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Tear you apart - Part 2

Pairing: Wolffe x fem!reader

Summary: After a tense morning after, you're certain that your night with Wolffe was a one-time thing. But the Commander doesn't back away that easily when he wants something... or someone.

Word count: 8.3k Tags/Warnings: NSFW 18+; semi-public sexual activity; fingering; D/s dynamics; dom!Wolffe; named!Reader; introducing a clone oc and a togruta oc; slight exhibitionism sort of

A/n: I am so sorry this took me ten years to write 🫣 no idea when the next part will be out 😬 I want to remind everyone that Tessa is sort of an oc and her name will appear from time to time where I feel it's necessary. I was trying smth when I wrote the first part and I've decided to keep going like I started

Part 1 | Taglist

An insistent buzzing reaches your ears, slowly dissipating the haze of sleep. You feel a shift beside you, as if someone is quickly getting out of bed. Your drowsy mind must be playing tricks on you – your boyfriend isn’t your boyfriend anymore. There’s no one he–

The memories of last night flood your brain so violently that your eyes snap open.

Oh, you actually did it.

You brought a stranger home.

And not just any stranger.

A clone.

A Commander.

A superior officer.

And you let him tear you apart.

Suddenly you become aware of a gruff voice speaking, but it’s so quiet you barely make out what he’s saying, as if he doesn’t want to wake you. Granted, he does believe you’re still sleeping – your back’s turned to him, and you’re lying completely still, frozen in shock as you try to comprehend the impulsiveness of last night.

You’re not usually like that. You don’t ‘go with the flow’. You don’t jump into situations without overthinking them at least five times. You’re never this spontaneous.

Maker, how much did you have to drink?

Although… any trace of alcohol was burnt out of your system long before you invited him into your apartment.

You simply can’t explain it.

The sound of a drawer being open snaps you to reality, and you sit up, turning to see Wolffe hunched over your desk, quickly scribbling something on a piece of flimsi. And Maker have mercy if he isn’t a sight.

He’s pulled his boxers back on, but otherwise stands in full, almost-naked glory in your bedroom. The dim morning light filters through your window, kissing his tan skin and highlights the tense muscles in his back. There’s a long tribal-style tattoo etched all over his left arm like a sleeve, and on his back, some faint, red scratches are visible. You blush, recalling the heat of passion that made you sink your nails into his skin.

He looks perfect. Gorgeous.

…Tense

He looks tense.

Did something happen?

“H-Hi,” you weakly say as he begins slipping back into his blacks.

“Morning,” he grunts, throwing a glance over his shoulder.

He seems… different from last night. Sure, he wasn’t exactly the warmest person, but now he’s grumpier. If that’s possible.

“You’re leaving.” The words are more of an observation than a question.

“Deployment’s moved up,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. He’s already pulling on his thigh plates and greaves, his movements quick and automatic. Then he jerks his head to your desk. “I’ve left you my frequency.”

“Deployment… but that was supposed to be tomorrow,” you say, your mind already kicking back into gear.

Wolffe pauses. Has he told you that last night? He can’t remember. Maybe he did. Or maybe you heard it at the 79s before the blaster incident. He’d noticed you at the bar – watched you for a while. First with a Togruta woman, then alone. If he almost had a mind to go talk to you, he can definitely imagine one of his men did.

Either way, it’s unimportant. So he brushes it off.

“Disappointed too,” he grumbles. “Had… plans for you today.”

The words push you off-balance for a second. And his tone of voice… determined, hungry. It makes your heart tumble in your chest.

But your mind is buzzing with urgency as you remember all the intelligence reports you studied. It makes your stomach drop.

Deployment… That wasn’t supposed to happen yet. You hesitate, then take a breath.

“That uhm… that means intel changed,” you say nervously and a bit too quickly. “They must’ve confirmed the Separatist reinforcements on the southern ridge. First two assault strategies are compromised. If you push in as planned, you’ll walk right into a bottleneck and lose your forward units.”

Wolffe stops mid-movement. His eyes snap to you – sharp, focused. Evaluating.

“…What did you just say?”

You swallow. His gaze is burning with mistrust. But you need to warn him. “You’ll need to switch to the third plan. The fallback entry, northeast basin. And adjust your evac corridors to compensate for potential cave-ins. I assume you’ve seen the terrain scans – it’s unstable.”

Silence settles oppressively over the room. His brow furrows, the scepticism rolling off him in waves.

“How the hell do you know any of that?”

“I uhh… I wrote the strategies,” you admit quietly.

He stares at you – hard. You can almost see him processing. Then he barks, “Full name and rank!”

You flinch at the steel in his voice, then hurriedly fumble for your nightshirt which you remember you’ve discarded by the bed a few mornings ago. You throw it on and stand, nearly at attention. Habit. And well, his imposing – and quite threatening – presence.

“Lieutenant Tessa Hart,” you say in a practiced tone. “Strategic Command. I’m– I work logistics and tactical planning. I oversee ops in quadrants Q7 through 10.”

Wolffe’s jaw ticks. And the shift in the air between you is immediate. Actually… it doesn’t feel like there’s any air left in the room – his cold glare has stifled it all.

“Funny,” he says, voice clipped. “You didn’t think to mention that at any point last night?”

You look down at your feet. “I… I wasn’t trying to hide it. I just… didn’t think it mattered.”

He half-sighs, half-growls, and you look up. He looks irritated, but underneath all that, there’s something else. Something you can’t place.

“It mattered,” he snubs. “I don’t get involved with co-workers.” The words are quiet. Flat. Like he’s reminding himself more than you.

You nod and look away, trying to hide the hurt and the disappointment that hits you in the gut like a punch. From the corner of your eye, you catch the way he shakes his head, before putting on his belt and kama. Then, he walks to the door.

But just as he steps into the hallway, he stops.

“The third assault plan?” he asks over his shoulder, without looking at you.

You glance up, cautiously. “Yes, Sir.”

“Exit plans still stand?”

“All the but the fourth one,” you reply after a second of running them over in your mind.

“Alright.”

And then he’s gone.

The moment you hear your apartment door slide open, then closed, you slump down on the bed, exhaling the long breath you were holding.

You’re not sure how to feel.

It was one night. Just one. It shouldn’t have affected you like this.

But you can’t get his words out of your mind.

And if I have my way, you’ll be mine long after that.

You wanted it. Maker, you wanted it.

But it’s definitely not going to happen now. He looked… almost offended when you said your rank. When you said you were GAR. And he was clear: he doesn’t get involved with co-workers.

A sharp pang strikes through your chest. It shouldn’t even count! You’ve never met before. Never interacted. But yes, technically you are co-workers. There’s rules against that. Harsher for him than for you, if you remember correctly.

And yet…

You stand and walk to your desk. His frequency is still there, neatly written on a pink flimsi post-it. It’s staring at you. Taunting you. He left it there… does he still want you to contact him?

He probably just forgot about it when you blindsided him.

He was clear.

He doesn’t get involved with co-workers.

You snatch it from the desk and stuff it in the drawer.

A low sigh escapes your lips as you try to push away all the memories of last night. You can still feel him. Really – you can. Your muscles are sore all over. And then you catch it in the mirror – the deep red mark he left right under your collarbone, already starting to turn purple. Your fingers gently brush over it – still stings. You’ll be feeling it for days unless you put some bacta on it.

But you don’t go into the fresher for your home medkit. Instead you grab your comm.

And curse as you see all the unread messages.

Shit. You forgot to tell Saskia you left. Or got home alright. Or didn’t die.

02:27 Saskia: Hey, girly. Sorry I got distracted. Hope you’re alright. 02:45 Saskia: You did get home, yes? 03:12 Saskia: I’m really sorry. I know tonight was supposed to be about you moving on. Say the word and I’ll ditch this guy and come to yours. 03:37 Saskia: I checked your location. I’m glad you’re home safe. Message me when you see these.

You immediately start typing.

Tessa: I am so, sooo sorry. I uhm got distracted too last night. Can you come over?

About an hour later, Saskia is at your door, typing in the code and letting herself into your apartment.

“In here,” you call from the kitchen.

The Togruta quickly strides in, placing a bag from your favourite bakery on the table.

She looks a bit uncertain, like she’s approaching a wounded animal. But then you turn to hand her a cup of caf – and she spots the hickey.

“What is that?” she asks with eyes wide and a disbelieving laugh.

“I uhh… listened to your advice,” you reply sheepishly.

Her mouth falls open. “You did not have a one-night stand!”

You chuckle nervously and nod, trying to hide your face behind your ‘Best plant mom’ mug that Saskia gifted you on Life Day four years ago.

“Tell me everything!” she exclaims as she pulls two plates from the kitchen cupboard, then divides the pastries between the two of you.

“Maker, I-I don’t even know where to start, I– This is your fault,” you accuse. “You-You influenced me or cursed me, or something.”

“Stars forbid you have a little fun,” she rolls her eyes.

“A little… Saskia I–” You plop down on a chair, setting your mug on the table so abruptly, some caf spills out. “I dragged a clone commander into my apartment at 3 am and I let him… I gave him all the control.”

“A commander?” Saskia gasps. “Look at you, punching up the ranks.” You shoot her a death glare. “Come on, it’s fine. And of course you gave him some control, those guys are intense,” she adds.

“N-No, not some.”You run your hand through your hair. “I don't think you understand, I-I folded instantly. I was like 'take me armor daddy I'm yours.' I-I don't even… how I could obey like that?!”

“Armor daddy?” she repeats with a laugh.

You freeze. “I did not just say that…” You reach for your pastry, shoving the food down your throat like it might soak up the embarrassment from your stomach. “Maker what's wrong with me?”

“So,” Saskia starts, with a wide, shit-eating grin. “Tell me more about armor daddy.”

“Please don't call him that,” you groan.

“Too late. That's his name now,” she beams, way too cheerfully. “Unless you want to give me his real one?”

“I... I don't think I should...” you say weakly. “He doesn't seem like the kind of person who likes to be advertised.”

Then you tell her everything – except his name. The Balosar girl, the thugs, the tension you could’ve cut with a vibroblade, the way he walked you home like it meant something. You gloss over the finer details – Saskia’s usually the one who gives step-by-step replays complete with dramatics and hand gestures – but you give her enough to make her jaw drop.

And then you get to this morning.

And how pissed off he looked once he found out you’re in the GAR.

“You need to comm him!” Saskia proclaims.

“He said he doesn’t date co-workers,” you object.

“Oh come on. It’s not like you’re in the trenches with him,” Saskia argues. “You never interact with the commanders, it barely counts.”

“I think it counts for him…” You stand and take the empty caf cups to the dishwasher, groaning loudly when you open it and it’s full of clean dishes you forgot to put away. You really need to tidy up a bit. “And I shouldn’t anyway. I shouldn’t just jump right into another man’s arms. I don’t think I’ve even processed–”

“Screw that asshole!” Saskia interjects. “Armor daddy sounds like he treated you better in one night than he did in two years.”

You snort a laugh. “I think you’re a little biased. You never liked Jaxan.”

“Damn right I never did. He’s a piece of shit,” she echoes, crossing her arms over her chest.

You lean against the counter. “He really is, isn’t he?”

Saskia gives you a look that says finally – like she’s been waiting for you to say that for a year.

You sigh, dragging a hand down your face. “Okay. So I made a bad call… Or several.”

“And now you’re gonna make better ones,” she replies, already walking to the dishwasher to unload it. “Starting with a comm to armor daddy.”

“Please stop calling him that,” you groan.

“Never,” she chirps, passing you the clean cutlery.

Despite your friend’s instance, you decide not to comm him.

Even though you can’t stop thinking about him.

For an entire week, he’s the only person on your mind.

At first, you tell yourself it’s professional. The 104th is deployed in one of your quadrants. He’s out there, following your strategies. You’re responsible for their success. For their survival.

You check every update. Skim mission logs. Linger on anything that mentions him.

Purely professional curiosity.

Until it’s not.

Until you’re home again, standing in front of the mirror at night, staring at the fading mark beneath your collarbone. It should’ve healed by now. But you didn’t use bacta. You left it untouched. A quiet reminder that you were his.

And you keep being his in your dreams and fantasies. In the quiet hours, when your hand slips beneath the covers and finds your core. It’s his eyes that fuel the fire. His commanding voice that tips you over the edge.

After a week you tell yourself enough is enough. You’re being ridiculous.

You force yourself to focus on your other assignments. You stop checking for the 104th in the logs. Which, in hindsight, was not the best approach...

Because you didn’t hear about their return on Coruscant.

And, inevitably, you’re totally blindsided when you run into him.

You’re heading down the corridor at HQ, a stack of flimsi files and a datapad balanced wearily in your arms, on your way back from yet another soul-draining meeting with your captain and other senior officers. Once again, he nit-picked every fleet position you proposed for the Tennuutta sector – in front of everyone – like you’re a damn cadet still learning how a map works.

You round the corner toward the lifts–

And freeze.

Your stomach drops and panic takes over – spreading slowly like a drop of ink in the water.

Wolffe is there.

Right there. Just a few meters ahead. Full armor, arms crossed over his chest, cybernetic eye gleaming under the flickering fluorescent lights. He’s turned slightly away, deep in conversation with a trooper in yellow-marked armor.

He hasn’t seen you yet.

You can still escape.

You spin on your heels fast. Too fast. And slam straight into another clone.

Your entire stack of files goes flying, and the datapad hits the floor with a tragic-sounding crunch.

“Shit! I’m so sorry!” you blurt out, already dropping to your knees to scramble for the chaos. “I-I didn’t see you.”

The trooper grunts something resembling “don’t worry” as he crouches to help.

Why did this have to happen to you? You start praying – silently, frantically – to every god you’ve ever heard of that he won’t notice. That he’ll turn back into the briefing room. Get called away. Walk in the opposite direction. Anything.

But the longer it takes to gathers the mess, the less likely you are to escape unnoticed.

Your heart’s ramming against your ribcage, your hands visibly trembling as you grab the last flimsi sheet. Then you stand – and against your better judgment, you glance over.

And immediately regret it.

Wolffe is looking straight at you. And it’s not a glance or a casual, disinterested flicker of awareness.

He's watching you. Just watching. His expression infuriatingly unreadable.

He doesn't seem shocked. Or bored. Or pleased. He's just... watching.

And his intense, steady gaze has you caught in a vice.

It’s almost… magnetic. You almost take a step towards him–

But reality comes crashing through. He was clear when he left your apartment. This can’t go any further. Anything you say now – anything you do – will only embarrass you.

More than you already have…

You mutter another sorry to the poor clone trooper you collided with, then turn and bolt towards the stairs.

You ran.

You saw him – and ran.

The echoes of your footsteps still ring in Wolffe’s mind as he stares at the now-empty corridor. But those echoes are drowned out by the fear he saw in your eyes.

And he saw it clearly. His cybernetic eye had adjusted automatically, focusing in on the tremble in your hands. The urgency in your movements. The panic on your face.

Did you regret it? Regret him?

He’d moved too fast. You were too vulnerable. He should’ve stayed in control – shouldn’t have given in to your melodic pleading.

But the way you asked him to stay. The way you begged to be seen. To be wanted.

And Maker, he wanted you.

From the second you shouted for his blaster. From the fire in your eyes, the determination to help someone in need.

No. Earlier than that.

It was when he saw you at the bar. A little out of place. Eyes downcast. Still smiling for your friend’s sake. Still showing up and trying to enjoy a night out. All in spite of the melancholy you were carrying.

You intrigued him.

And he bent his rules so he could pull you apart and figure you out.

But now you’d just looked at him like he was a threat. And Maker help him, it rattled him more than he liked.

“You okay?” Bly’s voice cuts in, eyebrows raised. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

Wolffe grunts. He’d nearly forgotten his vod was still there. He tries to tune back into the conversation, but you won’t leave his mind. Your face, your eyes, the way you hesitated.

You hesitated.

You didn’t run right away. Some part of you had wanted to stay. And he decides right then and there that he’s going to figure out which part.

“Where are you going?” Bly asks as Wolffe turns and walks past him.

“To track someone down,” he mutters.

You return to your station in the Intelligence Hub as if nothing happened, dropping the flimsi files on the desk with a defeated sigh. Well, you did spend about ten minutes with your back pressed against the wall in the staircase, focusing on your breathing – but no one needs to know that.

The chair scrapes when you pull it, just enough to slip in the seat. Once settled, you turn your attention to your poor datapad, grimacing at the large zigzag crack that takes up half the screen.

“Please,” you whisper as you attempt to turn the device on.

But no matter how many time you furiously press the power button, the datapad refuses to cooperate. Yeah… it’s dead. You figured.

“That is tragic,” Tully remarks, appearing behind you, fresh cup of caf in hand. “What d’you do, throw it at Zadir’s head?”

You lean back in the chair to glare at the clone. “Funny. Although I was tempted.”

“Let me guess,” he drawls, sitting down at his terminal, which is right by yours, “he redlined all your suggestions. Again.”

“My blockade proposal requires ‘too many resources’,” you complain, tone mocking as you quote you Captain’s words. “Which we could’ve easily rerouted from Kashyyyk.”

“But that’s not in your Area of Responsibility and he made sure to remind you of that, correct?” Tully says.

“You know it,” you murmur, lowering your voice when noticing Captain Zadir enter through the durasteel doors.

The Iktotchi doesn’t even glance your way as he walks past yours and Tully’s terminals, heading straight for the permaglass-walled office sitting in the back of the bullpen. From the corner of your eye, you watch as he resumes his usual position behind his desk. Always observing all of you. Scrutinising your every move. Judging your efficiency.

Maker, it’s exhausting.

“I’d offer to help figure out resource distribution,” Tully continues, pulling up a star chart on his terminal screen. “But I have my own mess to clean up in Q12.”

You drag your chair closer to his in order to better see the screen. “Stars, that is bad.”

“That’s what happens when you have the 501st in one of your quadrants,” he grumbles.

“I’ve somehow been spared so far,” you say, pushing away from his terminal and turning your attention back to the dead datapad.

You try everything you can think of you get it to work, dreading having to go up to Technical Support for a new one. With the 104th just returned on Coruscant, there’s a risk of running into Wolffe again on the Logistics level – a risk you’re not willing to take.

The only thing you manage to do it take the back of the device off, leaving you staring at a jumble of wires and circuits you have no chance of understanding. That doesn’t stop you from trying however, and you become so engrossed in the task, you don’t even realise when the ever-present hum of chatter abruptly fades, and an unusual quiet settles over the room. Not until Tully’s question reaches you.

“Kriff, what’s a commander doing here?”

“W-What?” you ask, head snapping up.

You swear your heart stops when you see Wolffe looming in the doorway, his piercing gaze scanning the room until it lands on you. Just like earlier in the corridor, you simply cannot look away – and the Commander holds the steady, intense eye contact as he crosses the space, coming to a stop right in front of your terminal.

“Lieutenant Hart. A word.” His voice is low and steady, but holding that edge of authority that instantly lets you know you have no choice but do as he says.

Tully shoots you a quick, very confused and worried glance. You gulp, placing the broken datapad on the table before standing to follow, fiddling with the hem of your uniform coat.

He moves, not even bothering to check that you are following – he knows you are. He knows you’ll obey. All the eyes in the room track you and the Commander during the short walk to the captain’s private office. Zadir’s already standing in the doorway, clearly nervous despite attempting to appear composed and unconcerned.

“Commander, to what do we–”

“Out,” Wolffe orders.

“E-Excuse me?”

“I need your office for a private conversation with the lieutenant here,” Wolffe says, tone clearly irritated at having to explain himself. “Do I need to repeat the order, Captain?”

“No, Sir,” Zadir mutters.

If you weren’t dreading the prospect of being alone with Wolffe in such a confined space, you might’ve really enjoyed the way he chewed up your overbearing captain.

Who are you kidding? You did enjoy it, and cannot wait to make fun of it with Tully later. If you survive whatever confrontation awaits you next, that is.

The Iktotchi steps aside, his face a darker shade of brown than normal. Once again, Wolffe marches on ahead, no glance spared behind to make sure you’re still with him.

“Close the door,” he instructs.

Naturally, you obey without question. Wolffe heads to Zadir’s desk, engaging the Privacy Shield that turns the permaglass opaque, blocking any prying eyes from observing your conversation.

The space around you instantly constricts as the windows become walls, almost as if they were never transparent to begin with. You can no longer see the rows of terminals, nor hear your colleagues’ whispers or the ever-present typing and beeping that makes up the soundtrack of your work life. It almost feels like the office isn’t properly ventilated now that the door is closed – but that’s probably due to the fact that your heart is beating so fast, you cannot catch your breath.

Wolffe turns and leisurely leans against the desk, his eyes slowly dragging up your uniform, starting at the polished boots and pausing when reaching the lieutenant bars on your chest, before finally settling on your face.

He crosses his arms and arches one brow, waiting. But your brain is no longer cooperating with the rest of your body.

“Explain yourself,” he prompts.

“…Explain?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Wolffe warns, his controlled cadence lowering the temperature in the room.

You wrap your arms around yourself. “I panicked… I guess.”

Another beat of silence. He sighs; it actually sounds a little frustrated.

“Is that all you have to say?”

Suddenly, your brain remembers where you are – and more importantly who you are and who you are standing in front of. A commander. A superior officer.

Your arms drop as you straighten at attention. “I apologise, Sir. My behaviour was unprofessional.”

“I’m not here in a professional capacity, sweetheart,” Wolffe scoffs.

The pet name catches you off-guard. Even though his tone is anything but affectionate, a hopeful warmth still spreads through your chest, and your shoulders unconsciously relax. Not by much, but just enough to make you realise that the urge to bolt out the door is starting to melt away.

“I’m here to find out why you ran,” he continues. “And why I bothered leaving you my frequency since you seem to have forgotten how a comm works.”

“I thought…” you start, brows furrowed in deep confusion. Slowly, however, the confusion turns into indignation – you replayed that moment in your mind countless times. He was clear, you’re sure of it. Or, you were anyway. “But you said you don’t get involved with co-workers.”

A muscle ticks in Wolffe’s clenched jaw. “I stated that as a fact. I avoid getting involved with co-workers because it’s messy and risky.” He straightens from the desk, levelling you with a pointed glare. “But I told you before we even got to the bedroom that I was making an exception for you. And I left my private frequency on your desk even after you gave me your rank. What – did you think I just forgot it there?”

You bite your lip and stare down at the floor, absently rocking back on your heels. That was, in fact, exactly what you believed – and the thought of having to admit that and look like a kriffing idiot in front of him makes your stomach twist. Because this is a ruthlessly efficient and highly decorated clone commander you’re talking about. And yet, somehow, you thought he could ever be carelessly forgetful.

“I… I guess I got stuck on the co-worker part and made a flawed assumption,” you quietly confess, managing, with some difficulty, to meet his gaze again. “I’m sorry.”

Wolffe swipes a hand over his face, letting out a loud, irritated exhale.

“Alright,” he huffs. “I can understand why you came to the wrong conclusion, and how I share some of the blame. I should’ve been clearer. But what I still do not understand is what happened earlier in the corridor.”

“You and me both…” you mumble, retreating back into yourself. Today truly hasn’t been your day, and right now, you’re starting to feel small. Maybe you should just ask to be dismissed.

Wolffe catches the way you subtly inch back toward the closed door.

“Come closer,” he says, voice calm but firm.

Once again, you obey without thinking, your body simply overriding all the self-doubt floating around your mind and taking a couple unsure steps until you’re stood right in front of him.

“Good girl,” he rasps.

Maker, your breath instantly catches in your throat.

“Why did you run, Tessa?”

You shake your head. “I don’t know.”

“You do,” he insists firmly. “Why did you run?”

“I… I didn’t expect to see you. I was worried you didn’t want to see me. I–”

You abruptly stop. The words are there, on the tip of your tongue. They've been there the entire time. But should you say them out loud? Should you make them real?

“Go on,” he encourages.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

“And that scares you.” It's not a question – it's a statement. He can read you like an open book.

You nod and look away.

“If you want to pretend it didn't happen, I'll let you. The door is unlocked – you can walk away right now.” He steps closer and places two fingers under your chin, tilting your head up. “But I have a feeling that's not what you want.”

His touch sends an electrical current throughout your body, instantly awakening a deep burning desire. Something you’ve been trying so hard to bury, thinking there was no point in holding on to any hope. The need to be his.

“No, Sir,” you answer, suddenly breathless.

A faint smirk pulls at the corners of his lips. “Then what do you want? Tell me.” He leans in slightly, his thumb slowly tracing your jawline. “Or show me if that's easier.”

It is easier. So you lift on your tiptoes and kiss him, your hands bracing against his chestplate.

The moment your lips touch, Wolffe takes over. Honestly, what else did you expect? One strong arm wraps around your lower back, pulling you flush against him, while the hand on your jaw moves until it anchors on the back of your neck. You feel his fingers slide into the hair at the base of your skull, but he holds himself back, careful not to unravel your snug regulation bun. He’d love noting more than to tangle his hands in the soft strands of your hair, but you are not in a place he can freely do so.

But it’s no issue.

He can tear you apart while still maintaining appearances.

Wolffe claims your mouth just as confidently as the last time you were together, filling it with that familiar, peppery taste of tabac once his tongue pushes in past your lips. You whimper and slide your hands around his neck, meeting him with the enthusiasm of two weeks of pent-up longing.

The kiss deepens, and, to your surprise, he allows you to change the pace. Not that you realise what you’re doing exactly – you just get lost in the taste of him, the smell, the feel of his slick tongue taking what he wants. What belongs to him. So you kiss him back frantically, fingernails raking through his short hair and body pressed impossibly tight against his armor, as if you’re trying to melt into it.

Your desperation actually seems to spur Wolffe on. He grunts when your teeth catch his bottom lip, letting his hand fall from your back to your ass. When he gives it a harsh squeeze, you actually gasp, and Wolffe takes advantage of your parted lips to shove his tongue back into your mouth. He’s devouring you, inundating all your senses until the only thing you’re sure of is the solidity of him.

Suddenly the room spins, and you find your backside pressed against a hard surface. At first you don’t even register it, completely lost in the daze of the mind-numbing kiss. But the gears of your strategist mind keep turning, reminding you of your surroundings.

The surface you’re leaning on is your captain’s desk.

You’re in the captain’s office.

The realisation hits you like a splash of cold water. You break the kiss, almost heaving from its intensity as your eyes hurry to inspect the permaglass walls. Despite all your worries, they haven’t suddenly gone back to transparent and you sigh out a breath of relief.

Wolffe chuckles at your reaction. The sound is low and smooth, and somehow makes you imagine resting your head on a silk pillow. His hands come to rest on the edge of the desk on either side of your body, effectively caging you in.

“Do you really think your captain would dare interrupt a Commander’s private conversation?” he challenges, tone a little mocking.

“No,” you answer, shaking your head. “But it’s… a rather long conversation. People might start wondering…”

“You’re right,” he agrees. And yet, he doesn’t move. His voice drops an octave when he next speaks, “But you don’t really expect me to just let you walk away with zero consequences, do you?”

You stare up at him, completely mesmerised by the shift in his tone and the shadow of hunger that darkens his eyes.

“I asked a question,” he scolds.

“N-No, Sir,” you manage to croak.

“I will look past the comm incident this time – and only this time – since it was a misunderstanding,” Wolffe continues, his intense gaze burning into you. “But what you did earlier, mesh'la? Running away from me? That's not behaviour I tolerate.” He leans in closer, his large frame completely filling your field of vision. “And I'm going to correct it, right now.”

All you can do is give a weak nod, signalling that you’re still with him. But how could you not be? The rough edges in his voice scratch something in your brain, keeping you hanging on his every word.

Wolffe watches the small movement of your head, a dangerous smirk returning to his lips. “Agreeing so quickly? You don’t even know what I have in mind.”

“I want it!” The rushed confession leaves your lips before you’ve even processed the words. Your face is burning, but you don’t care anymore. All you care about is the man standing in front of you. “W-Whatever it is I… I want it.”

His entire body tenses as he takes in a long, controlled breath. The plastoid of his armor silently clatters when he shifts closer, his chest nearly touching yours. He’s so close now, you can easily see how blown the pupil in his natural eye is, the honey-brown of the iris only a thin ring around it.

“Keep talking like that, little strategist,” he warns, voice dropping to a low growl, “and I’m gonna take you fully, right here on this desk.”

You do have an effect on him, and that fact sends a surge of pride throughout your body. You bite your lip; his gaze briefly drop to the movement before returning to your eyes.

“This is how it’s gonna work,” Wolffe says, suddenly gripping your hips harshly in order to wipe that self-satisfied look from your face. “I'm gonna make you come on my fingers. Do you want that?”

“Yes, Sir. Please.”

His eyes soften for just a brief moment. “Still so polite. But I have one condition. You are not allowed to make a single sound. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” you agree.

“Good girl,” he rumbles.

The praise goes straight to your core, and you whine without meaning to.

Wolffe gives you a stern look. “What did I just say?”

“I'm sorry Sir. I wasn't ready to start. I won't make a sound,” you promise, the words coming out breathlessly.

“You better not.” He leans down, his nose brushing along your cheek before he brings his lips right by your ear. “Cause if you do, all those people outside this office will hear. And you don’t want that, do you?”

You almost respond, but immediately close your mouth and shake your head instead. Wolffe seems pleased with your quick learning – you feel a huff of hot air on the shell of your ear as he silently chuckles.

He pulls back, just enough to find your eyes again as he swiftly removes his right glove. Before you can even process the seductive image, his fingers are already unbuttoning your trousers, slipping in to drag over your panties. It’s a tight fit, but he makes it work.

Your hands brace behind you, grabbing the edge of the desk for support; the surface is still warm from where his own hands have been just a moment ago. A soft gasp leaves your lips at the careful pressure Wolffe applies to your clit, and with an automatic movement, you rut your hips into his palm, hoping to encourage him to press harder.

His eyes darken, and with his free hand, he grips your hip harshly, pushing you back into the desk. There’ll probably be five round bruises on your skin tomorrow.

“You will take what I give you, mesh’la,” he growls. “Understood?”

Shame and embarrassment burn your cheeks, but you manage to respond to his question with a series of quick nods.

His fingers slowly drag along your sex, parting your folds through the thin fabric. All your focus is currently poured into keeping your mouth closed and willing your body not to chase the pleasure it desperately wants.

Your eyes dart over his shoulder to the opaque windows of the office. Your colleagues are on the other side. Your captain, who already doesn't like you, is on the other side. If anyone were to walk in they'd find you in a decisively compromising position. But as mortifying as the thought is, you cannot lie that it's not also extraordinarily arousing.

Wolffe lets out a displeased grunt, and suddenly a sharp sting stabs through your core as he pinches your clit between his thumb and forefinger. Your hands lock tighter on the desk edge and you look up at him in a mixture of shock and outrage, but all you're met with is that dark glare of twisted satisfaction. He did say this was a correction. And he sure is enjoying tormenting you.

“Eyes on me!” he orders.

Your jaw is clenched shut to keep the cry at bay, but a chocked half-whimper still sounds in your throat. It’s quiet enough not to anger him further, and Wolffe releases your clit, trailing his fingertips down to your entrance.

How he can look so completely calm and collected in this situation is simply impossible for your brain to comprehend. If you were allowed to speak, this would be the part where you'd start begging to be touched properly, and you channel all that pleading into your facial expression as your breathing gets heavier.

Either by mercy or because he is also aware of the time pressure, Wolffe pushes your underwear to the side, and hums a low note of approval, satisfied to find how wet you already are for him.

The feeling of his fingers sliding through your folds unrestricted by a barrier of fabric sends your reeling. You bite your lip, struggling to keep your eyes open. Wolffe thoroughly coats his fingers with your slick, before one digit starts teasing your entrance, ever so slightly dipping in.

He tilts his head, pausing just enough to check that the desperate look in your eyes holds no trace of hesitancy. Then he thrusts the finger deep inside of you.

Your jaw drops at the intrusion, a huff of surprise and pleasure driven out of your lungs.

He doesn’t ease you into it – Wolffe sets a quick, rough pace, pumping in and out of you with striking determination. Sharp tingles of pleasure burst in your core every time his fingertip reaches your sweet spot. You try to centre yourself in an effort to keep still; the urge to grind down and meet his thrusts is buzzing in your mind like a bad idea disguised in the armor of a dream. You draw in a long breath – he’s already warned you once and you shouldn’t push his buttons. Not if you want to finish anytime soon. The breath stays trapped in your lungs a few seconds, before you release it in a shaky exhale.

The Commander has the nerve to chuckle, watching you desperately trying to be good for him. The sound is low and dark, and you almost want to throw the whole silent obedience out the window and curse him.

But all thoughts are driven out of your mind when he inserts a second finger into you, stretching you open even wider. The pleasure is doubled in an instant, especially with the heel of his palm brushing your clit with every stroke, and you lean back into the desk, your knees suddenly trembling just as badly as your lower lip.

When he starts working you in a scissoring motion you nearly moan out loud, and your grip on the plasteel surface tightens almost painfully. Everything about what’s going on is intoxicating in the best way possible. The semi-public place you’re in, the wet squelch coming from between your legs and your ragged breathing being the only sounds filling the space, and the look in his eyes – Maker, his predatory gaze is everything you’ve been dreaming about for days. And paired with the way he’s finger fucking you into oblivion? You can feel the climax swiftly approaching.

Your face is probably twisted, lips parted, brows knitted together. You want to scream – Maker, you want to scream – or moan or whimper or anything. But nothing except a blissed-out exhales leave you.

He's watching you. Closely. There's a smirk on his face that tells you exactly how much he's enjoying this, having you fall apart on his hand. The pistoning of his fingers is relentless, and the building pressure is too much. Despite your best efforts, your eyelids fall shut, squeezed together tightly.

Suddenly, his fingers stop their movement, pressing together harshly on your front wall, while the heel of his palm presses on your clit.

“I said eyes on me,” he growls.

You manage to pry them open just as his gravelly voice finally pushes you over the edge. Your mouth opens wider in a silent scream as a shockwave of pleasure ripples through your body. Wolffe resumes the steady drag of his fingers, working you through the very intense orgasm until your breath is fast and shallow as the euphoria reaches its peak.

Only then does Wolffe slows down, and you double over, forehead falling onto his chestplate. The cool plastoid on your heated skin is a welcome relief.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he commands.

You feel the chestplate vibrate more than hear the actual words, every sound still drowned out by your heartbeat thrumming in your ears. The breath you draw in is urgent, and it burns your overworked lungs. His free hand slowly starts rubbing your back, helping you come down from your high.

“You did very well,” he praises, carefully pulling his fingers out of you.

The intention to thank him is there – you swear it is. But as you straighten to meet his gaze, you nearly come again, walls clenching around nothing just from watching Wolffe raise his fingers to his mouth to lick them clean of the evidence of your pleasure.

“I knew you’d taste perfect,” he rasps.

This time, there’s no stopping a small whine from escaping.

“Make yourself presentable,” Wolffe orders, any trace of awe in his voice instantly gone.

With shaky hands, you button up your trousers and straighten your uniform, while the Commander pulls his glove back on. Then, he holds out the hand in front of you.

“Comlink.”

You rummage through your pockets, nearly dropping the device before managing to place it in his open palm. Wolffe pulls his own from a belt pouch – he must not trust that you’ll use it this time, deciding to take matters into his own hands and get your frequency himself.

“I’m going to send you some research about what I want from you,” he tells you, passing your comm back. His eyes are locked on yours, gaze steady and serious. “You have seventy-two hours to read through everything and make up your mind. If you’re not interested in what I’m proposing, you send a comm and tell me – no hard feelings, you can just walk away. But if I don’t hear from you, I will assume you want to move forward and I’ll come by your apartment to discuss terms and begin drafting the contract.”

“Contract?” you ask, brows pinched and voice embarrassingly small.

Wolffe grabs your chin firmly, making sure your eyes stay on him. “I told you, mesh’la, I want you to be mine.” He leans forward, his hot breath fanning on your face. “But I’m a very… particular man, and I want things done a certain way.”

You gulp, but manage to give a weak nod of agreement, as much as his grip allows your head to move. Wolffe releases you and steps back; the absence of his warm touch echoes like a cold scream inside your mind. He then gives you a quick once-over, making sure you look ready to step outside.

“If anyone asks,” he starts, his voice returned to the durasteel tone of the Commander, “I spent the last forty minutes walking you through how I applied your strategy in the field. And the reason you’re flustered is because I lectured you on failing to predict the tectonic shifts that–”

“Tectonic shifts?” you interrupt. You know by now that talking over him is a bad idea, but this is your work he’s criticising, and you will defend it no matter what. “There was a 0.5% chance of a tectonic shift, that is a completely acceptable margin of error.”

Wolffe takes a step right into your space, a dark, sharp glint in his natural eye. “For anyone in the GAR, yes. But not for the unreasonable commander of the 104th. The tectonic shifts did happen, and they knocked the targeting sensors on the canons off by five centimetres. No one could’ve predicted it and it was an easy fix. It’s a cover story, sweetheart, not a reprimand.”

“So you’re not… upset I missed a small detail?” you ask. Maybe it’s pathetic, but right now, you crave his approval more than air.

Wolffe cups your cheek, his gloved thumb brushing your skin in a surprisingly gentle way. “You did very well, mesh’la. Your strategy saved a lot of my men. But when you walk back out there, I need everyone to have a reason to pity you, not wonder what happened in this office.”

The logic is sound, so you give a small nod, your heart soaring from his praise. Wolffe’s thumb lingers on your cheek a moment longer than necessary, then, unexpectedly, he leans in, pressing his lips to yours in a slow, but firm kiss. It’s no longer a challenge or a claim – it feels more like a promise.

“Seventy-two hours,” he says, voice a rough whisper. “I hope you’re a fast reader.”

He lets go of your face and turns to the door, his posture back to that picture-perfect military rigidity. With a sharp hiss, the door slides open, allowing the cool, bright light of the Intelligence Hub to slip inside.

“Dismissed, Lieutenant!” he barks, stepping out the office and crossing the entire room without a glance spared back at you.

If the ghost of his kiss wasn’t still lingering on your lips, you might actually believe he was angry. But he was generous enough to give you the reassurance you craved, and your heart is certain he meant it.

You take a deep breath, then walk back to your terminal, head hung low, all too aware of your colleagues’ curious eyes and whispers following you the entire way.

Tully barely waits for Zadir to head back into his office before pulling his chair closer to you, his voice hushed and full of concern.

“What happened?”

“Uh… debrief,” you mutter.

“Debrief?” the clone repeats, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows. “You have to give me more than that.”

“He was…” you start, trying your hardest to focus on your cover story and not on the dampness you can still feel between your legs as you shift in your chair. Some of your other colleagues are trying to eavesdrop – you can tell – so you make sure to talk loud enough for them to hear. “Commander Wolffe and the 104th used my strategies on their latest campaign. He wasn’t happy I didn’t account for the 0.5% chance of tectonic shifts.”

Tully leans back in his chair, shaking his head. “I heard the guy’s unreasonable, but Maker, 0.5? He’s not gonna write you up for this, is he?”

“Uh… no, I don’t think so,” you say, turning your attention back to the terminal. "He just... tore me a new one."

The clone seems satisfied with your explanation, and returns to his work on the Q12 clean-up. You try to do the same, try to focus on your own work – but when your comm buzzes a few minutes later and you steal a glance and see a new chat with “W”, you just know you’re not getting anything more done the rest of the day.

You use your broken datapad as an excuse to leave, and once in the privacy of a turbolift, you open one of the many HoloNet links that Wolffe has sent.

The already compact space of the lift seems to constrict even more, and you gulp as you skim through the article. The words ‘BDSM’ and ‘Power Exchange’ make your heart race – but you’re not sure if in fear of excitement.

Maybe a combination of both.

What you are sure of is that you cannot handle all the research on your own. Your fingers bring up your chat with Saskia almost automatically, and you type and send one quick message.

Tessa: Mine after work? Need your help with something. Also you will not believe the day I had…

Taglist: @kindalonelystars @selaphielss @0avanae0 @widow-cevans @cw80831 @whisperofwild @hated-by-me @knightprincess @stargirl7567 @neapolitan--girl

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