my clone headcanons: seeing you naked for the first time
a/n: where ur clothes at 🤨
gn reader
warnings: suggestive content
hunter clenches his jaw and runs a slow hand over his jaw, letting out the quietest, raspiest, “fuck…” under his breath. your face heats up a bit, expecting his gaze to roam down your body first, but he looks into your eyes, deep and dark in the way he stares at you. his hands find your hips, pulling you close enough for his lips to brush against yours. “perfect,” he mutters before kissing you, devouring you with a hungry stroke of his tongue as he groans into your mouth. “you’re perfect…”
tech exhales out the last of his shallow breathing, his lips parted in slight surprise even though he expected you to knock the wind out of him like this. you take his hand gently and place it near your torso. “you can touch me,” you tell him, guiding his hand down your stomach, lower and lower. “i want you to touch me…” you whisper. he swallows hard and grabs your hips, pressing his forehead against yours with a ragged breath. “i doubt i’ll be able to stop once i start,” he says quietly.
wrecker blushes at the sight of your naked body. he’s technically braved scarier situations, but this is what gets him. he sits on the edge of the bed with his legs spread and tugs you forward by the back of your thighs, hiding his reddening face in the soft kiss he presses to your stomach. “fuck, you’re pretty,” he mutters, trailing his lips lower in warm, open-mouthed sucking motions that raise goosebumps all over your bare skin. “already knew that, but it still makes me nervous…”
crosshair takes you in slowly, like he’s observing every inch of you through his cold, piercing gaze. your eyes flick away from his from the weight of his perception, but he tilts your face up with a hand along your jaw, pressing his thumb into your chin. he swipes it back and forth as he murmurs, “don’t hide,” and drags his touch down your neck, running a nimble finger down your chest. his touch teases a sharp inhale from you, which he subtly smirks at. “oh, the things i plan on doing to you…”
echo blows out a breath and shakes his head slightly, his soft gaze pausing on you. “you’re beautiful,” he tells you. you see him hesitate to reach for you, so you take his hand and bring it closer. he moves forward despite his initial caution and presses his palm right over your heartbeat, where he can feel it racing fast. “nothin’ to worry about,” he says softly, studying you. you swallow hard as he places your hand over his heartbeat, which is pounding even faster, letting the moment speak for itself.
wolffe is unreadably silent as he just stares for a second. with someone like him, it’s hard to tell if he’s judging you or something else, which makes this even more vulnerable for you. you’re caught off guard at the moment his muscular frame bears over you when he leans in close and kisses you hungrily, roaming his hands around your waist before they dip down to squeeze your ass. you gasp into his mouth, but he just kisses you harder and heavier upon hearing the sound. “mine,” he murmurs under his breath, nipping at your bottom lip. his fingers dig into your skin possessively, feeling you everywhere he pleases. “this is all mine.”
fox leans back in his seat and adjusts his hips, not even trying to hide his desire for you. he cocks his head to the side with a dark and heavy-lidded gaze that traces over you, committing your figure to his memory. he pats a firm hand down on his thigh and orders, “come here,” in that low, demanding voice that tells you he’s not going to say it twice. he pulls you down when you straddle him, sliding his hands up your arched back. “aw, don’t be scared, i won’t bite,” he whispers in your ear.
cody chuckles drily, “you’re trying to kill me, now, aren’t you?” and hums low under his breath as he kisses you, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. he touches the small of your back before slowly moving lower to cup your ass. you gasp a bit, but you’re not surprised. “shh, you’re alright,” he soothes and rubs his hand over your skin reassuringly. “god, you’re so fuckin’ soft…” he mutters to himself, feeling the difference between the rough pads of his fingertips and your body.
mayday holds you in his arms, a tight embrace that warms your body. he kisses your cheek and lets his lips linger just at the corner of your mouth, whispering, “you’re so lovely,” against your skin. you make a soft “hmm” sound under your breath and tilt your face closer so that your mouth is now right under his, barely any distance between the breaths you share. “i don’t know…” you whisper. he squeezes your hips and slants his lips over yours, parting them hungrily. “don’t ever doubt it.”
rex groans a low “fuck” and sinks to his knees. his hands come around your hips, and his breath warm against your skin as he kisses your stomach. “god, help me…” he whispers hoarsely, pulling you close to kiss a path down lower, teasing you with slow flicks of his tongue that make you squirm and gasp in his hold. “i know, baby…” he mutters in response to your soft noises and the way you grab his shoulders, holding onto him desperately. “just let me have a little fun with you first, yeah?”
fives crushes his mouth to yours before the nerves can even properly settle in your stomach. he cups your face and kisses you hungrily, sucking on your bottom lip in a slow drag that pulls it out before he tilts his head for a deeper angle. “you’re too pretty for me,” he murmurs into your lips, his hands trailing down your body like he’s outlining your shape with his touch. he pulls you closer by the ass, hiking your legs around his waist. “so fuckin’ sexy—” he whispers, kissing your neck.
kix smiles at you softly and cups the side of your face, pulling you into a slow kiss. his body slowly comes down on yours, which presses you into the bed as you lie back, parting your lips under his for a deeper kiss. he slides his hand over your thigh, touching you like you’re made of glass. you whimper when he kisses down your neck, moving down your body. “you’re beautiful,” he whispers, settling between your legs with his kind eyes on you. “i want you to feel how true that is…”
jesse pauses at first, staring at you with a wide, lovestruck gaze. he opens his mouth to speak but ends up exhaling softly. “i—wow…” he says and grips your waist, his eyes just wandering over you before he looks up at you. he leans in close, and you think he’s going to kiss you on the mouth, but he kisses your jaw, slowly trailing lower as his body sinks down with his lips. you breathe shakily when his kisses tickle your chest, while he murmurs, “even prettier than i dreamed…”
hardcase looks at you like he’s planning to pounce with the intention of eating you alive. mischief sparks in his gaze as he kisses you hard, grabbing the bare skin just above your hips with a hungry groan. “fuck, look at you…” he moans into the kiss, lifting you up against him. “been waiting to get my hands on you like this, mhmmm,” he presses his forehead to yours, panting slightly to catch his breath. your breath catches when he lowers his voice and whispers, “been waiting a long time.”
gregor swipes his tongue over his bottom lip in a subtle licking motion, staring at you as if the rest of the world around him has disappeared. he takes you in his arms gently and rubs his hands down your back, slow to fit his mouth against yours in a deep, shuddering kiss. “what should i do with you first?” he teases lightly, dipping his head to kiss your neck. you squeeze his shoulders and suck in a breath. “whatever you want,” you tell him quietly. “oh, i know what i want,” he mutters.
howzer swallows the lump in his throat. “you just love torturing me, huh?” he rasps, moving forward so that you’re forced to lean back until you’re sprawled out under his body. you push your fingers through his hair right when he leans down to kiss you. he pulls back to take a sharp breath, gently stroking the side of your face. “you’re beautiful,” he tells you honestly, slowly inching his touch down your body. “i’m gonna take care of you now, okay? you tell me if it’s too much…”
emerie subconsciously lets her gaze wanders down your body, but she seems to blink hard when she catches herself, blushing slightly. “my eyes are up here,” you tease, your smile slowly fading when her hands find your waist, rubbing circles over your skin. your lips part to release a quiet breath, feeling her touch all over even though it’s concentrated in one part of your body. “so, i can’t look at you?” she replies back, her tone matter-of-fact despite the subtle smile ghosting her lips.
Makes a little crooked grin when he makes you smile and laugh, or when he teases you. Raises his eyebrows too the moment you sass him, both amused and challenged by your behavior. Obi-wan trained him well enough to retort a few clever comebacks in return.
Tucks your hair behind your ear then meets your gaze with a soft smile. It was an accident at first, which caused both of you to pause and stare at each other. When you don't pull away, he begins to do it more often until it feels completely normal now.
Always takes you to the most beautiful spots he knows because he knows how much you love the scenery and sunset/sunrise. Also, he has your caf memorized and makes it perfectly well after telling him how to make it once.
Hums a soft tune under his breath when he notices you sleeping against his shoulder. Also wraps an arm around yours to keep you tucked under his chin, and pretends he doesn't see the way your lips curl in your sleep at the sound of his heartbeat.
Random compliments throughout the day. “Look so pretty right now, mesh'la.” “You doing okay, beautiful?” “Thank you, sweet girl.” “That's my girl.” He's sparse with them in public, but he always reserves them for you.
— NSFW
Locks eyes with you from across the room, while he takes a sip from his drink, gaze dark and heavy over the rim. When he's lowering his drink, he makes sure you see the way his eyes drift low down the length of your body. And when you do the same? He raises a brow, then flicks his eyes towards the exit.
Steadies your footing from behind when you stumble, palm grazing your lower back, before whispering low and deep in your ear. “Careful there.” or “Watch your step now.” in that tone you know he uses inside the bedroom.
Hair pulling. Wraps your hair around his fist or threads his fingers through them then pulls. Not to hurt you, but just enough for your head to lift from the pillows so he could hear your cries better. You actually taught him how to do it properly, and since then, he finds any opportunity to do it.
Title kink. It drives him absolutely insane when you use his rank in bed. Sometimes, he reminds you to use it. Other times, you do it willingly. Just hearing the word “commander” while you're breathless beneath him has him fighting all sense of control.
He's rarely pissed, but when he is... Jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, tense and incredibly still, and his voice is controlled yet strained when he speaks to you. Sometimes, you purposefully rile him up just to see him like that because he looks hot. Just know your actions have consequences ;))
REX
Looks at you when you're not looking back, and it's like he's seeing stars for the first time. If only you could see the way his eyes shine and how he melts when looking at you.
But if you catch him, he quickly averts his gaze away. Clears his throat to cover his embarrassment, makes a completely random comment about the day, only to glance back and see you smiling at him knowingly—which makes him even more flustered.
Calls you terms of endearments every time in every tone and mood. Using your name feels foreign ever since you started becoming close. And now, he always calls you a mix of Basic and Mandoan endearments.
His voice softens completely when he's speaking with you. A different kind of softness compared to Ahsoka. With her, he's like talking to a younger cadet—a sibling—and his firmness never really leaves. But with you? Oh, he's a little out of breath and completely in awe.
Compared to his brothers, it's more obvious to see the visible flush on his cheeks. But the thing is he's not even aware of it. Especially when you're around and he's trying to keep himself composed with so much effort, so you try not to embarrass him even more by not pointing out his reddened cheeks and ears.
— NSFW
Oh, he'll never tell you this, but seeing you in control at times makes his sooooo weak. When your tone gets a little firmer and your face morphs into a serious expression, he gets restless for all the wrong reasons. Just pretend you don't notice him adjusting his armor multiple times.
Not as bad as Cody, but hearing you refer to him as “captain” or “sir” in bed is another guilty pleasure. He doesn't want you to feel pressured to use them, but Maker does it sound so good falling past your lips.
LOVES it when you're straddling him down on bed or on the couch. He leans back, meets your gaze under half-lidded eyes, and runs his hands along your thighs. The moment you press down against him and grind, he's gripping your hips and doesn't hesitate to help you move faster.
He's both an EATER and a FEEDER. When he's eating, he's thorough and ravenous. Reads your body language like a map, never takes his eyes off of your face, and smiles against you when he feels your legs shaking. When he's feeding you though, he's much gentler. Doesn't push you down or grip your hair, he lets you control the pace while he watches. The best he could do is roll his hips to signal you, you can take it, while muttering praises under his breath.
Another secret guilty pleasure of his is when you're wearing his top, his blacks more specifically, with nothing underneath. Just seeing your legs bare and marked the next morning has him already hungry for another kind of breakfast that isn't what you're cooking.
WOLFFE
Runs a hand down his face while sighing, cursing, or muttering something under his breath. It always has you pausing in your step just to stop and stare (and listen), and you'd flinch the moment he notices you standing there.
Always packs a spare ration and water for you in case you ran out of any. Automatically volunteers to keep watch of the perimeter so you can get some rest, and steps in front of you when there's danger or if there's someone making you uncomfortable.
Somehow, he's always there at the most convenient (and inconvenient) times. Almost as if he secretly memorized your schedule and just pops out of nowhere. And when he's there, he lingers longer than strictly necessary. Doesn't talk much, but his close proximity and gaze are enough to say everything.
Following that, he stands closer to you, even when it's just the two of you and ESPECIALLY when it's crowded. Finds any and EVERY opportunity to be by your side (like a loyal loth-wolf). He uses “for your safety” as excuses at first, but then they sound less like excuses and more like chances as time passes.
Pretends not to care, when in fact, all the things he's doing are things he won't easily do to others. He's a little less on edge when you're around, he doesn't hesitate to carry your belongings despite your protests, and he has more patience with you than anyone else (aka a secret soft spot for you).
— NSFW
Has a possessive/jealousy streak. When you gather attention from other people, he's okay with that since he knows they're just strangers. But around his brothers? Oh, his composure cracks ever so slightly when he sees them getting all touchy or too close.
Brat taming. It's just so natural to him. When you're acting out of line or when you've done something that went directly against his order, he won't hesitate to correct your behavior—by making you apologize and realize your mistake after hours of being edged.
Purposefully grips your hips tighter so he could see the marks he left behind the next time. Bonus! He gets a little (a lot) proud when he sees you stumbling and shaking after a rough night.
Tracks your movements from across the room with his eyes, never truly leaving you out of his sight. He knows damn well how much his gaze affects you. He purposefully lets it linger in other places, and makes sure you SEE it.
When he's a little rougher in bed, he loves to overstimulate you until you're unable to talk. The only sounds you're making are broken gasps, breathy pleas, and poorly coherent sentences. When he notices, he gives a little smirk and says, “Talk to me, mesh'la. Is this what you want?”
FOX
Always asks what's wrong even before you say anything. All it takes is one look. His intuition is strong enough to sense something was off with just a glance. Especially when it comes to those he cares about. And when it comes to you, he's more attuned and attentive compared to anyone else.
His smoky laughs and low chuckles. He doesn't laugh often, his laugh isn't even loud to begin with unlike his brothers', but when he does, it's deep and rich that it rumbles through you and makes you feel warm.
He's cautious when he sees you handling dangerous weapons, quickly taking them away from your hands or gently guiding you how to properly use them. He uses this opportunity to stand closer, voice softening into an almost intimate tone, while his eyes never stray from your face or hands.
When he's reading reports, he wants you as close to him as possible. He'll make you sit beside him (sometimes on his lap if the hour is late), so he could hold your hand, trace your knuckles, or rest his chin on your shoulder.
He's still so formal and polite even when you're already together. Old habits die hard and they consist of opening the door for you, calling you “ma'am” in public, guiding you through the crowd with his hand on your lower back, and using his elbow as an anchor for you to hold on to.
— NSFW
Ownership kink. Goes absolutely feral when he sees bite marks on your skin—your neck, chest, thighs, throat—anywhere only he gets to see. Bonus! If he could see one peeking through the top of your collar or when the hem of your dress just rides up a bit, he'll stay silent for the remainder of the day thinking about putting more of those later that night.
^^^ He has a habit of pressing down on them while they're still fresh. You could be on top of him, lost in pleasure, when the sharp sting of his thumb where his previous mark blossoms makes you falter. It's both pain and pleasure, and he never gets tired of the look on your face when he does it.
You joked about wearing his helmet while in bed, and he goes deathly silent. Every now and then, it's a recurring fantasy of his. He doesn't vocalize it however, only until he comes out of the shower one and sees you actually wearing it. Nothing else. Let's just say you slept through the next day thoroughly pleased and satisfied.
Loves to do it in front of a mirror. If he's taking you from behind, he'll grab you by your chin and force you to stare at your reflection. Commands you to keep your eyes open or else he stops, and he grins at the way they flutter close or rolls back whenever his thrusts turn a little sharper.
Blindfolds and cuffs. And red ones too.
HOWZER
Messy bedhair. Seeing his hair all ruffled from sleep is so unfair, because wdym he still looks so kriffing pretty even when his hair is a complete mess? And when he tries to fix it by running a hand through, he makes it look even better than before.
When he wakes up, he doesn't immediately wake up. He searches for you in bed, still half-conscious, then pulls you closer to him while mumbling something in his sleep. He doesn't let you leave the bed for another hour, comfortably tucked at the crook of your neck.
Very vocal. When he stretches his arms up, he does a little groan that ends with a ragged sigh. When he's concentrating, he mutters and mumbles his thoughts out loud. When he's distracted, he still answers you instead of staying silent. Like "hm?" "yeah?" "mhm" or "uh huh" and it sounds so deep, raspy, and good—hold me back.
He's such a gentleman. Polite, respectful, a little stiff when you first met him, but you immediately found him endearing because of his gentle mannerisms. He's very, very punctual as well. Never lets you wait for more than ten minutes, unless he specifically lets you know beforehand he might show up late.
Big on playful banter once he gets comfortable around you. He never passes up an opportunity to tease or engage in a debate with you.
— NSFW
Is actually down for whatever you want as long as you communicate your boundaries with him. Other than that, you're free to do whatever you want to him. Want him to get on his knees? Yes, ma'am, he's already down there. Want him under you? He's rolling you over so you could straddle him.
Accidentally confesses to you once that he used to think of you in ways that are definitely not appropriate. As a challenge, you dared him to say everything he's thought about. You expected he'd back out and dismiss it, until he takes a deep breath and confesses every single filthy thing that's been on his mind—doesn't break eye contact the whole time.
Heavily obsessed with the way you smell and feel. He'd bury his face in your neck and just breathe you in. When he's taking you from behind, he'd pull you up until your back is flush against him and burrow his face on your shoulder. "Fuck, you smell so good." "You feel so soft." "Can't get enough of you, Cyar'ika."
Slow and deep kisses. It makes him dizzy. It makes you breathless. It always starts innocent at first. Arms around each other, pressing closer, just feeling each other's warmth and savoring it. Until it gets hotter, deeper, and you're being pinned down while he climbs on top of you, chasing after your lips.
Eye contact. He adores the dazed gleam in your eyes when he's making you feel good. He wants to see everything that's happening. Your expressions, the way your body responds to him, the way you take him so easily the moment he slides right in—
GREGOR
Winks and grins at you from across the room. You know those kinds of grins that tell you he knows something that you don't? Like that. He'd even playfully raise an eyebrow at you while subtly checking you out.
Lets you crack his knuckles, and you let him do the same to you. It's kind of a secret love language he started at the start of your relationship. Now, he does it absentmindedly. He'd take your hands into his and just crack each finger gently, then he'd give his own to you and you'd do the same.
Updates you regularly when he's away. Most of the time they're completely random infos about his day, and sometimes it's him spamming messages saying how much he misses you and can't wait to get back.
Very expressive. Cannot for the LIFE of him hide his expressions. It amuses and annoys you at the same time how he doesn't even try to hide how he's feeling. If you can't get him to talk, just look at his face and you'd see your answer immediately.
When he leans down to hear you better, or better yet, when he pulls you aside to somewhere away from the crowd so it's just the two of you. He doesn't have to do all that, but he just wants an excuse to get you alone so he could have you all for himself.
— NSFW
Condescending praise. He'd be the most infuriating tease out there, and I just know it. He'd grin down at you when he sees you struggling to take him or when you're already too sensitive. He'd say shit like, "Awww, too much? But you can take more, right? C'mon, pretty girl, I know you can take more."
He intentionally grunts out loud while he's doing push ups. It's just him counting to a hundred, but you swear he does it to drive you mad because he knows damn well how much his voice affects you. It goes from steady, to rough, to breathy, to cracked until he's panting from exhaustion and he's struggling to get the next number out.
Wears his pants (and towel) low enough so you could see his prominent v-line and the tattoo of your name along his hip bone. He wears a cheeky smile every time he catches you checking him out, making his way towards the bedroom where he knows you'd follow him into.
Cheeky even inside the bedroom. He'd toss his head back, laugh breathlessly, and taunts you until you're begging for him. He's not afraid to bring a little humor in bed, especially when he's edging you.
Loves restraining you with his hands. Pinning your wrists above your head or behind your back, covering your eyes to block your vision, or clamping a palm over your mouth to muffle your sounds and noises when you're in a place someone could definitely find the both of you in.
MAYDAY
His pet names are so old-fashioned but they never fail to make you swoon. Calling you things like, little lady, my darlin', dove, sweet thing, my girl, pretty angel, lovely, precious, missy, and so many more. And when you're feeling a little mischievous, he fondly calls you trouble.
Always remember the little things. Something you told him once, and he still recalls it months later. A favorite food? He either learns how to make it or finds a way to get it. A childhood memory? He'd bring it up randomly when you're both cuddling. A mindless task you told him to do? It's already done even before you remember what it was.
When he's frustrated about something, he'll quietly walk off to gather himself before coming back and wrap his arms around you. He just needs time and space before he allows himself to properly talk.
Similarly to that, it's the opposite when you're the one frustrated. He'd calmly look at you, wait until you're finally ready, then slowly make his way over and embrace you in his arms. His principle is that you both shouldn't sleep off the problem and wait for the next day. He'd rather sleep with you in peace than apart with the tension still there.
He's soooo good with communication. He wants a healthy and dependable bond between the two of you. You're upset with something? Tell him immediately. When something's bothering him? He won't hesitate to bring it up and talk it through you.
— NSFW
Like the last one, he also talks you through it. "Don't push yourself if you can't anymore, darlin'." "C'mon, breathe for me. That's it." "Look at me, sweet thing. Need you to go slow for me, okay?" "Lift your legs for me. You're close, ain't ya?" "Atta girl. Knew you could take me well."
He's secretly down bad for finger sucking. When he's cradling your jaw while he kisses you, and you take his thumb into your mouth and suck? Oh, watch his eyes darken faster than a ship jump to hyperspeed. It becomes a habit now, and he does it almost every time. Especially when you're making too much noise, he slips two fingers into your mouth and asks you to be more quiet for him.
Expanding on that, he'd stroke your cheek first before trailing his thumb to your bottom lip. He tugs it down, just enough for you to slip your tongue through, then he's fully pushing his thumb into your mouth. After he's satisfied, he'd pull it out and continue his path down the line of your throat.
When he's deep inside you, he places a palm on your lower stomach and presses down. It has both of you gasping in pleasure, and he keeps the pressure there so you could feel every inch of him. Also, he secretly loves seeing the bulge pump in and out of you from the outside—wait, who said that?
Idk why, but I get the feeling this old man is secretly a freak and he just has a MASSIVE amount of self-control. Especially before you got together. You'd catch him with his jaw flexed, eyes closed, fists clenched, arms crossed, and gaze averted elsewhere when you do something to rile him up (accidentally or not).
“their reactions to when someone is staring at you.”
a/n: saw @tanobatcher’s tiktok where she wrote out her own head cannons and i NEEDED to write them out. thank you for giving me permission to write this out pooks. doing the commanders and captains first!
✶⋆.˚ CODY - CC-2224
It starts while you and Cody are waiting in line at a small café on Coruscant—one of those rare, quiet days where the war feels far away.
You’re reading the menu, rambling about wanting to try the new pastry, and Cody is just… watching you. Soft, relaxed, genuinely happy to be here with you instead of on a battlefield.
Then he sees it.. some guy at a table across the room, openly staring at you.
Not a passing glance.
Not polite curiosity.
A full-on, shameless, hungry stare.
Cody’s smile doesn’t even falter, but he shifts his stance ever so slightly—shoulders squared, chin lifting.
His hand rests casually on the small of your back, thumb brushing with a grounding gesture for himself more than for you.
You don’t notice.
But Cody sees everything.
He leans in, voice low, teasing, warm against your ear,
“Look at you… collecting fans wherever you go.”
You laugh, nudging him.
“Fans? Please. He’s probably staring at the menu behind me.”
Cody snorts, soft but incredulous.
“Oh no, cyare. Trust me.. he’s definitely here for you.”
You roll your eyes, amused, flustered, completely unaware that Cody has already mapped out five different ways to remove this man from the room without disrupting lunch.
“He’s harmless,” you shrug.
“Mm,” Cody hums, smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
Inside, his thoughts are a different story.
Stop staring at her. She didn’t invite your attention. Walk away before I make you.
He keeps his expression light, because the last thing he wants is to ruin your good mood over something so small.
You finally decide on chocolate, and Cody orders for both of you—calm, polite, charming.
But while you wait, the staring continues, and Cody feels every muscle in his body coil tighter.
He doesn’t confront.
Not yet.
Instead, he slides closer, arm brushing yours, claiming you without making a scene.
“Careful,” you tease him. “People might think you like me.”
Cody gives you that tiny, sideways smirk that always melts you.
“Oh, they already know,” he murmurs. And I want them to.
When you run to grab napkins, Cody’s eyes flick back to the man.
One single look—sharp, commander-level, utterly lethal.
Stop. Now.
And like magic, the guy’s gaze drops to his drink, shoulders stiffening, suddenly reconsidering every life choice he’s ever made.
Cody exhales slowly, controlled, tension draining from his posture.
Not because he doubted himself, he just didn’t want to escalate and ruin your day.
When you return, completely oblivious to the storm that almost happened, he wraps an arm around your waist, fingers resting comfortably at your hip.
You raise a brow.
“Possessive much?”
He chuckles, brushing a playful but honest kiss to your temple.
“Well, what can I say? My girlfriend’s famous.”
You laugh, leaning into him, and Cody decides, yep, worth it.
He’ll joke, he’ll tease, he’ll keep it light… because your happiness matters more than his pride.
But Maker help the next person who forgets how to respectfully use their eyes.
✶⋆.˚ REX - CT-7567
The 79’s cantina is unusually calm tonight—soft music, dim lights, clones scattered at tables unwinding after long rotations.
You and Rex sit in a booth tucked against the wall, his arm draped behind you, not quite touching, but close enough that you feel protected.
He looks relaxed even though he wore his armor, chestplate reflecting the warm lighting, helmet resting beside him on the seat.
He’s smiling because you just said something that made him forget there’s a war outside.
And then he sees it.
Across the room, a man—civilian, slouched at the bar—eyes locked on you.
Not accidental, not passing curiosity.
Lingering. Bold. Disrespectful.
Rex’s smile fades, jaw tightening just a fraction. He forces himself to breathe slowly through his nose.
Benefit of the doubt, he tells himself. Maybe he’s looking past her. Maybe he’s not actually staring.
You’re too busy talking, unaware, glowing in the low lighting, and all Rex wants is to stay in this tenderness a little longer.
But then the stranger’s gaze drops—slowly, lingering, crawling—and returns to your face with a smirk.
Rex’s patience snaps like a blaster bolt through glass.
His arm moves from behind you to rest firmly on the table—protective, grounding—as he turns his head just enough to confirm what he already knows.
Yeah. The guy’s staring at you.
Controlled yet furious, Rex exhales through his teeth. Maker, keep me from decking this man in front of her.
He really does try to stay seated.
To ignore it.
To be the reasonable, composed captain you deserve.
He lasts maybe a second.
Then he stands, his plastoid armor shifting with the movement. Smooth, silent, terrifyingly calm, and he starts walking.
“Rex?” you ask softly, confused.
He doesn’t answer, because he already knows what needs to be done.
He reaches the bar and stops right beside the man, close enough that the air shifts, close enough that the entire room quiets.
Rex doesn’t yell.
He doesn’t have to.
He leans in slightly, voice dangerously even.
“You wanna tell me what you’re lookin’ at?”
The man startles, eyes wide. “I—I wasn’t—”
Rex lets out a humorless and sharp laugh.
“Oh, you were. And now you’re gonna stop.”
The stranger opens his mouth, maybe to deny it, maybe to be stupid, but Rex raises a brow, and the words die in his throat.
Rex’s posture is relaxed, hands loose at his sides, but every fiber of him radiates do not test me.
The man swallows hard. “S-sorry.”
Rex nods, like this was a polite conversation about the weather.
“That’s what I thought.”
He steps back—not breaking eye contact—until he’s sure the guy gets the message.
Then Rex turns, face softening instantly when he sees you watching him.
He returns to the booth, sliding in beside you again, armor knocking lightly against the seat.
You give him a look mix of concern and affection.
“You okay?” you whisper.
Rex shrugs, arm returning behind you, this time brushing your shoulder deliberately.
“Fine. Just didn’t like how he was looking at you.”
You smirk. “Jealous?”
He scoffs, but his ears turn the faintest shade of pink.
“Protective,” he corrects, voice quieter. “There’s a difference.”
You lean into him.
“Well… thank you.”
Rex pressed a kiss to your forehead. It was gentle and grounding, everything he wishes the galaxy was.
“I’ll always look out for you, cyare. Always.”
Across the room, the man suddenly finds the floor very interesting.
And Rex?
He goes right back to smiling, because as far as he’s concerned, problem handled.
✶⋆.˚ WOLFFE - CC-3636
It’s supposed to be a peaceful night—just you, Wolffe, and a quiet stroll through a small Coruscant marketplace after his shift.
Shops are closing, lights dimming, crowds thinning.
Wolffe stays beside you, hand instinctively hovering near the small of your back. Not quite touching, but always there if you need him.
He’s in full armor, helmet tucked under his arm, hair slightly mussed from hours of command.
He looks tired, but content.
You’re pointing out a vendor selling tiny holo figurines when Wolffe feels it—the weight of someone’s stare.
Sharp. Intentional. Unwelcome.
His expression doesn’t change, but something in him goes perfectly still.
Without a word, his gauntleted hand finds your waist and gently guides you forward, placing you directly in front of him.
Your back meets his chest, solid and warm, as his legs widen just slightly, bracketing yours.
A wall of armor and possessive silence.
You blink up at him. “Wolffe?”
He doesn’t look at you—he’s too busy tracking the man across the walkway, gaze narrowed to a sniper’s focus.
“Nothin’ to worry about,” he mutters, voice low, controlled.
But his arm stays firm around your middle, pulling you closer, tucking you securely into his side like you belong there.. because you do.
The guy keeps staring—pretending he’s not, but failing miserably.
Wolffe’s jaw flexes once. Twice.
He won’t cause a scene… not unless he has to.
You go back to browsing, unaware of the storm brewing behind you.
Wolffe rests his chin lightly atop your head, positioning himself so his body blocks the man’s line of sight completely.
Then the stranger decides to walk past you both—slowly, deliberately—eyes still lingering.
Wolffe doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t warn.
Doesn’t negotiate.
He just moves.
As the man passes, Wolffe straightens, shifts his stance, and shoulder checks him HARD.
Hard enough to send the guy stumbling, nearly losing his footing, making a few heads turn.
“Oh. Sorry,” Wolffe says flatly, tone so insincere it’s practically a threat.
The man looks up, ready to start something, until he sees who hit him.
The armor.
The scar.
The unblinking grey-striped commander staring him down like prey.
Wolffe tilts his head. Just a fraction as he silently challenges him.
The guy swallows, quickly averts his eyes, and keeps walking fast.
Wolffe watches him disappear into the crowd, making sure he’s gone.
Only then does he soften, hand returning to your waist, pulling you gently back against him.
“You good?” he asks quietly.
You turn, confused but smiling, completely oblivious. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”
Wolffe exhales through his nose, relief slipping into something warm, almost fond.
“No reason,” he lies, thumb rubbing absent circles into your hip.
You loop your arm around his middle, leaning into him.
“You’re in a cuddly mood today.”
He huffs. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation.”
You laugh and start walking again, and Wolffe follows—close, attentive, protective—eyes still scanning the area, just in case.
Because if anyone else even thinks about staring?
They’re getting shoulder checked too.
✶⋆.˚ FOX - CC-1010
Coruscant nightlife always felt a bit too loud, too bright, too chaotic, but you liked it.
And Fox liked you, so here he was, escorting you to a late dinner during his shift, armor still on, helmet on, posture relaxed for once.
You’re talking about your day, your voice was soft yet excited, and Fox can’t stop staring at you.
Not in the way others do.
His gaze is reverent. Protective. Home.
Then he notices it.
A man at the bar—leaned back in his stool, drink forgotten—eyes glued to you.
Tracking every movement. Undressing you with his stare.
Fox’s pleasant mood dissolves instantly, replaced with a cold, razor-sharp alertness.
You don’t notice since you’re too busy looking through the dessert menu.
Fox does, though. He always does.
He leans slightly toward you, voice calm but edged with steel,
“Stay here a moment, mesh’la.”
You blink. “Everything okay?”
“Oh, absolutely,” he says with a reassuring smile. “Just handling a little… administrative matter.”
You don’t even have time to ask before he’s already striding across the room—purposeful, predatory, commander mode activated.
The man doesn’t look up until Fox’s shadow falls over him.
Fox crosses his arms—biceps straining against plastoid, posture perfect and terrifying.
“Enjoying the view?” he asks pleasantly.
The guy stutters. “Wh-what?”
Fox smiles dangerously under his helmet. “I said, were you enjoying staring at the woman I’m with?”
The man’s mouth opens and closes like a dying fish.
“I-I wasn’t staring—”
Fox taps the Coruscant Guard emblem on his shoulder plate.
“Right. Because if you were, that would qualify as harassment. Which, fortunately for you, falls under my jurisdiction.”
The man pales, looking around for help. There is none.
Fox leans closer, lowering his voice so only the man can hear.
“Here’s how this goes. You’re going to stop looking at her, finish your drink, and leave. Or I will drag you out of here in binders, and you won’t see daylight again without clearance codes.”
He pauses, letting it sink in.
“Do we understand each other?”
The man nods so aggressively Fox worries he’ll sprain something.
“Good,” Fox says, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”
When Fox turns away, the man grabs his coat and practically sprints out of the building.
Fox returns to your table like nothing happened, sliding into his seat, expression calm, voice soft again.
“Sorry about that. What did you decide on?”
You narrow your eyes.
“What did you do?”
Fox shrugs innocently.
“Public safety is my responsibility.”
You give him a look. “…Fox.”
He sighs, reaching for your hand.
“Alright, alright. Maybe I reminded him I outrank literally everyone in this district.”
You snort. “You love pulling the rank card.”
Fox smirks, kiss-creases forming at the corners of his eyes.
“Why have power if you can’t weaponize it in defense of your beautiful partner?”
You laugh, shaking your head, until your datapad pings.
You glance at the screen.
“Um… Fox? Did you just add him to a watchlist?”
Fox removes his helmet as he pops a bite of bread into his mouth, casual as ever.
“Of course. Can’t be too careful.”
“Fox—”
“What? Saves time later.”
You stare at him in disbelief, and maybe a little awe.
He softens, thumb brushing your knuckles.
“I’m never letting someone make you feel unsafe. Not on my planet.”
You melt, because honestly? You believe him.
And somewhere in a database, a brand-new entry reads:
Subject: Creepy bar guy.
Status: Watched, monitored, and extremely unlucky.
✶⋆.˚ GREGOR - CC-5576-39
The hideout was busy today—more civilians than usual had come to drop off supplies: food, medical stock, blankets, spare tools.
You were helping organize it—clipboard in hand, sorting crates, directing where things needed to go.
Gregor was supposed to be helping too.
He was not.
He was leaning against a stack of ration boxes, helmet on the floor beside him, arms crossed, watching you with that familiar lazy grin—like you were the most entertaining thing he’d ever seen.
Then he noticed it.
One of the civilian volunteers—a young guy carrying a crate—kept staring at you.
Not quick glances.
Not accidental looks.
Full-on, wide-eyed, wow who is she staring.
Gregor didn’t tense.
Didn’t get jealous.
Didn’t even frown.
He just let out a quiet, amused little laugh.
You looked over, brows furrowing. “What?”
He tilted his head toward the civilian, smirking.
“You’ve got an admirer.”
You blinked, confused, until you caught the guy doing that lingering stare again.
Your face warmed instantly.
“Oh Maker,” you muttered, pretending to check your clipboard. “He’s being obvious.”
Gregor shrugged like it was the most natural thing in the galaxy.
“Well, of course he’s staring. Look at you.” He waved a hand at you dramatically. “Anyone with functioning eyesight would.”
You swatted his arm lightly. “Be serious.”
He leaned in, voice rich with playful innocence.
“I am being serious. You’re hot. It’s practically a public hazard.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but Gregor cut you off—eyes sparkling, grin widening.
“Honestly?” he mused, nodding toward the guy, “Maybe you should give him a chance. Poor kid looks like he’s about to faint.”
Your jaw dropped. “Gregor!”
He held both hands up like he was being reasonable.
“What? I’m just saying, good for him. Look at his taste! Impeccable!”
You stared at him, scandalized and flustered.
He leaned closer, dropping his voice into something softer, warmer—meant only for you.
“But…” his fingers brushed yours, just barely, “you’re already taken.”
Your heartbeat stuttered.
His grin shifted—still playful, but undeniably possessive—like he enjoyed reminding you as much as saying it.
Across the hideout, the staring civilian suddenly found something else to carry—quickly, awkwardly, and in the opposite direction.
Gregor chuckled, satisfied, bumping your shoulder with his.
“See? No need to scare him off. Just had to remind the room who you belong to.”
You squinted at him. “You are insufferable.”
He winked, picking up a crate like he finally intended to help.
“Yeah, but I’m your problem.”
And as he walked past you, he added—just loud enough for you to hear.
“Lucky you.”
✶⋆.˚ HOWZER - CT-7569
The two of you are standing in line at a small open-air café on Ryloth—warm lights, soft night breeze, quiet chatter filling the streets.
Howzer’s shift ended an hour ago, but he’s still in his armor—minus the helmet—arms crossed loosely over his chest, hair slightly tousled, expression relaxed.
He’s listening to you talk about your day, nodding along, eyes warm and focused, because when you speak, he always listens.
You’re mid-sentence when he notices someone a few tables over staring.
Not a curious glance.
Not a passing look.
A lingering, territorial stare.
Howzer’s smile fades just a touch, shoulders straightening.
He doesn’t interrupt you—he never would—but his attention shifts, eyes narrowing slightly.
He watches for a moment, giving the benefit of the doubt.
Maybe the guy will look away. Maybe he’ll realize he’s being weird.
He doesn’t.
In fact, he stares harder—eyes dragging over you slowly, disrespectfully.
Howzer’s jaw ticks.
He tries to breathe through it, tries to stay calm because he hates conflict, hates making a scene, hates the idea of ruining your evening.
But he also refuses to let anyone treat you like that.
So he steps forward—smooth, controlled, radiating authority—and positions himself slightly in front of you, blocking the man’s view.
You pause. “Howzer?”
He offers you a gentle smile. “One sec, mesh’la.”
Then he turns and walks toward the man with a calm, steady, and purposeful stride.
The guy looks up, startled, clearly not expecting a cloned captain built like a wall to approach him.
Howzer stops right beside his table, tilts his head slightly, voice polite, but sharpened with steel.
“Can I help you…?”
Not friendly.
Not genuine.
A warning wrapped in manners.
The man blinks. “What? No— I wasn’t—”
Howzer raises a brow, unimpressed.
“Oh, really? Because you’ve been starin’ for a while. Thought maybe you needed something.”
The tone is condescending and just enough to make the point without escalating.
The entire patio goes quiet, all eyes suddenly on the interaction.
The guy flushes, shrinking into himself.
“N-no, sir. Sorry.”
Howzer holds his gaze for a moment—long enough to make sure it sinks in—then gives a curt nod.
“Good. Then keep your eyes to yourself.”
His voice is calm, quiet, but devastatingly firm.
He doesn’t wait for a response, he just turns on his heel and walks back to you.
You’re staring at him, wide-eyed.
“Everything… okay?” you ask slowly.
Howzer’s expression softens immediately as he reaches you, placing a gentle hand on the small of your back—guiding you forward in line again.
“Yeah,” he says, voice warm now, almost playful. “Just helped someone remember their manners.”
You snort. “You didn’t have to do that.”
He leans down, lips brushing your temple.
“I know. But I’ll never let someone disrespect you, not while I’m around.”
Your heart flips, cheeks warming.
You loop your arm through his, and he pulls you a little closer—protective, but tender.
Behind you, the man hurriedly pays and leaves, head down.
Howzer watches him go for half a second—satisfied—then returns his full attention to you like nothing ever happened.
“Now,” he says, smiling gently, “you were telling me about the part with the flowers?”
And just like that, your night continues—safe, comfortable, yours.
✶⋆.˚ MAYDAY - CC-????
The outpost is quiet for once—snow drifting lazily outside, heater humming, you and Mayday sharing a rare moment of peace at his cluttered desk.
He’s half in armor—pauldrons off, chestplate unbuckled, gloves tossed aside—hair slightly messy, scruff framing that devastating smirk.
He looks tired, but lighter with you there, shoulder brushing yours as you flip through supply logs together.
Then he notices it.
Some visiting lower rank officer across the room—pretending to review paperwork—eyes glued to you.
Not subtle.
Not respectful.
Just staring like you’re a warm fireplace in the middle of a frozen wasteland.
Mayday doesn’t tense, doesn’t posture, he just… laughs.
A low, amused, is this guy serious? kind of laugh.
You glance up. “What?”
Mayday tilts his head toward the man, voice dripping with smug amusement.
“You’ve got an admirer.”
You roll your eyes, dismissing it. “He’s just looking around.”
Mayday arches a brow, no he isn’t, and leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest like he’s settling in for entertainment.
But his gaze stays soft on you—never threatening, never demanding—just quietly claiming.
Then the staring continues.
Longer.
Harder.
Bolder.
Mayday exhales through his nose—still amused, still dangerous.
He shifts forward, elbows on his knees, leaning in close enough that his breath brushes your ear, voice low and wicked.
“Wanna give him a show?”
You freeze, pulse tripping. “Mayday—”
He chuckles again, hand sliding to your thigh—not squeezing, just resting there like it belongs.
His eyes never leave yours.
“I’m just saying,” he murmurs, tone playful but possessive, “a kiss would send a very clear message.”
You turn slightly, meeting his gaze—dark, confident, inviting.
“And what message is that?” you ask, breath softer than intended.
His smirk deepens—dangerously slow, smug, sure.
“That you’re mine.”
Not up for debate. Not a question.
A fact.
Before you can respond, he gently cups your jaw—thumb sweeping across your cheek, touch both reverent and territorial—leans in, and kisses you.
Unhurried and certain. Completely unapologetic.
The kind of kiss that says I’ve waited for this and I dare you to look away.
You melt into him, fingers gripping the edge of his pauldron, and he smiles against your lips because yeah—he knew you would.
When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t glance at the staring officer.
He doesn’t need to.
Instead, he keeps his forehead resting against yours, voice soft but laced with smug satisfaction.
“Still looking?”
You peek over his shoulder.
The man is suddenly very invested in a blank datapad.
Mayday laughs—low, satisfied—and presses one more kiss to your temple, thumb brushing your chin.
“Thought so.”
Then he sits back, arm draped over the back of your chair, posture relaxed, claiming you without touching.
“Now,” he says casually, “where were we?”
Like he didn’t just ruin someone’s self-esteem and mark you as his in one breathtaking move.
Hi! I absolutely love your works and the way you write. I was wondering if you’d write something like “asking them to stay the night for the first time” with the clones? Especially curious how different clones would react (Rex, Wolffe, Bad Batch, etc.), but honestly whoever you feel like writing or who you think fits the ask! I think it would be really cute seeing how differently they react to that moment.
misc. clones x gn reader headcanons: asking them to stay the night
warnings: some mild suggestiveness
notes: tysm!! so this includes TBB, Rex, Wolffe, Cody, and Fox. this was a fun prompt, enjoy!!
TBB:
Hunter:
Hunter is more excited (and a little more flustered) than he lets on. his first reaction is to go quiet for a second, studying you, and then he asks "you sure?". he wants to make sure that you genuinely want him there and you're not just asking because you feel like you should. it's not that he doesn't want this, because he absolutely does, and has probably been thinking about it for a while, but in the moment, he feels unexpectedly flustered/nervous. he just wants this to go well, and he doesn't want to assume anything and get it wrong. once you assure him, though, he immediately agrees. he keeps a calm demeanor up but internally this feels very significant to him and he's very happy you asked
Tech:
Now Tech has had a hypothetical timeline in his head of different relationship milestones since you two first started dating, and this was on it. still, the question takes him just mildly off-guard and he has to take a second to process. his first instinct is to take the offer completely at face value and it takes him a second to realize the potential sexual implication, so he asks super directly/bluntly what you mean lol. after you clarify, he clears his throat and adjusts his goggles, informing you that he'd very much like to stay as long as you're comfortable with it. he's a little nervous but very pleased, and there's clear fondness in the way he looks at you for the rest of the night since this step means more to him than he really knows how to express
Wrecker:
Wrecker's reaction is immediate and very obvious. as soon as you ask, his face lights up and he blurts out an enthusiastic "Really?!" before he can even think about playing it cool. he's clearly excited but then he pauses for a second, suddenly a little worried he might be too much. he straightens up a little and stammers slightly as he makes sure you don't mind him staying, mentioning that he snores sometimes and is your bed big enough?? (lol). once you reassure him tho he's all smiles again. he's super happy about it and it absolutely does not even cross his mind to try to hide that
Crosshair:
Crosshair tilts his head slightly when you ask and studies you for a second with kind of a knowing look. there's a beat of silence before he smirks faintly and drawls, "Took you long enough to ask." regardless of your reaction to that, whether it's a playful scoff or a flustered huff, he gets a little smug about it. beneath the snark, though, he's paying close attention to you and making sure you're really certain. he agrees pretty easily, like he had been expecting this. still, though, there's a subtle shift in his mood for the rest of the night, just ever-so-slightly softer than usual, a little lighter. he's far more pleased about this than he's willing to admit outright
Echo:
Echo goes a little still when you ask and looks at you for a moment like he's making sure he heard you correctly. he eventually lets out a quiet, slightly surprised "You want me to stay?". there's a softness under his usual gruff tone as he asks if you're sure you're comfortable with that. he takes this very seriously and the last thing he wants is for you to feel rushed or pressured in any way. he'll gently remind you that it's okay if you're not completely ready yet. but if you reassure him, the tension in his shoulders eases and he agrees, a hint of humor slipping into his voice as he mutters something about hoping you don't mind sharing space with a soldier who wakes up early and grumbles before caf
Others:
Rex:
Rex is completely caught off guard when you ask and he just blinks at you for a second as a faint flush creeps up his neck. he's been silently imaging this moment for a long time before now, but it still makes him feel a little flustered. "You mean…ah…stay here? Tonight? As in…" he trails off, a little hesitant, wanting to be absolutely sure he understood you right. he suddenly feels very aware of himself, of where he's standing, how close he is to you, whether he's reading the situation correctly. he doesn't want to assume anything or make you uncomfortable, and you're one of the only people with the ability to get him flustered so he feels very off-kilter initially. once you assure him, the nervousness fades, and he gives a warm, slightly pleased smile as he agrees, his demeanor appearing much more confident even though his cheeks are still bright pink lol
Wolffe:
Wolffe goes very still when you ask, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looks at you. "You sure about that?" he asks after a moment, voice low and a little gruff. it's not teasing, he's genuinely making sure you understand what you're asking. he studies you like he's gauging how serious you are as you reassure him that you know what you're asking for. a muscle in his jaw ticks as he mutters a slightly wry warning about you not getting much sleep tonight if you go through with this. after he's satisfied that you're certain, a faint, almost amused huff leaves him and he agrees without much further fuss. he's pleased about this and definitely excited even tho it's only noticeable in the way he's just a little more intense in the way he looks and speaks to you
Cody:
Cody pauses, clearly surprised for a moment before a small, pleased smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Stay the night?" he repeats, fidgeting with his hands behind his back in a way that betrays a little bit of nervous excitement. he's careful not to assume too much, wants to be thoughtful about things like this and make sure you're fully on board before agreeing. once you assure him, the fidgeting stops and his smile grows a little warmer as he agrees easily, a little more eager than he's trying to show
Fox:
Fox's attention snaps fully to you the second you ask, his gaze sharpening as he goes a little quiet. he's used to staying in control of situations and your relationship but letting you set the pace here matters to him. there's just the slightest little hint of nerves beneath the composed exterior, but he's determined not to let it show. once you confirm you're fully serious, his posture relaxes just a little and he agrees without hesitation, because he's definitely been thinking about this. his excitement manifests in the way he bosses you around the rest of the night, telling you to come here, guiding you where he wants you, etc
Hiiii! Can you maybe write some Headcanons about the clones not knowing what a period is? Maybe they weren’t taught about female anatomy on kamino or something and so when you start dating and get your period for the first time they think your dying Lmao. Thank you!💜
Rex had faced battlefields, explosions, and injuries that would make most people faint. None of that prepared him for waking up beside you and finding blood on the sheets.
His heart nearly stopped.
He was instantly on his feet, calling your name, searching for a wound with trembling hands. His military instincts took over before you were even fully awake. He was already reaching for the medkit and trying to contact a medic.
When you blinked at him in confusion and quietly said, “Rex, it’s just my period,” he froze.
“Your what?”
He had never heard the term before.
You had to sit him down and explain everything from the beginning, uterus, menstrual cycle, hormones, pregnancy, ovulation. He listened with absolute focus, asking careful questions as if he were attending a briefing.
“So, this happens every month?”
You nodded.
“And you’ve been dealing with this since you were a teenager?”
Another nod.
He stared at you in complete disbelief.
“Every month you bleed, and you’re expected to just continue living your life?”
When you explained cramps, headaches, nausea, exhaustion, and mood swings, Rex looked genuinely horrified.
“They never taught us any of this on Kamino.”
He couldn’t stop apologising for panicking.
“I thought you were dying.”
After that morning, Rex became incredibly attentive during your cycle. He memorized which heating pad you liked, made sure pain medication was always stocked, and quietly took over chores whenever cramps hit.
If anyone dismissed period pain around him, he’d shut it down immediately.
“I’ve seen soldiers with blaster burns complain less than my girl does during cramps. Maybe don’t assume it’s ‘just discomfort.’”
He’d never completely get over the fact you went through this every month.
Every single time your period started, he’d give you the same sympathetic look.
“I still think biology is unfair.”
And every month he’d somehow become even more convinced that women were tougher than clones.
Cody
Cody’s first reaction, like Rex’s, was pure panic.
The blood was everywhere, or at least it looked that way to him.
He immediately assumed internal injuries, poisoning, or some delayed complication from a mission. Before you could even sit up, he was checking your pulse and asking rapid-fire questions.
“Where does it hurt? Can you stand? Are you dizzy?”
You finally caught his hands.
“Cody, I’m okay.”
He looked at you like you’d lost your mind.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s my period.”
His confusion was almost impressive.
“Explain.”
Once you walked him through female anatomy, Cody became unusually quiet.
He processed information the same way he processed tactical reports.
“So the uterus prepares for pregnancy.”
You nodded.
“If pregnancy doesn’t happen…”
“It sheds the lining.”
“Through bleeding.”
“Exactly.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“And this repeats every month?”
“Pretty much.”
His expression became one of genuine outrage.
“They couldn’t have mentioned this in Kaminoan education?”
You laughed.
“I guess they didn’t expect clones to need reproductive health lessons.”
“No, apparently not.”
Learning about cramps only made things worse.
“You mean the muscles contract hard enough to cause pain?”
“Sometimes, it can be really painful.”
“And society just, expects you to work anyway?”
His respect for women increased dramatically in that moment.
From then on, Cody treated your period like an operation that required logistical support.
Extra blankets.
Water.
Medicine.
Your favourite snacks.
He kept track of roughly when it would happen, not because he found it embarrassing, but because he wanted to be prepared.
Whenever you insisted you were fine despite obvious pain, he’d give you the same look.
He also became the clone most likely to quietly educate younger troopers.
“No, she’s not dying.”
Wolffe
Wolffe’s protective instincts were almost frightening.
He woke, saw blood, and immediately assumed someone had attacked you during the night.
His blaster was in his hand before he was fully awake.
After confirming no intruders were present, he turned all that panic toward you.
“Where are you hurt?”
You sighed.
“Wolffe.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s just my period.”
“Your what?”
He genuinely thought you were making up a word to stop him worrying.
The explanation took almost half an hour.
He listened without interrupting, his eyes fixed on you.
When you finally explained cramps, he frowned deeply.
“So every month your body decides to attack itself.”
“That’s one way to describe it.”
“I don’t like your body’s strategy.”
Learning it had happened for years made him visibly irritated.
“No one thought to warn us?”
“No.”
“Unbelievable.”
Afterward, Wolffe became fiercely protective.
If cramps kept you in bed, he’d simply tell everyone you weren’t available.
Didn’t matter who asked.
If you wanted tea or a hot drink, then he’d make it.
If you wanted silence, the barracks or your apartment became silent.
If anyone joked about periods around him, they immediately regretted it.
“You think it’s funny?”
“No, Commander.”
“Good.”
He never babied you, though.
Instead, he’d quietly sit beside you with a heating pad already warmed and say,
“What do you need?”
Nothing more.
Because once he understood what you endured every month, helping simply became another way of taking care of someone he loved.
Fox
Fox’s reaction was the most dramatic.
He actually called for emergency medical assistance.
You had barely opened your eyes before he was trying to lift you into his arms.
“There isn’t time.”
“Fox!”
“You’re hemorrhaging.”
“I’m not!”
He refused to believe you until you physically stopped him.
“It’s my period.”
“That’s a medical term?”
The explanation completely derailed his morning.
Fox was a commander.
He understood criminal law, security, emergency medicine but he knew absolutely nothing about menstruation.
When you explained that periods happened monthly, he blinked.
“Monthly.”
“Yes.”
“Repeatedly.”
“Yes.”
“For decades?”
“Usually.”
He looked personally offended on your behalf.
“That’s terrible.”
After learning about cramps, he became incredibly practical.
Painkillers appeared before you asked.
Comfort food somehow arrived despite his impossible schedule.
He also quietly kept spare menstrual products in his office.
Just in case.
He figured if you ever got caught unexpectedly, he’d rather be prepared than helpless.
You laughed for ten minutes when you discovered them.
“What?”
“It’s sweet.”
“I prefer to be prepared.”
He still couldn’t believe the Kaminoans omitted something so important.
“We learned advanced battlefield medicine.”
“Apparently not this.”
“No.”
Fives
Fives absolutely lost his mind.
“Why is there blood everywhere?!”
He nearly fell out of bed trying to find the injury.
When you started laughing instead of panicking, he became even more confused.
“This isn’t funny!”
“It kind of is.”
“It’s absolutely not!”
“It’s my period!”
“Your what now?”
Unlike some of the others, Fives asked approximately a thousand questions.
“So that’s normal?”
“Yep.”
“Every month?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
You explained everything to him.
“That’s rude.”
You explained cramps.
“Even ruder.”
You explained mood swings.
“Periods are officially my enemy.”
By the end, he looked deeply betrayed by women’s biology.
“I cannot believe nobody told us.”
Afterward, Fives became the king of period support.
Need chocolate?
Already bought it.
Need distractions?
Movie marathon.
Need someone to complain to?
He’s already listening.
He’d happily let you rant about cramps for hours.
The moment you apologised for being grumpy, he’d immediately interrupt.
“You’re literally bleeding. You’re allowed.”
He also developed an irrational hatred of the menstrual cycle itself.
Whenever you announced your period had started, he’d dramatically glare upward.
“Who designed this?”
You’d laugh every single time.
He never stopped finding the whole concept unbelievable.
But he never stopped trying to make those days easier either.
Hunter
Hunter knew something was wrong before he even opened his eyes.
The scent of blood hit him immediately.
His enhanced senses sent him into instant alert.
He thought you’d been gravely injured.
By the time you woke up, he was already checking every inch of you for wounds.
You gently explained.
He listened in silence.
The more he learned, the more disturbed he became.
“My senses never warned me before because, this is normal.”
“Exactly.”
“And this happens every month.”
“Yes.”
“That explains so much.”
Hunter immediately started paying attention to subtle changes before your period even arrived.
He’d notice you feeling different.
More tired.
Hungrier.
Mood shifts.
Without mentioning it, he’d quietly adjust plans to give you easier days.
He became incredibly gentle during cramps.
Always asking before touching you.
Always making sure you were comfortable.
He respected how resilient you were.
“I complain when my enhanced senses give me headaches.”
“You bleed every month.”
He shook his head.
“I’ve underestimated you.”
From then on, he treated your period as something to support, not something awkward or embarrassing.
Howzer
Howzer was pure concern wrapped in sunshine.
He panicked immediately but tried very hard to stay calm for your sake.
“Everything’s okay.”
“Is it?”
“No.”
When you explained menstruation, he listened with wide eyes.
“You’ve been going through this for years?”
“Mhm.”
“And nobody prepared us for this?”
“Nope.”
He looked genuinely guilty for not knowing.
“I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
After learning about cramps, he’d fuss over you endlessly.
Blankets.
Tea.
Flowers.
Comfort food.
He constantly checked in.
“Pain level?”
You’d roll your eyes.
“I’m okay.”
“I’ll ask again in an hour.”
His kindness somehow made everything feel easier.
Mayday
Mayday had seen too many troopers bleed out.
Seeing blood in bed triggered every survival instinct he had.
When he realised it wasn’t life-threatening, the relief nearly knocked him over.
Then came the explanation.
He listened quietly.
No interruptions.
Just thoughtful questions.
At the end he sighed heavily.
“So every month, nature reminds you it exists.”
“Pretty much.”
He hated hearing about the pain.
“You deserve a medal.”
After that, he’d always make sure you rested.
He’d cook.
Handle chores.
Wrap you in blankets.
Never once made you feel guilty for slowing down.
“You take care of everyone else.”
“Let me take care of you today.”
Gregor
Gregor’s first response was chaotic panic.
Second response?
Confused panic.
Third response?
Embarrassed panic.
“Why didn’t anyone tell us women do this?!”
You couldn’t stop laughing.
Gregor peppered you with questions.
“So it’s scheduled?”
“Usually.”
“Your body just decides?”
“Basically.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
He treated your period like an annoying recurring villain.
“Oh no.”
“What?”
“It’s back.”
He’d dramatically declare war on cramps.
Offer massages.
Tell terrible jokes.
Bring snacks.
Anything to make you smile.
If laughter helped even a little, he’d consider the mission successful.
Echo
Echo approached it like solving a technical problem.
He panicked first, of course.
But once you explained menstruation, he immediately wanted to understand every detail.
He even admitted,
“I feel embarrassed I didn’t know this.”
You assured him it wasn’t his fault.
He learned about hormones, uterine contractions, and pain with genuine curiosity.
*Slaps the table* hear me out, any clones or haggle of clones realizing that the reader never heard their number even once just their adopted nickname/name until like one day their tilt their head at the pad and ask, "Who's this??"
TBB, Rex, Cody, Fox, and Wolffe X GN!Reader: reacting to you not knowing their prefixes
Warnings: None!
A/N: This was so cute! Thank you for the request!!!
Hunter
"What does this mean?" You ask, pointing at the odd code on Hunter's data pad as he finishes up a report. "That's my CT Code." he responds, unsure on where you were going with this as he sees your lips purse together in thought. "Like a password?" He raises a brow, turning to face you fully. "What?" You press you lips together and slowly shake your head. "So that's a no..?"
Tech
"What's with all the numbers?" You point at Tech's screen as you sit on the edge of his pilot seat. "That is my designation. CT-9902 is how the Kaminoans identified me before I adopted my current name," he answers casually, scrolling through the list and pointing out his brothers numbers, too. "Tech...that's not--that's not right." He shrugs, "In a moral sense, but it is too efficient in properly identifying the large mass of clones to abandon the system."
Wrecker
"Hey, Wrecker? What's this number carved into your bunk?" The hunk of a man stops lifting his weights, setting them down with a loud clank before coming up behind you and throwing his arm around your shoulder. "Eh, that's my number. Don't need it anymore since I got my name." You tilt your head back to look him in the eye. "Your number?" He laughs a little, "its like my old name, you know?" "...your old name was a number!?"
Crosshair
"CT-9904...what does that mean?" You glance over at Crosshair, having seen the number before logging into your system on his data pad. He straightens against the wall, eyes narrowing and toothpick snapping between his teeth. "Just ignore it," he snarls, and you frown at his sudden distaste. "Well not after that reaction, I won't." He rolls his eyes, pushing off the wall and snatching the data pad from your hands. "Do me a favor, doll, and just forget it."
Echo
"Tech mentioned something about a designation number, do you know anything about that?" You start out of nowhere, and Echo pauses his task to turn to you with a curious look. "We all have them. They're identifiers for us clones, well, at least for the Kaminoans." You sigh softly, kicking your feet against the crate you sat on, "Yeah, but what does it mean, mean?" Echo frowns, suddenly more interested in his task than in you for once. "Maybe its best you don't know."
Rex
"CT-7567," you say aloud, and Rex startles from packing his gear, head whipping around to stare at you in shock. "What did you just call me?" a hum of surprise slips past your lips and you shake your head quickly, "I wasn't calling you, I was reading the number on your weapons case." His shoulders fall in relief, and he tries to play it off quickly before you start questioning anything. "Oh, that makes sense..." But the crack in his voice is a dead giveaway, and you come up behind him like a dark shadow. "Rex...why did you think I was calling you?"
Cody
"Why do you always sign your reports with that number?" Cody's hand stills in your hair at that question, his data pad held high enough that you can see it as you lay next to him in bed. "Its just how they know it me, baby. Don't worry about it." He kisses your forehead, thinking that's the end of it, when you mumble quietly into his chest. "But why don't you just use your real name?" He just shrugs and says he doesn't know, heart warming at how your refer to his name as his real one.
Fox
"His name is Fox," you spit under your breath, glaring at the official that just left the Senate Rotunda. He swears at you, and Fox quickly grips your arm and drags you off into a quiet corner where no one can see the both of you. "I'm honored you're willing to defend me like that but I don't need you getting in trouble in the process," he hisses, voice sounding even more snake-like through his helmet. "Why do they call you that?" You ask, and he shakes his head, loosening his grip, his fingers softly brushing against your skin. "Because only my partner gets to call me Fox."
Wolffe
"You know...Sinker mentioned something about you having a CC number, whatever that means." Wolffe grunts in response, barely even looking your way as he lays on your couch, an arm over his forehead. "Are you going to say anything?" You shuffle over to his side, nudging his leg with your knee. "I wouldn't worry about it," is all he says, falling into a silence that leaves no room for more questions. But you're determined to find out...after he stops snoring.
can i request headcanons with where the clones like to be kissed and where they like to kiss reader? ^^
thank you, and have a lovely day/night 🫶
Clones x reader: favourite places to kiss and be kissed
warnings: might get slightly suggestive a few times but it's not much
A/N: count how many times i wrote kissed, it's too many :3
comments and reblogs are very appreciated :D
The Bad Batch
Hunter
Kiss: A heavy make-out session is too overstimulating for him but a quick kiss right on your mouth? He loves to do it so much.
Be kissed: Loves to feel your lips against his temple, especially when he was tense the entire day and can feel a headache coming on. You have a relaxing effect on him in a way.
Tech
Kiss: Doesn't initiate physical contact often but loves to sometimes take your hand and place a kiss along your knuckles in a more casual way to show his love.
Be kissed: His cheek. He doesn't know why but it's probably because it's not too intimate while still showing physical closeness.
Wrecker
Kiss: It's so hard for him to decide that because he honestly loves kissing every part of you but if he had to say something, he'd say the crown of your head because that's the easiest for him to reach at all times.
Be kissed: Loves when you kiss his mouth. It makes him feel close to you in a way he can't describe and he adores it.
Crosshair
Kiss: Loves to kiss your lips. I mean, are we surprised? This man has an oral fixation and he loves to bite your lower lip too while he's at it.
Be kissed: Will never admit it, but that space between his eyebrows that's always furrowed. It reminds him to relax sometimes and it helps with his tension headaches.
Echo
Kiss: Your nose. He loves how you scrunch it every time he does and how a smile spreads on your face no matter how much you try to suppress it.
Be kissed: There's a lot of places that are now way too sensitive but some, like his jaw or his mouth, stayed similar enough and he loves those little gestures of intimacy when you kiss him.
Commanders
Wolffe
Kiss: Your neck, though honestly, his kissing could be almost misinterpreted as biting when he kisses yout neck between love bites and the lines blur.
Be kissed: A kiss around his scar or right on it will make him shiver. It's a place of vulnerability for him and he doesn't just let anyone touch it.
Fox
Kiss: The space right under your ear because every time he comes home, he'll lean his head on your shoulder and breathe you in, placing soft kisses in that space.
Be kissed: The place in his jaw where he holds all the tension from holding back snarky remarks all day. It reminds him to stop grinding his teeth and your mouth is just a turn from his head away.
Cody
Kiss: Loves placing little kisses on the back of your neck as he hugs you from behind, and how you shiver slightly at the touch. You always and without doubt turn around in his arms and kiss him properly, making him smile.
Be kissed: The corner of his mouth. It makes him smile and he loves placing a hand on your cheek and turning your head to capture your kiss in a proper kiss.
501st
Rex
Kiss: He likes to pull you into a keldabe kiss after an especially hard battle, just to feel you, feel your breath on his face and know that you're still alive and well
Be kissed: He loves it just as much when you pull him into a kedabe kiss. Sometimes kissing is just too much after a battle and he'd rather enjoy your presence.
Fives
Kiss: Places little smooches all over your face whenever he can because it makes you smile and he gets to touch even more of you.
Be kissed: Lovesss when you pull him into a kiss on the mouth loves it even more when you complain about his goatee tickling, even though you initiated the kiss.
Jesse
Kiss: The space under your jaw that he can reach perfectly when he's pulled you into his lap and looks up at you.
Be kissed: Somewhere between his collarbone and shoulder. Loves when you run your hands over that space and give him a slight massage, especially after a hard day, and then lean down to place kisses along the space that holds so much tension.
Kix
Kiss: Either your neck or your wrist, just so he can feel your pulse under his lips. Just so he knows you're well and alive.
Be kissed: On his forehead for no other reason than he deserves forehead kisses.
Hardcase
Kiss: Honestly he just loves kissing every part but his favourite must be the places where you're especially ticklish because it makes you love and that's music to his ears.
Be kissed: When you kiss along his various tattoos. He spent a lot of time on their designs and it's what makes him unique so every time you appreciate them, he melts.
Dogma
Kiss: He's a respectcul of intimacy and likes to take your hand and place kisses along your knuckles. It's not too intimate that he gets overwhelmed but it still makes him feel close to you.
Be kissed: When you kiss him on the forehead, he melts instantly and looks at you with big puppy eyes. (Admitting he likes it is another thing)
Tup
Kiss: He's a bit shy with it at first but he loves to sneak a peck on your cheek whenever he can.
Be kissed: Super sensitive along his neck and adores when you place soft kisses on his throat and his collarbones.
Misc.
Howzer
Kiss: Super romantic and will ask every time before capturing your lips in a kiss that leave you breathless every time.
Be kissed: On the top of his head. It makes him blush slightly each time and he complains about you messing up his hair but he just adores it way too much for no reason.
Pairing: Wolffe x fem!Reader / Wolffe x Doctor!Reader
Words: 15,664 / 26,845
Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! angst, hurt/comfort, also fluff, and smut, we've got it all, coworkers to friends to coworkers to lovers, protective!Wolffe, he cares so much and he's awful at showing it, lots of arguing, starts off toxic but it gets better, Battle of Abregado mention, manhandling, drunk love confessions, smut in part two
Summary: Your relationship with Wolffe is complicated at best, antagonistic at worst. After months of waiting for him to finally admit that he wants you the way you want him, you've given up trying. But Wolffe can't seem to let you go. (prequel to Man or Commander but can be read standalone)
A/N: I've been working on this since I posted the last Wolffe fic, and I can't tell you how good it feels to finally get this out! Mind the tags because this starts messy af. Part two will be up later this week.
Previous Work | Next Work | Masterlist
The fifth shot goes down easier than the fourth.
You wipe your lower lip and give a smile toward the man leaning against the bar beside you, a Pantoran with azure skin and a shock of white hair. He’s been eyeing you all night from the far corner, nursing a single drink for two hours. Now he’s closer.
Warmth is spreading through your limbs, loosening the tension in your muscles and easing the knot in your stomach. You feel... good. Better, now that the liquor has numbed your mind and quieted your thoughts. Better, now that your life is a distant, fading memory, like a dream you can barely remember when you wake up.
But you can still feel Wolffe’s eyes on the back of your head.
You give another charming smile to the Pantoran, hoping to convince him to buy you a drink and distract you. This is a rare opportunity, a chance for you to relax. And the Commander, for all his stubbornness, isn't going to stop you from enjoying it.
The Pantoran takes the bait. A slow smile spreads across his face, revealing sharp canines. "That one looked like it burned," he says, his voice a low rumble that cuts through 79s’ blaring music. "Let me get you something smoother."
You arch a brow. "Smooth can be boring."
"Maybe," he says, leaning in closer. His breath smells of cloves and wine. "But I have a feeling you could use a little less excitement in your life."
The droid bartender returns with two glasses, one filled with a pale green liquid, the other with a dark amber one. The Pantoran slides the green one toward you. You take a sip. It's sweet and fragrant, with a hint of mint. The warmth from the alcohol returns, but this time it’s a gentle heat, not a raging fire. You relax into it.
It feels good to let go, even just for a little bit. The past few weeks have been a series of close calls and harrowing battles, your medbay a constant buzz of activity as the 104th took their place on the front lines. You were constantly running on the bare minimum amount of sleep, and the stress was beginning to wear you thin. It was why you'd come to 79s tonight. Just a few hours of fun, a little time to blow off steam, a distraction from the horrors of war.
It was also why you and Wolffe had gotten into another one of your arguments. You were sick of it. Sick of the tension, sick of the constant back and forth, sick of his stubborn, reckless behavior and the fact that he refused to listen to you. You were his doctor, for Force's sake, and he was supposed to trust you. Instead, he constantly defied you, and you were constantly left to clean up the mess.
And here he was, still watching you. No matter where you went or who you talked to, tracking you with a sniper’s precision. You should be used to it by now, this constant need of his to be near. It’s part of who he is, part of what makes him such a good soldier. But it’s also one of the many things that drives you absolutely insane.
"Something on your mind?" the Pantoran asks, interrupting your thoughts. He’s closer now, a hand on your leg, his touch searing through your clothes and into your skin. His eyes are dark, full of a hunger that both excites and unnerves you.
You shake your head and force a smile, and force Wolffe from your thoughts. "Just enjoying the company."
The Pantoran's hand travels higher as you take another long drink, and you lean into it, your body aching for the touch, the affection, the connection.
This is a bad idea. You know it is.
You also don't care.
“I’m glad to hear it,” he says, his breath hot against your ear. “I was worried I was being too forward.”
"Not at all," you say, your voice a low purr. "I appreciate a man who knows what he wants."
It's a risky thing to say, a dangerous game you're playing. You're not used to this, not anymore. It's been years since you've let yourself get close to anyone, years since you've allowed yourself this kind of vulnerability. The war has changed you, hardened you, made you more cautious, more guarded. But right now, in the dimly lit confines of this crowded bar, you feel a flicker of the woman you used to be. A woman who was unafraid to take risks, to live a little, to have some fun.
It's a refreshing change of pace.
The man next to you smiles again, and you can see the desire in his eyes. He wants you. You want him, too. Or, at least, you think you do.
The conversation continues, but it doesn't flow smoothly like you expected. Instead it’s a series of stilted, awkward questions and vague, evasive answers. The Pantoran, who introduces himself as Ryen, tries to get you to talk about yourself, to open up, but you find yourself deflecting, changing the subject, offering only the bare minimum of information.
You don't want to talk about your job, your life, or the reasons you're here on Coruscant. You just want to enjoy the moment and lose yourself in the pleasure of someone’s company that isn't Wolffe. You’re not looking for deep conversations or emotional connections, just to forget, for a little while.
But Wolffe is still there. Still watching you.
And suddenly, the alcohol doesn't feel like enough. Ryen's touch doesn't feel like enough. The music doesn't feel like enough.
“Something’s on your mind,” Ryen says, and he pulls back, his brows furrowed. "You're a million light years away. Am I boring you?"
“No,” you say, shaking your head and taking another sip of your drink. You try to smile, but you know it's not working. You're not a very good liar. “I’m just… tired. Long week.”
“Bad day at the office?” he asks with a charming smile. “Let me guess, you’re a Republic accountant?”
You laugh weakly. “Something like that.”
There's an awkward silence. The music pounds in the background, but it's no longer loud, no longer drowning out your thoughts. Instead it's amplifying them, making them louder, more insistent. It didn’t work. Of course it didn’t. You’re not sure why you ever thought you could outrun this.
“Look,” you say, setting your glass down and sliding off the stool. Your legs are a little unsteady, but you manage to keep your balance. “It was nice meeting you, Ryen. But I think I’m going to call it a night.”
“Already?” He frowns. “The night’s still young. We could go somewhere else. My place, maybe?”
You hesitate. It’s a tempting offer, and one you would have considered under different circumstances. But right now, it just feels like too much work. Too much effort. You’re not in the mood for this, not anymore. You just want to be alone, to curl up in a ball and forget the world exists.
“I don’t think so. But thank you for the drink.”
You turn to walk away, but his hand on your arm stops you.
“Wait,” he says, his grip a little too tight. “Don’t go. Not like this. Give me another chance.”
You look down at his hand, then back up at his face. There’s a desperation in his eyes that you find both flattering and unsettling. He’s not used to being turned down, you can tell. He’s used to getting what he wants, when he wants it.
You sigh, shaking your head. You know what's coming next, and you're already dreading it. But you don't have the heart to warn him. It wouldn't matter, anyway. Men like Ryen never listen.
So you let it happen.
You feel a shift in the air behind you, a sudden drop in temperature that makes the hair on the back of your neck raise on end. The music seems to fade into the background, the chatter of the other patrons becoming a distant hum. It’s as if the world has narrowed to this one small space, this one tense moment.
Wolffe is there.
You don't have to turn around to know it. His presence is a singularity, impossible to ignore, even in this crowded, chaotic place. It's an aura of power, of control, of dominance. It's the feeling you get when you're standing on the edge of the cliff, staring down into the abyss.
Fear, mixed with fascination.
"Problem here?" he asks, his voice low, edged with steel.
Your eyes flutter closed for a second. You hate him. You hate him for ruining your night, for interrupting your carefully constructed escape. You hate him for being so overbearing, so protective, so... Wolffe.
You also hate the way your body reacts to his presence. The way your skin tingles, your heart races, your breath catches in your throat. It's a betrayal of the highest order, the worst kind of self-sabotage.
Because no matter how hard you try, you can't seem to break free from his orbit.
Ryen’s grip on your arm tightens, then loosens as he turns to face Wolffe. He’s a tall man, but Wolffe is taller, broader, a wall of muscle that casts a long shadow over the both of you. Even in his button down shirt, jacket, and trousers, he’s still imposing. Still a soldier. Still in command.
“We were just having a conversation,” Ryen says, his tone casual, but you can hear the faint thread of unease beneath it. “Isn’t that right?”
You open your eyes and look at Wolffe. He’s not looking at Ryen. He’s looking at you, his gaze a deep, intense thing that sees right through you, past the facade of the carefree woman you're trying to be, and into the glass-fragile soul beneath. His mismatched eyes hold a storm of emotion, each one fighting for dominance. Anger, jealousy, fear, concern, longing.
But mostly anger.
“Is that true, Doc?” he asks, his voice softer now, but no less commanding. “Are you having a good conversation?”
You want to lie. You want to tell him that yes, you're having a wonderful time, and that he can go take a flying leap off the top of the Jedi Temple without his jetpack. But the words won't come. You can't lie to him, not when he's looking at you, through you, like that.
“It’s fine,” you say instead, the words sounding weak even to your own ears. “We were just finishing up.”
Ryen's head whips around, his eyes flashing. "What?"
Wolffe steps forward, his body language deceptively calm, but you can see the tension in his jaw, the subtle clench of his fists. He's not going to hurt him. But he's not going to back down, either.
"You heard the lady. It's time to go.”
Ryen’s eyes narrow, the blue of his skin darkening with anger. He looks from Wolffe to you, and a slow, dawning realization blooms on his face as he comes to the exact conclusion you and your commander have always stayed far away from. The one you are both too scared to admit.
You feel your face heat up. The alcohol is no longer your friend, making your skin feel too tight, your head too light. Dozens of eyes are now openly watching the tense exchange. You feel exposed, vulnerable. And more than anything, you just feel stupid.
“This is your boyfriend?” Ryen scoffs. “Your keeper?”
“No, he’s—“
“Yes,” Wolffe interjects, cutting off whatever weak denial you were about to offer. “I am.”
The lie lands like a flashbang in the space between you, and you turn, staring up at Wolffe with wide eyes. You can’t believe he just said that. You can’t believe he just laid claim to you in front of everyone, in front of this stranger, in front of the entire galaxy. You want to scream. You want to hit him. You want to...
You want him to mean it.
And that's the most terrifying thought of all.
Ryen’s face is a mask of disbelief and disgust. He looks at Wolffe, then back at you, a sneer twisting his lips. “You could have just said you were taken,” he says, his voice dripping with scorn. “You didn’t have to waste my time.”
He finally lets go of your arm, and you stumble back, your legs unsteady. Wolffe’s arm shoots out, wrapping around your waist and yanking you back against him before your knees can give way. He's warm and solid, and he's holding you like he has every right to touch you like this, to hold you like this. Like you're his.
And Force help you, in that moment, you wish that was true.
Ryen backs away, hands raised in surrender. "Whatever," he mutters, already turning to go. "Have fun with your... clone. "
And just like that, he's gone. The music returns to its previous volume, the conversation picks up again, the world spins on. You’re left standing there in the circle of Wolffe’s arms, your body still tingling from his touch, your mind racing with the implications of what just happened.
"You’ve had enough, Doc," he says gruffly, his breath warm against your ear. "We’re leaving.”
You’re too stunned to argue. Your head feels too full and your skin too hot, and you can’t seem to make your tongue work to tell him to get kriffing hands off of you. You let him guide you toward the exit, and Comet catches your eye as you pass by. He’s sitting with Boost and Sinker at their usual booth in the back corner, the three of them watching you with barely-concealed pity on their faces. You give them an awkward smile as you pass, but they just nod, their expressions solemn.
You stumble out of 79s and into the cool, damp night. The Coruscant air is thick with the smell of wet duracrete and exhaust fumes, the endless stream of speeder traffic above you a dizzying blur of light and sound as you blink up at them. It’s an overwhelming assault on your senses, and you suddenly feel too sober and far too aware of Wolffe’s arm around you as he all but drags you down the sidewalk.
"Get off me," you finally manage to spit out, shrugging your shoulders in an attempt to dislodge his suffocating touch.
He doesn't. If anything, his grip tightens, his fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt. He keeps moving you forward, his pace quickening as if he's trying to outrun the scene that's just unfolded. The scene that he caused.
"I said, get off me," you say again, your voice louder this time. You plant your feet and nearly roll your ankle in the process as the heels you're wearing skid against the pavement. You wince in pain, but it's nothing compared to the anger boiling inside of you. “Wolffe, I swear to the Force—"
"Not here," he says, low and tight. "Not on the street."
"Why not?" you snap. "Afraid someone will see the big, bad Commander losing control of his little doctor?"
Wolffe’s jaw ticks, and his grip tightens as he all but drags you along the street. Your feet slip on the wet pavement as you struggle to keep up with his long, purposeful stride, but you can barely focus on anything but the anger coursing through you.
You can't believe him. You can't believe he would do this to you, that he would humiliate you like this, that he would treat you like some sort of… property. Like he had any right to tell you what to do or who to talk to when he can’t be bothered to do anything but watch you from afar.
It was one thing to pull you aside in the medbay or on the battlefield to offer you his opinion or advice, but this? This was too far. This was crossing the line he himself had drawn months ago. And you were done with it.
“Wolffe,” you hiss, struggling in his grasp. “Let go. You're hurting me."
At that, he stops. He lets go of your arm so suddenly that you stumble back, nearly falling in the process. You wince at the dull ache already blooming on your skin and rub at the tender spot where his fingers had dug into your flesh. Wolffe's face is shadowed in the dim glow of the streetlights, but you can see the way he watches the motion. For a fleeting moment, regret breaks through that mask of anger and stoicism. And then it’s gone.
"Let's go," he says again, but this time he doesn't touch you. He just turns and starts walking, expecting you to follow.
You're not sure why you do. Maybe it's because you're too tipsy to find your own way back, or maybe it's because you're too angry to care about the consequences of following him.
Or maybe it's the small, traitorous part of you that is still drawn to him, that still wants to be near him, even when you want to strangle him.
Either way, you pick up your pace and walk beside him, the two of you moving in silence through the neon-drenched streets of Coruscant. The righteous anger has faded, and in its wake is the hollow emptiness you’ve been trying to fill all night, raw at the edges like an open wound. You wrap your arms around yourself, shivering despite the warmth of the night.
"Why did you do that?" you ask quietly.
"Do what?"
"The boyfriend thing," you say, keeping your eyes fixed on the pavement in front of you. "Why did you say that?"
Wolffe doesn't answer right away. He just keeps walking, his hands shoved in his pockets, his jaw set in a hard, stubborn line. You're about to give up, to accept that he's not going to answer, when he finally speaks.
"Because he wasn't going to let you go," he says flatly. "And you were too drunk to handle it yourself."
The words hit you like a slap in the face. They're cold, they're cruel, and they're exactly the kind of thing you would expect from him. He's not protecting you. He's managing you. He's not saving you. He's controlling you.
"I was handling it just fine," you say, your voice trembling with a rage that is quickly rising to the surface again. "I didn't need you to swoop in and play the hero. We were just having a conversation."
“You were uncomfortable,” he counters, not even looking at you.
"No, I wasn't,” you shoot back. “You don’t know what I was feeling. You never do.”
Wolffe scoffs. "You were fidgeting. You touched your hair five times in less than a minute, and you were leaning away from him. And when he put his hand on your leg, you flinched. I saw you. Don't lie to me, Doc. Not about this."
The sheer, unyielding certainty in his voice stops you cold. He wasn't just watching; he was analyzing. Cataloging. Turning your every unconscious gesture into data. It's infuriating, invasive, and… not entirely wrong. You had been uncomfortable. You had been flinching. But that wasn't the point. The point was that you could have handled it. You didn't need him to step in. You didn't need him to rescue you. You didn't need him. Period.
But you wanted him. And that was the problem.
"Besides, you've had enough," he continues, his tone shifting from accusatory to clinical. "I could smell the whyren's on you from across the room. When was the last time you ate?"
You roll your eyes. "That's none of your business."
"It is when it affects your performance," he says. "I need you sharp. I need you focused. I can't have you getting sloppy because you're hungover."
The accusation is so far beyond the pale, so utterly insulting, that for a moment, you can't even speak. You just stare at him, your mouth agape, your mind reeling. How dare he? How dare he question your professionalism, your commitment, your competence? How dare he act like he knows better than you, like he has the right to tell you what to do, how to act, how to feel?
He's not your commander. He's not your friend. He's your critic, your judge. And you're done. You're done with him.
"Sloppy?" you finally manage to say, your voice dangerously quiet. "Is that what you think of me? That I'm sloppy?"
"I think you're exhausted," he says, his tone softening, just barely. He’s looking at you now, his eyes scanning your face with the same focused intensity he uses when he's analyzing enemy positions on the battlefield. "And you're not taking care of yourself. That makes you a liability. To yourself, and to my men."
The 'my men' part stings the most. He's right, and you hate him for it. You have been exhausted. You have been running on fumes. But you're not a liability. You're a goddamn miracle worker, and he knows it. You've patched up his soldiers, patched up him, more times than you can count, and you've never once made a mistake. Never once been 'sloppy.'
Tears of frustration prick at the corners of your eyes, and you angrily swipe them away. "I'm fine," you hiss. "I'm always fine."
Before he can respond, you’re turning again, forcing yourself to keep moving down the sidewalk. You’ve figured out his destination now. Your speeder is parked on the street two blocks away from here. You’d driven it to the bar, enjoying the brief sense of freedom that came with the open-air vehicle you rarely ever got to use anymore, even if you’d had to leave the roof on thanks to the rain. You were hoping to avoid Wolffe the whole way back, but apparently, that wasn't an option.
You can feel him following behind you, but you ignore him, focusing instead on the sound of your shoes clicking against the pavement. The rain has started up again, misting against your skin, cool in comparison to the angry heat of your cheeks. Your heart is racing, your stomach churning, but you keep your head high, your shoulders back. You won't give him the satisfaction of seeing you break.
The sleek, silver shape of your speeder finally comes into view, nestled between a battered cargo hauler and a garishly painted patrol craft. You fish in your pocket for the remote, your fingers clumsy and stiff. The speeder chirps in response, and its canopy slides open with a soft hiss. Freedom. An escape pod waiting to launch you away from him and this awful night.
“Keys,” Wolffe suddenly says, holding out a hand as he stops beside you.
You stare at it, then at him. The idea is laughable. "You're not driving my speeder."
"You can barely walk. Keys.”
For a second, you consider making a run for it. You could jump in, slam the door, and be gone before he could react. But he’s faster than you. Stronger. And the game would be over before it even began. With a defeated sigh that feels like it’s been pulled from the depths of your soul, you drop the small fob into his waiting palm.
His fingers brush yours, sending an involuntary jolt through you. The contact stretches for a beat too long before he clenches his fist around the keys and turns away, his boots eating up the remaining steps to the driver's side. You follow after him, struggling to keep up.
"Wolffe, I'm perfectly capable of—"
"I'm not risking my best doctor because you had one too many,” he retorts, not even bothering to look at you. The compliment is backhanded, dismissive, and it still makes something stupid and hopeful flutter in your chest. You hate that feeling almost as much as you hate him right now.
"I am your only doctor," you say through gritted teeth. "And you're not my babysitter. I can drive myself home."
"Get in," he says, ignoring you completely. “I’m taking you home.”
"No."
He stops, one hand on the doorframe, and turns. "No? What do you mean, ‘no?’”
"I mean no," you repeat, crossing your arms. "You don't get to drag me out of a bar, insult me, call me sloppy, and then play the concerned friend. It doesn't work like that.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. "I'm not letting you drive like this. You're going to get yourself killed."
"You can't force me,” you say, and lift your chin. "I'm not one of your soldiers. You don't get to order me around."
Wolffe lets out a harsh breath, and suddenly, he’s right in front of you. The streetlight casts shadows across his face, highlighting his scar, his sharp cheekbones, and the hard set of his jaw. He's too close, too big, too much. You have to fight the urge to take an instinctive step back.
His hand rests on the roof of the speeder as he leans closer, caging you in, and the smell of him—leather, blaster oil, and something that is purely Wolffe—overwhelms you. You swallow, your throat suddenly dry.
“Doc," he says, his voice a low rumble, "don't push me."
You don’t back down. You step closer, craning your neck to meet his gaze with a defiant glare.
"Or what?" you whisper. "What are you going to do, Commander?"
His gaze dips to your lips, then back up, and you can see his throat bob. The intensity of his stare, the closeness of his body, the way he's holding himself back, it all tells the same story. The same one he’s been dutifully ignoring for months. And it’s the same story you've been trying to pretend you can't read.
His grip on the roof of the speeder tightens, the metal groaning under the pressure. He’s teetering on the edge of something, and you’re both about to fall.
Then, just as quickly as it started, it's over. Wolffe’s eyes widen a fraction before he takes a halting step back. He shoves his hands into his pockets, the picture of disciplined nonchalance, but he’s not fooling you. Not this time. Not when you saw the raw hunger in his expression, felt it mirrored deep within yourself.
He clears his throat, looking anywhere but at you.
"Get in the speeder," he says. "I'm taking you home. Don't make this harder than it has to be."
"No," you repeat, a little softer this time.
You can feel the beginnings of regret pooling in your stomach. You hate when you argue like this, but it always seems to happen, no matter how hard you try to keep things civil between the two of you. It's like you're both magnets, repelling and attracting each other at the same time in equal measure, never finding equilibrium, always pushing each other's boundaries.
You've thought about leaving the 104th a hundred times. Thought about training up another medic, a clone who can keep his head down and follow orders the way you’ve never been able to. It would be better, for him and for everyone, if you did. But you can never bring yourself to do it. You care about these men too much. You care about him too much.
And that's the problem, isn't it?
Despite everything, despite all the fights, all the arguments, all the sleepless nights and frustrating days, you're still here. Still standing in front of him, your heart aching for a man who will never let himself love you back. Who will never cross the line he drew in the sand between the two of you, even when you can see the longing in his eyes.
It’s pathetic. It’s foolish. And it’s the only thing that’s kept you going for the past year.
Wolffe lets out a long, weary sigh, running a hand over his hair that’s starting to grow out of its strict regulation cut. He looks up at the sky, at the endless stream of traffic, and for a moment, you see the weariness in his posture, the heavy weight of the war on his shoulders. When he turns back to you, his eyes are hard with resolve.
“Fine.”
He reaches out and wraps an arm around your waist, and before you can react, he's lifting you. A startled yelp escapes you as he hoists you with an infuriating lack of effort and swings you around the open passenger door.
"Wolffe! Put me down!” you squeal, kicking your legs in protest, your hands scrabbling against his shoulders, but it’s useless. He’s immovable. “You overgrown, overbearing, egotistical..."
He deposits you onto the passenger seat with a surprising amount of restraint, careful not to let you hit your head. You fumble with the seatbelt, trying to fasten it before he can, but your fingers are still clumsy from the alcohol, and the buckle slips from your grasp.
"Stop.”
"I can do it," you snap, your cheeks burning with a mixture of anger and utter mortification.
"For fuck’s sake, stop,” he growls, and then he’s leaning over you, his body crowding yours, the scent of him filling your senses and making your head swim. He bats your hands away and grabs the buckle, his knuckles brushing against your thigh as he clicks it into place.
He's too close. So close you can count the flecks of gold in his good eye, map the faint web of scars that crisscross his face, see the dark shadow of stubble beginning to show on his jaw. If you moved forward, even an inch, you could kiss him. You could close the distance between you. You could finally taste the lips that have haunted your dreams for months.
“There,” he says, his voice low and rough. "All snug and secure."
The sarcasm in his tone is like a splash of cold water on your desire. You blink, snapping back to reality. What the hell are you doing?
"Go to hell," you say, your voice hoarse, your heart racing.
His eyes bore into yours. "Already there.”
For a beat, you’re locked together, suspended in the space between what you are and what you could be. Then, just as before, he retreats to safer ground.
“Don’t crash my speeder,” you call after him as he pulls away and slams your door shut with enough force to rock the vehicle. You lean back in the seat, closing your eyes. This isn’t how you wanted tonight to go. This isn't how any of it was supposed to go.
Wolffe slides into the driver's seat, yanking the door behind him, and the small space of the cockpit is suddenly filled with him. You open one eye to watch him adjust the seat’s position with an annoyed shove, his muscles straining against the confines of his civilian clothing.
"Don't mess with the settings," you say, sitting up straight again. "I like them where they are."
"They're wrong," he says, fiddling with the controls.
"You're wrong," you mutter under your breath. He shoots you a withering look, but the corner of his mouth twitches, betraying the ghost of his amusement.
"You're impossible," he grumbles.
"Well, you're annoying,” you retort, because it's the best you can do on short notice. You’re not feeling particularly clever right now. You feel like you’ve been run over by an AT-TE.
That gets a reaction. A short, sharp exhale that might have been a laugh in another life. Wolffe turns his head, and the glow from the dash board lights illuminates the softening of his features.
"Why are you shaking?" he asks, his tone shifting from angry to clinical, the way it does when he's assessing a wound.
You immediately fold your arms, trying to hide the tell. "I'm not."
"Are you cold?"
"I'm fine, Wolffe."
"Here," he says, and before you can react, he’s leaning forward and shrugging out of his leather jacket. He struggles for a moment to free himself, and you watch, a little amused, as he gets one arm tangled in the sleeve before yanking it free with an irritated grunt.
"I don't want your jacket," you protest, but he's already balling it up and shoving it at you.
"Put it on."
Your mouth twists. You want to throw it back in his face, to make a scene, to prove that you don't need him or his smug, overprotective gestures. But it's warm. And it smells like him. And you are, in fact, starting to feel the chill from the night air seeping through your clothes.
You gingerly take the jacket and pull it on. It's big on you, the sleeves covering your hands and the collar rising up to your cheeks. You’re swimming in it, enveloped by the scent of him, the lingering warmth from his body. It's both a comfort and a cage, and you hate how much you like it.
When you look up, Wolffe watching you. There's an odd expression on his face you can’t begin to parse, and as soon you look up at him, it’s gone. Vanished like your hopes for a peaceful night.
"Hang on," he says, and then he’s gunning the engine, the speeder surging forward with a gut-wrenching lurch that presses you back into your seat. He weaves into the traffic with an aggressive, impatient expertise, cutting off a lumbering transport and earning a blare of angry horns in response.
"Wolffe!" you yelp, grabbing the handle above the door. "Slow down!"
"This is slow," he grunts, not taking his eyes off the river of vehicles in front of him. "You want to see fast?"
"No! I want to get home in one piece. Which means you need to follow the kriffing traffic laws."
He makes a noise that's somewhere between a scoff and a growl. "The traffic laws on this planet are suggestions. Not rules."
"You're not going to win this argument," you say, your knuckles white as you hold on for dear life. "You can't just bully other drivers off the road. Some of us have to live here."
He doesn't respond, but he does ease up on the accelerator, just enough that the knot in your stomach loosens a fraction. He’s still driving like a man with something to prove, but at least you're not in immediate danger of becoming a smear on the side of a skyscraper. You feel secure enough to lean forward and start to input the coordinates for your apartment into the navicomputer, but before you can get past the first three digits, he’s swatting your hand away.
"I know where you live," he says, his tone flat.
You pull your hand back, stung. Of course he does. He's Wolffe. He probably has the floor plans of your building memorized. The knowledge should feel invasive, but it just feels… normal. It's the kind of thing you've come to expect from him, the kind of thing that simultaneously infuriates you and makes you feel a little bit safer.
You've been doing this for a while, the two of you, the push-and-pull. One minute you're arguing, the next, you’re…something else.
It started small, at first. Little glances, subtle flirting, casual touches. He’d bring you caf when you were pulling an all-nighter in the medbay, and you’d find excuses to visit the command deck when you knew he was on duty. He’d make an offhand comment about your civvies, and you’d find yourself dressing up a little more, just to see if he’d notice. He always did.
But then Abregado happened, and everything changed. He came back different. Harder. Colder. And you became more reckless, more defiant, more determined to break through that wall of ice he’d built around himself. The line between doctor and patient, friend and…something more, blurred and reformed into something new, something you couldn't name.
You spent months trying to fix him. He spent months trying to push you away. The war raged on, and you both lost yourselves in the chaos, finding solace in each other’s company, even if it was just in stolen moments and shared silences. The feelings grew, but the words never came.
They still haven't.
Tonight, you'd given up. You were frustrated, and exhausted, and not in the mood to be polite or tactful or whatever the hell Wolffe expects from you. So you'd gone to 79s with Comet and the boys, hoping to lose yourself in the noise and the alcohol. You'd wanted to forget about him, and the war, and the stupid, complicated mess that was your life. You'd almost succeeded, too.
And then Wolffe showed up, and everything happened exactly how it always does. A perfect storm of stubbornness and desire, culminating in you being driven home by the one person you were trying to forget, wrapped in his jacket and smelling his scent on your skin.
You hate it.
You also, to your shame, don't want it to end.
The silence stretches on, thick and heavy, and you find yourself watching him. The way his hands grip the controls hard enough to white his knuckles. How the light from the neon signs plastered across the buildings paints his face in shifting colors—red, then blue, then green. He's a man of sharp angles and hard edges, a study in controlled violence.
And you are the one who keeps trying to smooth those edges.
The speeder banks left, taking the off-ramp toward your residential district. The towering skyscrapers of the commercial sector give way to the more subdued, upscale apartments in your district. It’s quiet here, the streets clean and well-lit. It feels like a different world, a million light-years away from the grimy, chaotic energy of 79s, and the grim reality of the Triumphant II. It's the world you're supposed to live in, the world you left behind when you volunteered for service. A world of quiet nights, and safe streets, and comfortable, predictable lives.
A world without Wolffe.
The thought is followed by a pang of something you can't quite name. Regret? Longing? You're not sure.
"Did I really fidget that much?" you ask quietly.
Wolffe glances at you, surprised by the sudden break in the silence. "What?"
"Back at the bar," you say, picking at a loose thread on the sleeve of his jacket. "You said I was fidgeting."
He's silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. You can see him out of the corner of your eye, the slight tightening of his jaw as he considers his response. Finally, he nods.
“Yeah. You did.”
You huff out a breath and look down at your lap. "I can't believe you were paying that close attention.”
"I'm always paying attention,” he says. There's no arrogance in his tone, just a simple statement of fact. "It's my job to notice things."
"You sure were noticing an awful lot," you mutter under your breath, but you know he hears you.
"And you were doing a lot of fidgeting," he counters with a small smirk. It’s barely there, imperceptible to those who don’t know how to look for it, but you do. You catch the way the corner of his mouth twitches.
"So? Maybe I was a little uncomfortable. That doesn't mean you had to get all alpha-male and start throwing your weight around," you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest. You toe off your heels, letting them fall to the floor with a soft thud, and sink further into your seat with an exhausted sigh. "I had it under control."
"Throwing my weight around?” he repeats with a scoff. His eyes flick toward you, taking in the way you're curled up in the passenger seat, painted toes tapping at the floormat, before he quickly looks away. "You call that throwing my weight around? I could have thrown him across the room if I'd wanted to. That was me being polite."
"Yes, Wolffe, you're a very scary, very intimidating commander,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. “I’m sure Ryen was absolutely terrified.”
"Ryen.” Wolffe’s nose wrinkles. "What kind of name is Ryen?"
"It's a perfectly good name," you defend, though you're not sure why. You couldn't care less about Ryen or his stupid name now. "What’s wrong with it?”
He snorts. "Sounds like a brand of cleaning agent.”
A shocked laugh escapes your lips, too loud in the confined space of the speeder. You immediately clamp your mouth shut and sink further into his jacket, but it's too late. The damage is done.
"Don't," you warn, though the effect is ruined by the smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "That wasn't funny."
You hear Wolffe’s soft chuckle from beside you, as rare as it is surprising. The sound warms something deep inside of you, thawing the cold emptiness that's been plaguing you for months. For just one second, it's like nothing's changed.
"He did have a very starched shirt," you admit. "I'll give you that."
"And too much product in his hair," Wolffe adds, his tone still light. "Looked like he'd dipped his head in a vat of grease."
You giggle again, and this time you don't try to stop it. The anger and frustration and general feeling of disappointment that has been building since your failed attempt at escape earlier takes a back seat to this fleeting moment of levity. You want to reach out and capture it with both hands, keep it safe from the harsh realities that are waiting outside of the speeder, but you know it's only temporary.
Soon, the war will be back, looming large in the distance, its shadow threatening to drown out the light. But for now, for these few, precious moments, it's just you and him. Two people, caught up in the same war, the same tragedy, the same impossible hope.
Without your righteous fury propping you up, you can feel exhaustion start to pull at your limbs. A yawn threatens to slip out, but you manage to stifle it behind your hand. The alcohol is still humming through your veins, but it’s a mellower buzz now. A soft, fuzzy warmth that lulls you into a state of drowsy contentment. You lean your head against the cool glass of the window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of color.
"You okay, doc?" Wolffe asks, his voice softer than you've heard it all night. He’s slowed down now, navigating the quiet streets with a practiced ease. He's not in a hurry anymore. Neither are you.
"I'm fine," you say, your words slurring slightly. You're not sure if it's the alcohol, or the long hours, or the emotional whiplash of the evening, but you can feel the weight of the past few weeks settling on you like a heavy blanket. "Just... tired."
"You're drunk," he corrects.
"No. I'm relaxed,” you mumble, turning toward him and resting your cheek on the seat. You look up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. "'S a temporary condition. You should try it sometime."
"I am relaxed," he says. "This is me being relaxed."
"Mmm."
The sound comes out as more of an incoherent hum than an actual word, but he seems to understand. You watch him for another long, lazy moment, the passing streetlights casting shadows across his face. He looks different, somehow. Softer. Less like the hard, uncompromising man he pretends to be, more like the man you've glimpsed underneath it all.
"Don't be mad," you murmur, your voice small. "Please?"
Wolffe lets out a long, slow breath, and shakes his head. "I'm not mad."
"Yes, you are. I can tell. You get all..." You trail off, waving your hand in the space between the two of you.
"Get all what?" he asks, a hint of amusement back in his voice.
"You know."
"No, I do not," he replies with a huff that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. "You're going to have to be more specific, Doc. Use your words."
"Stiff," you say, poking him in the arm. Your finger bounces back, hitting solid muscle, but he makes no move to stop you. He just watches you out of the corner of his eye, his expression unreadable. "You get all stiff and commander-y. Your jaw does that thing. You look like you're sucking on a sour lozenge."
He rolls his eyes. "I do not."
"Do too," you counter, your head lolling back against the headrest. “It’s very serious. Very authoritative. Makes me want to... to..." You're about to say 'disobey orders,' but you catch yourself just in time. You're not that drunk. "Argue with you," you finish lamely.
"You always want to argue with me," he says softly. "It's your favorite hobby."
"It's not my favorite hobby," you protest, but you're smiling. "It's... a necessary evil."
"Necessary evil, huh?" he repeats.
"You're impossible," you mutter, shaking your head. "A big, grumpy, impossible... man."
Wolffe chuckles, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. You're not sure if it's the alcohol or the sound of his laugh that makes your stomach do flips, but you can't stop the way your body reacts to him. You realize you haven't seen him smile or laugh like this in a long, long time. And even though you're the one who's tipsy, he's the one who looks lighter, less weighed down by the burdens he's carrying.
The wave of melancholy that washes over you is sudden, but not unexpected. You can feel it building inside you, like floodwaters against the walls of the dam, threatening to burst through the cracks. You miss him. You miss the way he used to be, the way you used to be. Before Abregado, before the nightmares, before the scars.
Before you let yourself fall in love with him.
"What?" Wolffe asks, his smile fading as he sees the shift in your mood. "What is it?"
"Nothing," you say, shaking your head. "I'm just... being dumb."
"Talk to me," he says gently as the speeder slows, turning into the parking deck attached to your building. He finds an empty spot near the turbolifts and eases the vehicle into it with a precision you've come to expect from him, and he cuts the engine.
You're home. The night is over.
The sudden silence is deafening. You sit up straight, struggling to free yourself from your seatbelt and the tangle of your own emotions. Wolffe steps out of the speeder, leaving you alone with your thoughts for the briefest moment before he's opening your door and leaning in.
"I'm fine," you insist, but he's already scooping up your heels from the floor. "Wolffe, seriously, I'm—"
"Stop," he says, not unkindly. "Stop lying to me."
You open your mouth, but the words die on your lips. He's right. You are lying. To him, to yourself, to everyone. Because if you can convince him that you're fine, that you can handle yourself, maybe you'll finally start to believe it, too.
You let out a breath and look away. "Okay."
"Come on," he says, holding out his hand.
You take it. His skin is rough, his grip strong, but his fingers close over yours with surprising gentleness. He helps you out of the speeder, not bothering to ask if you need his assistance. He just does it, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. As if you haven't spent the past six months fighting him every step of the way, and he hasn't spent them trying to make you bend to his will.
His fingers linger for just an instant longer than they should before he drops his hand. It's an awkward moment, both of you unsure how to navigate this uncharted space between you. There are words there, on the tip of your tongue, but you swallow them back down.
"Thanks," you say quietly.
"Anytime."
Wolffe holds your heels in one hand, the other resting at the small of your back as he steers you toward the turbolift. You lean into him, just barely, the way you did earlier.
This. This is why you stay.
The two of you step inside the lift, and it lurches once before rocketing upward toward the top floors. You grab onto the handlebar next to the door for support as the motion jostles you, closing your eyes to keep the nausea at bay. You can feel Wolffe's hand hover over the small of your back, ready to steady you if you stumble, but he makes no move to touch you again.
"How much did you have to drink?" he asks, his voice carefully neutral.
"Not enough,” you mutter, not opening your eyes.
"Answer the question."
"Five shots. Whyren's. And some green thing he bought me."
Wolffe lets out a loud sigh. "You're an idiot."
"Thanks," you mumble.
"No, I'm serious," he says, his tone shifting to something harder. "You're a doctor. You know better. Going to a bar by yourself, getting wasted with a stranger... What the hell were you thinking?"
Your head snaps up, the nausea forgotten as hot anger rushes through you. "I wasn't 'wasted'," you retort. "And I wasn't by myself. Comet was with me. And Boost and Sinker. You saw them."
"I did," he says, his jaw tight. "And I also saw you leave them. I saw you go to the bar with him. Alone."
"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize I needed your permission to talk to someone!" you seethe, your voice rising with indignation. "I didn't realize I needed to file a leave request in triplicate to have a life outside of that kriffing ship!"
He flinches. It's subtle, but you see it, the slight twitch in his brow. You’ve wounded him with your words. Good. He deserves it. After everything he’s put you through, he deserves to feel even a fraction of what you’re feeling right now.
The lift dings, and the doors slide open, revealing the quiet carpeted hallway of your floor. Wolffe steps out first, checking the corridor before beckoning you forward. "Don't be ridiculous," he says. "This isn't about permission. This is about common sense. Something you seem to be in short supply of tonight."
"Common sense?" you repeat, incredulous. You shoulder past him. "You have some nerve talking to me about common sense, Wolffe. You're the one who runs headfirst into battle without a second thought. You're the one who gets himself shot and stabbed and blown up on a weekly basis!"
"That's my job!" he shoots back as he stomps after you. "I'm a soldier. That's what I do! What's your excuse?"
"My excuse is that I'm tired!" you yell, spinning around to face him, the tears you've been fighting back finally spilling over. "I just wanted one night. One night to be a normal person. To have a drink, and a conversation, and to forget! Is that too much to ask? Is it?"
Wolffe stops, the angry retort dying on his lips as he takes in the sight of you. His shoulders slump, and the hard set of his jaw softens into something that looks like regret. He reaches out, then lets his hand fall back to his side, curling into a fist at his side.
"No," he whispers. "It's not."
The admission hangs in the air between you, fragile and new. You can't stand to see him look at you with that expression, that mixture of pity and concern. You turn away and stomp down the rest of the hall, fumbling with the lock on your door with trembling fingers. You can’t get the keycard to work. You try again, and again, the light flashing red each time.
"Here," he says, coming up behind you and gently taking the card from your hand. He slots it into the reader, and the light flashes green. The door slides open with a soft hiss, revealing the dark, quiet space of your apartment.
He guides you inside, keeping a steadying hand on your arm. You stumble into the living room, throwing off the jacket that’s wrapped around your shoulders and letting it fall to the floor in a heap. You don't care. You just want to be free of it, free of him, free of this night.
"Wolffe," you say, your back still to him as you stare out the large window overlooking the city. "Please, just... go."
You hear him sigh, followed by the soft thud of your heels hitting the floor by the door. "I will," he says quietly. "After you've had some water, and eaten something. And after I'm sure you're not going to pass out and hit your head."
You let out a watery, humorless laugh. "You're not my keeper."
"I know."
You feel a gentle touch on your arm, and you flinch, but you don't pull away. He guides you toward the kitchen, his movements slow, cautious, the way he approaches injured animals or hostile locals. He's treating you like glass, like something fragile that could shatter at any moment. It makes you feel small, insignificant.
"Sit," he orders softly.
"Stop ordering me around," you grumble, though the bite of your words is missing.
"Sit," he repeats, this time more firmly, steering you toward your small, round table, the one you bought at a street market on a rare day of shore leave, the one you've never had a chance to use. Until now. “Do you have any food? Anything that isn’t caffeinated or a nutrient packet?”
You shake your head. "I haven't had a chance to go to the market."
"Right," he says with a sigh, turning to your small, well-organized kitchen. “I’ll see what I can do.”
You watch him, a detached sort of fascination taking hold as he moves through your space. He's so out of place here in your quiet, feminine apartment, with its soft colors and delicate furniture. His bulk seems to fill the space, making the whole apartment feel smaller. He looks too big, too harsh, too dangerous, surrounded by your things.
And yet, he also looks…right. Like he belongs here. With you.
Wolffe opens your conservator, the cool light illuminating his face, and he lets out a soft whistle. “Fancy,” he murmurs, scanning up and down. “I didn’t know the GAR paid our medics this well.”
“They don’t,” you mumble, resting your chin on your palm. “This is all… from before.”
He stills, one hand on the door. He doesn't turn, but you can see the tension in the set of his shoulders. He knows what you mean, and you can tell he wishes you hadn't said it. Before. Before the war, before the clones, before the Triumphant, before him. Before your life became a series of endless, bleeding wounds.
Before you started to bleed with it.
He clears his throat, reaching for the bottle of juice and popping the top. You watch as he brings it to his nose, sniffing it with the critical eye of a soldier who’s seen more than his fair share of spoiled rations.
“Best by yesterday,” he announces, turning to show you the bottle. “We’ll live dangerously.”
He grabs two clean glasses from the shelf above the sink, then reaches back in and pulls out a half-empty bag of ration crackers you forgot you had. He sets everything down on the table with a quiet thud, placing one of the glasses in front of you before sliding into the chair opposite yours.
The simple domesticity of it all makes your chest ache. It’s the kind of moment you’ve dreamed of, the kind of life you’ve secretly wanted with him. Quiet nights, shared meals, easy silence. But it’s not real. It’s an illusion, a brief reprieve from the harsh reality of your lives. And you’re not sure how much more of it you can take.
You stare at the glass, at the condensation already beginning to bead on its surface. Wolffe watches you, his mismatched eyes unreadable in the dim light of the kitchen. He doesn't push, he doesn't prod. He just waits.
Finally, with a sigh, you reach for the glass. You take a tentative sip, and when your stomach doesn't immediately rebel, you drink deeply. The cool liquid soothes the ache in your throat, washing away the lingering taste of the alcohol from earlier, and you pick at the crackers, taking small bites as your stomach slowly settles.
Wolffe watches you, his hands loosely clasped on the table. "Good?"
You nod, the food grounding you, calming your nerves. "Yeah."
He gives you another one of his small, fleeting smiles, but it's gone as quickly as it appeared. He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, his fingers drumming against the wooden surface.
"I'm sorry."
The words are spoken so softly, you almost miss them. You look up, your hand freezing mid-cracker, but Wolffe is staring down at the table.
"What?" you ask.
"I'm sorry," he repeats, looking up. His gaze is intense, holding yours, pinning you in place. "For tonight. For the way I acted. It was..."
"Inappropriate?" you offer, your tone still bitter.
He winces. "I was going to say wrong."
"Wrong," you echo, dropping the cracker back onto the plate. You wipe your fingers on the napkin, suddenly losing your appetite. "So, what, you're going to apologize, but not change? Just go back to being an ass the next time something inconveniences you?"
"That's not fair."
"No," you say, the words spilling out, unstoppable now. "No, it's not. This isn't the first time, Wolffe. I keep trying to be reasonable, I keep trying to be civil, but nothing changes. It's like we're stuck. In this... this place, this limbo, this whatever the hell this is between us. I can't—"
"Stop," he says, reaching across the table to grip your hand. "Stop."
You do, your voice dying in your throat. The feel of his calloused fingers, warm on your skin, sends sparks up your arm, igniting your veins. He's touching you. After months of avoiding you, pushing you away, he's touching you. Holding your hand like it's something precious, something fragile. Something to be cherished.
"I'm trying," he says, his tone pleading. "I am. I just... I'm not good at this."
"At what?"
"This," he repeats. He shakes his head, looking down at the table, at his hand over yours. "At relationships. At... talking. I'm better at shooting people. And yelling."
You let out an exasperated sigh, but you can't help the smile that tugs at the corner of your mouth. "I've noticed."
"You deserve better," he says, still staring down at your joined hands. His thumb strokes along the length of yours, tracing patterns on your skin, sending tiny, delicious shivers through your body.
"So you've told me," you say, swallowing hard. "Several times."
He sighs. "It's the truth."
"And I've told you it's not," you reply, your voice softening. You squeeze his hand. "I know who you are, Wolffe. As much as you try to hide from me, I notice things, too. And I've seen the way you are with the men. How you take care of them. How you take care of me."
"I yelled at you tonight," he counters, shaking his head. "I hurt you. I said things I didn’t mean, and I made you feel like shit. That's not taking care of you."
"You did," you say, your smile fading. "You did make me feel like shit. But that's not... I'm not talking about the yelling. Or the fighting. Or any of that. I'm talking about the way you make sure I eat. And the way you stay up with me when I'm pulling extra shifts in the medbay. You're always there, every time. You're always the one to check on me and make sure I'm okay. Even when we're fighting, you're still looking out for me."
He lets out an exasperated breath, pulling his hand back. "Because someone has to."
"No," you counter, leaning forward. You grab his hand and mold his fingers until they’re laced with yours, and you hold up your joined hands for him to see. "Because you care. And I'm tired of pretending that we're both fine with the way things are."
Wolffe's breath hitches. His fingers flex around yours, as if he's testing the reality of the moment. You hold on, determined to prove him wrong.
“You’re drunk,” he mutters, staring at your interlocked fingers.
You snort. "Not that drunk."
"Still drunk."
"Enough to say things I probably wouldn't have said otherwise," you admit. "But not too drunk that I can't recognize that this"—you nod down at your joined hands—"is what I've wanted for months."
He swallows hard. You can see his throat working, the muscles of his jaw twitching. He's struggling with the admission, but you've been patient, too patient, for too long. You won't be pushed aside anymore. Not by him, not by the war, not by anything.
"Why do you push me away?" you whisper.
He's silent, his thumb idly stroking the back of your hand, his eyes locked on the place where your bodies meet. You can tell he's fighting with himself, trying to decide if he should let you in, or put the walls back up, as strong as before.
You can feel him slipping away, retreating behind his defenses, but you refuse to let him go.
"I'm right here, Wolffe," you murmur, tightening your grip. "I'm not going anywhere. You can tell me."
He lets out an unsteady breath, his gaze lifting from your hands to your face. He holds you in place, the intensity of his stare pinning you to the spot, stripping you bare.
"Because it hurts," he rasps. He takes another breath, as if he's preparing to jump off the edge of the cliff, the one he's been skirting for months. "It hurts to look at you. It hurts to hear you laugh, or see you smile, or touch you. Because every time I do, it reminds me that I can't keep you safe. And that terrifies me."
You suck in your breath. Your heart is racing, thundering in your chest. "Wolffe—"
"I can't protect you, Doc," he whispers, his expression full of anguish. "You're too good, too soft, too..." He shakes his head, frustrated, his fingers flexing against yours. "I've been trained for this, my whole life, but you... I can't risk losing you."
The confession hangs in the air between you, raw, vulnerable.
"You won't," you whisper.
He shakes his head. "You can't know that."
"You're right," you agree, your voice stronger now. "I can't. None of us can. The war could end tomorrow, or it could go on for another twenty years. We can't predict the future. We can only live in the moment. And I can't think of anyone else I'd rather be in this moment with than you."
He exhales sharply, as if you've punched him. You can see the emotion playing across his features, the desire, the longing, the fear. He's been keeping this in for months, denying his own feelings, burying them under layers of armor. You know he has. You've done the same thing, but the alcohol has worn down your resolve, making you brave. Making you bold.
"Please, Wolffe," you say as you rise from your seat. He watches you, his expression wary, his body tensing as if he's bracing for impact. But he stays seated, his gaze locked on yours.
"Doc—"
"I'm tired," you murmur, coming to stand in front of him. You gently tug his hand, urging him to stand. "I'm tired of the fighting. I'm tired of the yelling. I'm tired of us hurting each other."
"Me too," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Please," you repeat.
He rises from his seat, his free hand reaching out to grasp your hip. You shiver as his fingers dig into your skin, but you stand firm. You won't be the first to break. You've come too far, pushed too hard, to give in now.
You tilt your chin up, holding his gaze. In the bright light of your kitchen, he almost seems unworldly, too real to be believed.
You reach out with trembling fingers, tracing the line of his cheek, his scar, the ridge of his brow. Wolffe closes his eyes, letting out his breath in one, shaky exhale, his hand tightening on your hip. You can feel his strength, coiled beneath the surface, but he holds himself in check. He's always been careful with you. Always afraid.
“Tell me to go," he says, his voice rough.
"No," you murmur, cupping his cheek.
"Tell me."
"No."
He opens his eyes, the gray of his right one meeting the amber of his left, holding yours in an unbreakable gaze. "Why?"
You give him the only answer that matters.
"Because I love you."
Wolffe stills. The hand on your hip tightens, his fingers digging into your skin. His mouth opens and closes, but no words come out. He's not breathing. He's not blinking. He's frozen in place, trapped in the moment.
You wait, your breath held, your heart in your throat.
It feels like an eternity, suspended on the edge of an impossible cliff. The moment stretches out, thin, delicate, impossibly fragile. One wrong move, one word, could shatter it. And you know, somehow, that this is the final test. The last barrier between you, between what could be, or what could never be.
And, just when you think he'll pull away, the moment passes.
His mouth descends, hard and desperate. Wolffe captures your lips, swallowing the startled noise of surprise that rises in your throat. His hand slips from your hip to the small of your back, and he presses you closer until your chests meet. He's everywhere, all at once, surrounding you, consuming you, devouring you.
You whimper into his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding on for dear life. His lips are rough and insistent as he pulls on your lower lip, teeth dragging across the plump flesh before he dives back in, kissing you with an intensity that leaves you dizzy.
Wolffe kisses you like it's the only thing he knows how to do. Like his life depends on it. Like he's been waiting for it, dreaming of it, craving it. And you realize, with startling clarity, that he has.
He's been holding back, too.
"Doc," he murmurs against your mouth, his fingers digging into the soft curve of your skin. You let out a needy hum and press closer to him, your breasts flush against the hard planes of his chest, your hips bumping against his.
"Doc," he tries again, pulling away just far to speak, just far to breathe, but you refuse to let him. You kiss him again, harder this time, pouring everything you can't say into the movement of your lips against his. The frustration, the fear, the anger, the loneliness.
"Sweetheart," he growls against your lips. He breaks the kiss, his hands moving from your hips to your shoulders, gripping them hard. "Slow down. I—"
"I've waited long for this," you murmur, tilting your head back, baring your neck to him. "I'm not wasting another second."
"Kriff," he rasps, his eyes locked on the sight of you. He stares at you for one long, heavy moment before he finally, mercifully, leans in, his mouth finding the soft, sensitive spot where your shoulder meets your neck.
You let out an involuntary gasp as he nips at the delicate skin, the tiny prick of pain followed by the soothing caress of his tongue. His hands move to clutch the counter on either side of your hips, caging you in, leaving you nowhere to go but toward him. And you do, tilting your head to accept the slow, sensual assault.
"Wolffe," you whisper, sliding your hand over his shoulder, along his neck, until your fingers are tangled in his hair. He makes an appreciative sound against your skin, and you shiver as his stubble scrapes against the tender flesh with every new kiss.
You've never felt anything like this. This sense of rightness, this feeling of completion, this overwhelming wave of desire. He's been holding back from you, you realize. You've had your suspicions, your glimpses, but never like this. Never with this raw, animalistic need.
Never like you're the center of his world.
You run your hands over his chest, the thin fabric of his shirt doing nothing to disguise the solid strength of his body. Your palms drift lower, over his stomach, tracing the lines of his abs, and you feel the hard muscles flex beneath your touch. You smile against his mouth, pleased by his reaction, before continuing down, further, further, until you reach the waistband of his pants.
He's already hard.
Wolffe breaks the kiss, his head falling back with an obscene groan as you palm him through his clothes. He's big, the size of him filling your hand, but you're not afraid. You've seen him naked before, countless times, treating his wounds. You know exactly what you're in for, what he's capable of, but it only heightens your arousal.
You've always loved the way he challenges you.
"Fuck," he mutters, his hips bucking forward. "Doc, I..."
"Wolffe," you murmur, squeezing lightly.
"Wait," he breathes, and his hand closes around your wrist, stilling the movement. "Just—wait."
You pull back, confused, until you see the conflict written across his face. The war is still there, written in the tension of his jaw, the furrow of his brow. The fear, the hesitation. The wall is still there, keeping you at bay.
"Stop," he says quietly, but firmly.
You swallow hard, your hand dropping to your side. "Okay."
He shakes his head. "No, not..." He sighs and drops his chin to his chest, his gaze boring into yours. "I meant, stop. As in, we should... we should slow down. Sleep on it, at least. Give ourselves some time to think about this."
"I've thought about it," you counter, raising an eyebrow. "What more do I need to think about?"
Wolffe huffs out an exasperated laugh, and he leans forward to rest his forehead against yours. His thumb strokes along the shell of your ear as his fingers tangle in your hair, his other hand still on the counter.
"If you could see yourself right now…" he trails off, his voice rough. "You're drunk. And upset. And not thinking clearly."
"So are you," you point out.
"I am," he agrees with the barest hint of a smile. "But not as much as you. And I can't...I won't take advantage of you. Not like this."
"But what if I'm taking advantage of you?" you tease, nuzzling his nose with yours.
"Oh, sweetheart, trust me," he murmurs, his voice dipping lower, sending delicious shivers down your spine. "You're not."
"Mm."
You're both silent for another long, lingering moment. His hand moves from your hair to the nape of your neck, his fingers gently stroking the sensitive skin. It's intimate, comforting, but the hunger is still there. You can feel it, simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the smallest spark.
"Come here," he murmurs, tilting your chin up, his lips brushing against yours. "One more."
You sigh into his mouth as his mouth meet syours again. It's different this time. Gentler. Slow and sweet and achingly tender. Wolffe pulls back until his lips barely brush against yours, kissing you softly, over and over, each touch of his lips lingering a moment longer than the last.
"We should stop," he murmurs, even as he's leaning back in, unable to keep his lips off of yours. "Before I lose control."
"Lose control," you whisper, your fingers flexing on his shoulders, wanting him closer.
"Kriff, sweetheart," he mutters, breaking the kiss. "You have no idea what you do to me, do you?"
"Show me."
His expression darkens, the heat in his gaze searing right through you to the bone. The hand on the back of your neck tightens its grip, just barely, but it's the first show of true possessiveness he's given you. It's subtle, but it's there. And the thrill it sends through you is as potent as the whyren's.
"When you're sober," he rasps, lowering his head again, this time to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. "When you're sure this is what you want."
You drop your head and bury your face in his chest, a groan slipping past your lips. He's right, and you know it. If the roles were reversed, you'd be doing the same thing. But, kriff, you wish he wasn't being the responsible one. You wish he would just kiss you and forget about everything else, and just let the two of you enjoy this.
But that's not who Wolffe is.
And it's part of why you love him.
"Ugh, why are you such a good person?" you grumble against his chest.
"I'm not," he replies with a huff of laughter. His arms wrap around you, and he leans his cheek against the top of your head. "If I was, I would've left as soon as I walked in the door."
"But you're staying," you murmur as you reach up and slide your hand over his heart, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
"Yeah," Wolffe whispers. "I'm staying."
You nod and press closer, letting your ear rest against his chest. The steady beat of his heart, his breath, his presence, soothes you in a way that no medicine ever could. Your eyelids begin to flutter shut as the fatigue hits, the adrenaline of the evening fading, leaving behind only the familiar exhaustion and new contentment settling into your bones.
Finally, you lean back and press a kiss to his jaw, taking his hands in yours.
"Come on," you murmur, lacing your fingers together, and you start to lead him down the hall. His grip tightens on yours the further you walk from the front door, his steps halting and hesitant. "Let's go to bed."
"Bed?"
You sigh. "Yes, Wolffe, bed.”
You come to a stop outside the bedroom door, and it slides open, revealing a tidy room and a made bed. But when you move to pull him inside, he freezes in the doorway, planting his feet.
"Whoa, whoa, hey, hold on a minute," Wolffe stutters, trying to pull his hands free. You turn and raise a brow to see him eying your bed like it's going to reach out and bite him. "Where do you think you're taking me?"
"My room,” you answer slowly. “Where did you think I was taking you?"
"I thought I was sleeping on the couch," he admits, his eyes wide.
"Why the hell would you sleep on the couch?" you ask. "That thing is like four feet long, you're not going to fit."
"Doc," he starts, his tone warning.
"Wolffe," you respond, mimicking his tone. Your patience is wearing thin. All you want is to take your makeup off and crawl into bed and sleep. Preferably next to the very handsome, very attractive, and very willing man in front of you. "We're just sleeping. Well, I am, anyway. You can do whatever you like."
He narrows his eyes at you. "That's not funny."
"Who's laughing?"
Wolffe groans, looking away. He runs his hand over the back of his neck, his mouth twisted in an adorable pout. You've never seen him this flustered before. And, under any other circumstances, you'd be delighted by it. But now? Now, you just really, really need to take your damn dress off.
"I'm serious," you say, your tone softer. "I'm not going to jump you, Wolffe. I'm just tired. I can barely stand, much less get up to any of the nefarious things you seem to think I have planned. Besides," you add with an impish grin, "you've already proven you can resist my feminine wiles."
"That was..." He trails off, shaking his head, the corner of his mouth lifting. "I wouldn't call that feminine wiles. More like you trying to get your hands down my pants."
You shrug. "Same difference."
Wolffe looks back at the bed, chewing his lip. He's nervous, unsure, his whole body radiating tension. It's like he's never slept in someone's bed before. Which, now that you think about it, might actually be true.
You reach up, cupping his cheek. "Hey."
He turns back to you, his gaze meeting yours.
"I'm not asking for anything," you murmur. "This isn't an ultimatum, or an invitation. I'm just offering you the use of my very comfortable bed, in the nicest apartment I've ever lived in. And as your physician, I highly recommend that you take me up on my generous offer and get the recommended six hours of sleep.”
His lips twitch into the beginning of his usual smirk. "Are you trying to use your position of power over me for your own personal gain, Doc?"
"Absolutely," you reply, raising up on your toes to press your lips against his. He's still for just an instant, startled, before he relaxes into the kiss, his mouth moving against yours with gentle slowness. You pull away with an exaggerated smack and grin up at him. "Is it working?"
Wolffe huffs out his breath, his arms tightening around you. "Yeah," he murmurs, leaning his forehead against yours. "Yeah, it is."
You take his hand again, tugging him toward the bed, and he lets you. You're not sure what it is, if it's the alcohol, or the lateness of the hour, or the simple fact that neither of you has had the opportunity to share anything resembling normalcy in the past few years, but something has shifted between the two of you.
Or, rather, something has finally slid into place.
The tension is gone, the unease. There's no more hesitation, no more wariness. No more holding back, no more pushing away. For the first time since you've known him, Wolffe is letting his guard down.
He's trusting you.
"I'm going to wash up," you say as you pull back the blankets on your bed. "Can you please find some pajamas for me? Top drawer."
"Sure."
You smile at him, your first genuine, unguarded smile all night, before slipping into the bathroom. You take your time, washing your face, brushing your teeth, combing out the tangles in your hair. By the time you emerge, you're ready for sleep, but you're surprised to find Wolffe standing in front of your dresser, his back to you. He’s still wearing his clothes, but his boots are tucked neatly at the foot of the bed, his shirt sleeves unbuttoned and pushed up to reveal his forearms.
He glances over his shoulder, then turns back to the dresser, fiddling with something on top. "You took this?"
You pad across the room and wrap your arms around his waist from behind. He tenses for a moment before his hand covers yours, his thumb tracing along your knuckles. His eyes are on a holo of the Wolfpack you’d taken early on in your tenure, shortly after the mission to Felucia. Wolffe had been absent that night at 79s, the only one he ever missed, but Comet had dragged you along, and you'd ended up enjoying yourself.
"Yeah," you answer, your voice soft. "I had to get proof they exist outside of their armor.”
He gives a soft huff, shaking his head. There’s something vulnerable about this, him standing here in his socks, holding a holo of you and his men, the ones who are more like family than anyone else in the galaxy. It’s a piece of your world, but it's also a piece of him. A piece he's willing to share with you now.
"What's wrong?" you ask quietly, pressing your ear to his back.
"Nothing," he says, but you can hear the lie in the slight tremor of his voice. He's quiet for another long moment before he lets out a rattling breath. "Just... never thought anyone other than the General would ever care about us the way you do. That they'd ever... "
He trails off, but you hear the unspoken words. That they'd ever love us back.
You tighten your grip around him, burying your face in the warmth of his skin, trying to absorb the pain you hear in his voice. "They're my boys, Wolffe. Of course I care."
"They're lucky to have you," he murmurs, and he turns in your arms. His hands cup your face, his thumbs stroking along your jawline as he looks down at you, his gaze full of an emotion you can't name. "I'm lucky to have you."
"You have me?" you tease, a watery laugh bubbling in your chest.
He hums softly. "If you'll let me."
Your breath catches in your throat, and you press yourself closer, sliding your arms around his neck and pulling him closer still. Wolffe goes willingly, sighing against your mouth as your lips meet his, his hands dropping to your hips.
"Then I'm lucky to have you too," you whisper.
Wolffe shakes his head, smiling, before leaning down to kiss you again. Your lips part with the barest touch of his, your tongue teasing the seam of his mouth. He opens for you with another sigh, his hands slipping down until they're on the swell of your ass, resting possessively, as his tongue meets yours in an unhurried dance. It feels good, it feels right, to have him like this. Not just the taste and the heat of him, but the simple, sweet intimacy of being here, together, with no one else in the room.
With no barriers between you.
Your fingers trail up his chest, toying with the collar of his shirt before settling on the top button. It pops open easily beneath your fingers, and Wolffe pulls back, watching through half-lidded eyes as you make your way down. The white cotton is soft against your fingertips as you work each button loose. Your knuckles brush his bare skin every time, and the muscles of his stomach flutter beneath the touch.
"You, uh... you said something about sleeping," Wolffe stutters, his fingers clenching and unclenching on your hips. "Not sure this counts."
"Do you want me to stop?" you ask quietly.
"No."
"Good," you breathe. You slip your fingers into the opening of his shirt and drag your palms up his bare chest, savoring the way his skin jumps under your touch. The hair on his chest is softer than you expected. You run your fingers through it slowly, teasing, and Wolffe shivers.
"Sweetheart," he groans. "I'm only human."
"I'm well aware," you smirk as you press a kiss to the side of his jaw.
"And I have a reputation to maintain," he mutters.
"Your secret is safe with me."
"Mhm," he hums.
Wolffe kisses you again, hard and fast and desperate, and then pulls away, taking a step back and putting distance between the two of you. You whimper at the loss, and the sound makes the corner of his mouth quirk up as he leans back against the dresser.
"Bed," he orders, licking his lips. “Get changed. I'm not gonna watch you strip down. This is already torture."
"What if I want you to watch?"
"Fuck," he groans, and he lets out a huff of laughter before throwing a pair of sleep shorts and a t-shirt at your head. "Put those on. I'm trying to be respectful here."
"I know. I'm sorry," you giggle, pulling the offending garment off your head. "I'm just teasing."
"Yeah, well, keep teasing, and I'm gonna start making fun of you, too," he retorts.
His voice is gruff, his eyes dark, but there’s a playfulness to his smile that makes your chest warm. You can’t help but marvel at the difference between this Wolffe and the one you see every day. He's... happy.
It suits him.
"Start?" you scoff, rolling your eyes. "Oh, please. As if you haven't been making fun of me the whole time."
"I've got plenty of ammunition."
"And yet, you're still here," you say, unzipping the back of your dress. "Which says more about you than it does about me."
"That I have horrible taste in women?" he chuckles, but the amusement disappears the moment the dress starts to slide off your shoulders. “Or… maybe not.”
You turn away from him, dropping the dress and stepping out of it with practiced ease. The air is cool against your skin, but the weight of his gaze makes it feel ten times hotter. You can't resist giving an extra wiggle as you step into the sleep shorts, just to see if he'll react, and you’re rewarded by the sharp hiss of breath behind you.
"Wolffe," you call softly, reaching for the clasp of your bra. “I don’t mind if you look, but I thought you wanted to be a gentleman."
"I do," he grumbles, turning around, facing the door. "I've decided. No more looking."
"No?"
"No," he says firmly. "That way lies madness."
"Suit yourself," you say, grinning to yourself, and you drop the bra on the floor and reach for the old oversized shirt Wolffe had found for you. When you spin around, you find him pointedly turned away from you, fiddling with his commlink. “Everything okay?”
"Just letting the boys know I won't be home tonight," he explains without looking up.
“Are you telling them why?” you tease as you hang up your dress in the closet.
Wolffe glances up at you. "You’re funny.”
"You're cute," you smirk, and he rolls his eyes at you. You make your way to the bed and slide under the covers, rolling onto your side to watch him finish his message. His eyes keep flicking toward you, though, like he can't quite help himself, and the light of the comm reveals the slight darkening of his cheeks. "What are you going to tell them?"
"I'm not telling them anything," he snorts. He tucks the comm into his back pocket and reaches for his belt. You can't help but stare as his fingers deftly undo the buckle and pull the leather free. The belt lands with a heavy thud on the floor, and you swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. "And I'd rather not talk about the boys while I'm taking my pants off. Bad form."
"You're the one who brought them up," you murmur.
"Yeah, because one of them has a tendency to overreact, as we've both discovered," he grunts, popping the button. He shoves the fabric down, and the sight of him, nearly naked, standing in the middle of your bedroom, is almost more than you can take.
His thighs are thick and toned, his stomach and chest well-muscled under a layer of softness and dark hair. The scars that decorate his body are even more prominent now, pale against his tanned skin, and they draw your attention, criss-crossing across his torso and over his right hip. But your eyes drift lower, and the breath catches in your throat.
Because, beneath the black boxers, there's no mistaking the shape of him, the outline of him, half-hard and pressing against the fabric. You were right. Kriff, you were right.
"What, no quips?"
The sound of his voice forces you to drag your eyes back up his body, finding his eyes glinting with mischief.
"Oh, I have plenty of quips," you murmur, swallowing hard. "But they're all highly inappropriate, and I’ve promised to behave myself for the next six hours. Give or take.”
"Like I said," he chuckles, crossing the room. He stops at the side of the bed, his expression turning serious. "Last chance to tell me to leave."
"Get in the damn bed already, Wolffe," you reply, throwing the blankets back.
After another long look, Wolffe slides in beside you, the mattress dipping with his weight. He's stiff, unsure, and you can feel the tension radiating from him. You wait, giving him space, as he settles on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting on the covers between the two of you.
You have to fight the urge to laugh. He’s as stiff as the cadets during their first inspection. You're tempted to ask if he wants you to whip out the white glove. Instead, you roll toward him, propping yourself up on one elbow, your head resting on your palm.
"You're really going to just lie there?" you tease.
Wolffe glances down at you, the lines around his mouth softening. "I'm not sure what the protocol is for this."
"There's no protocol." You reach out to touch him, your hand on his stomach. His muscles tighten as you trace your fingers along his skin, drawing lazy circles around his navel, the coarse hairs tickling your palm. "You can do whatever you like."
"Whatever I like," he murmurs. His eyes slide shut, his head tilting back. "Dangerous words, sweetheart."
"Why?" you ask, leaning forward to press your lips to the center of his chest. "Afraid you'll like it?"
Wolffe's only response is to exhale your name, the sound of it rough, ragged, dragged from the depths of his chest. His arm drops from behind his head, and he rolls to face you, cupping the back of your neck. His hand is warm against your skin, the pressure just hard enough to tilt your head up, forcing your gaze to his.
"Afraid I won't be able to stop," he whispers.
You meet his stare, refusing to look away. His eyes are dark, the pupil of his good eye so dilated it nearly eclipses the amber entirely. He looks wild, untamed, but the fear is gone. There's only the hunger now. Only the need.
"Don't stop," you murmur, tilting your chin, daring him. "I told you. I'm not afraid."
"Kriff, Doc," he growls, and closes his eyes. He presses his forehead against yours, his breathing shallow.
"Wolffe. If you keep calling me Doc, I'm going to start charging."
"I'm sure the boys would have plenty to say about that," he smirks.
"Probably," you grin, but the smile falls away as his hand drifts lower, tracing the line of your shoulder, over the curve of your collarbone. "What... what do you like?"
He hesitates, his fingers halting their motion, hovering just below the hollow of your throat. You can see him thinking, weighing his words, measuring his answer.
"This," he admits finally.
"Talking?"
He shakes his head. "Touching."
Your breath catches. He's telling the truth. You can see it in the flush on his cheeks, the way his gaze darts away. Wolffe, Commander Wolffe, the man who's spent the better part of the past two years pushing you away, is admitting that he likes touching you. And it's almost more than you can handle.
You close your eyes, swallowing hard. You reach for his hand, tangling your fingers together, before you bring his knuckles to your lips, kissing each one. He lets you, his chest rising with an unsteady breath, as your thumb traces each bone, each crease. You move lower, pressing his palm against your cheek, nuzzling into the warmth of his touch.
"Like this?" you whisper.
"Yeah," he answers, his voice hoarse.
You nod, leaning into his touch. You run your free hand over his stomach, enjoying the feel of the soft hairs under your fingertips, before sliding it higher, tracing the line of his chest, the dip of his collarbone, the strong line of his throat. You feel his pulse jump as your fingers dance over the sensitive skin.
"And this?"
"Yes.” He takes your hand in his, turning it over and pressing his lips to the tender spot where your pulse races. “Sweetheart, if you only knew."
"Knew what?"
"How often I think about this," he murmurs, his lips brushing against the back of your hand.
"How often?"
"Every day," he answers, his lips moving to the inside of your wrist.
"Me too," you confess, closing your eyes. His lips trail over the delicate skin of your wrist, over the vein, his tongue darting out to taste the salt on your skin.
"Every day," he repeats, his breath hot against your arm. "I've thought about it since the moment I met you. And every single day since."
"Wolffe—"
"Let me finish," he murmurs, his eyes lifting to yours. "I have. I've thought about touching you, what it would feel like to hold you. I've imagined every single scenario, every possible way it could go, but I never imagined... I never thought it would be like this."
"What did you imagine?"
"A fight," he sighs, his voice gruff. He releases your hand, his palm sliding to the back of your neck, his fingers threading through your hair. "Something stupid and petty, just like every other time. Or," he continues, his eyes falling to your lips, "a desperate fuck, in the supply closet. Quick and dirty, and meaningless. Something to take the edge off. But this... kriff, this is..."
He trails off, his jaw clenched.
"Not what you were expecting?" you finish quietly.
“It’s everything,” he rasps, his fingers clenching in your hair. His arm wraps around you, pulling you closer until you're flush against him. You feel his lips press against the top of your head, and you can’t help but nuzzle further into him, burying your face in the warmth of his skin.
"Me too," you whisper.
Wolffe lets out his breath in an unsteady exhale, and you feel the tension in his body melt away underneath you. His hand strokes your hair with long, soothing motions, lulling you into relaxation. The last traces of adrenaline, the alcohol, the stress of the night, it all slips away. Your eyelids flutter shut, sleep tugging at the corners of your mind.
"Wolffe?"
"Hm?"
"Stay with me," you mumble, already half asleep.
"Yeah, sweetheart," he whispers against your temple. "I'll stay."
