are a giant mushed up piled okay?
Credits to @saradika-graphics for the divider
Fred Weasley was absolutely insistent that you and he were just friends.
Best friends, even.
“Like family.” He’d say with a laugh, ruffling your hair and tugging you into his side like you were an annoying little sister. Honestly, it made you roll your eyes so hard you were surprised you didn’t find a second brain back there.
Because everyone else knew Fred already had a younger sister—two years below you, in fact—but he never treated her the way he treated you.
In fact, he was practically blind to her antics. He waved off her detentions with a grin and said Hogwarts was meant for mischief.
And when she spent the better part of an hour snogging Dean Thomas in the corner of the Gryffindor common room? Not a word. Not a look. Just Fred, lounging like nothing was happening.
Even Ginny didn’t think a single year made such a difference—but Fred? Fred seemed to think it was a chasm. Enough of one to put you firmly in some sacred category: completely off-limits. Practically blood.
Your older brother? Please. He was clearly anything but.
You reached the base of the stairs and scanned the common room for your roommates, who were waiting to leave for the party in the Ravenclaw tower. You smoothed down your skirt and gave yourself one last look in the mirror.
You looked hot.
Not just hot—head-turning, legs-for-days, traffic-stopping hot.
Fred, who had been lazily chatting with your roommates (and turning down their offers to come along—claiming he was far too tired and absolutely couldn’t be hungover before tomorrow’s Quidditch practice unless he wanted to face Oliver Wood’s wrath), absolutely short-circuited.
He stared at you.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Then sputtered, “What in Merlin’s name are you wearing?!”
You turned in place, giving a little twirl, “Cute, right? What do we think?”
He narrowed his eyes, “I think you forgot the bottom half.”
Your friends broke into laughter. George just rolled his eyes, especially since Ron had walked out of the common room not fifteen minutes ago on his way to the same party—and Fred had told him that if he didn’t come back completely smashed, he was a pussy.
You crossed your arms, incredulous, “It’s a skirt, Fred.”
“It’s a postage stamp.”
“It’s called fashion.” You shot back.
“It’s called a crisis! You bend over and you're going to court!”
Your jaw dropped, “This is couture!”
Fred threw his hands up in exasperation, “Well, couture clearly means no pants in French!”
You rolled your eyes.
Fred stepped in front of you, arms crossed like he was about to fight someone, looking like he was about to have a stroke, "Go put on some pants, or you're not going."
You blinked at him, "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." He gestured vaguely at your legs like they offended him, "You can’t just go out dressed like that."
Your brows shot up, "Why do you even care so much?"
He didn’t hesitate, "Because you’re like a little sister to me!"
That earned a very loud groan from your friends. One of them actually facepalmed. George gave an exaggerated sigh and muttered under his breath, “Here we go again.”
"I'm not changing." You said, matching his energy with your arms crossed.
"Fine," Fred said, jaw tightening, "Then I’m coming with you."
You blinked again, "For what?"
He paused, "To supervise."
"Fred," George drawled from his seat, not even looking up, "You’re not a prefect. And this isn’t a Ministry investigation. It’s a party. You're being a real Percy."
Your friends exchanged looks and stifled more laughter. One of them leaned over and whispered, "If this is what having a brother’s like, I’m out."
"This is what it's like having a boyfriend but she gets none of the upsides." One whispered back.
Fred glared at them though they were hardly deterred, giggling louder now, “I’m being responsible.”
You just shook your head, turning toward the portrait hole, "Whatever. Keep up if you’re coming, mum."
Despite what Fred Weasley told everyone—including himself—you knew exactly how he felt about you.
He said it all the time, like repeating it would somehow make it true.
“You’re like a little sister to me.”
He’d ruffle your hair, wrap an arm around your shoulder, call you squirt. Like he wasn’t two seconds away from spontaneously combusting every time some poor boy looked in your direction for longer than a heartbeat.
And maybe he thought it was brotherly affection.
Maybe he genuinely believed that he was just being protective. Maybe he hadn’t noticed how his voice always changed around you—softer, warmer, less teasing. Maybe he didn’t realize that he never reacted this way when Ginny got into trouble, or when Hermione dragged Ron across a dueling mat.
But you noticed.
So did everyone else.
And every time Fred got all riled up on your behalf, trying to cover his nerves with shouting or sarcasm, it made you feel like the center of the universe. Like a sunflower turned toward its sun.
And because you were a menace—and because you were in love—you liked to test just how far you could push that brotherly façade.
Every Dumbledore’s Army meeting became your personal playground.
Every duel, a performance.
Every trip, stumble, or wince? Another chance to watch Fred's expression twist from calm to frantic in real time.
Today was no different.
You were paired with Zacharias Smith—a pompous, loud-mouthed git who was all talk and absolutely no skill. The second your names were called together, you spotted Fred across the room stiffen like he’d just been personally insulted.
But you simply smiled.
Smith was already getting cocky before the duel even started, twirling his wand with the confidence of someone who'd only heard about talent. Then he shouted an Expelliarmus—a bit too forcefully—and you seized your moment.
You gasped, staggered backward, and threw yourself to the floor with a dramatic thud, wand flying from your hand as you landed.
It wasn’t a bad fall. It barely even hurt. But that wasn’t the point.
Across the room, Fred froze mid-spell.
“Oi!” He shouted, already shoving past George and dodging Neville as he sprinted toward you.
His face was a picture of panic.
Your internal grin was feral.
He skidded to his knees beside you, eyes darting across your body like he expected to find a missing limb, “Are you alright?! What the bloody hell was that, Smith?!”
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. He was always too easy. Like flicking a switch.
“I’m fine, Freddie.” You said, your voice soft and sweet, fluttering your lashes for good measure.
He didn’t even acknowledge it—too busy inspecting your arm, pulling up your sleeve to check for bruises like he was some kind of medic.
"That spell was way too aggressive," He growled, “He could’ve dislocated your shoulder, or—or cracked your wrist!”
You made a soft, wounded noise in your throat. (Maybe laid it on a bit thick, but who was judging? Certainly not Fred.)
“I’ll be okay,” You murmured, letting your bottom lip tremble just slightly, “My hero.”
Fred scowled. A full-on, brows-knitted, jaw-tightened scowl, “Don’t get soppy on me, squirt. You’re like a little sister. I gotta keep you safe.”
Little sister.
Right.
You tried not to roll your eyes.
Not like he said a word when Hermione accidentally launched Ron into a bookshelf twenty minutes ago and Fred had laughed so hard he almost cried. Not like he’d won a sickle betting against his own brother.
No, it was different when it was you.
When it was you, he sprinted. He shouted. He scowled like the world was ending.
You inhaled slowly and offered him your sweetest, most angelic smile, “Of course, Freddie.”
He didn’t look convinced. His eyes lingered a little too long on your face before he stood and offered you his hand.
You took it—warm, calloused, grounding—and let him pull you to your feet.
As he turned away to go yell at Smith again (Zacharias had wisely retreated to the far side of the room), you brushed off your robes and watched Fred’s retreating back with a sense of calm satisfaction.
You’d get him eventually.
You were patient.
And Fred Weasley had no idea what he was in for.
It was one of those rare warm afternoons in October—the kind that made you forget how quickly the season was changing. The sun hung low over the Black Lake, and a gentle breeze rolled off the water, ruffling your notes and carrying the faint scent of moss and sun-warmed grass.
You’d spread your books beneath a tree, determined to study for your upcoming exams. But, predictably, you’d spent more time watching the sky ripple across the lake than reading a single line. Still, it was peaceful. Quiet. A perfect moment.
Until it wasn’t.
A body dropped into the grass beside you with a dramatic sigh.
“Ugh,” Fred Weasley groaned, flopping onto his back like the world had wronged him, “I knew I’d find you out here being obnoxiously productive.”
You glanced over your shoulder, amused, “And here I thought I’d actually get some work done without distractions.”
“I know,” He said, shielding his eyes with one hand, “My devastating good looks are very distracting.”
You snorted, “Wow. Didn’t think anyone could love themselves more than Malfoy.”
Fred gasped, “That’s low. Even for you.”
You grinned, turning back to your parchment. For a while, the quiet settled between you again—comfortable and companionable. Sunlight filtered through the branches above, casting warm, dappled shadows over your notes. A few first-years skipped stones near the lake, their laughter drifting on the breeze. It felt like Hogwarts had slowed down—like the Tournament hadn’t upended everything, like you hadn’t spent the entire morning stressed about things you couldn’t control.
Fred sat up beside you, resting his arms on his knees. “Weird, innit?” He said, nodding toward the water, “No Quidditch this year.”
You nodded, “Yeah. I didn’t think I’d miss it, but… I kind of do.”
“No bludgers to the face every Saturday,” He sighed, “What a tragedy.”
You laughed, “You liked getting hit.”
“I like winning,” He corrected with a smirk, “There’s a difference.”
You exhaled a laugh, shaking your head.
Fred leaned back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him, “Well, who needs Quidditch when there’s the Triwizard Tournament, eh?”
You wrinkled your nose, “I still can’t believe they’re actually holding that thing again. A student died last time. I mean—who would be stupid enough to enter?”
Fred rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one hand and giving you a lazy, mischievous grin, “Funny you should ask. George and I are entering.”
You blinked, “You’re not serious.”
“Oh, I’m very serious.”
Your mouth fell open, “Fred, you’re not even of age.”
“Technicality,” He responded, waving a hand, “We’ve got plans.”
“You’re mad,” You said, gaping at him, “Do you even know what the tasks are?”
“’Course not,” He said brightly, “That’s the fun of it. Life’s full of surprises.”
You raised an eyebrow, “Life’s also full of death, Fred.”
He grinned, “I think that’s a fair trade for a thousand galleons.”
You stared, “You want to risk dying for money?”
He gave you a look, “I want to open a joke shop.”
That shut you up.
He didn’t say it like a joke. There was a rare steadiness to his voice, something quiet and real beneath the usual chaos. He plucked a blade of grass and twisted it between his fingers, not quite meeting your eyes.
“George and I—we’ve been working on stuff for ages. Skiving Snackboxes, Canary Creams, that cough syrup that changes your voice pitch—we’ve got an entire catalogue in our dorm. No more sneaking around under Umbridge’s nose. We want real walls. A shop. Our names on the window.”
He paused, then added, “We’ve been looking at places in Diagon Alley. But they’re way out of reach. Even if we worked our arses off for the next ten years, we’d never make enough. The Tournament’s our best shot.”
You blinked, “Oh Godric. You’re actually serious.”
He finally glanced over at you, “Deadly.”
Your heart did a weird little lurch. Not just because Fred Weasley could be serious—which was a revelation all on its own—but because now you could see it. The dream behind the jokes. How much it meant to him.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” You asked quietly.
He shrugged, suddenly shy, “Dunno. Guess I didn’t want anyone laughing at it. It’s not exactly the career Mum had in mind.”
You nudged his shoulder gently, “Well, for the record? I think it’s brilliant.”
He looked at you then—really looked. The wind ruffled his hair, and the sharpness in his grin softened into something slower, more genuine.
“You do?”
You nodded, “Absolutely. I mean, if anyone can build an empire out of nosebleeds and puking pastilles, it’s you two.”
Fred beamed, and for a second, the world felt lighter.
“Thanks.” He said, quiet but full of meaning.
You smiled back and nudged his foot with yours, “You’ll still be an idiot, though.”
“Obviously,” He said, flopping onto his back with a groan—his head landing squarely in your lap, “Just a rich one.”
You looked down at him, sunlight catching in his eyelashes, his grin lopsided and smug. And you laughed—soft and full, like the sun had settled in your chest.
It was nothing and everything.
Just a moment. Just a feeling.
But it was these moments that truly made you believe.
You were never a just 'little sister' to Fred.
The Yule Ball was a glittering, dazzling spectacle—lights flickering off icicles, laughter rising above the string quartet, and students twirling like they belonged in fairytales. You, however, sat near the edge of the ballroom, nursing your second Butterbeer and watching the swirl of color and sound with a wistful smile.
You hadn’t come with a date. Not for lack of trying—well, trying in your own mischievous, joking way.
A few weeks ago, you’d cheekily asked Fred if he wanted to go with you. Just for laughs. You knew he was going with Angelina—everyone did—but you asked anyway, leaning across the common room table with a dramatic flutter of your lashes.
“Freddie, darling,” You’d purred in a mock-sultry voice, “would you do me the honor of escorting me to the Yule Ball?”
Fred had laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair, “Merlin, no. You’re like my little sister.” He said, ruffling your hair like it was the funniest thing in the world.
Ugh. Little sister. Would he ever give it a rest?
It still clanged around in your brain like a badly played triangle.
You’d rolled your eyes at the time and played it off with a sarcastic bow, “Guess I’ll be a single lady then.”
You could’ve gone with someone else—you’d been asked by a few boys from all three schools—but you couldn’t bring yourself to accept any of them. You’d considered it briefly, wondering if maybe it would make Fred jealous. Part of you hesitated because you didn’t want to give him another reason to believe you weren’t available—romantically or otherwise.
But, really… you didn’t want to go with anyone who wasn’t Fred.
So you came alone. In a dress you adored. Ready to have a good time with your friends instead of pretending to care about someone you’d barely remember in a year.
The small detail you’d failed to factor in?
Your friends hadn’t come alone.
So here you were—alone in a dress you actually loved, watching the dance floor glow with candlelight and spinning silhouettes.
You weren’t bitter. Not really.
…Okay. Maybe a little.
You were fine. You were great. You were single, glowing, unbothered—and just a little disappointed.
Fred had been dancing most of the evening with Angelina, stopping now and then to mess with George or shove cake in Lee’s face. But the moment he spotted you sitting alone, something shifted in him. His laughter faltered mid-sentence. The smile dimmed just slightly.
He watched you from the edge of the crowd. Your eyes followed the dancers, your foot tapping along with the beat. But you weren’t smiling like you usually did. You looked like you were waiting—for something. Or someone.
Fred excused himself from the group without a word and made his way toward you, face unreadable.
You looked up as he stopped in front of you.
“Fred?”
“You look like a lemon.”
You blinked. “Charming.”
He held out a hand, “Dance with me.”
You raised a brow, “And abandon my hard-earned reputation as the designated wallflower? You sure you want to ruin that for me?”
He smirked, but there was something softer beneath it, “Just so you’re not sitting here looking miserable. I mean, you looked like you wanted to dance. And you’re not a lemon. You’re… a pomegranate.”
You stared at him, “Wow. How could a girl possibly resist?”
You placed your hand in his, warmth zipping up your arm at the contact.
“Thanks, Fred. I didn’t want to sit here all night.”
“I’m rescuing you from a night of tragic wallflowering,” He said, placing one hand on your waist and taking the other in his, “A truly chivalrous act.”
“Right,” You said dryly, “Should I curtsy or just kiss your feet?”
He narrowed his eyes, “I could still leave you here, you know.”
“You won’t.” You said smugly.
You were on your third dance with Fred—completely unaware of time, music, or the fact that your feet were starting to ache—when someone tapped your shoulder.
You turned to see a Ravenclaw boy you vaguely recognized. “Hey—sorry to interrupt,” He said, smiling, “Would you like to dance the next one?”
You opened your mouth, startled, but Fred beat you to it.
“She’s booked for the night, mate." He said smoothly.
The boy blinked, “Oh. I just thought—”
Fred clapped a hand on his shoulder, laughing, “Appreciate you trying to put me out of my misery, really. But I couldn’t do that to you.”
The boy hesitated, then walked away.
You turned back to Fred, eyebrows raised, “Didn’t you just say you were dancing with me because I looked like a lonely?”
Fred shrugged, “I couldn’t, in good conscience, let him suffer through your dancing. Besides, you’d be bored with anyone else.”
You snorted, “I’m calling your bluff, Weasley. You just don’t want to admit you’re having fun.”
He gave you a wicked grin. “Maybe I am… but don’t let it go to your head.”
The night wore on, and you were breathless from laughter. Despite his usual disinterest in McGonagall’s dance lessons—apart from embarrassing his brother for dancing with her—Fred, to his credit, was a surprisingly good dancer. He had already spun you around twice, always managing to keep you steady even though, in these heels, it felt like one misstep away from disaster. But his latest antic nearly gave you a cardiac arrest.
“Ready?” He asked, eyes gleaming.
“Fred—what are you—?”
Then he dipped you.
Dramatically.
One strong arm behind your back, the other holding your hand as your head tilted back with a surprised squeak. You gripped his arms tightly, heart hammering.
“I could drop you,” He said casually, “Let everyone see you take a tumble in that pretty dress.”
“Fred Weasley, don’t you dare—”
He chuckled, voice low and steady, “I’d never let you go.”
Your breath caught.
He was close—too close. His voice was warm against your cheek, his grin lazy, his eyes crinkled at the corners. Like what he’d just said meant something.
You stared at him for a heartbeat too long.
Then, with a cheeky flourish, he pulled you upright again, smiling like it had all been a joke.
You didn’t say a word. Because if you did—if you pointed out how soft and sweet that had been—he’d ruin it. He’d backpedal. Say something like “Because you’re like my sister,” and you weren’t about to let that ruin the moment.
So you said nothing.
You let him hold you a little too close.
Let his fingers linger at your waist.
Let yourself feel the weight of it—of him.
And then, slowly, the teasing faded. The jokes quieted. You were just dancing. Holding each other. His hand warm against your back. His eyes drifted to your lips just once and you had to stop everything in you from leaning into him.
At some point, your fingers brushed his collar, adjusting it just to touch him.
The both of you just lost in your own world.
Until the crowd began to thin. Until the music slowed. Until reality crept back in.
Fred glanced toward the edge of the ballroom.
“Oh, Merlin,” He breathed, “Angelina.”
You blinked, “Oh my God. You had a date.”
He winced, “I didn’t mean to leave her—”
“You left her the whole night, Fred,” You worried, still slightly dazed that the guy you had been crushing on forgot his own date for your company, “For your pomegranate.”
He looked sheepish, running a hand nervously through his hair. “That makes it sound worse.” He muttered.
“It is worse.” You said quietly, the concern in your voice barely masked by the soft glow of the ballroom lights.
Fred swallowed hard. “I’ll go talk to her,” He said, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes flickering with a mix of guilt and dread, “She’s gonna kill me.”
He found Angelina standing near the exit, her arms crossed, the faintest crease between her brows. She didn’t look angry—not really. Just… tired. Like she’d been waiting too long to say what she needed to say, and it had worn her down.
“Took you long enough.” She said coolly, voice steady but carrying a weight beneath it.
“Angelina, I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be,” She interrupted, stepping closer, her gaze sharp and unyielding, “Just be honest with me.”
Fred blinked, confusion clouding his expression, “Honest?”
She nodded, her voice softer but no less firm, “The moment you saw her, you forgot I even existed.”
His cheeks flushed, a mix of embarrassment and something deeper, more complicated, “It’s not like that. She’s—”
“Don’t,” Angelina said sharply, cutting him off, “Don’t say ‘little sister.’ You’ve been using that excuse for ages. It’s not cute anymore. She’s not your sister. You didn’t spend the whole night laughing with her, dancing with her, looking at her like she hung the bloody moon because she was your sister.”
Fred opened his mouth, as if to protest, but no words came. The truth hung heavy in the air, unspoken but impossible to deny.
Angelina gave him a sad, almost wistful smile, “You know what? I hope she finally says something. Because you’re too stupid to realize you’re already halfway in love.”
With that, she turned on her heel and walked away, her silhouette swallowed by the crowd.
Fred stood frozen, watching the heavy doors swing shut behind her. The sounds of the ball—the music, the laughter—seemed distant, like they were happening to someone else.
Across the room, you were laughing with George, your eyes bright, your dress catching the light with every twirl. Your joy was undeniable, effortless.
Fred’s heart thundered painfully in his chest.
Oh.
Fred stumbled into the Gryffindor common room later that night, hair a complete mess, and his tie still hanging loosely from his collar like a badge of defeat. His usually cocky grin was nowhere to be found. He wasn’t going to sleep tonight. Not after Angelina. Not after you.
He hadn’t even managed to reach the part of his brain that could make sense of why the latter felt like it mattered more. The weight of it pressed on his chest in a way he wasn’t used to.
He made a beeline for the couch and flopped down face-first, letting out a long, weary sigh. Unfortunately, his relief was short-lived.
“Enchanté, loverboy.” Came a familiar voice.
Fred groaned without opening his eyes, “Go away, George.”
But George was already there, sprawled comfortably with a smug grin and a pillow in hand.
“Why should I?” George asked, grinning wide, “I’m genuinely enjoying your emotional meltdown. It’s been ages since I had this much blackmail material on you.”
Fred peeked one eye open, glaring, “You’re delusional.”
“Oh, am I?” George leaned in, his grin widening wickedly, “So, just to make sure I’ve got this right—you asked Angelina to the Yule Ball, spent exactly zero time with her, and then danced the entire night with someone you keep insisting is ‘just your little sister’?”
Fred scowled, sitting up slightly, “She didn’t have anyone to dance with—”
George gasped dramatically, clutching his chest, “Oh no! Poor darling (Y/N), tragically unwanted and left to fend off all those desperate wankers alone. Thank goodness you stepped up to do your familial duty and ward off all those other blokes with your death stare!”
“I didn’t—”
“And then there was the moment when you full-on blocked that Ravenclaw who asked her to dance—”
“He was creepy.” Fred interrupted, defensive.
“Was he?” George raised a skeptical brow, “Or did you just not like some other bloke getting close to what you think belongs to you?”
Fred sputtered, cheeks flushing, “She’s not mine!”
George leaned back, hands behind his head, looking like he’d just won the Quidditch Cup, “That’s not what your face said last night when she laughed at someone else’s joke.”
Fred blinked in surprise, “She did?”
George threw back his head and howled with laughter, “You absolute muppet. You’re in love with her.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are in love with her.”
Fred narrowed his eyes, “She’s like a sister.”
George chuckled, eyes sparkling with disbelief, “Right. And I’m the Queen of England.”
The days after the Yule Ball stretched on with a strange sort of silence between you and Fred. It wasn’t the loud, obvious kind of silence that comes from a fight or an argument—it was quieter, more complicated. Like a door left slightly ajar, inviting but uncertain whether to open or close.
Fred wasn’t usually the type to get tongue-tied or awkward. He was a master of quick jokes, cheeky grins, and effortless charm. But in those weeks, whenever you were near, something tangled inside him—like a knot he didn’t quite know how to undo. His usual bravado wavered just enough that it made you catch him staring a little longer than usual or pause mid-joke, like he was rehearsing lines in his head that never quite made it out.
The common room felt different now when you sat near each other. The easy camaraderie you’d always shared was still there, but it was layered with something unspoken—something neither of you dared to say aloud. Conversations that used to flow effortlessly now stumbled into sudden silences.
He found himself watching you more, stealing glances when he thought you weren’t looking—the way your eyes lit up when you talked about something you loved, the subtle way you bit your lip when you were deep in thought, the way your laughter made the whole room feel warmer. Every little detail seemed to grow in significance, like clues to a puzzle he didn’t realize he was trying to solve.
He kept telling himself it was safer to keep things as they were. Safer to laugh it off, to shove feelings aside and pretend they weren’t there.
Still, the more he tried to ignore it, the harder it became. Every shared glance, every accidental touch, every laugh felt like a spark. And sparks—no matter how small—have a way of turning into flames.
So the days rolled on, filled with stolen moments and unspoken truths, until the night of the twins' birthday.
You’d gone all out.
Of course you had. They were your closest friends—your brothers in chaos, your constants—and no amount of recent awkwardness between you and Fred was going to change that. You weren’t about to let a few strange, tense weeks ruin what had always been effortless. You had promised yourself you'd make their birthday unforgettable.
So you did.
The common room was full of warmth and flickering firelight, the remnants of cake crumbs and torn wrapping paper scattered across the floor like confetti. Laughter echoed off the stone walls, and the twins were basking in the glow of attention and affection from everyone who adored them.
George let out a low whistle as he unwrapped your third gift—a meticulously crafted set of self-replenishing joke parchment. His eyes lit up like a kid in Honeydukes.
“Blimey, (Y/N),” He said, grinning, “Trying to buy our affection?”
You laughed, nudging his shoulder, “Obviously. Isn’t it working?”
They were thrilled—joking, laughing, trading banter with anyone who approached. It should’ve felt perfect.
And yet… that other gift still burned a hole in your pocket.
The real one.
Your eyes found Fred across the room—red hair tousled, cheeks pink from laughing too hard, head thrown back as Lee told some ridiculous story. He was glowing in the way only Fred could glow, like he was lit from the inside.
And still, you felt that tug in your chest. The ache of what hadn’t been said.
When the noise began to settle and the party mellowed into pockets of low chatter, you crossed the room and gently tugged at his sleeve.
“Fred,” You said, just loud enough for him to hear, “Come with me?”
He blinked down at you, caught off guard. “Yeah. Alright.”
You led him toward the farthest corner of the Gryffindor common room, past the roaring fire and beyond the clusters of chatting students, until you reached the quiet nook beneath the grand stained-glass windows. The flickering moonlight spilled in, mingling with the soft glow of a single enchanted lamp, casting gentle shadows that danced along the stone walls. Here, removed from the laughter and bustle, it felt like the rest of the world had paused just for the two of you.
Your hands trembled slightly as you reached into your pocket and pulled out a small, worn box. It wasn’t wrapped. It wasn’t fancy. It didn’t sparkle or shimmer. But your heart was in it—completely.
Fred frowned a little, brow furrowing, “You didn’t have to—”
“Shut up and open it, Weasley.” You interrupted, pushing it gently into his hands.
He raised an eyebrow at you, amused but curious. Slowly, he lifted the lid.
Inside was a snow globe. The little snowflakes drifted gently over a miniature brick-and-mortar storefront, with a bright red ‘W’ hanging proudly above the door. As Fred looked closer, a tiny charmed figurine—obviously meant to be him—stepped onto the shop’s doorstep. The figure carefully put on his hat, then lifted it to reveal a small rabbit sitting playfully on his head. When he placed the hat back down and lifted it again, the rabbit was gone.
His fingers hovered over it, stunned. Not because it was extravagant—it wasn’t—but because it was him. It was the dream. His dream. Captured and preserved with such quiet devotion, it took the air straight out of his lungs.
“I made it,” You said softly, barely above a whisper, “I wanted you to know that no matter what… I’ll always be on your side.”
Fred stared at it.
Then at you.
His expression shifted like a storm—surprise first, then something softer. Something heavier.
You hesitated, “I know things have been weird these past couple weeks, but I just—”
Before you could finish, he stepped forward and kissed you.
There was no warning.
No hesitation.
Just Fred—urgent and messy and real. It wasn’t graceful, wasn’t the kind of kiss you saw in fairytales. It was all clumsy affection and months of unsaid things. You made a startled sound, but your hands moved before you could think—one curling into the front of his shirt to keep him close, the other gripping the side of his face.
You kissed him back with everything you had.
When he finally pulled away, breathless, his face was burning. His hands lingered on your waist, his forehead resting lightly against yours.
“Don’t say a word,” He muttered hoarsely, eyes squeezed shut, “Not. A. Word.”
You opened your mouth.
He jabbed a finger at you without even looking, “I mean it.”
You closed it again, biting back a wicked little smirk.
Fred groaned under his breath, dragging both hands through his hair as he turned back toward the others like a man marching to his execution.
The moment he stepped back into view, the common room erupted.
A chorus of laughter, wolf whistles, and mock applause rang out like someone had set off fireworks.
“FREDDIE!” Lee shouted, pointing, “You’ve got lipstick all over your mouth!”
George nearly fell off the couch, howling, “Finally, you absolute muppet!”
Fred turned back to shoot you a look—something between a death glare and a desperate plea for mercy.
You just leaned against the wall, arms crossed and smile syrup-sweet. “You told me not to say anything.” You called innocently.
His jaw dropped. George clapped him hard on the back.
“You’re doomed, Freddie. Doomed!”
Fred groaned again, eyes still locked on you, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to strangle you or kiss you all over again.
You just winked.
And Fred, cheeks flaming and heart pounding, couldn’t even pretend anymore.
He was absolutely, irrevocably, spectacularly in love with you.
And he always had been.
Fred didn’t talk to you for two whole days after the kiss.
Which was absolutely hilarious, considering he couldn’t stop staring at you.
Every time you caught his eye in the common room, he’d jerk his head away so fast you half expected him to get whiplash. His cheeks would flare bright red like he’d just walked through a blast-ended skrewt.
At breakfast, he knocked over his goblet of pumpkin juice—not once, but twice—sending sticky liquid splashing over the table. When he tripped on the stairwell on his way to Charms class, narrowly catching himself on the banister, you barely suppressed a laugh.
George caught on immediately, his grin spreading wider than the Great Hall on feast day.
“You’re a bloody mess,” George said gleefully, clapping Fred hard on the shoulder as if congratulating a champion, “And all because of one little kiss.”
Fred muttered furiously, burying his face in his hands, cheeks still flaming. “It wasn’t a kiss,” He insisted, voice muffled, “It was—it was—”
“What? CPR?” George teased with a wicked smirk, “Pretty sure you didn’t need to snog her to save her life, mate.”
Fred groaned loudly and pushed his hands away, blinking rapidly as if trying to erase the image from his brain.
This went on for days.
He’d catch your eye, panic, and look away like you’d cast a Confundus Charm on him. His ears would burn brighter than the Gryffindor common room fire, and he’d mutter under his breath whenever you passed by.
It was, frankly, kind of adorable.
George was having the time of his life.
On day one, he started pacing the common room, sighing dramatically like a Shakespearean actor. “Ah, young love,” he muttered, voice thick with mock sentimentality. “So fragile, so awkward, so completely bloody hilarious.”
Whenever Fred glanced your way—no matter how fleetingly—George would launch a strategic attack with Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, pelting him like a mischievous spellcaster.
Fred just huffed and tried to act nonchalant, but even someone as blind as him could see he was utterly, hopelessly smitten.
Meanwhile, you watched the whole spectacle with a quiet smile—knowing this was just Fred's pathetic way of trying to come to terms that you were actually the love of his life.
Fred wasn’t there for the DA meeting today. While he said he was just not feeling well, a part of you wondered whether he was trying to avoid you on purpose.
Without his ever-watchful, overprotective presence hovering nearby, you found yourself sharper—faster, smarter, more daring than you’d realized.
You sparred with Harry, and it quickly became clear: you were a natural. Your feet barely seemed to touch the ground as you ducked, weaved, and cast spells with precision and flair. Your counter-curses came swift and clever, each movement more confident than the last.
When you finally disarmed Harry with a clean, flawless flick, sending his wand soaring across the room, even Hermione couldn’t help but clap.
Harry grinned, breathless as he retrieved his wandm “Merlin, (Y/N), where have you been hiding that?”
Your heart raced, a triumphant spark lighting up inside you. You shrugged with a sly smile.
“Maybe I just don’t like showing off.” You said playfully.
Harry’s eyes narrowed playfully, suspicion flashing in them.
Then it hit him. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his wand and pointed it at you.
“Wait a minute,” He said, voice teasing, “You pretend to be useless around Fred, don’t you? So he’ll fuss over you?”
You batted your eyelashes and gave him your most innocent, wide-eyed look.
“Moi?”
Harry burst out laughing, shaking his head, “You are pure evil. Brilliantly evil.”
You just winked, utterly unapologetic.
You didn’t plan to storm into Fred’s dorm like a thundercloud, but after days of the cold shoulder, the sidelong glances, and the maddening silence, you’d finally reached your limit. Tonight, you were done waiting.
The door swung open before Fred could even answer, and he was caught somewhere between surprise and guilt. His usual easygoing grin was gone, replaced by a flush creeping up his neck and a nervous flicker in his eyes. The room around him was cluttered with scattered prototypes and half-finished joke shop inventions, mirroring the chaos you sensed in his mind.
He shuffled uncomfortably, running a hand through his untamed hair, his gaze flicking anywhere but at you. The words he tried to form tangled and tumbled inside his head, leaving him stumbling over silence. His posture was tense, shoulders hunched as if trying to make himself smaller, less exposed.
He was still rambling—stumbling over half-hearted excuses about how you were “like a sister,” how George was “just taking the mickey,” and how “it didn’t mean anything.”
That was when you snapped.
You grabbed him by the tie, yanked him forward, and kissed him like it was the only way to shut him up.
For a single, suspended, electrified second, Fred froze. Then he kissed you back, like he was catching up on something he hadn’t even let himself want until this very moment. His hands gripped your waist with a fierce uncertainty—unsure if he was pulling you closer or holding on for dear life.
He tasted like mint and adrenaline and something sweeter, something dangerous—because somewhere in that kiss, Fred realized he wanted to do it again.
Again and again and again.
But then you pulled away, chest heaving, lips swollen, and before he could stop himself, Fred chased after you, his mouth searching for yours on pure instinct.
You held him off with a hand pressed to his chest.
“This isn’t how you treat your little sister.” You whispered, voice soft but sharp—words that still landed like a hex.
Fred blinked at you, stunned, lips parted, like he’d just been hit by a bludger he never saw coming.
Had he really been calling you his little sister all this time?
Ew. What the hell was wrong with him?
“Yeah,” He finally said, “That’s… that’s not what this is.”
You tilted your head, that infuriating little smirk tugging at your lips—the one that always got him into trouble, even when he didn’t know why.
“Took you long enough to realize.” You murmured, voice all velvet and mischief.
Fred stared, mouth opening to argue—but he had nothing. Not a single retort. Because, bloody hell, you were right. He had taken too long. Too long pretending, too long denying, too long calling you his “little sister” when all he wanted was to kiss you again until he forgot every reason not to.
And now? Now he was properly wrecked.
Fred swallowed hard, eyes flicking back to your lips before settling on your smug little smile.
“Yeah?” He said, voice low, a little dazed, “What else am I late to, then? Might as well catch up properly.”
He stared at you, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan. Then—just as he stepped forward again, a little more sure this time—
“Oi!”
The door slammed open.
George stood in the doorway, wide-eyed, munching on a half-eaten apple, “Didn’t realize we were hosting Snogwarts: The Reunion. Should I come back later, or are you two gonna keep traumatizing me?”
Fred groaned loudly, “Merlin’s bollocks, George, ever heard of knocking?”
George shrugged around a crunchy bite, “Ever heard of boundaries? That’s my bed you’ve shoved her onto!”
“Godric's bloody—George, do you mind?”
George took another loud bite, “Yes. But not enough to leave.”
You giggled, wrapping your arms around Fred’s shoulders, and he groaned again, forehead dropping to your shoulder like he was silently begging for mercy.
Later that night, Fred found you curled up in the common room, tucked beneath a soft blanket with a book resting in your hands. The fire flickered gently, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Without a word, he collapsed beside you with all the dramatic flair he was known for, letting out a long, theatrical sigh as if the weight of the entire Quidditch league was pressing down on his chest.
“I’m a disaster.” He declared, voice heavy with self-reproach.
You didn’t look up from your book, “Mhm.”
Fred ran a hand through his tousled hair, voice dropping to a low confession, “I panicked. That first time. The moment caught me off guard. I was trying to show you how grateful I was—and well, I thought kissing you was the best way to do that.”
You closed your book with a soft snap and finally met his eyes, a teasing smile tugging at your lips, “It was a good idea. Until you ran off with lipstick on your face and hid behind George for two days.”
He groaned, dragging his hands down his face in mock despair, “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Immensely." You said, amusement sparkling in your gaze.
Fred muttered, “I probably deserved that.”
“You do.”
He exhaled, steadying himself, “Look… I’m sorry. You’re not my little sister. You never were. I’ve been stupid and blind and oblivious, and I’m lucky you didn’t move on from a fool like me. I like you—more than is remotely reasonable.”
You smiled, a victorious glint in your eyes, “Say it again.”
Fred rolled his eyes, but the sharpness was gone, replaced by something softer, more real, “I like you.”
You tilted your head, voice gentle but playful, “Properly.”
He shifted closer, his heart pounding in his throat, “I like you, alright? I’ve liked you for ages. I just didn’t know how to say it… or what to do with it.”
Your smile softened into something warm, inviting, “Then show me.”
He did.
This time, the kiss was slower, deliberate. No panic, no rushing away. Just the warmth of his hands finding your waist, your fingers threading through his hair, and the quiet, electric certainty that everything was finally falling into place.
Bonus:
It was a brand-new day. Literally. But somehow, it felt metaphorically new too—like the kind of fresh start you didn’t even know you needed until it happened.
Fred Weasley strode into the Great Hall that morning, and when his eyes landed on you already seated at the Gryffindor table, casually sipping pumpkin juice like you hadn’t just rewritten the entire script of his life the night before, he nearly tripped over his own feet. He blinked, stunned.
You caught his eye, flashed a mischievous smirk, and patted the seat beside you.
He sat down slowly, unsure if this was real or some elaborate prank hatched by the combined mischief of Peeves and George.
“Morning.” You said, effortlessly snagging a piece of toast from his plate the second it appeared.
“Morning.” He echoed, eyes fixed on you, clearly unsure what to do with his hands—or how to behave now that the world had shifted on its axis.
“You sleep alright?” He asked cautiously.
You gave him a teasing look, “Better than you, probably. You kept tossing and turning. Too busy lying awake, replaying every moment from yesterday.”
His jaw practically hit the floor, “How did you know?”
“I didn’t. But now I do.” You quipped.
Fred groaned, “You’re the worst.”
“You’re the one who took three years to kiss me. I’m allowed to enjoy this.”
Before he could reply, George plopped down across from you both, grinning like a Kneazle with a bowl of gold coins in hand.
“Well, well, well,” George announced, sliding a crumpled parchment onto the table with theatrical flair, “What do we have here? Oh yes—that’s right! Three galleons, eight sickles, and a bag of Fizzing Whizbees. Collected over three bloody years.”
Fred blinked, “What is that?”
George’s grin widened, “The betting pool. Started it when I first noticed our dear brother here looking at you like a lovesick Kneazle but being completely useless about it. Most gave up after sixth year, but not me. I believed.”
You stared at him, incredulous, “You bet on us?”
“Of course I did. I’m not an idiot. Also, Lee Jordan owes me five chocolate frogs and the next round at Hogsmeade.”
Fred groaned, burying his face in his hands, “This is a nightmare.”
You patted his shoulder, barely holding back laughter, “Don’t worry, love. At least you’re finally winning something.”
He peeked at you through his fingers, utterly defeated, “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”
You leaned in, planting a light kiss on his cheek, “Not a chance.”
Just like that, Fred Weasley—world-class prankster, confident flirt, and now completely and irrevocably yours—blushed bright red over eggs and toast. Meanwhile, George was already shouting across the table, “Oi, Angelina! Pay up! I told you it’d happen before graduation!”
“Well, well, Weasley,” Came Angelina Johnson’s voice from the far end of the table, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she set down her toast, “Not only did you break my heart, but now you’re making me lose a bloody bet?”
Fred groaned again, looking up just in time to see Angelina approaching with that infuriating grin firmly in place.
“I didn’t think it was possible to make this more awkward,” She said, sliding onto the bench beside George, “but you’ve really outdone yourself. I bet you thought you were clever, calling her your ‘little sister’ while sneaking off with her every chance you got.”
Fred’s cheeks flamed. “It wasn’t like that.” He muttered, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.
You nudged him playfully, “I know Fred’s an idiot, Angelina, but you should’ve had some faith in me. There was no way I was going to graduate without pointing out that he’s clearly in love with me. Honestly, he should’ve figured it out last Valentine’s Day when he nearly had a conniption because Roger Davies asked me to be his valentine.”
Fred groaned again, but this time the sound was lighter, less burdened. He was too wrapped up in the warmth of having you by his side, teasing him—this time as his girlfriend—to care about anything else.
Bonus Bonus Scene:
It started innocently enough.
(Okay, no. It really didn’t. Not even a little bit.)
You were at the Burrow for a family dinner—Molly, ever the doting mother hen, had insisted you come along.
“You’re practically one of us, dear!” she’d said, completely unaware that you and Fred were teetering on the edge of indecency every time you looked at each other.
Fred had spent the entire afternoon teasing you with little touches—brief brushes of his hand at the dinner table, secretive smirks, and whispered comments that made you choke on your pumpkin juice while Molly gave you an oblivious, comforting pat on the back.
By the time dessert was cleared, you were practically vibrating with pent-up energy and barely able to keep your hands to yourself.
Fred caught your eye across the kitchen, his gaze locked with yours—and that was all it took.
You hadn’t even made it two steps into the hallway when he caught your wrist, pulled you into a shadowy alcove, and kissed you like he’d been starving for it all night.
You giggled into his mouth, clutching the front of his shirt, “Fred—someone will see—”
“Don’t care,” he muttered, his lips already trailing down your neck.
You melted against the wall, laughing breathlessly, tugging him closer.
Fred kissed you like a man who’d been waiting forever, hands roaming, mouth hot and urgent.
You were completely lost in the moment, lost in him—so much so that neither of you noticed the heavy footsteps approaching.
Until—
“FREDERICK GIDEON WEASLEY!”
You both jumped, nearly a foot in the air.
Fred stumbled back, his ears flaming bright red, wiping his mouth. (He was quite traumatized from the incident after your first kiss you see)
Molly stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, face the exact shade of a ripe tomato.
For a long, frozen three seconds, no one moved. No one breathed.
Your heart pounded so loudly it was all you could hear.
Fred looked like he was calculating a quick Apparition out of there.
Molly pointed a trembling finger at both of you, “WHAT—WHAT ON EARTH—YOU—AND—HE—YOU—KISSING!”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, but no words came.
Fred, somehow, found his voice first, “Uh... surprise?” he offered weakly.
“How long has this been going on?!”
Your cheeks burned as heat rushed up your neck, “Um... a while?”
Molly gasped as if you’d just confessed a crime, “A WHILE?!”
You winced. Fred winced.
Behind Molly, George peeked into the room, grinning so wide it looked painful.
Ron snorted from somewhere nearby.
Ginny was cackling so hard she had to lean against the wall.
Fred ran a hand through his hair, looking utterly defeated, as if willing the earth to swallow him whole.
“Mum,” He said, voice low but serious, “I’m in love with her.”
The room fell utterly silent.
Even George stopped laughing.
You blinked at Fred, stunned. He’d never said it like that before—not out loud, not so plainly.
Molly stared at him, then at you, then back at him again.
And then—much to everyone’s horror—she burst into tears.
“Oh, Fred!” She sobbed, “My little boy’s in love!”
You leaned in, grinning against the swell of your own heart, “Didn’t think you’d be the first one to say it,” You whispered, voice warm with mischief, “I was sure I’d have to drag it out of you in another three years.”
He chuckled, not pulling away, gazing at you in such a way that told you that had his mother not been in the room, you would've found yourself pressed against the wall once more, “Had to beat you at something, didn’t I?”
Bonus Bonus BONUS scene: (because I CAN)
The Three Broomsticks buzzed with weekend chatter—students crammed into booths, scarves trailing off shoulders, butterbeer steaming in their mugs. You were nestled between Hermione and Ginny, a little flushed from the warmth and the laughter, your empty glass pushed to the side.
“I still can’t believe he’s not here,” You murmured, stirring absentmindedly at a napkin, “Feels weird, doing all this without him.”
“Aw, you miss your boyfriend.” Ginny cooed dramatically, nudging you with her elbow.
You rolled your eyes, “Of course I do. But it’s more than that. He was everywhere last year. Loud, obnoxious, stealing sips from my drink, sticking notes to my back... It’s just quiet now.”
“He did write you, though,” Hermione offered, smiling, “Nearly every day, if I recall correctly. Your poor owl is exhausted sending your cute little love notes back and forth.”
You pressed your hand to your chest, mocking deep emotion, “Yes. A romantic sentence followed by ten paragraphs of commentary on the exact ratio of sugar to fizz in Fizzing Whizbees. I could swoon.”
“Well, it is Fred,” Ginny said, giggling.
“He said he might try to visit this weekend,” You admitted, eyes flicking toward the window as a group of third-years raced past outside, “But I haven’t heard anything.”
“Maybe he’s surprising you.” Hermione offered with a coy smile, lifting her mug.
“He’s not subtle enough for surprises,” You replied with a grin. “He’d probably drop from the ceiling shouting, ‘DID YOU MISS ME?’.”
At that exact moment, a familiar voice rang out from behind you.
“Well the ceiling was taken so I guess I'm doing this the old-fashioned way.”
You blinked, heart stuttering, and whipped around.
Standing just a few steps away, snow dusting his hair, cheeks pink from the cold, scarf looped loosely around his neck, and the most insufferable grin on his face.
You barely had time to register him before you were out of the booth and throwing your arms around his neck. He caught you easily, spinning you once before setting you down, laughing.
“You prat,” You breathed, hands on either side of his face, “You didn’t tell me—!”
“Would’ve ruined the surprise.” He said, eyes warm and crinkled at the corners.
Ginny raised her butterbeer like a toast. “You owe me five Sickles,” She told Hermione, “I said she’d cry.”
“I’m not crying!” You called back, affronted, though your eyes were definitely misty.
Fred beamed, “Give it ten minutes. I’m very moving.”
“Ugh, can't imagine why anyone would miss that.” Ginny muttered, grimacing into her drink.
And as Fred pressed a quick kiss to your lips and tucked you in closer beside him, it felt like everything had snapped back into place. The noise, the laughter, the warmth—Fred was back, and for a little while at least, the world was exactly as it should be.
Pairing: Wolffe x fem!Reader / Wolffe x Doctor!Reader
Words: 17,082
Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! established relationship, fluff, it's like 50/50 pwp, protective!Wolffe, smut, oral (f recieving), fingering, unprotected sex, pinv, dirty talk, so much of that, praise kink in a big way, size kink, veryyy soft dom!Wolffe, Wolffe is a cuddly drunk
Summary: After your first date in months with Wolffe is ruined, you want to make the most of your night together. All Wolffe wants is you.
A/N: This was born from @cyaretra and I discussing Wolffe's guilty pleasures of red wine, trash reality tv, and fast food. RIP Wolffe you would love space in-n-out.
Previous Work | Next Work | Masterlist
“How much further?”
You and Wolffe share a look over your shoulder as he hoists Boost further in his arms, Sinker dangling from yours like a wet bag of laundry. Comet trudges behind, looking for all the galaxy like he just got kicked in the face.
He had, by Wolffe's own account.
“If you don’t stop whining, I’ll leave you all here in the street,” Wolffe grumbles back, and you can tell he’s only half-joking.
Boost and Sinker, to their credit, shut up.
Comet, who has always been the most perceptive of the bunch, says nothing and tries his hardest to keep pace, limping on what you guess is a sprained ankle. The rest of him looks like a bruise, with various shades of reds, purples, and blues covering most of his exposed skin. He had been the first of them to get tossed around in the scuffle, the others jumping into the fray a little too late for him to not take the worst beating.
You try not to think about what might have happened if they hadn't intervened.
The streets of Coruscant are never truly empty, not even during the day, but they are at least quieter in the early morning hours. Which means that when a small squadron of clones, one of whom is being carried, appears from around the corner, people notice.
People stare.
You feel a wave of secondhand embarrassment for the four of them. You can practically hear Wolffe's internal cursing, and he makes sure you know he isn’t happy by the way he grabs your arm and pulls you close to him.
The four of you are going to look quite the sight once you reach the barracks.
Not a bad sight, mind, just a bit... rough.
Wolffe and you share the burden of Boost and Sinker, but it’s mostly him carrying both. You simply hang on, your free hand grasping one of theirs so they don't fall from their commander's arms.
Comet is still trailing behind, and Wolffe shoots him glances, trying to gauge whether or not he is going to pass out before you make it back. He doesn't say anything, though, and neither do you. Comet must take as some sort of dismissal, because he starts trying to make conversation.
"You know, sir, you should really get us some medals for this," he starts, and Wolffe looks up to the sky, asking some unseen deity why it hates him so.
You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing, but a giggle still escapes, and it makes Wolffe glance at you. You offer him a small smile, and his lips twitch slightly in return.
Comet keeps talking. "It was a hard-won battle, sir. We had them outnumbered. I bet there were twenty of 'em, at least."
"There were six," you say, turning back to him, and he shrugs, which you guess is as good a response as any.
"They were pretty big, though. They were probably part-Wookiee. Did you see the size of them? Huge."
You look at Wolffe again, who looks ready to drop Boost and Sinker in order to throttle his soldier. You can't help the laughter that bubbles out of your mouth.
Comet looks pleased with himself, and you think the pain of the fight is starting to make him delirious.
Wolffe glares at the two of you. "I hate both of you."
”Me?” you ask. "I didn't do anything!"
He doesn't answer, which is his usual response when you’re right.
You turn and continue making your way down the street. The neon signs and blinking lights of the seedy district fade into the darkness of the night as you walk, the sound of music and raucous laughter fading with them. The city is still busy, but it’s a different crowd, and they seem to be a bit more interested in getting home than making their way to the next club.
Not that there are many places open at this hour. It is, after all, one in the morning.
You and Wolffe share a sigh as another person pushes past, nearly knocking you over.
You've had about enough of this city. You were ready to go home the moment the sun went down, and now, it‘s all you can think about. You barely had time to look at your bed when you dropped off your bag this afternoon, and you want nothing more than to curl up in it, Wolffe at your side, and sleep for about a week.
That was the original plan, after all.
It's been months since you've had a day together, and you have been looking forward to it. A few drinks. A nice dinner. A walk through the city. An evening spent catching up on all the episodes of that awful holo-series the two of you have gotten hooked on. And then, you and Wolffe could crawl into bed and stay there for as long as possible.
It's what the two of you have been planning for weeks, and now, thanks to your over-zealous, over-protective, and frankly, ridiculous boyfriend and his brothers, you'll be lucky if you make it home before sunrise.
You can't bring yourself to be mad at them though. If they hadn't stepped in when they did, you and Wolffe would be the ones needing to be carried.
They saved the day, and you can't be mad at them for it.
But you are going to complain.
A lot.
"Why is there a fight every time we come here?" you ask. "Every time. We can't even get through one night without someone saying or doing something that causes a riot."
"Because Boost can't keep his mouth shut," Wolffe grunts, and the clone in his arms groans, which you think is an attempt to defend himself.
"You've got to stop picking fights with the locals," you add, turning to Comet, who’s looking worse and worse the closer you get to the barracks. "And I swear, if one more person calls me a 'trooper's whore'..."
"I will rip their spine out," Wolffe growls, and you and the others stare at him. He's a little bloodthirsty tonight, and you have a feeling it has to do with the way he'd been pulled from your embrace in order to break up the fight.
"That's a little graphic, don't you think?" you say, and he glares.
"They deserved it."
"Of course they did, honey," you placate, knowing it's easier to agree than to argue. He knows you're humoring him, but he lets it go.
A few more blocks, and the lights of the barracks come into view. There’s a single floodlight above the entrance, a few windows on the first floor still lit, but the compound itself is quiet. You’re the only ones walking the streets, and as you make your way through the gate, the silence settles around you. It’s a welcome change.
You step into the building and walk to the lifts. Wolffe presses the call button, and the doors to one open with a soft ding. You all shuffle in, and as soon as the doors are closed, you let out a collective groan.
Sinker snorts and lifts his head, his face contorted in pain. There’s a cut on his forehead, and a black eye mars the left side of his face. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
Wolffe shifts, trying to keep his hold on Boost while also giving Sinker a little shake.
That seems to do the trick. Sinker clears his throat and speaks, his voice hoarse. "I'm sorry, Commander. I really didn't mean to cause any trouble."
Wolffe shakes his head.
"You didn't. Those shabuir did,” he says. Boost grumbles, and Wolffe jostles him a little harder than Sinker. "Shut it. You're lucky I didn’t let Fox throw your shebs in the drunk tank. And I'm only not doing it because she," he nods to you, "won't let me."
Boost grumbles again.
"What was that?"
"Thank you, Commander," Boost mumbles, and Wolffe sighs, letting his head fall back against the wall.
"I'm not mad," he continues, and you and Comet share a look, knowing what’s coming next, "but I am disappointed."
There's a chorus of groans and winces, and you have to cover your mouth with your hand to keep from laughing.
The lift slows to a stop, and the doors open. You and Wolffe shuffle out, the boys in tow, and turn towards the infirmary. The halls are still and empty save for a few droids who patrol the floors, and your footsteps echo in the silence.
You pass the first ward, then the second, until finally, you arrive at the third. You enter, and the lights flicker on as you move into the main room, heading for your equipment.
"Let's get the droid. I'll take Comet," you say, nodding at Wolffe, and the two of you deposit your passengers on the nearest cots. The medic droid, sitting idle since you left, stands up and powers on, the little light on its head flashing red.
"How may I help?"
"Run a diagnostic on Boost, would you?” you ask as you thumb through bacta patches. “I'm pretty sure he has a concussion."
"Yes, Doctor."
You come to stand beside Wolffe as the droid scans Sinker, and he wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you against him. You lean in and rest your head on his chest, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head.
"I'm sorry our evening was ruined," he says softly.
You hum and smile. "It wasn't a complete disaster."
"We didn't get to eat. Or talk. Or..."
You lift your head, and place a finger against his lips, shushing him. "No, we didn't. But we got a few things instead. For one, you got to prove to everyone that you can still take on three men twice your size."
"They were drunk," he points out, and you roll your eyes.
"And we got to spend some time together."
"Barely. Then they got jumped,” he says, motioning to the men, who are now all staring at the two of you. You give them a pointed look, and they avert their gazes, but not before muttering a few apologies.
"We also have the rest of the day, and tomorrow,” you add, raising your eyebrows suggestively, “to do whatever we want. With no interruptions."
"Is that a promise?" he asks, his lips pulling up into a smirk. He leans over you, his mouth inches from yours, and your breath catches.
"Absolutely."
"Oh, gross," Boost groans, and Wolffe pulls away from you, his glare returning.
"If the next words out of your mouth aren't a 'thank you' or an 'I'm sorry,' I'm going to make you wish you'd never been decanted."
"Thank you," Boost mumbles, and the other two chime in. Then, the droid speaks.
"Doctor, I have completed my diagnosis," it says, and you and Wolffe move towards Boost. "Trooper Boost has sustained several contusions and minor abrasions, including a sprained wrist, and a laceration requiring five stitches. He will also need an anti-inflammatory and analgesic."
"Shab," Boost lets his head fall back and groans, and Sinker rolls his eyes.
"I told you. Didn't I tell you? Didn't I say that would happen?"
"Yes, Sinker, we get it," Comet interjects.
"Did I not?"
"Yes, Sinker. You did."
You tune out the bickering as you move to help the droid with Boost and Sinker, then move on to Comet. By the time you’re finished, his ankle is wrapped and the bruises and scrapes have been covered. He still looks like he got hit by a speeder, but at least he isn’t bleeding.
The droid makes a note of the injuries and gives you the report, which you quickly read over before setting it aside.
"Alright. All three of you," you start, pointing a finger at each of them, "will stay here for the night. No strenuous activity, no training, no lifting or pushing for a minimum of one week."
There’s a round of protests, but you hold up your hand, cutting them off. "No. You all will do as I say, or you will spend the rest of the war in the infirmary scrubbing bedpans. Are we clear?"
"Yes, doc," they all grumble, and you smile, satisfied.
"Good. Now, try and get some sleep. If you need anything, just ask the droid. Don’t call me.”
Wolffe, who’s been standing silently behind you, steps up and crosses his arms. "Do what she says. I'll be back in the afternoon, and if I find out any of you left this room..."
He lets his words hang, and the three clones nod vigorously, promising to stay put.
"Good."
"Thank you for defending my honor. But next time, please try not to get yourself beaten up in the process,” you say, squeezing Comet’s arm.
He nods and smiles, his grin crooked thanks to the split lip. "You got it, doc."
You pull away and reach for the datapad, signing off on the treatment plan before handing the pad back to the droid.
"Notify me if any of their conditions worsen," you say, and the droid's head flaps in understanding.
"Of course, Doctor."
Wolffe steps up and places a hand at the small of your back, giving his men a parting nod.
"Behave yourselves," he warns.
You step away, and the three clones give their goodbyes, calling their apologies and promises of good behavior as you and Wolffe leave the infirmary. The door hisses shut behind you, and you turn, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with Wolffe back to the lifts.
The corridors are still and quiet, the silence broken only by the occasional beep from a passing droid. The lights are dim, the shadows stretching long across the durasteel floor, and you can feel the fatigue of the night begin to creep in. Your body is tired and aching from the adrenaline crash, but the thought of getting to curl up in your bed with Wolffe is enough to keep you moving.
You stop at the lift, and the doors slide open, the both of you stepping inside. As the doors close and the lift begins its descent, Wolffe turns and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you into his embrace. You sigh and tuck yourself against his side, his warmth seeping through the fabric of his off-duty uniform.
"They shouldn’t have done that," he says, his voice low.
"They did it because they care," you answer, running your hand over his back.
"They're idiots."
"They're sweet," you correct. "I know they got a little carried away, but I think they're going to have plenty of time to reflect on that."
"You're too nice,” Wolffe replies as he leans down and nuzzles your temple.
"And you're too protective," you point out, smiling.
"You're worth protecting."
He presses his lips to your hair, and you close your eyes, savoring the rare display of affection. He’s not as sober as he appears, you realize, the faintest trace of alcohol still on his breath. He’s always more hands-on when he drinks.
Not that you mind.
You turn and kiss his cheek.
"And you're just mad because your brothers stole your thunder," you tease, giving him a grin.
"Damn straight," he says, leaning down to nip at your earlobe, and he smirks as you let out a squeak.
You slap his chest and turn to face him, his smirk widening at the flush on your cheeks. The lift slows to a stop, and the doors open, but neither of you make any move to exit. The idea of making the long journey back to your apartment is as unappealing as sneaking out of Wolffe’s quarters at the crack of dawn, and you can’t bring yourself to tear away from his embrace.
He tilts his head and nips at your jaw, his lips dragging along your skin. You sigh and run your fingers through his hair, gently scratching his scalp, and he lets out a pleased groan, his mouth traveling up to press a soft kiss against your cheek.
"You're staying," he says, the warmth of his breath ghosting across your ear, and you shiver.
It's not a question, but you pretend to think it over anyway, humming softly as you continue to play with his hair. Wolffe’s eyes narrow at your act, and his foot moves to stop the door from closing on his floor, his gaze never leaving yours.
"You're staying," he repeats, his voice taking on a commanding edge.
You give him a sly smile and shake your head.
“I need to eat and shower, and I’m not using GAR-issued soap,” you say, wrinkling your nose. “My body is not a weapon, and I refuse to treat it like one."
Wolffe huffs and removes his foot from the door, letting it slide shut. He punches the button for the ground floor with more force than necessary, and the lift jolts, slowly continuing its descent.
“I suppose that means we’re going back to your place then," he says, his tone dripping with resignation.
"Unless you have a private collection of luxury soaps I don’t know about, then yes. I'm sorry to say we are," you answer, grinning, and you slip out of his embrace as the lift comes to a stop.
You step into the hall and turn, watching as Wolffe slowly follows, a pout firmly on his face.
"You know, a good boyfriend would keep an extra bottle of shampoo for his girlfriend in his shower,” you tease as he comes to stand beside you.
"If she's such a high maintenance woman, maybe she shouldn't be dating a soldier," he retorts, giving you a pointed look.
“Oh, well if that's how you feel..."
You trail off and start walking towards the exit, but Wolffe catches your hand and pulls you back, tugging you into his arms. You collide with his chest, letting out a soft 'oof' before looking up and meeting his gaze.
His eyes are soft, and the hint of a smile plays at the corner of his lips.
"Come on, cyare, we both know I'm the only man for the job," he murmurs, leaning down to brush his lips against your temple.
You laugh softly and wrap your arms around his waist, holding him tight.
"Yeah, you're definitely the only one who can handle me," you say, and Wolffe’s eyes turn dark.
"Mmm, that I am," he rumbles, and he nuzzles your neck, his stubble scratching your skin.
You shiver, and Wolffe pulls back, looking down at you. He brushes a few stray hairs from your face and tilts your chin up, placing a gentle kiss on your lips. It's brief, barely a whisper, but it still makes you smile.
"Let's go home. We can finish our conversation there."
He drops his hand from your face, and you turn, looping your arm through his as the two of you begin to walk. It doesn't take long to reach the lot where your speeder is parked. The streets are empty, and the air is cool and fresh, the sky dark and dotted with stars. It's a pleasant night, and if it weren't for the events that transpired over the last few hours, you'd say it was perfect.
You shoot Wolffe a grin and hop into the driver’s seat, revving the engine. Wolffe rolls his eyes, but a small smile plays on his lips as he gets in and straps himself in, his hand coming to rest on your knee. He squeezes once, nodding, and you take off, heading home.
It's quiet as you fly over the city, the buildings nothing but blurs of color below you. You're not in any rush, and you fly leisurely, taking your time as you navigate the city streets. Wolffe's thumb moves in a gentle circle over your knee, his eyes fixed on the view outside the window.
You can't help but glance over at him every so often. It’s rare to see him like this, relaxed and unguarded. His head rests against the back of the seat, and he watches the city move by, the neon lights dancing across his features.
You know how much this break has meant to him. How hard it’s been, waiting for a day, an hour, even a minute where the two of you could be alone together. He's done well to hide it, but now, without the threat of prying eyes, his mask falls. He looks tired, and sad, and there's an edge of relief to his features, his eyes softening the closer you get to your apartment. You wonder how much sleep he's actually gotten over the last few months.
Not much, by the look of him.
The man doesn't know when to stop. Or when to say no.
It's part of the reason you fell for him. He's always trying to protect his men, his friends, his family. He puts others before himself, and you love him for it. You'd never ask him to change, but you do wish he'd take a little more time for himself.
Wolffe's eyes drift over, and they catch yours.
"What are you looking at?" he asks, his brows drawn together.
You shake your head and look away, back out the windshield.
"Nothing,” you reply. “Just wondering when the last time was that you slept."
He snorts and looks back out the window.
"That's an easy one. I can't remember,” he answers, and you frown.
"That's exactly what I was afraid of."
He chuckles as he turns his attention back outside, and you let out a sigh, shaking your head. He's impossible.
"Well, then I'm making sure you sleep tonight," you state with finality, a plan beginning to form in your mind.
Wolffe raises his brow and glances over.
"Oh, are you now?"
You nod, your gaze fixed on the street in front of you. The turn to your apartment complex is coming up, but instead of turning left, you fly straight past it. Wolffe’s thumb stops moving on your knee, and you bite back a smile as you continue on, heading towards the city center. He doesn’t say anything, but he sits up straighter, his gaze narrowing as he watches the cityscape pass.
"Yes. It's the doctor's orders," you say, giving him a sidelong glance.
Wolffe lets out a hum and sits back, his thumb starting its gentle movements again.
"Alright, then," he concedes. "Where are we going?"
"To get some food. I'm starving, and I can't sleep on an empty stomach," you reply, and Wolffe grunts.
"So we're stopping for a snack? We have food at home," he points out, and you shake your head.
"No, we're going to the best restaurant in the city."
"What restaurant is open at two in the morning?"
You look over, grinning, and Wolffe gives you a flat stare.
"Wolffe, my love, it's Coruscant. There's always something open."
Wolffe doesn't respond, but he does squeeze your knee, his thumb resuming its movement, and a shiver runs through you. He knows just how to work you, and even though the two of you are dead tired and the adrenaline has faded, it doesn't mean he isn't going to try and get his way.
But you have your ways, too.
You reach over and place a hand on top of his. He laces his fingers with yours and brings your hand to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.
"Wolffe," you warn, but it's a weak attempt.
"Cyare," he answers, a knowing smirk on his lips. It’s barely there, a twitch of his mouth and a crinkle in the corner of his eyes, but it's there, and you know it's not going anywhere anytime soon. Not when the two of you finally have the chance to spend the night alone together and not under the watchful eye of his men. Or worse, Master Plo.
"Sorry, Commander,” you tease, your eyes flicking over to meet his. He raises a brow, and you grin. "Food first. Then we can talk."
"You drive a hard bargain, Doctor," he replies, but he doesn't sound bothered in the least.
"That's why you love me."
"Hmm, that's not the only reason," he murmurs. You give his hand a squeeze, and he brings it to his mouth again, placing a kiss against the inside of your wrist.
"I'm sure there are many. You'll have to tell me later," you say, feeling a blush spread across your cheeks.
"Count on it."
You turn another corner and drift down into a district lit with neon signs and glowing advertisements. It's busier here than the other places you've passed through tonight, and the sidewalks are filled with people. You’re forced to stop the speeder as a large group crosses the street, their laughter and loud conversations reaching you in the safety of the vehicle, and the two of you watch, waiting for them to pass.
“What are you planning?” Wolffe asks as he makes eye contact with two men who step too close to the speeder. They catch sight of him and immediately stop, backing away. He smirks.
"To surprise you," you answer, and he huffs.
"I don't like surprises," he replies, his eyes drifting over the crowd.
"Yes, you do," you say with a disbelieving laugh. You can name a few surprises he’s enjoyed in the time you’ve known him, and not all of them were of the sexual variety. Just most. "You just hate the idea that there might be a variable outside your control."
"I've got enough of those to deal with already," he grumbles, and you squeeze his hand.
"You're off duty. Just enjoy the evening."
He huffs, but you can see the corner of his mouth pull up, the dimple on his cheek becoming more pronounced.
"I'll admit, I've enjoyed some of the surprises you've come up with,” he says, giving you a sidelong glance.
A blush spreads over your cheeks, and Wolffe lets out a low chuckle. You shake your head and try to hide your smile.
"You're terrible," you murmur as you shift the speeder into gear.
"Maybe, but at least I'm honest," he replies, giving your thigh a squeeze.
"That's something I can't argue with."
The crowd clears, and you take off, zipping between the other speeders on the road. You turn and head towards the parking area, and the moment the speeder is secured, Wolffe is out of the vehicle and around to your side, opening the door and helping you out.
“What a gentleman," you tease, and Wolffe huffs, shutting the door and pulling you close.
"Don't go telling anyone. I have a reputation to uphold," he murmurs, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss against the corner of your mouth.
"I wouldn't dream of it," you whisper, tilting your head and catching his lips in a gentle kiss. He lets out a soft groan and his arms tighten, pulling you closer, his mouth opening slightly, his tongue darting out to swipe against your lower lip. You pull away, and Wolffe chases your lips, capturing them in a soft, brief kiss.
You chuckle and rest your hands against his chest, pushing him away. He goes with a slight stumble, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, his thumbs rubbing in gentle circles.
"Come on. I'm hungry, and you're drunk."
"Am not," he mutters, but the way his eyes flick back down to your lips says otherwise.
"Oh, you're not, huh? That's not why you're so affectionate right now?"
"No,” he grumbles, his lips pulled down into a pout. You snort a laugh, and he rolls his eyes, his expression relaxing. He leans forward and presses his forehead against yours. "All right, fine, maybe I'm a little drunk. But not so drunk that I can't keep up with you."
"We'll see about that," you say, pulling back. You let your hands linger for a moment before taking a step back and turning, making your way towards the restaurant.
The door chimes as the two of you step inside, and you’re immediately faced with a line of patrons snaking up to the counter and staff bustling back and forth. Wolffe makes a face as he scans the room.
"What is this place?” he asks, and you can hear the slight judgment in his tone.
“This is a restaurant, Wolffe," you reply, trying to hold back a grin. "I figured the best way to cure a hangover is with some greasy food. And you’ve never had a burger, so I figured we could fix that tonight."
"A what?"
You roll your eyes and take his hand, tugging him into the line. He lets you drag him along, and as soon as you find a spot, you turn and explain. Your hands run over his chest, and his come up, his fingers curling around your wrists, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin on the inside.
“It’s like a nerf steak, but better. It's a mix of ground meats, and there's this bread called a bun, and you put all these other toppings and stuff on it,” you say as you bounce up on your toes, bringing your face close to his. “It's good, trust me. You'll love it."
"So you're telling me this thing," he starts, gesturing with his head towards the board where all the food options are listed, "has all the same nutrients as a nerf steak, but the texture is completely different, and the flavor is...better?"
“Pretty much," you answer, giving him a wide grin.
Wolffe doesn't look convinced, eyeing the board with barely veiled skepticism. A laugh escapes you, and his gaze snaps down to you, his eyes narrowing.
"What?"
"Nothing, you just look so confused right now. I've never seen that look on your face before," you reply, grinning.
"I don't think I've ever been this confused in my life," he states, turning his attention back to the menu. His brow furrows. "What the kriff is a 'tater tot'?"
A loud laugh escapes you, and the sound draws a few eyes. You cover your mouth, trying to quiet yourself, and Wolffe shoots you a glare, his cheeks turning pink.
"Sorry, I'm sorry, but it's just so funny seeing you like this," you explain, and his face softens. He reaches out and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side.
"Well, I'm glad one of us is enjoying themselves."
"Oh, come on, you're having fun,” you murmur, poking him in the ribs. He jerks, and his glare returns, but his arm doesn't move. You laugh and wrap an arm around his middle, patting his stomach. "Don't worry. I'm going to order for us, and you're going to eat what I get. And then we're going to go back to my place, and I'm going to tuck you in."
Wolffe snorts, but the smile on his lips and the way he relaxes in your arms says it all.
"Oh, is that all?" he hums, and you can feel his hand sliding up and down your back.
"Mhm," you tease, running your hand up his chest, your fingers playing with the buttons on his fatigues. "That's it."
"Just tucking me in, huh?"
"Yup. Nothing else," you say, giving him a smile that is anything but innocent.
Wolffe's eyes narrow, and his fingers tighten against your hip, the pressure firm and steady. He's considering his next move, and judging by the look on his face, he's already made up his mind.
You take a step back and reach up, adjusting his collar, smoothing it out. You take your time, letting your hands run over his shoulders and chest, feeling the planes of his muscles. He holds still, watching you with dark eyes. You lean in, and he holds his breath, waiting for your next move.
You pat his shoulder, giving him a small smile.
"Well, maybe if you’re really good, I'll read to you," you tease, giving him a wink before turning to look at the menu, standing on your toes to see over the crowd.
Wolffe huffs behind you, and his hand comes up, wrapping around your waist.
"You're mean," he whispers in your ear, his breath tickling your skin.
"Mean? How so?"
"You're being mean to the man who just got out of a drunken brawl in your honor," he murmurs, and his hand tightens around your waist, his fingers pressing into your flesh.
"Well, when you put it like that," you begin, turning and looking up at him. You tilt your head and give him a sweet smile. "Would the man who got into a drunken brawl in my honor care for a milkshake?"
Wolffe looks down at you and sighs, shaking his head. His lips turn up in the corner.
"I suppose he wouldn't be opposed to the idea."
"Good, because I'm getting you a jorganfruit one," you answer as you fall back on the soles of your feet.
"Is it good?"
"So good," you say, nodding enthusiastically. His mouth twitches into a smile, and his arm slides up, wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you close.
"Then I guess I can't say no," he replies, and he presses a soft kiss to the side of your head.
You sigh and lean into him, his warmth surrounding you. Your head falls against his shoulder, and his arm tightens around your waist, holding you close.
It's the first time in weeks the two of you have been able to just exist, and you take a moment to relish the feeling of his body pressed against yours, the warmth of his breath on your hair. You can feel the eyes of the patrons on you, a few even openly staring, watching as if they're trying to solve some great mystery. It's not often they see a clone officer around here, especially one as decorated as Wolffe.
You're sure it's not every day they see one with his arms wrapped around a woman, holding her close, his eyes filled with nothing but warmth, either.
You can't blame them. The two of you are quite a sight, and while you know Wolffe's presence tends to make people nervous, you hope they can see him the way you do.
Strong, but soft.
Fierce, but tender.
Warm, and protective.
You tilt your head and look up, finding his eyes fixed on the crowd. He's scanning the room, his gaze roaming over the patrons, assessing the threats. It's a force of habit, and one that you're sure he'll never shake, no matter how many times you remind him that he's allowed to relax. Not that you can blame him. Tonight was a perfect example of the dangers of the world, and while you are grateful for the protectiveness he and his brothers show, you hope he knows that he can be vulnerable, too.
You reach up and place your hand against his cheek, gently guiding his gaze back down to you. You offer a soft smile, and you watch as the furrow in his brow fades, his features relaxing as his attention settles on you.
The line moves, and before long, you’re placing your order. Wolffe stands behind your shoulder, watching the man behind the counter as he takes your order with an unflinching intensity that you've grown accustomed to over the last year. He doesn't move, and he doesn't blink, not until the man hands you a cup and the receipt.
"Enjoy your food," the man says, shooting Wolffe a wary look.
Wolffe nods, but his eyes stay fixed on the man, watching as he turns and moves into the kitchen.
"Wolffe," you whisper, elbowing him.
He huffs, and a hand moves to rub at his side.
"What?"
"You were being rude."
"Was not," he mutters, his brows drawing together.
You raise an eyebrow, and his frown deepens.
"Fine, maybe I was," he says, turning his attention to the packed seating area. He scans the room again, his eyes moving from table to table, studying the occupants. They're mostly couples, a few groups of friends, but the place is busy, and Wolffe's unease seems to grow.
"See anything interesting?" you ask, bumping him with your hip.
"No," he replies as his eyes come back to rest on you. He leans down, brushing his lips against your cheek. "Just making sure no one gets any ideas."
You laugh and shake your head.
"No one is going to bother me, Wolffe."
"After the day we’ve had, I'm not taking any chances,” he grumbles, and you turn, stepping closer and looping your arms around his waist. He doesn't hesitate to pull you into his embrace, and the two of you stand there, watching as the food is prepared and the people come and go.
When your number is finally called, Wolffe's arm stays locked around your waist, his grip tight and sure as he guides the two of you towards the exit.
The walk back to the speeder is uneventful, but the air is cool, and the sky is clear, the stars shining bright overhead. You lean into his side, and he turns, pressing his lips to your hair, holding you close as the two of you walk back.
The streets are still busy, and the sidewalks are lined with people, the sounds of conversation and laughter floating around you. You can see the neon signs of the restaurants and bars that line the streets, the bright colors and flashing lights a sharp contrast to the calm night.
The two of you come to a stop outside the speeder, and Wolffe moves to open the door for you, but you skirt around him, snatching the bag of food from his hand. You hop onto the hood of the speeder and turn, grinning as he glares at you.
"Really?"
"I'm hungry," you say, shrugging and opening the bag.
He huffs, his lips pulling into a frown.
"And you expect me to sit here and eat on top of the speeder?"
"I don’t expect you to do anything. I'm going to sit here and eat my food," you state, and you take a bite of a fry, making a show of letting out a pleased moan.
Wolffe watches, and the longer he does, the more you can see the cracks forming. He glances around the parking lot, his gaze shifting from one car to another, his eyes flicking over every darkened corner and shadow. When he's satisfied no one is watching, he walks over, his steps heavy. He steps between your legs until his thighs are pressed against the hood, and he leans forward, his hands coming to rest on either side of your hips.
You swallow and look up at him, and he raises a brow. His face is impassive, but his eyes are alight with humor. You take another bite and grin, and his expression softens, the corner of his mouth turning up in the barest hint of a smile.
"Well, are you going to share, or not?" he asks, tilting his head.
"Hmm, I suppose I could," you begin, and you reach into the bag and pull out a fry, bringing it up to his lips. "Open."
Wolffe hesitates for a moment before leaning in, his mouth parting. You push the fry in, and his lips close, his teeth sinking into the potato. You try not to stare as he chews, his mouth moving slowly. He's not trying to be sexy, but the way his jaw moves, the way his lips press together, has you entranced, and a shiver runs through you, heat pooling low in your stomach.
He swallows, and his tongue darts out, licking his lips.
"Good?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper.
"Decent," he answers, his gaze fixed on your lips.
"Just decent?"
"Mhm. I could do without the grease."
"That's half the point,” you say, laughing softly.
“You’re a doctor, shouldn’t you be telling me not to eat garbage food like this?"
"No. I'm the Chief Medical Officer, not your mother. You can eat what you want," you retort, and you pull out a burger. You carefully unwrap it and offer it to Wolffe. "Eat this."
Wolffe stares at the burger in your hand, his expression flat.
"Why are you looking at it like it's poisoned?"
"Because it might be."
"Oh Force," you mutter, and you pick up a fry and shove it into his mouth. "Eat. Both. Or so help me, I will drag your sorry ass back to the infirmary and have the droids hook you up to a nutrient drip."
He gives you a look, but he takes the burger from your hand and bites down, chewing slowly. His expression softens, his eyes widening, and his eyebrows lift as he takes another bite.
"You're right," he says, swallowing. "It's good."
"I told you. I always know best."
"You're impossible," he mutters around his food.
"And yet you're still here."
"Where else would I be?" he asks, giving you a sidelong glance.
You can see the affection in his eye, the way his cheeks turn pink, and the smile that threatens to break out. He tries to hide it, but his walls have always been easy for you to see through, and you know him better than anyone.
"Oh, I don't know, off chasing after a new woman," you tease, and his expression turns sour.
"Don't be stupid," he grumbles, taking another bite.
"Well, why wouldn't you?"
"Because I have a beautiful, intelligent, infuriating woman who loves me right in front of me. And I love her," he states, the last words coming out a little softer than the others.
You blink, and he blushes, turning away.
"So that's why I'm here," he finishes. He reaches for another fry, popping it into his mouth.
A grin spreads across your face despite your best efforts to stop it, your cheeks warming. Wolffe never talks about his feelings. Not in the way most people do. He's a man of few words, and when he does open up, it's never as flowery or sweet as his brothers. But the things he says, the small moments when he lets his guard down and tells you the things he wants, or how he feels, are so much more meaningful.
He's told you he loves you before, but it's not something the two of you say often. You know it, and you think it, every moment you're together. The fact that the two of you even have the chance to have moments like these, where you can just be yourselves and not the faces people expect, is enough.
"I love you too," you say, your smile widening. Wolffe meets your gaze, his eyes soft.
"I know," he murmurs.
"Good. Because I'm going to tell everyone you said that."
"Don't you dare.”
You give him a shrug, and he scowls, taking another bite of his burger. You chuckle and reach for another fry, popping it in your mouth and chewing, looking out over the lot. It's a nice night, and you take a moment to enjoy the feeling of the breeze on your skin, the coolness a stark contrast to the warmth of the man between your legs.
You can't help the smile that spreads across your lips as you watch Wolffe, his cheeks stuffed with food. He's enjoying himself, and while he'd never admit it, the food is helping him sober up. His cheeks are less flushed, and his eyes are brighter, less hazy.
He'll sleep well tonight.
Wolffe catches your eye and smirks, and you smile back. The two of you finish your meal in comfortable silence, the occasional laugh or comment passing between the two of you. By the time the food is gone, the lot is all but empty, the streets quiet and still.
"That was good," he admits, crumpling the wrappers and tossing them into the bag.
"You know, that's what I said about the nerf steak, and the dumplings, and the soup, and the fish, and—"
Wolffe huffs and places his hands on either side of your hips, leaning down and nuzzling your neck. You squirm, trying to push him away, but he's stronger than you, and all it does is bring him closer.
"Alright, alright, I get it, you've got good taste,” he murmurs, and you giggle as he nips at your jaw. "Now, are we going home or not?"
You shiver, and a smirk pulls at his mouth, pressed against your skin. He knows exactly what he's doing, and you don't know whether you want to slap him or kiss him.
You opt for the latter.
You slide your fingers through his hair, the dark strands silky under your touch. He lets out a quiet groan and tilts his head, his hands moving to grip your hips. His lips are warm and insistent, and the faint taste of jorganfruit lingers on his tongue as it runs over your bottom lip. You let him, and he kisses you slowly, his hands running over your back, pulling you closer until there's not a sliver of space left between the two of you.
The two of you make out in the parking lot for longer than you should, your mouths moving lazily, your bodies flush against each other. Neither of you can bring yourselves to care that anyone could walk up and see the Commander of the 104th kissing his medical officer like a lovesick teenager, and neither can you bring yourselves to stop.
If anything, you think Wolffe is enjoying the display a bit too much. His kisses become bolder, more consuming, and his hands wander, running up and down your sides and over your ass. He presses until your back is flat against the hood of the speeder, and his thigh bullies its way between your legs, nudging the apex of your thighs. He doesn't do anything more, doesn't grind or move against you, but his intention is clear.
You pull back, and Wolffe makes a sound of protest, leaning forward and chasing your lips. You laugh and place a hand against his chest, gently pushing him back.
"Wolffe," you say, trying to put as much authority into your voice as possible. It's not easy when you can feel the warmth of his thigh between your legs, his breath hot against your mouth.
He doesn't move.
"Wolffe," you repeat, your voice dropping into a whine.
He doesn't answer. Instead, he tilts his head, pressing a series of slow, lingering kisses against your neck. They start behind your ear, his lips dragging over your throat, stubble scratching your sensitive skin. He's gentle, his touch almost reverent, and you let out a soft moan, arching into him.
He takes advantage of your distraction to move his thigh, pressing it snugly against your center. Your head falls back, and your hands curl around his arms, squeezing. You can feel the muscle flex beneath your fingertips, his strength evident even under the layers of clothing.
Wolffe presses another kiss to your skin, his teeth grazing your throat, and you know that if he doesn't stop, the two of you are going to end up doing something in the middle of a parking lot that will have you seeing Fox for the second time tonight.
"Wolffe," you breathe, and this time, it's more of a gasp than a command.
"Cyare," he rumbles as he pulls back, his eyes dark and filled with something you know very well.
"Take me home."
His eyes narrow, and his hands tighten around your waist. He's not going to take no for an answer.
"Or we can stay here, and I can bend you over the hood," he murmurs, and your face grows hot.
"Wolffe!"
He chuckles, the sound low and gravelly, and his hands run over your back, smoothing out the wrinkles in your clothes.
"Just saying," he says, giving you a teasing smile. You push him away with a hand on his chest, and he goes willingly, backing away from the hood and offering you his hand.
"You're terrible," you chide as you take it, sliding off the hood and straight into his embrace.
"Maybe," he murmurs, and his hands settle low on your waist, holding tight. "But you like it."
You roll your eyes, but you can't deny the fact that you very much do like it, and the fact that the man holding you is the only person you've ever felt like this with. He's the one who can bring you to the edge of your control with just a few touches, a few words, a kiss.
He's the one who makes you feel wanted, and desired, and loved.
He's the one who holds your heart, and the knowledge of that makes your head spin, a dizzying mix of arousal and affection washing over you.
"Let's go home," he whispers, and the look in his eyes says everything.
He's thinking the same thing, and his control is waning, the tension between the two of you thick and heavy.
You nod, and Wolffe wastes no time. He guides you around the front of the speeder, opening the door and helping you inside. He takes the bag from you and tosses it into a nearby can before sliding into the passenger seat. You turn to ask if he's ready, but the question dies on your lips, replaced by a squeak as he pulls you into a kiss, his hands cupping your face, his fingers tangled in your hair.
It's brief, his lips brushing yours once, twice, before he's pulling away, leaving you breathless and wanting.
"Thank you for dinner," he whispers against your lips.
"You're welcome," you reply, breathless and smiling.
"But if we don't leave now, I'm going to fuck you in the backseat, and then we're really going to be in trouble," he growls, and you shiver, heat pooling between your thighs. He pulls back and gives you a look that says he means business, and you bite back a whine as he settles back into his seat, fastening the harness.
"Let's go," he orders.
You're quick to obey, starting the engine and taking off. The ride back is silent, but the tension between the two of you is tangible. It's heavy and demanding, and all you can think about is the man sitting beside you, the way his mouth feels, and his hands, and how good it's going to feel when he finally has you alone.
Wolffe’s hand, heavy and warm, comes to rest on your thigh.
You swallow and press your foot down a little harder.
The city drifts by, and it isn't long before you're flying down a street lined with artificial trees, their branches reaching towards the sky. A few blocks down, and you're turning, entering the parking area below your building.
You park and kill the engine, and the two of you sit in silence for a moment. The lights from the streetlamps filter through the windshield, casting the interior in a soft glow. You take a deep breath, and Wolffe turns, his eyes catching yours.
“Are you ready to go inside, cyare, or do you want to do this here instead?" he asks, his voice low and gravelly.
A blush spreads across your cheeks, but you can't find the words to respond. Instead, you unbuckle your seatbelt, and his mouth twists up in the corner, a smirk spreading across his lips.
"Alright then, let's go," he murmurs, and his hand slips from your thigh.
He's out of the speeder and around the front, opening the door before you can even reach for the handle. He helps you out, his hand steady and warm as he pulls you into his arms. He closes the door behind you, and then he's walking, leading you towards the lobby.
You follow him inside, and the man at the front desk does a double take, his eyes wide as they land on the pair of you. You offer him a small wave, and he waves back, his face slack with surprise.
"Evening,” Wolffe greets, low and gruff. His hand finds the small of your back, gently guiding you to the lift.
“Have a good night,” you call over your shoulder as the two of you pass.
"You too, Doctor," the man answers, his gaze still fixed on Wolffe.
You press the button for the lift, and it comes to a stop, the doors sliding open. Wolffe wastes no time in ushering you inside and hitting the button for your floor. He stands close, his hand still pressed firmly against the small of your back.
The doors slide shut, and Wolffe steps in front of you, his eyes intense as they meet yours. His hand moves, sliding over the curve of your ass, cupping and squeezing. You let out a surprised squeak, and he huffs, a smirk twisting his lips.
"What? You thought I'd be able to wait until we got upstairs?" he murmurs as his head dips, his lips hovering a hair's breadth away from yours.
"I thought you were going to try," you whisper, trying to hold back a shiver.
"Mm, no. Not tonight.”
You can feel the warmth of his breath on your lips, the closeness making your head spin. His hands move over your body, and his eyes roam over your features, his gaze heated. He looks hungry, his desire clear in the way his eyes linger on your lips as you reach out, your hands moving to the buttons of his uniform.
"I think I can agree with that," you murmur, undoing the first button. Your thumb runs over the small patch of skin bared at the hollow of his throat.
Wolffe grunts, his eyes fluttering shut. You can feel the shudder that runs through him, and his hands come up, his fingers wrapping around your wrists. He doesn't push them away, though, instead, holding them loosely as you undo another button, then another.
You take your time, savoring the feeling of his skin beneath your fingertips. You know he's struggling, the need for control warring with the urge to give in. He doesn't often let himself lose control, always focused on the task at hand, but tonight, he's off duty, and the man between the lines of command and the soldier has shown his face.
And he's desperate.
The lift dings, and the doors slide open, the sudden noise startling the two of you. Wolffe's grip tightens as he lets out a frustrated sigh.
"Fucking hell," he mutters, turning and guiding you into the hall.
You chuckle, and his hand squeezes your hip, his expression darkening.
"You think this is funny, huh?" he growls, his voice dropping an octave.
You bite your lip, but the grin spreads across your face, the smile bright and full. Wolffe's eyes narrow, and a hand moves, sliding over the curve of your ass. A yelp escapes you as his fingers dig into your flesh, the sensation shooting straight between your legs.
"Oh, it's funny," he mutters, shaking his head.
He pushes you forward, his hand guiding the two of you towards your door. It's only a few steps, but it feels like a mile, his touch firm, the promise of what's to come clear in the way his grip tightens the closer the two of you get. You can feel his presence looking behind you as you unlock the door, your hands shaky and fumbling.
He doesn't say anything, but the heat in his eyes is unmistakable, his desire evident. He's going to make you pay for that smile, and while a small part of you is nervous, the rest is excited, eager to see how he's going to get his revenge.
You open the door, and before you can even step inside, his arm is looping around your waist, lifting you off the floor and into his arms. He steps into the entryway and kicks the door closed, the slam echoing in the otherwise empty apartment.
"You're a fucking tease," he grumbles, kicking off his boots.
"Me? A tease?" you ask, incredulous. You squirm in his arms, and his grip tightens. "Who was the one who couldn't keep his hands to himself the entire night? Or the one who tried to seduce me in the parking lot?"
"You're one to talk. If you weren't such a damn menace, we would have been in here hours ago,” Wolffe counters, his grip tightening around your waist. He steps around his discarded boots and carries you into the kitchen, flicking one of the cabinet lights on with his shoulder. You kick off your heels as you go.
"You know, I think I remember you being the one to pin me to the hood of the speeder,” you point out, and you raise a brow, giving him a look.
Wolffe sets you down on the edge of the counter and places his hands on either side of your hips, leaning close. You lean back, and his hands slide over your thighs, gripping and pulling until his hips are pressed between your knees.
"Well, I'm not sorry,” he says as he dips his head, nuzzling your neck. “It was the best part of my night."
"It was?"
"Mhm."
"Better than the fight?"
"Much better," he answers, his breath hot against your skin. His teeth graze the spot just behind your ear, and you shiver. Your legs wrap around his hips, and your hands find his shoulders, curling around the fabric of his uniform.
"That's high praise, coming from the Commander," you tease, tilting your head and allowing him more access.
Wolffe chuckles and presses a kiss to the hollow beneath your ear.
"Mm, well, the Commander likes a good fight, but the man prefers spending his time like this," he murmurs, his hands moving up, sliding under the hem of your shirt.
His fingers trail along your sides, running over your skin in lazy circles, the touch firm. You can feel him everywhere, the warmth of his hands, his lips, the way his hips press against yours. The outline of his cock, hard and insistent, brushes the inside of your thigh, and you shudder, pulling him closer.
"Like this, huh?"
"Mhm."
"And just what does the man have in mind?" you ask, biting back a moan as his hands dip lower, running over the curve of your ass. He squeezes before continuing on, fingertips dancing over the tops of your thighs until they settle between them, his thumbs rubbing firm circles into your skin.
He lets out a thoughtful hum, the sound rumbling in his chest, his breath hot against your skin. It takes all your self-control to keep still, but the anticipation is delicious, the knowledge that he's going to do whatever he wants, and you're going to let him, a heady rush.
Wolffe pulls back, his gaze roaming over your face. Even his clouded cybernetic eye can't hide the lust, the way his eyes have darkened, the black almost completely consuming the brown of his iris. His cheeks are flushed as he studies you, and his lips are red and slightly swollen from where he's been biting them, trying to hold back the noises he wants to make.
"What does the man have in mind? Let me see," he murmurs, his fingers curling around the fabric. He pops the button of your pants and pats your thigh, and you obey, lifting yourself so he can tug the clothing down your legs. He drops them to the floor, his gaze returning to yours.
"Well?" you ask, a smile playing on your lips.
Wolffe doesn't answer. Instead, he reaches out and cups your sex, the fabric of your underwear a thin barrier between the heat of his palm and your aching core. His touch is gentle, barely there, and yet the pressure is enough to send a spark through you, your skin prickling. You swallow, and his lips turn up, the hint of a smile spreading across his features.
"Let's see," he begins, his finger tracing a line over the damp fabric, drawing a gasp from your throat. "First, I'm going to undress you."
His hands move, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of your underwear, fingertips sliding over the smooth expanse of your skin. He pulls the fabric down slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. He watches as you shift and shiver, his expression calm, the only sign that he's not unaffected the slight tremble in his hands.
"Then, I'm going to taste you, get you ready for my cock," he continues, his voice rough.
His touch is slow, methodical, the drag of his knuckles and fingertips torturous. Your underwear slides down, and you let out a small whine, the fabric bunching around your thighs.
"And when you're all nice and wet, and you're begging for me, I'm going to fill you up, and fuck you, nice and slow," he growls, his hands running over your legs, sliding your underwear down and tossing them to the floor.
Your face grows hot, the blush spreading across your cheeks and down your neck, the heat creeping down until it settles low in your stomach. Wolffe's eyes track the movement, and he finds the hem of your shirt, pulling the fabric up and over your head, his hands immediately cupping your breasts over your bra.
"What do you think about that, cyare?" he asks, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, the fabric rough against your sensitive flesh.
You bite back a moan, and his brows raise, expectant. You know what he wants, and you can't bring yourself to deny him, not when his hands are already on your body, his fingers working the clasp of your bra.
"Yes, please," you whimper, reaching up and sliding your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.
"See? That wasn't so hard," he says, his lips twitching. He unclasps the garment, and it falls open, the fabric sliding down and joining the rest of your clothes on the floor.
You're left bare before him, exposed, and Wolffe takes a moment to drink in the sight. His hands come up, his fingers tracing the curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder. They run over the swell of your breast, his touch feather-light, the contrast between the cool air and the warmth of his skin raising goosebumps. He continues down, over the plane of your stomach, the ridges of your ribs, until he comes to rest against the flare of your hip.
"Perfect," he breathes, his gaze returning to yours.
His mouth is mere inches from yours, his breath ghosting over your lips. He doesn't move, and neither do you, the two of you locked in an intense stare. You're waiting, wanting, and it's a battle of wills to see who will give in first.
You lose.
Your head tilts forward, and Wolffe is there, meeting you halfway. His mouth closes over yours, the kiss gentle, tender, nothing like the rough, demanding way his hands grip your hips, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh.
It's the opposite of the words that tumble from his lips, the things he says, the filthy promises whispered between heated kisses. But it’s so him, the juxtaposition of the gentle and the rough, the soft and the demanding.
It's everything, and it's all you want, all you need.
Wolffe groans as your lips part, his tongue darting out, tasting the sweetness of your mouth. It's slow, his pace measured as he licks his way inside, his movements controlled and steady.
"You have too many clothes on," you murmur against his lips, and Wolffe huffs, pulling back.
"I guess I do," he says, his eyes roaming over your body, lingering on the curves and dips.
His gaze is so heated that it's nearly palpable, the intensity bringing a blush to your skin. He steps back and takes a deep breath, and you squirm as he stares, taking in the sight of you perched on the counter, spread out like an offering.
He reaches for his uniform, popping the buttons, his movements slow. The fabric parts, revealing the tight white undershirt, the thin material straining over the broad planes of his chest, dark hair peeking out from the collar.
You bite your lip, watching as he shrugs off the outer layer, his eyes fixed on you. The fabric slides down his arms, his muscles flexing as he works. His movements are fluid, easy, but each one is deliberate, his gaze never leaving yours.
"Wolffe," you groan, biting back a frustrated noise.
"What?" he asks, his tone innocent.
He drops his shirt to the floor, his fingers hooking into the fabric of his undershirt. He peels it up, slowly, his eyes shining with amusement as he exposes his toned stomach, the planes of his chest, and finally, the broad expanse of his shoulders.
"Are you in a hurry, cyare?"
"A little," you admit, the words coming out breathy.
Wolffe grins and steps closer, his hands finding your knees. He pushes them apart with ease, his palms sliding over your skin, his touch firm.
"I guess I can't blame you," he begins, his gaze drifting down to where your thighs have parted. "I mean, look at you."
"Wolffe, come on," you mutter, trying to close your legs.
His hands move, holding you in place. You don't stand a chance against his strength, the muscle of his arms rippling as he pushes you back, his palms running over your inner thighs.
"Shhh, let me enjoy the view," he chides, his eyes moving over your exposed skin.
You can feel his gaze like a physical touch, his eyes drinking in the sight of you, naked and bare before him. His hands run over your thighs, and then his thumbs are dipping into the apex, spreading you open.
"Look at how pretty you are," he rumbles as he brings his thumb up, running the pad gently over your clit, his touch barely there.
A whimper escapes, the contact not nearly enough to satisfy. You want more, but he doesn't give it, his thumb moving lower, dipping into the heat of your entrance. You shiver, and Wolffe makes a pleased noise, his eyes flicking up to meet yours.
"And I haven't even done anything yet," he teases, his thumb pressing into the sensitive flesh, circling your opening.
"Please, Wolffe," you whine, and his brows raise, the corner of his mouth turning up.
"Oh, I like the sound of that," he murmurs, his eyes darkening. "Please, what?"
You glare, and Wolffe smirks, his gaze dropping back to the apex of your thighs. He presses his thumb in further, his knuckle catching against the edge, and the contact sends a shiver down your spine. You bite your lip and squirm, heat coiling low in your stomach.
"Please, what? Use your words," he murmurs, his tone dripping with saccharine sweetness.
"Stop teasing," you hiss, trying to press down against his hand.
Wolffe's lips pull into a frown, and his grip tightens around your hips. He yanks you towards the edge, his hands keeping you from sliding off, and you cry out, a spike of arousal shooting through you at the rough treatment.
”Try again," he says, his tone dropping an octave.
You take a shaky breath and glare, and Wolffe's expression grows darker, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your hips. He's waiting, his eyes fixed on yours, the weight of his gaze heavy and expectant.
"Please, just...I want—"
"You want, what?"
"I want your mouth," you breathe, heat rushing to your face.
Wolffe hums, his thumbs rubbing circles against the inside of your thighs. The gesture is meant to be soothing, but it does nothing to quell the ache that has settled between your legs. He watches, waiting, and when he's satisfied with the desperation that's seeped into your expression, his lips curl up into a smirk.
"Good girl."
The praise sends a wave of warmth through you, and the blush spreads, creeping down your neck, the heat settling against your chest. Wolffe lets out a pleased rumble and leans forward, nuzzling your neck.
"That's what I wanted to hear," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on you, trailing slow, lingering kisses down the column of your throat. He pauses and sucks the sensitive skin between his teeth, biting and nibbling until a mark blooms beneath his lips.
He continues down, his mouth moving over the swell of your breast, his tongue flicking out, licking a path between the mounds. He pays the same attention to each one, his lips closing over your nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh.
A moan escapes, the sound loud in the silence of the apartment. Wolffe huffs a laugh and presses a kiss against your sternum, his hand sliding over your waist, his fingers dancing across your stomach.
"Let me hear you," he says as his lips drift lower, his tongue trailing over the line of your ribcage, his stubble scraping your skin.
He kneels, and the sight alone is almost enough to send you spiraling. Wolffe is the very picture of devotion, his hands warm and reverent as they run over your skin, his mouth gentle and sure as it moves over the soft expanse of your stomach. He presses a kiss just above the line of your hip, and you can feel the way his lips curl up, his eyes fixed on you.
"So beautiful," he breathes, his voice muffled against your skin.
His words are sweet, but the hand that grips your thigh, pushing it back, is anything but. It's demanding and firm, a wordless order to spread your legs. You obey, and the grin on his face is wicked, his eyes flashing.
"There we go, just like that," he murmurs as he leans in, his nose brushing against the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh.
His lips trail higher, his mouth warm and wet as he sucks the tender skin between his teeth. You can't help but squirm, the sharp sting of his teeth followed by the soothing sweep of his tongue sending a rush through you. When he sucks another mark onto the opposite side, you let out a whine, your hips bucking against his grasp.
"Don't move," he growls, his voice low and dangerous.
You still, the commanding tone enough to make you freeze. You've seen the way Wolffe can get when he's in the mood, and while it's fun to tease him, to rile him up, there’s something about the way he’s looking at you that says tonight isn't the time.
Tonight, he's not going to let you get away with a single thing.
"Yes, Commander," you whisper, and the sound that escapes him is sinful.
"That's my girl," he rumbles. His tongue darts out, sliding over the skin. "I knew you'd listen."
He gives you a few more languid kisses, his mouth moving slowly, deliberately, working his way up until his lips are brushing the apex of your thigh. Finally, the first kiss lands, a soft brush against your clit, the touch feather-light and barely there. You bite back a groan, your head falling back, but you keep still.
"Good girl," he praises, and you can feel the smirk against your skin as he presses another kiss, his lips dragging over the sensitive bud.
The feeling sends a spark of heat through you, the praise mixing with the gentle drag of his lips. He knows exactly what you like, but he seems in no hurry to give it to you. Instead, he's content to tease, his tongue darting out, giving a few long, lazy licks before retreating.
He repeats the process, his tongue moving over you in slow, methodical strokes. He laps at your entrance, lapping up the wetness that's gathered, the taste of you filling his senses.
It's not enough.
Not nearly enough.
Wolffe pulls back and blows a stream of air against your heated skin, the coolness making you squirm.
"Wolffe," you whine. “Please."
"Shhh," he says, and his thumb comes up, rubbing small, gentle circles over your clit. "Let me taste you. I told you to stay still, didn't I?"
You don't answer, and he leans in, nipping at the soft flesh. You let out a squeak, the sound turning into a moan as he sucks on the spot, soothing the sting with his tongue.
"Cyare," he begins, and his voice is stern, his grip tight.
"I know," you mutter, forcing yourself to relax.
"That's better," Wolffe says as his hands move, trailing over the inside of your thighs. His touch is firm, his fingers tracing the path his lips just took, his palms spreading your thighs wider.
He doesn't keep you waiting long.
Wolffe's tongue drags a path from your entrance to the tip of your clit, the feeling so intense that you nearly miss the way his thumb hooks against the hood, exposing the sensitive bundle of nerves. The next lick is followed by the gentle pressure of his lips closing over the bud, his tongue swirling. It flicks over your clit, once, twice, before dipping lower, the tip sliding inside your entrance.
"Oh," you gasp, your hand flying to his head, tangling in the soft strands.
"Mm, so wet," Wolffe groans, and his tongue slips deeper, the muscle pressing against the silken walls.
He works you open, his tongue curling and twisting, fucking in and out, the wet sounds echoing in the room. You can't help the noises that spill from your lips, the moans and whines mingling with the sound of Wolffe's mouth as he devours you, his hands keeping your hips firmly pinned against the counter.
You're lost in the sensations, the feeling of his tongue, the pressure, the heat of his mouth, the way he groans as his head moves, his eyes fixed on you. Your fingers curl, tugging at his hair, and the vibration of his answering groan has your head falling back, the breath stuttering in your chest. Arousal pools heavily between your thighs, oozing over his tongue. He laps it up, his pace quickening, his nose brushing against your clit.
He fucks you on his tongue until you're dripping, and then he pulls back, his breathing harsh. The sound is obscene, the wet, sucking noise enough to make your face flush hot. You watch as his lips part, his tongue snaking out, licking up the mess you've made. He doesn't miss a single drop, his movements measured and thorough, his eyes fixed on yours.
"You're perfect," he murmurs, fingers tightening their hold.
You open your mouth to speak, but no words come out, the compliment taking you by surprise. You're still getting used to his more open displays of affection, the things he says when the two of you are alone. The Wolffe that the world sees is nothing like the man who kneels before you, the soft, gentle side that he saves just for you.
You reach out, and Wolffe's lips curl into a smile, his cheeks pink and warm under your palm. He leans into your touch, his eyes closing as your thumb brushes over the scarred ridge under his eye. The moment is tender, a stark contrast to the things he's said, the way his hands have moved, his grip firm.
He looks at peace, and the sight has your heart melting, a warmth spreading through you, pooling low in your stomach. Wolffe's eyes blink open, and the warmth turns into heat, the flames stoked by the hunger that's crept into his gaze.
He wants, and you want him to have.
"Wolffe," you begin, but the rest of the words are lost as his mouth closes over your clit.
He sucks the swollen bud between his lips, the pressure firm and steady. He's relentless, the flat of his tongue stroking the length, the tip flicking and swirling. You’re overwhelmed by the intensity, and there’s no time to brace yourself before two fingers slide home to the hilt and curl.
"Oh, fuck," you gasp, arching into him.
A satisfied grunt rumbles through his chest, the vibrations going straight to the apex of your thighs. The suddenness of the intrusion, coupled with the heat of his mouth, the drag of his tongue, is enough to send a hot wave of pleasure through you, and your toes curl, the first tingles of an orgasm building in the base of your spine.
"More," you beg, tugging at his hair.
Wolffe lets out a soft noise, something between a groan and a growl, and his hand moves, slipping from your hip and sliding under your ass. His fingers dig into the plump flesh, the touch firm. Your back arches, and he pushes you forward, tilting your hips.
You have no choice but to lean back on your elbows, his strength too much for you to fight. Your head falls back, your neck strained to look at him, but the new angle leaves you spread wide open, his lips sucking eagerly.
"Oh, fuck, yes, just like that," you whimper as the pressure builds, the sensation coiling low in your core and spreading along your thighs.
He's merciless, his tongue and fingers moving with purpose, and his hands guide your movements, pushing and pulling you, your body pliant beneath his touch. He's completely in control, the position allowing him to do whatever he wants, and the realization sends a fresh wave of arousal through you, a gush of wetness dripping down his fingers.
Wolffe doesn't seem to mind, his nose buried against your skin, his tongue working. The sounds that fill the air are obscene, the slick, wet noises mixing with the filthy moans and groans that fall from his lips.
"You're so good, Wolffe, so good," you praise, a strangled moan escaping as he presses his fingers in deep. He curls, rubbing them over the spongy tissue, his mouth closing over your clit.
Your words seem to spur him on, his movements growing bolder. His grip on your ass tightens, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. He's relentless, his tongue and fingers working in tandem, his rhythm unwavering.
The coil in the pit of your stomach grows tighter, the familiar pressure building until it threatens to break. Your legs come up, wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him close, and Wolffe obliges, his hand leaving your ass to press his arm over your hips, pinning you in place.
You let out a choked noise at the show of strength, the muscles of his arm flexing as he holds you down. Your mouth opens, but the only sound that escapes is a series of short, breathless gasps. The fire spreads, burning through you until you're a quivering mess. It's too much, the combination of his mouth and his fingers and the way he looks between your thighs, his eyes dark and filled with something akin to adoration.
It's the thought that breaks the dam.
His lips wrap around the bud of your clit, and the first flick of his tongue has you toppling over the edge, the pleasure bursting through you. Your head falls back, your eyes screwing shut, and a long, drawn-out moan leaves your lips. You can feel yourself gush around his fingers, and Wolffe groans, his fingers picking up speed. Your thighs clamp around his head, and your nails dig into his scalp, and you hold on, a choked sob escaping as your body writhes beneath him.
Wolffe doesn't slow. He fucks you through the waves, his mouth working, his fingers rubbing against your walls, drawing the pleasure out and coaxing another, smaller orgasm from you. It crashes over you in a burst of sparks behind your eyelids, shooting down to your fingers and making your toes curl.
It's only when your hips jerk away from his mouth, oversensitive, that he finally relents, pulling back with a wet pop.
"Fuck, cyare," he breathes, and his voice is hoarse, his breathing ragged. "So beautiful."
"Wolffe," you croak, unable to formulate a proper sentence. Your head spins, and you have to force yourself to breathe, to relax, your heart racing. The release has left you feeling drained, and all you can do is lay there, gasping and whimpering as Wolffe's tongue gently cleans the mess you've made.
He pulls away, a wicked smirk playing on his lips, his chin glistening with your release. He looks proud and a little smug, but the effect is ruined by the dazed look in his eyes, the way he leans into the hand that cups his cheek. You watch, transfixed, as he stands, gently maneuvering you until you’re sitting up, your back resting against the cupboards.
“Good girl, take a breath," he whispers, running his hands over your legs, gently massaging the tense muscles.
You obey, taking a deep, shuddering breath. The oxygen clears the fog, and when you finally open your eyes, it's to the sight of Wolffe, his hands undoing the belt at his waist.
"I need to be inside you," he says, the words a low, raspy growl, barely audible underneath the sound of the metal buckle clinking against the counter.
The noise has you swallowing, your mouth dry. You watch as he slides the leather out and sets it down, the thud of the metal buckle against the countertop making you jump. His eyes dart to the offending item, and a smirk pulls at his lips.
"Nervous?"
You shake your head, and his expression softens.
"Good. No need to be, not with me," he says, and the belt is forgotten, his hands returning to his pants.
"I'm not," you whisper, and your eyes move over his chest, taking in the dark hair and the smattering of scars, the dips and ridges of his muscles, the broad expanse of his shoulders, and the way his arms flex as he pushes the fabric down his hips.
"I know, cyare," he says, his expression gentle. He's watching you closely, his hands coming up, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear. "Do you want me to stop?"
"No," you reply, the word coming out breathless. Your eyes are locked on the damp spot that's darkened the grey fabric, the bulge of his cock straining against the material.
"Then what do you want?"
"I want to see you."
Wolffe's breath catches, his eyes widening slightly.
"Okay then," he murmurs, his voice low.
His thumbs hook into the elastic band, and he pushes the fabric down, the hard line of his cock finally free. It's heavy, hanging between his legs, the tip flushed a deep red. The sight has your mouth watering, and your eyes follow the thick, pulsing vein that runs the length, the bead of pre-cum that has gathered at the tip, slowly dripping down.
"Like what you see?" he teases, reaching down and wrapping his fingers around his length.
"Always," you breathe.
You watch as he gives himself a few long, slow strokes, his fist closing around the head. The motion brings a bead of precome to the tip, and he spreads it down the shaft, the movement slow and deliberate.
"Are you sure you're not nervous?" he asks, his voice soft.
"A little," you admit, the words coming out shaky.
You know exactly how thick his cock is, but the sight of him standing between your thighs, the head level with your stomach, always takes your breath away.
"Shhh, I've got you," he says, stepping closer. "I'm gonna make you feel so good."
You nod, and Wolffe's hand leaves his cock, his fingers curling around your ankle. He lifts your leg, guiding it up and over his shoulder, his lips pressing a soft kiss against the inside of your knee. He reaches out and runs a knuckle down the length of your sex, the contact gentle and teasing.
"So beautiful," he murmurs.
His other hand moves to his cock, lining himself up. The head bumps against the inside of your thigh, and you gasp, the wet heat searing against your skin. It leaves a trail of precome, and the sight has your heart rate picking up, the anticipation coursing through you.
"That's my girl," he whispers, his hand sliding up, fingers brushing the swollen bud.
Your hips jerk, and the tip of his cock catches against your entrance, the slick head nudging at the opening. It's enough to make him grunt, the muscles in his neck straining, his hand squeezing the base of his cock.
"I'm gonna put it in, cyare, and I want you to stay nice and still, okay?"
"Okay," you agree, your hands gripping the edge of the counter.
He gives a few experimental thrusts, the head sliding against the wet heat, spreading your slick along his shaft. He pushes in, the first inch, and the stretch is immediate.
"Fuck," he hisses, and his hand drops, his thumb moving to press against the hood of your clit, rubbing gentle circles. "Just relax, sweetheart, take a deep breath."
You do as he says, sucking in a deep breath and forcing yourself to relax. The pain fades, replaced by the intense stretch, the pressure of his cock. He's not even halfway inside, and already you feel so full, the feeling almost overwhelming. It feels like it's been years since the last time he had you like this, his body pressed against yours, and it takes all your willpower to remain still, to keep from fucking yourself onto his cock.
"There you go," he says, and his tone is gentle, his expression soft. "Just like that."
He rocks his hips, the head sliding in and out. Each thrust is easier than the last, the silken walls loosening and allowing him deeper. Wolffe’s eyes flutter, his mouth falling open, his fingers moving against your clit. He's lost in the sensation, the tight, wet heat of your pussy clenching around his cock, and you can't help but stare, watching the way his brows draw together, a sheen of sweat already forming on his forehead.
"Fuck," he mutters, his voice strained. He grinds deeper as if trying to get as close as possible, the action drawing a whimper from your lips, and he stops. "You okay?"
You can only nod, tears prickling in the corners of your eyes as his tip kisses the end of you. It's too much, the stretch, the heavy weight of his cock, and yet it's not enough. You need him deeper, his skin against yours, his weight bearing down on you, pinning you beneath him.
"Words, cyare. I need words."
"Please," you gasp, trying to rock your hips.
He shakes his head and squeezes your hips, keeping you still. His jaw is clenched, and his eyes are shut tight, his brows drawn together in concentration. You can feel him pulse inside you, the throbbing a steady beat, his cock twitching with each squeeze of your walls.
"Wolffe, please, fuck me," you beg, a desperate whine escaping.
Wolffe's eyes open, and his gaze finds yours, his expression softening.
"There she is," he murmurs, the corner of his mouth turning up. "That's what I like to hear."
He presses a kiss to your ankle, and he doesn't take his eyes off yours as he pulls out, his length dragging against your walls. It's torturously slow, his movements measured and precise, and he keeps his pace, his hands gripping the soft flesh of your thighs, his palms hot.
"Such a pretty girl," he says, the words strained. He thrusts into you, a slow, steady roll of his hips. "So good for me, letting me take my time, letting me enjoy the way you feel."
"You feel so good, Wolffe," you moan, arching into him.
"Oh, I know," he grunts. "I can feel it."
His thrusts are steady, each one hitting the same spot, his pace never wavering. He keeps his movements slow, his eyes never leaving yours. He's watching you, gauging your reactions, taking note of every sound, every facial expression.
You've been intimate before, but tonight feels different, and you realize that Wolffe isn't in a hurry, not anymore. He's taking his time, enjoying the feeling of being buried inside you, of watching your reactions. The lines around his eyes and the creases in his forehead have smoothed out, his jaw no longer clenched tight. The tension has melted from his shoulders, replaced by something that looks suspiciously like contentment.
"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice low.
You can only nod, unable to speak, your mind a foggy haze.
"That's good, that's so good," he murmurs, and his lips turn up, his expression soft. "I like having you like this, all to myself."
You whine, and his smile grows, the tips of his canines flashing in the dim light. He's beautiful like this, his head bowed, his dark hair hanging in his face, a reverent, awestruck look in his eyes.
"Do you like this, too?" he asks, the words punctuated by a firm thrust, his hands gripping your thighs.
"Yes," you gasp, a moan slipping out as he hits a spot deep inside you, sending sparks down your spine.
"Yeah?"
"Yes."
"Good, because I think we should do it more often," he murmurs, leaning in.
"Yeah?"
"Mmhm," he breathes, and his nose brushes yours, his lips a breath away.
He's so close, the heat radiating off his skin. You can taste the sweetness of your release on his lips, and you want to lean forward and claim them, but he's just out of reach, and all you can do is stare.
"You're a tease," you whisper.
"I think I can live with that."
His eyes move, roaming over the exposed expanse of your body, and they linger on the place where his cock is buried, the skin stretched and glistening. He bites his lip, his hands gripping the soft flesh of your thighs, and his pace quickens, his hips snapping against yours.
The feeling has your toes curling, and you try to reach down, to stroke the bud of nerves that is aching for contact.
"No, no. Not yet," he chides, his hand grabbing yours and pulling it away. He brings your wrist up, pressing a kiss to the tender skin. "I'll get you there. Be patient."
You pout, and Wolffe smiles, a crooked, mischievous grin. He lets go of your hand, his palm coming to rest on your stomach. His thumb finds the spot, rubbing circles over the sensitive flesh, his gaze never leaving yours.
"It's not fair," you mumble, trying not to squirm.
"Mhm, tell me about it."
He presses down, his finger rubbing the spot in lazy circles, the pressure intense.
"How does it feel, cyare? To have my cock buried inside you, nice and deep?"
"Feels good," you breathe, arching into his touch.
"Does it?" he asks, and his eyes flicker down, watching as he pulls out. He pauses, the head caught against your entrance, the tip shiny with your arousal.
He stays there, the two of you joined by the very tip, his length coated in a mixture of fluids. The sight is obscene, the slick mess dripping from his cock and down his balls, the fluid coating the tops of his thighs.
"Look how messy you are," he breathes, his eyes wide.
"All for you," you murmur, and his eyes snap to yours, his lips parting.
"Fuck," Wolffe mutters.
He guides your leg off his shoulder, hooking his arms underneath both of your knees. He spreads you open, and the sight of his cock sliding in, the thick length disappearing into the mess, makes you groan, a fresh gush of wetness slipping from your entrance.
"Wolffe, please, I want more," you beg, trying to press closer.
“More, she says," he huffs a laugh, and his fingers dig into your legs, the pressure almost bruising.
"Yes," you moan, nodding.
"Then you're going to get more."
The words barely have time to register before his cock is slamming home, his hips pressing flush against yours.
You cry out, your back arching, and he wastes no time in setting a rough, unforgiving pace. His grip tightens around your legs, and he bends, leaning over your body, his hands planted on either side of your hips.
The angle allows him to drive deeper, and you can feel his pelvis grinding against your clit, the roughness of his pubic hair scratching against the sensitive skin. You try to move, to meet him halfway, but the position, coupled with his strength, leaves you immobile. All you can do is lie there and take it, his cock splitting you open.
"Oh, fuck," he grunts, his pace never slowing. His eyes are fixed on yours, the dark brown and grey shining with pleasure. "I could stay like this forever, just buried in that sweet cunt."
"Yes, yes," you cry, the words tumbling from your lips.
"Do you want that? Do you want me to fuck you all night, keep you full?"
"Please," you beg, arching into him.
"Fuck," Wolffe groans, his eyes falling closed. His pace picks up, his movements growing frantic, and he leans forward, his hands wrapping around the tops of your thighs. He uses his hold as leverage, tugging you towards him, the motion causing your head to knock against the cupboard.
"Sorry," he pants, and he reaches out, his hand cupping the back of your head, the gesture almost tender. "Fuck, I'm sorry."
"Don't be, please, just—"
"I've got you," he whispers, and his lips press against the side of your neck. "I've got you, sweetheart."
"Please, Wolffe, I'm so close," you plead, your nails digging into the skin of his forearms.
"I know," he growls, and his hips snap, the feeling making you gasp. "I'm right behind you."
His lips find the juncture of your neck and shoulder, his teeth scraping against the skin. He bites down, the pain sharp, and a cry escapes as he sucks, hard. The delicate capillaries underneath your skin break, a purple-red splotch blooming in the wake of his mouth.
"Oh, fuck," you gasp, his mark sending a fresh wave of arousal through you.
"Mm, there's my girl," he grunts. "I'm not going to last, sweetheart. You're going to have to come for me, okay?"
You nod, unable to form the words, and you reach down, your fingers finding the apex of your thighs He's pressed so close that your hand brushes the coarse hair covering his pelvis, the tips grazing the base of his cock.
"Come on. Let go," he urges, his breath hot against your neck.
Your fingers brush over the sensitive nub, and you're sent over the edge, your climax hitting so hard that the room begins to spin. You're barely aware of his voice, urging you on, praising you as your walls flutter and pulse around his cock.
"That's it, let me feel it," Wolffe groans, his pace growing sloppy, his hips jerking erratically. "Fuck, I'm gonna come."
You can feel the way his length pulses, his cock throbbing as his release builds, and then he's following after you, a long, low moan rumbling in his chest. He pushes in deep and grinds his pelvis against your clit, his movements frantic as his orgasm washes over him.
You're vaguely aware of his body jerking, his hips moving erratically, and then his release is flooding you, the warm liquid painting your walls. He fills you up, his seed leaking out and dripping onto the counter, the mess smearing over the smooth surface.
"Oh, shit," he hisses, his arms trembling. He sags, his forehead dropping against your shoulder, his breathing heavy.
You can feel the sweat-slick skin, his chest rising and falling, the movement uneven. He's shaking, his body trembling as his arms finally give out, and the weight of his upper body presses down on top of you.
"Hey, are you okay?"
"Yeah, yeah," Wolffe replies, his voice muffled. "Just...just give me a minute."
"Wolffe?"
He doesn't answer, and you reach up, your hand threading through his hair. It's damp, the locks plastered to his scalp, and you run your fingers over the soft strands, trying to soothe him.
"I'm fine," he says, his voice quiet.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah," he replies, and his body shudders, his limbs growing heavy. You hear him inhale sharply through his nose, and then his arms are sliding under your back, wrapping around you. He's clinging to you, his embrace almost too tight, and you can feel the way his heart is racing, the rapid-fire beat thudding in his chest.
"Wolffe," you whisper, and his head shifts, his chin resting on your shoulder.
"It's okay, cyare. I'm alright, I promise."
"What is it? What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," he says, his voice soft. "I'm just..."
He trails off, his face turning, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to the spot where his teeth had been moments before. You shiver, the feeling making your walls clench, and Wolffe lets out a shaky breath, his hands gripping tighter.
"It's just...tonight was a lot," he murmurs, his mouth moving against your skin.
"Yeah," you agree as you run your fingers through his hair.
"It was intense, and I needed...well, I don't know what I needed, but this helped. Being with you, having you here, it helps," he says, his tone quiet. He pulls back, eyes glassy, his gaze searching.
"I'm glad," you say, swallowing.
"I love you," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the curve of your neck.
"I love you, too," you reply, a smile pulling at your lips.
Wolffe falls silent, his eyes closing, and you can feel his muscles relax, his body sagging. The exhaustion is finally catching up with him, the adrenaline of the fight, followed by the intense release, leaving him drained. He's spent, and the realization has a fondness blooming in the pit of your stomach.
He's always so tough, and it's rare that he lets his guard down, even when the two of you are together. It's not the first time he's shown you his softer side, but tonight seems different. Tonight, it's the most vulnerable you've ever seen him, and you can't help but admire him, the way his face has gone slack, his brows no longer drawn, his eyes no longer filled with pain.
"You're tired," you say, running a hand through his hair and pushing the damp locks from his face. "Let's get cleaned up, and then we can go to bed."
"I don't want to move," he mutters, burying his face against your neck.
"Wolffe, come on. Up," you coax, your hands running over his shoulders. You drag your nails down the back of his neck, and he shivers, his arms tightening around you.
"No. 'M comfortable," he mumbles, his mouth pressing against the soft skin below your ear. His lips drag over the shell, and he sighs, his breath hot against your skin.
“There’s no way that’s true,” you tease, and you pinch his side, making him jump.
"Hey!"
"Up, please. My ass is falling asleep."
"Fine," he huffs. He cracks his eye open and gives you a pointed look, and then he's shifting, pulling out, the mess of fluids following.
"Fuck, that's a lot," he murmurs, his hand reaching between your legs.
You shiver, the feeling of his fingers slipping against your slickened skin almost too much.
"Stop it, Wolffe," you chide, and you're rewarded with a grin, the look in his eye mischievous.
"Alright, alright," he relents, pulling his hand away. "Can't blame a man for wanting to play a little."
"You can play all you want in the morning," yo say, giving his arm a gentle squeeze.
"I'll remember that."
"You better," you retort, and he chuckles, the sound making you smile.
Wolffe finally straightens, his back cracking as he stretches. He rolls his neck, and a pained groan escapes, his face twisting into a grimace. You wince, and he lets out a tired laugh, his lips curling into a half-smile.
"I'm getting old."
"No, you're not," you argue, sitting up.
"I am. I can feel it. Next thing I know, I'll be one of those old men, complaining about my back," he says, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
"Well, if you'd stop being such an idiot and letting people throw you through tables, maybe it wouldn't be an issue," you mutter as he approaches with a damp washcloth, the fabric warm and smelling faintly of soap.
"Ah, you can't blame me. I had a good reason."
"Is that so?"
"Yeah," he says, and the look in his eyes is soft. He reaches out, running his thumb over the apple of your cheek. "I had a feeling I was going to get a nice reward for my efforts."
"Oh, did you now?"
"I did," he replies as he works, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "And I think I'll get a few more in the morning."
"I bet you do," you say, unable to hide the smile that's threatening to spill over.
"Now, hold still. Let me get this cleaned up."
You nod, and Wolffe's eyes move, his gaze drifting over your body. He takes his time, wiping away the mess that's coated the tops of your thighs, and his touch is gentle as he cleans between your legs, his motions measured and precise. When he's finished, he throws the cloth in the hamper down the hall and returns, scooping you into his arms.
"I'm not completely useless, you know," you say, wrapping an arm around his neck.
"Oh, I'm very aware of that," he replies, his lips twitching. "But I want to carry you."
"Alright, then," you murmur, unable to deny the warmth that spreads through you at the gesture.
Wolffe carries you through the apartment and down the hall, his steps slow and steady. The lights are dim, and the darkness is peaceful, the sounds of the city outside muted. It's late, and you know the two of you should get some sleep, but the thought is drowned out by the comfort that comes with being pressed against him, his arms strong and secure around you.
"Think we still have time for an episode of Love Island?" you ask as he nudges the bedroom door open.
Wolffe chuckles, the sound low and soft, and you smile, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.
you practically live in your room by your desk with headphones playing soft beats to study for the final exams before graduating from stars hollow high, you practically live on the cosy cottage bungalow alone. too focused on the music and writing notes that you don’t hear 𝐉𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐍𝐎 rattling the window above your bed until you see a figure fall on top of the duvet.
𝐉𝐄𝐒𝐒, the pining idiot, just murmurs something and you take your headphones off and he just goofily mutters a, “hey. thought i’d drop by, y’know?” turning to your bookcase and complaining about the sheer number of romance. you promise him ice cream if he shuts up and lets you study for a while.
𝐉𝐄𝐒𝐒, who’s scarily in love but has no idea how to express it only connects his thumb and pointer finger across his lips as a mimic of zipping his mouth and throwing away the imaginary key before skimming through your awful friends to lovers book but secretly wishing it could end up like you both. glancing up at you while the desk lamp emits warm glow across your face quite like an angel in the dark room and he wants to kiss you there and then.
𝐉𝐄𝐒𝐒, who nods and pats the spot beside him whenever you glance over, coaxing you to cuddle him for a while because he can only bear your company, no one else’s.
𝐉𝐄𝐒𝐒, who rolls his eyes but sighs in a nod when you ask to play 'friends' when he won at your distraction to come lay beside him. breathing straggled and uneven when your breath hits his neck and tucks further into his side.
𝐉𝐄𝐒𝐒, the infatuated best friend, who watches you sleep and is glad your insomniac self can catch up on a nap in the evening because you’ve been working yourself to death with the upcoming work. chuckling fondly when you wake up and freak at the night sky, thinking you overslept be he assures it’s only been half an hour and there’s still plenty of time.
𝐉𝐄𝐒𝐒, who watches you walk back to the desk, sleepy eyes and long cosy cardigan over your frame and asking which of two freezer ice cream flavours he wants can only blurt out, “let’s go on a date,” in return.
𝐉𝐄𝐒𝐒, blushing profusely, trying to play it down when you go wide-eyed and look back to your friend, “you. me. date?” and with a casual nod, purse lips to hide his internal freakout, he responds, “well, that is what a date means. is it not?”
𝐉𝐄𝐒𝐒, who can only be left in your room bewildered and face beat red, for the first time speechless as one thought runs through his mind, how you said “yes,” straight after.
summary: jess got into another fight and you're about to clean his wounds, but he has other plans, tired of always answering your questions
warnings: kissing, making out, sexual remarks, allusions to sex
note: this was so fun to write and my first jess mariano fic, so please be gentle guys!!
“you never fail to amaze me, jess mariano“ you huffed, arms crossed as your eyes fell on the boy sitting on the curb in front of the supermarket. shadows were casted over his cheeks and he looked less than happy to see you.
"it isn't what it looks like" he muttered, trying to avert his gaze, although that was kind of hard, considering the outfit you were wearing.
your brushed your skirt to the side, before you sat down beside him. "well, it looks like you got beaten up"
"you should see the other guy" jess chuckled.
you sighed, not amused by the joke, as you softly touched his cheek.
"ow!" jess pulled his head back, trying to free it from your hands, but you were relentless, turning his chin in all possible directions to get a good look at his injuries.
"we're gonna have to clean them if you don't want them to get infected"
"i don't care about that" jess shrugged and took out a cigarette from a pocket of his jacket.
"yeah, i know tough guy". you quickly snatched the cigarette from his mouth before he was able to light it. "but i do"
"what the fuck, y/n?" jess exclaimed annoyed.
you left his words unanswered as you stood up from the cold concrete and held a hand in his direction to help him up. "come on, now. we're not dating, because i care so little about you, are we?"
jess rolled his eyes, before he followed you, of course ignoring your helping hand in the process.
you laughed at his tough act as he sent you a dark look, not finding anything about this remotely funny. he knew that this was one of your usual tactics to get him to talk. you would act understanding and worried about his injuries before he would be caught in a room alone with you, with no way to escape, having to explain every little detail about the fight.
well, tonight he decided, you were going to be caught in a room with him.
a smug smile slipped onto jess' features as he followed you up the stairs. you turned around and pushed a finger against your mouth, before you took out your keys and unlocked the door.
"grandpa is sleeping" you muttered, opening the door wide enough for jess to walk through, but not wide enough to reach the creaking sound.
jess and you had met the year before at the supermarket, where you had watched him buy a ridiculous amount of industrial glue, while he was busy watching rory and dean talk.
you had guessed that he had been doing that to bother them and while rory was a friend of yours, you had to admit that it had been a little funny.
unbeknownst to you, jess had forgotten everything about rory, once his eyes fell on you behind the counter.
"are you working on the worlds longest scrapbook or are you just very passionate about glue?"
"huh?" jess had been so stunned by what you said that he lost his usual cool demeanor and found himself at a temporary loss for words. he couldn't remember a situation in which he had not been able to reply with a witty joke.
"want me to repeat that?" you asked amused as you pulled the last bottle of glue over the scanner.
"no-uh" he shook his head "i'm jess, luke's nephew"
"oh" you smiled, a sign of recognition in your eyes "that's you!"
"and you are?" he held the ten dollar note in your direction.
you took the money, taking out his change in the process. "i'm y/n, taylor doose's—"
you were interrupted when the aforementioned man stepped next to you, a frown on his face at the sight of jess. "i'm her grandfather" he finished for you. "and you're gonna stay far away from her, you hear me, mariano?" he pressed.
"grandpa!" you scolded and jess was surprised at the sudden shame that entered taylor doose's face. it seemed like he really gave a damn about your opinion, unlike he did with anyone else in this town.
"well, i'm gonna check on miss patty and her plums" taylor excused quickly and walked away, before you could question him further.
"please don't mind him" you told jess, amusement evident on your lips "i just got back and he's been a little on edge without me here"
"where have you been?" jess asked, intrigued to hear more about the mysterious and pretty girl in front of him.
"my dad's" you replied with an uneasy smile. he recognized the expression on your face, had he always worn it himself when someone had asked him about his parents.
he decided not to stir the pot any more. "well, i'll see you around, doose" jess said, took his glue and left you standing with only a faint goodbye from your lips.
jess' hands went to squeeze your waist, as you closed the door.
you were luckily able to suppress any sound at the sudden touch and you could jess' smirk in your neck.
"very funny, mariano" you whispered, freeing yourself from his grip and turning around to let him see the annoyed expression on your face.
his eyes glistened with happiness in the dark of the hallway, before his hand went behind your back, bringing you closer to him. "why don't we go to your room?" he whispered.
you had to admit that for a short, misguided, second the sweetness of his words was not far away from undermining you.
you shook your head, snapping out of whatever had gone through your head at his tempting suggestion. "nice try" you smiled sarcastically and jess sighed, letting go of you and following behind you to the bathroom.
jess was no stranger to your rejection, especially when your grandfather was home, but he was not finished trying to (respectfully) lead you into temptation.
"there are two options how we can do this" you spoke, your voice in a normal volume as soon as jess had closed the door.
before you could explain his options, he interrupted you, the smirk now basically right in your face when you turned up the light and looked at him. "want me to lock the door?"
"no" you dragged. "you know why? because we are not doing anything forbidden"
"forbidden, huh?" jess smiled "kinda like the sound of that"
"this is not a rom-com"
"oh no" jess shook his head, wearing a faked stoic expression "of course not. just two people doing non-forbidden things in the bathroom" he shrugged.
"it sounds wrong when you say it like that"
"what does it sound like?" he stepped closer to you, ready to touch your lips with his, as his eyes fell close, but you were quicker, swerving around him, before he was able to even touch you.
"nah-ah!" you scolded.
"what?" jess turned around, now crossing his arms like you had done earlier "i'm just trying to kiss my girlfriend"
"not happening" you shrugged. "so, as i was trying to tell you before: you have two options: first, the easy one: let me fix your face and we're done in no time"
"or?" he furrowed his brows, leaning against the wall.
"or" you repeated "the hard one" jess' smile got impossibly bigger and you rolled your eyes "ew, not like you think"
"fine" he sighed. "the easy one i guess, no need to tell me about your torture method"
"it's not a torture method, but thanks for thinking so poorly of me" you muttered, before you opened the drawer under the sink, taking out the first aid kink.
you climbed on top of the counter and motioned for jess to come closer and stand in between your legs.
"well, this is kind of suggestive, don't you think?" he pinched your waist. you just shook your head, taking his hand and laying it on top of your knee instead.
"keep your hands there, mister" you directed, before you grabbed a wet cotton pad and pushed up his chin, so you could gently take the unnecessary blood off his face. "for your own good, i hope that the other started throwing punches"
"of course" jess nodded, overly dutiful, before he hissed in pain as the cotton pad touched one of the scars on his nose.
"you should've thought about that before you got into an unnecessary fight, you know?" you commented, switching out the pad, before you continued cleaning the other side of his face.
"yeah, yeah" he averted his eyes, his gaze falling onto the hem of your skirt, his fingers were laying on top of. he softly raised the fabric, pushing his hands to rest on your bare thigh.
"jess" you sighed in a warning tone.
"what? it's itchy"
"it isn't" you rolled your eyes, but didn't discuss the topic further as you threw away the pad.
you tried reaching behind you to grab one of the plasters from the first aid kit, but jess was quicker, snatching the box away from you and holding it behind his back with one hand.
"wha—"
"give me a kiss first" he prompted, smirking.
"jess" you whined, not amused at his antics.
"just one kiss, come on babe"
you reluctantly nodded. jess stepped closer, taking your chin into his hand and pulling your face closer so your lips could meet his.
his lips were warm and firm against yours, his teasing grin fading as the kiss deepened. what was meant to be a quick peck quickly turned into something more. his hand, which had been holding the first aid kit out of reach, dropped it to the floor as he wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you closer.
you could feel the intensity growing between you two, the playful resistance dissolving into a surge of unexpected desire.
jess' other hand moved to the small of your back, guiding you even closer as the kiss became more urgent, more consuming.
when you finally broke apart, breathless and flushed, he looked at you with a glint in his eye. "was that so hard?" he teased, his voice a little huskier than before.
"oh, shut up" you muttered, flustered and lips swollen as a cause of the intensity of the kiss. you gently shoved his face back. "now pick up the first aid kit you dropped"
"yes, ma'am"
you shook your head, laughing to yourself as you watched him reach for the box on the ground behind him. it had clattered open, revealing it's contents to the ground beneath it.
he threw everything back in the box before he picked it up and came back to the counter to stand in front of you.
you took a few plasters, opening them up to stick them to the cuts on his face. "you look cute" you commented as soon as you were finished.
"i'm not cute" jess exclaimed with a stoic expression.
"you're always cute" you shrugged, now being the one to take his chin into your hands. "especially when you tell me who you fought—"
he didn't even let you finish the sentence, before he pushed his lips against yours once more. even tough it was a clear tactic to avoid your questioning, you didn't mind it this time (not that you did before, but you had to at least act like it) pulling him closer by the neck and deepening the kiss.
jess moaned into your mouth, and your lips broke into a smile. his hands were now inching closer up your thighs and a soft laugh broke from your lips when you had to catch your breath.
"let's go to your room" jess muttered, lips skipping over your neck.
"grandpa is home" you reminded.
"grandpa is asleep" he pointed out, brows moving up and down suggestively.
"jess" you giggled, as he grabbed your waist, setting you down on the floor and taking your hand to leave the bathroom, before even waiting for an answer.
well, you weren't open to any more protests then, as he took you up to your room. the only thought in your head was to stay quiet.
opposite to the rest of the night, the next morning was straight hellfire, as neither you or jess had taken the time to set an alarm.
so taylor doose entered your room without the slightest thought and watched in horror as a half-naked jess mariano climbed out of your bedroom window and fell rather awkwardly on the ground in front of it. probably right into your grandpa's rose bushes.
They say the mustang is the spirit of the West. Whether that west was won or lost in the end, you'll have to decide for yourself, but the story I want to tell you is true. I was there and I remember. I remember the sun, the sky, and the wind calling my name in a time when wild horses ran free.
SPIRIT: STALLION OF THE CIMARRON
2002, dir. Kelly Asbury, Lorna Cook
i said it was my favorite piece of media that i’ve hyperfixated on since the tender age of 12 and have not let go of since. i didnt say it was a Good piece of media
dededos
annaxmalina
areudirty
origamiaround
discoholicmusic
janainaart
