Headcanons for Venti with a friend who loves to pick him up and spin him around to show off their strength?? The urge to lift a primordial god off the ground so he feels like he’s flying is Real™️
☁︎ - Venti loves platonic, physical affection. It makes the bard happier than he's willing to ever admit, though he does tend to become more handsy with a few glasses of wine in him. Regardless, he's more than pleased that you show your affection physically. The first time you ask to pick him up to show off your strength gets him very excited - though instead of showing it, he'll just tease you.
"Oya, are you sure you're strong enough?~"
☁︎ - Venti is surprised by how readily you swoop him off the ground, and doubly so when you spin him around with ease. It makes him drop his front as the 'affable bard' for one moment as he truly laughs, feeling the same kind of freedom he grants to his followers.
"I guess I underestimated you, hm?"
☁︎ - Venti will try to keep it off his face how giddy he is, but he'll fail. After the first time, he just regularly expects you to pick him up whenever you want. Having you spin him around is a different type of 'flying' he's used to, and one that he doesn't want to let go of. Maybe one day he'll use his powers as the Anemo Archon to let both of you fly at the same time.
CC-3636 Rebels!Wolffe x Reader: Old Men, Old Habits
You're one of many medics for the Rebellion. Sort of. And a retired commander keeps turning up hurt despite your warnings that you’ll keep him on light duty if this keeps up. You're not sure what makes things worse - that you both hate each other’s guts, or that you kind of want to fuck him.
Rating: R (For injuries and language)
Warnings: Brief description of injuries (compound fracture, not detailed), illness, mention of blood transfusion, Wolffe being a grumpy old man, sexual tension if you squint, SOME angst bc Wolffe is suffering from injuries/a brief infection, the writer doesn't know medical jargon/procedures so that's a warning in itself too
Reader is AFAB But pronouns are not used
Word Count: 6829
AN: Welp, it's Wolffe Time Babies. When I haven't been working on OC fic planning and Pretending I Do Not See Part7 and 8 of Caf Delivery Service, I've been working on this. The premise of this is just Reader and Wolffe getting to know each other, and I don't know how many parts there will be. Just that this has been a lot of fun so far, so I hope y'all enjoy it too!
Part 1 || Part 2 || Part ????
Year Ten, Day 182 after joining the Rebellion
Never a dull moment on base. Most days that just means hearing second-hand reports about the latest attempt to open up trade routes, what squadrons are training up a new recruit, and mourning our losses in whatever ways we can.
Some days, that means one unfortunate bastard has to deal with another unfortunate bastard on their worst day.
Today, I played both parts.
Wolffe went and fucked himself up.
Again.
I’m glad he’s alive - so I can strangle him when he tries to fuck around and find out again.
“This is ridiculous.”
Eyes lifting from your datapad, you meet the glare aimed at you head-on. It seemed like a lifetime ago that you would have been reduced to a flustered, anxious wreck by that look. But now you could look the man behind the glower in the eye. His deep brown and silver eyed gaze boring holes into your head with equal amounts of fury, and barely batted an eye.
“Yes. You’re right - it is.” Tapping your stylus on the edge of your datapad, you stood, turning to the supply drawers and rummaging through them. “Which is why I’m putting you on medical leave, effective immediately.”
“The hells you are!”
Before he can so much as push off the bed you're on him, your hands closed around his wrists and pinning his hands to the bed where they gripped the edge. You could feel the strength of his hands, under the weathered skin. Part of you wondered if he wasn’t imagining wrapping those hands around your throat.
Part of you thought you wouldn’t mind if he tried, under more favorable circumstances.
Which made you realize, not for the first time, that this was a huge mess of your own making. And you weren’t sure how you were going to fix it. Or if you could fix it. Because catching feelings when you’re taking part in the Rebellion is ill-advised at bet. But your arrogance that your attraction to the former commander of the 104th Battalion of the GAR wouldn’t run unchecked was the biggest mistake of your thirty-some odd years.
Namely because Wolffe is one of the meanest men you’ve ever met in your life, and his favorite pastime is trying to get a rise out of you.
“Didn’t know you even gave a shit.”
“Don’t start,” you sighed, suppressing the urge to duck your head when you felt heat creeping up from your collarbone to your scalp. Pushing away from the bed, you gestured at his leg, turning before he can see the nerves written on your face. “Your fucking leg’s busted, you nearly bled out on the evac back to base, and you might’ve cracked your prosthetic. Little gods Wolffe, what did you think was going to happen?” While you began to rummage through the drawers at last for the flimsi forms, you huffed, “Bacta patches and painkillers aren’t going to fix this overnight.”
“It’s just a sprain. And my eye is fine.”
Pressing the heels of your hands to the sides of your head, you turned so quickly you nearly gave yourself whiplash. Not that it mattered to you at the moment. You glared at Wolffe . It was the first time you’d ever looked at him like that, with quite so much…venom. Fingers shaking with anger that is almost blinding, you reopened the attachment on your datapad you’d been sent earlier that morning.
“Look,” you seethed, “look, Wolffe.” He barely glanced at it before shoving it back towards you. “No,” you insisted, shoving it in his face. “Look. At. The. X-ray.” Dropping it on his lap when he refused to take it, you stomped over to stand at the foot of his bed so you were in his line of sight. Illustrating with your arms the angle his heg had been bent at before triage got it reset. “Legs are not meant to bend like this!”
“So? Put it in a cast and send me on my way.” He turned his head from you, arms folded across his chest. “I can still fight.”
“You lost nearly two gallons of blood, Wolffe.” You moved to the side of the bed he was pointedly looking at to avoid looking at you. “Look,” shoving up the sleeve of your jacket, you pointed at the bacta patch in the crook of your arm, “I gave you some of my blood, just to make sure you’d make it through the fucking night!” Throwing your hands up in exasperation, you began to pace. “Maker’s left nut, if you can’t take your health seriously, I’m going to need to set you up for a psych eval before we even consider discharging you.”
“That your professional opinion, Doc?”
Ouch. That one stung.
When you joined the Rebellion in your youth a decade ago, you were a fresh college dropout with less than a month until you could have graduated. Until you should have graduated. But the Empire had deemed your entire university as a waste of resources and space, so at least you weren’t the only one. Small comfort though it was.
But when you’d finally decided to do something rather than seething in silence at the Empire, you hadn’t expected the Rebellion to give you the position you currently held. Though you weren’t the only one in this boat - apparently the higher-ups thought ‘degree in blank medical field’ meant you could perform basic first aid. This had more to do with a ‘it’s the effort that counts’ mentality, because the higher-ups were nothing if not smart.
No one would have survived in the Rebellion this long were it not for that.
So the whole ‘Doc’ being your base nickname wasn’t your favorite thing to have happened. Worse things could happen, honestly. And they apparently had, and would continue to.
Case in point - Wolffe.
“More like basic observation and common sense.” You shot him a look over your shoulder. “Two things you clearly lack.”
“Pot, meet kettle.”
“What the hells does that - no. No, y’know what?”
Attaching the forms to a datapad clip, you shoved both into his hands, turned on your heel, and left. Your shift had ended fifteen minutes ago anyway, and you didn’t bother explaining that to your colleague on the way out.
Let Wolffe catch them up to speed. You needed a nap - or a drink. The order didn’t matter, so long as it alleviated the headache that always built when you spent extended periods of time around Wolffe.
You knew from personal experience that neither one usually works.
---
Year Ten, Day 182 after joining the Rebellion
Has someone been leaking these logs?!
I know I’m not the best at encryption and coding, but I know for a fact this datapad never leaves my side. So either someone’s gotten into my shit while I’m asleep, or this whole fucking base is consipring against me.
I’ve been assigned Wolffe’s recovery-plan case until further notice.
Further notice being when we finally fucking kill each other.
“You expect me to do what now?”
“Look, it’s not the end of the world. I know you two don’t really see eye to eye --” Your supervisor pointedly ignored the snickering from your fellow medics, just long enough to roll her eyes. “But,” her sharp voice silenced the gossipers before they got really started, “you’re the only one Wolffe hasn’t…how do I put this….”
“Made you cry?”
“Treated like shit?”
“Threatened to mutilate?”
“How do all of you know he hasn’t done these things to me?” Silence yet again, punctuated by the occasional quiet, immature laughter. You pinched the bridge of your nose. “I can’t possibly watch him at all hours of the day. I’ll need some help to see other patients--”
“We’ll put someone on night watch, rest assured. But your appointments - barring some sort of emergency - have all been reassigned. And before you refuse -“ your supe held up a finger when you were gearing up to do just that, “- command has said they’ll be glad to send you to Hoth. A new position has opened up—“
“No thanks.” Gritting your teeth, you accepted the data pad handed off to you by her assistant. Staring at the screen but not actually reading it, you sighed, muttering under your breath, “I’ll expect you lot to pitch in for our funeral services.”
“C’mon, Doc.” The colleague you’d handed Wolffe off to that first day gently tapped your arm with the back of their hand. You tried not to rankle as you turned to Limla, who’d been sympathetic to the issue you had with Wolffe from the get-go. “It won’t be bad. You can always decompress in my quarters.” They grinned broadly, all teeth and glittering black eyes, “Gods know I love hearing you rant about the old geezer.”
“Swear,” you groaned, “you lot just live for this shit, don’t you?”
“Yes!”
“Signal’s crap on base, so I can’t watch anything good on the HoloNet.”
“Oh, these two are way more interesting than any of your bullshit HoloDramas.”
“Children.” After inputting your signature into the datapad, you stood, bracing yourself for what was going to be a very very long couple of months. “I’m working with a bunch of children.”
---
Day Three of Wolffe Observation
I’m going to lose my mind. Or maybe I already have.
Really I only have to be there - as in physically - for seven hours out of the day, then I can try to pick up rotations from someone else. Scanners and meds will do all the hard work for me. Really I’m just there to make sure Wolffe doesn’t try to jump out of bed. Which he’s already done - multiple times.
But every time - every. fucking. time. - Wolffe finds something else to give me shit about. It’s no different than all the other times he’s shown up.
But today - oooh, today.
Today I nearly reached my breaking point, and I know the bastard could see it. But gods, I would sooner pull a breaching newborn Bantha calf with my bare hands (again) from its screaming Bantha mother before I give Wolffe the satisfaction.
I will not be the first one to break.
The day really had started off well.
Sure, you woke up knowing you had to endure Wolffe’s company for another shift. And of course, anyone who knew anything about the dynamic between the two of you gave you shit about it. This seemed to be everyone’s new favorite daily pastime. And really, you didn’t care - maybe they knew about the stupid crush, maybe they didn’t. You were just here to do your job. To help further the effort to take out the Empire.
Too bad Wolffe’s favorite pastime was trying to make your job difficult. You could see it building in his eyes the second you walked in, his gaze focused on your thermos. Folding his arms across his chest, he huffs,
“Where’s my caf?”
“Fine morning to you, too.” You gave him a deadpan stare before you began checking his vitals. “And you’ll get your damn caf when you’re out of that bed.”
“In that case --”
“Stop.”
You’d kept yourself close to the bed, close enough that you didn’t even have to look up from your datapad to plant your palm on his chest and hold him there. This was surprisingly difficult, and even with the bloodloss and the fractured leg, you think he could have thrown you like a ragdoll if he really wanted to.
Huh. That’s an interesting mental image.
“Sit,” you gave him a hard shove, “down.”
Wolffe’s eyes crackled with fury for a few seconds before he pushed back, and you wondered if he was going to start something. It wasn't the first time he’d gotten that fed up with having to follow someone else’s orders. But the fire cooled some, still burning in his mismatched gaze. You felt your pulse skyrocket, and took a step back. Or you tried to.
The moment he felt you try to take your hand off of him, Wolffe’s fingers closed around your wrist, holding you there.
“Poor Doc,” he sneered, nothing but mockery in his tone as his thumb stroked across your pulse. You thought it might have been absent-minded on his part but you couldn’t be sure. It would be just your luck if he was trying to see what unsettles you. “You lose a bet and get stuck watching me another day?”
“No,” you answerdc, twisting your hand away, and Wolffe smirked. Panic flared through you when you heard your own words - you sounded like a petulant teenager, trying to deflect blame or deny...something. Time to do damage control. “I don’t have any choice in being here today. There are a hundred other things I could be doing, but,” you gestured at him on the bed, “somebody’s sense of self preservation in this room is sorely lacking.”
He shut down after that, like you were expecting him to, but something seemed different. Or maybe you’re just noticing something for the first time.
Who knows. Who cares? You certainly don’t. You really don’t, especially not when you saw what you thought might be hurt in his expression before he buried it under a thunderous scowl.
And so it went. Wolffe barely spoke to you through the rest of your shift. That suited you just fine. Except something felt off. You couldn’t shake it. There was something about what you saw - what you think you saw - that made your stomach tie itself in never ending knots the entire time. But you couldn’t bring yourself to analyze it, because this was Wolffe.
Wolffe, who only cares about his brother, fighting the good fight in this Rebellion, and not at all what the rest of the base thinks about him.
Certainly not about your opinion of him. You’d given up on that pipe dream only a week after he’d been stationed at this base. When he’d made it abundantly clear that you didn’t fit the bill of a medic that should be caring for him. And you were over that - really. It was just the amount of times you’d been assigned to check him over and patch him up that made this crush persist.
So it could only be that making you worry that you’d struck a nerve. An old wound that refused to heal.
An alarm pinged on your datapad, drawing your attention to it. You frowned as you read and reread the words on the screen in front of you. Out of the corner of your eye you noticed Wolffe glance your way, but you didn’t look over. When you finally turned to him, he lay back in the bed, and for a moment you were taken aback by the sight in front of you.
Wolffe is a good-looking man, even in his advanced age. It’s something he carried well, and obviously. Not so much arrogance as it was confidence, awareness that yes, he does know he’s handsome despite what the war and rapid aging had done to his body. You’ve seen it. How could you not? Even when resting it showed, and you --
You took a moment to admire.
It was rare that you got to just look at him like this. Usually you have to do this at a distance, out of fear he’d figure you out somehow. So you drank it all in: the smooth line of his jaw, how proud his profile is, the graying of his dark hair around his temples. The lines on his forehead and under his eyes are pronounced from years of glaring, which is kind of funny to think about. It’s also a little sad. At first you weren’t a fan of the mustache, but it’s grown on you. Your eyes are slowly trailing down his torso, the healthy amount of give you can see on his stomach and chest, when he shifts with an uncomfortable groan.
In an instant, your professional walls were back up, and you were on your feet and at his side in record time.
“What’s wrong?”
“Stop hovering,” he tried to shoo you away, but you immediately spotted the tremor in his hands when he waved one at you. Fisting the thin sheets over him, Wolffe twisted uncomfortably. “Just - dammit, why didn’t you bring me any fucking caf?!” His cybernetic eye was squeezed shut when he glared at you, and you didn’t know how you failed to notice the sweat beading on his skin. “Wouldn’t have this blasted headache if you’d just brought me some.”
“Wolffe,” you said slowly, reaching out to him. You decided he let you place a hand on his forehead - or else the fever you can feel was making him delirious. So that’s what the datapad had picked up. You hadn’t believed it at first - the reading of his temperature was far too low. “What did you do?”
“Nothin’.”
“Wolffe,” you dragged your hand down to the side of his neck, trying to bite back your hiss of alarm. He was burning under your palm. “I need you to tell me what you did. If you’re messing with this equipment, we’ll both be in it deep. It could get other people hurt.”
He growled rough in the back of his throat, “Osik - fine.” Batting your hand away, he gestured at the holoscreen that had been tracking his vitals from day one. You squinted at it, bringing it down on the articulated neck as you tapped at the screen. “I might’ve reprogrammed it a little. Damn thing kept blaring all night - your replacement was too busy flirting with the nurse to do anything about it.” Your hands tightened on the screen as you furiously tapped open the troubleshooter - you were going to have Vrakka’s head for his negligence. “S’fine, Doc, I’ll be --”
“It is not fine,” you snapped, wheeling around to stare him down. “Do you realize what else could have gone wrong? You could have died and we wouldn’t have known what the hell happened --”
“Wouldn’t that be convenient?” Wolffe huffed, not having the strength to raise his voice apparently but the ability to throw another barb at you. “Thought you’d be happier at the prospect.”
For what seems like a lifetime, you just stared at him. Left reeling from the words he’d just flung at you, reeling from the thought that he thought you’d be glad he was dead. It took you until then to realize that’s exactly how you’d been acting. The way you kept trying to rush through getting him fixed up, the clipped words, the reprimands. How you always tried to avoid him outside of the medcenter, and when you did run into him, you always made excuses to get away from him.
Gods, you really shit the bed with this one, huh?
…also why were your eyes burning?
“Mesh’la?” The word didn’t mean anything to you, but it pulled you right back into the moment. Something about the way he said it. You blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall. His eye widened slightly, a moment of clarity as he shuffled in the bed so he was facing you. He can see it. “Are you --”
“Vrakka!” Your shout cracked viciously in the relative quiet of the medcenter, and you stormed out of the room after seeing him try to rush past the doorway. By the time you caught up with him, you were out of breath, and when you grabbed his sleeve you felt him wince. “Vrakka, what the hell were you thinking?!”
“I-I’m sorry Doc, he’s just an asshole and I didn’t --”
“So you abandoned your post to try and get your dick wet?! You left a patient alone in his room long enough to give him the opportunity to hack the vitals tracker?!” Dragging him back into Wolffe’s room, you jabbed a finger at the readout datapad. You hissed between grit teeth, “Fix. This. And make sure no one has the clearances to tamper with it again.”
Shaking your head while turning your back to the bed (and Wolffe), you rubbed at your eyes with the back of your hand. You could feel Wolffe’s eyes on your back. This was - it was such a goddamn mess. You’d let your feelings get the better of you in regards to him. If you had only been more professional from the get go, if you’d only been nicer to him --
But it’s useless to stay in the past. You knew that.
“I’ll get you on some antibiotics.” You looked at him over your shoulder, trying to keep your expression neutral. “But you have to tell us if something feels even a little bit wrong. I don’t care what you think you know about me, but you are my patient.” Arms folded across your chest when you faced him, you set your chin again, “And nobody is dying on my watch.”
You didn’t let him get another word in before you marched out of the room. Limle would hopefully still be up, and even if they weren’t, they had a bottle of whiskey with your name in it.
---
Day Twenty of Wolf(fe) Watching
So things are….different. Have been since Wolffe clued me in that he could remotely hack the damn medscanner’s readouts.
It’s quieter now, and I don’t know if I love it or hate it.
I’m leaning more towards the latter - I think I almost miss squabbling with him. It’s nice not to have the anxiety of wondering when he’s going to say something shitty.
…well alright, he still says shitty things, but he’s not going for the jugular anymore.
With me at least.
Well. One thing could be said about your shifts watching Wolffe.
It gave you plenty of time to catch up on paperwork. In fact, you were way ahead on your paperwork. To the point that you didn’t have anything to do besides read.
And, on rare occasions, talk with Wolffe. Which was becoming more frequent as you ran out of books to read.
Instead of working a dayshift on that day, you ended up switching with Vrakka’s ‘friend,’ Yol - how Vrakka landed a date with him, you’d never know. He was booksmart where Vrakka was streetsmart. Yol probably got through to Vrakka about his fuck up more than you did, his own sense of responsibility something he couldn’t just ignore at the drop of a hat. Definitely seemed to be a case of opposites attracting. He’d been reluctant to take the shift until you told him it would open up a night off with Vrakka. After blustering his way through a flimsy denial, he’d accepted, before excusing himself to go blush somewhere else.
Cute. It was cute.
What wasn’t cute was hearing raised voices from the end of the hallway on your way to the medcenter. Hastening your step, you rushed to the doors, your jaw nearly unhinging when you took in the scene in front of you.
You’d come to expect anything, honestly. Especially after hearing about the Death Star being blown to pieces. But this was surprising, alarming, concerning. Wolffe was up and out of bed, half leaning and pushing on the edge of it as he tried to get in Yol’s space. This was a far cry from the way he’d looked a few weeks ago, and is an abrupt reminder of why you’ve come to admire him so much. In Wolffe is a wildfire that answers to no one, not even nature itself when there’s nothing left to burn.
And you got to witness the Commander return to his old ways, which will no doubt leave scars in his wake.
“Of all the bullshit you lot have subjected me to, I have never been treated so unprofessionally. D’you treat all of your patients like this?!”
“I-I, no, no I don’t — please sir, you need to calm down -”
“Calm down? You’re gonna tell me to calm down, after nearly dumping me outta bed just to change the bloody sheets?! Now I’m up, against Doc’s orders, and you’re going to tell me to - oh.” Wolffe glanced away from you almost as soon as his gaze flicked over to you leaning against the doorway. “Hey, Doc. Didn’t hear you come in.”
“Yeah, well, I heard you. Whole base did.” You lifted an eyebrow at Yol. “Could changing his sheets not wait until I got here?”
“Supe came by saying the laundry needed to be sent on the hour.”
“Well, it’s thirty minutes til, so - oh. Oh, I see.” Giving Yol a knowing look that makes him squirm, you turned to Wolffe, nodding towards the chairs lining the wall. “Here,” you offered him your shoulders, sliding your arm around his back. Wolffe hesitated for a moment before he leaned into you. You barely managed to suppress a shiver when you felt his fingers digging slightly into the small of your back. It was probably just the easiest place for him to put his hand, you reasoned. As you gently guided him to one of the chairs, you dropped your voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “He’s got a date.”
“So that gives him a free pass to manhandle me?” Wolffe sniffed imperiously, arms folded across his chest once he settled into the chair. You gently lifted his leg to prop it on the hover chair Yol pushed your way, rolling your eyes at the man’s unimpressed glower. “And that’s also why you’re stuck pulling the all-nighter?”
“Yup.” Propping your hip against the wall, you watched Yol while he ripped the fitted sheet off the bed. “To both.”
“You’re a paragon of patient care, Doc.”
Anyone within earshot can hear the roll of Wolffe’s eyes in his voice, and you couldn’t help yourself. Hiding it behind your hand didn’t do much to muffle your laughter. It was proven to be absolutely pointless when you glanced over to see the glare Wolffe aimed your way.
“Okay, alright uh,” Yol bustled past the two of you to shove the old bedding into the chute in the wall. “Thanks Doc, I’ll see you--”
“Aren’t we forgetting someone?”
You lifted your eyebrows at Yol when he froze halfway through the door, his eyes frantically searching the room before they landed on Wolffe. There was a moment where he almost seemed like he was going to just leave you to deal with him by yourself. You’re almost certain he’d made his mind up before he rushed past you, hauling Wolffe up and out of the chair.
“You sure drive a hard bargain, Doc,” Yol grumbled unhappily as you took up Wolffe’s other side. The two of you carefully returned the equally unhappy older man into the bed, who huffed and puffed and growled throughout the whole affair. Once he’d settled in, Yol turns to you, hands outspread in supplication, “Now can I go?”
“‘Course,” you chirped, booting up your datapad as you gave him a sidelong glance. “Say hi to Vrakka for me.”
“OkaybyeDoc.”
Wolffe only waited until Yol was out of the room before he scoffed, “That irresponsible boy?”
“Eh,” you shrugged, pulling up a chair to stretch your legs out in front of you. “There’s somebody for everybody.”
“Oh, and you’re what, some kind of relationship expert?” Lifting your eyes to him, you blinked in confusion.
“That’s what I went to school for.”
“...what?”
“Oh, I assumed - wait, why do you call me Doc? I thought you were in on the joke?”
“Joke? What joke?” Wolffe glanced around the room in bewilderment. “You work in the medcenter, why would calling you ‘Doc’ be a joke?!”
“It’s because I’m not a medical professional. I’m just - provisional.” You shrugged when the confusion in his expression only increased. “Why do you think it was so easy for them to put me on rotations to keep an eye on you? I’m not exactly experienced in actual medical practice - just basic first-aid.” Sniffing imperiously, you returned your attention to your datapad. “Though with your help, I’m beginning to learn more advanced practices.”
“Glad to be of service,” Wolffe chuckled, and the room went silent for a while as you went through your inbox. It was a useless effort - no one had requested an appointment with you in a week. Suppressing a frustrated sigh, you decided to go through your personal library when Wolffe cleared his throat. “Does it bother you?”
“Hm?” Lifting your eyebrows, you stared at him blankly for a moment. Wolffe gave you an exasperated look after a few beats and you perked up. “Oh. Oh! I mean, a little bit? Not anymore really. Limle is the only person who means it in a ‘term of endearment’ sort of way.”
“So they all just call you that - and they don’t bother asking if that’s what you want?” Wolffe seemed angrier than he was at Yol before, and you tilted your head at him. He huffed, arms crossed over his broad chest, “Just don’t see how anyone could take that kind of treatment lying down.”
“I’m not exactly the kind of person to rock the boat just to save face,” you admitted.
“I noticed.” That was - surprising. It must have shown in your expression, because Wolffe elaborated, “You said it yourself: you don’t have a choice in being here, even if you can’t stand being around me. Who would put up with that if they weren’t a pushover?”
“Oh, so you’ve got me all figured out, hm?”
“No.” Wolffe studied you closely, and you felt your stomach do a funny little flip. No one had ever looked at you like that. It was something you couldn’t put your finger on, which was exciting and terrifying in its own right. “Not yet, at least.”
“Oh.” You honestly didn’t know what else to say to that, so for the rest of your shift, the two of you sat in almost complete silence.
---
Day Forty-Six of Wolffe-Sitting
Yol and Vrakka are finally a thing. Openly, at any rate.
Which is honestly a huge fucking relief. Watching those two dance around each other (mostly on Yol’s part) was enough to make me age two years every time they tried to deny it all.
Wolffe and I made a bet that they would get caught before they were open about it.
I lost, and today he finally decided to make me pay up.
This man is out to get me, I swear.
“I’m telling you,” you sighed miserably, “you might as well try to reverse gravity with your mind. And last I checked, no one in this room is Force sensitive.”
Wolffe waved you off before he went back to shuffling the deck, “Anyone can learn to play Sabacc, and you lost, fair and square.” He smirked at you - actually smirked, which was a rare sight in itself. It was also distracting. “Better get used to that, mesh’la.”
“What does that mean anyway? ‘Mez-luh.’” You squinted at him when he chuckled at your attempt at pronunciation. “Is it an insult or something?”
“Depends on what you’d find insulting,” he said with a shrug, chuckling at your frustrated expression. He considered you for a moment, eyes narrowed while the cards smacking together became the only sound filling the silence. “If you can beat me five times after I finish teaching you the basics, I might consider telling you.”
“Stubborn old man.”
“Stubborn old man who’s going to wipe the floor with you by the time your shift is up.” The way he grinned at you is infectious. It was also terrifying - all teeth and glowing confidence. “Now pay attention,” he tapped the deck twice with his knuckles, “because I don’t like to repeat myself.”
“Wait,” you looked at him, head tilted to one side, “what do you get if you win?”
“The satisfaction of putting you in your place.”
…oh. Oh your mind went to some terrible places with that statement. And he did absolutely nothing to clarify, despite your obvious discomfort.
This was going to be a long shift.
* * *
“I’ve changed my mind.”
It took you a while to look up at him. After the last actual game, you sat with your elbows propped on your thighs, fingers rubbing circles in your throbbing temples while you stared at the floor. Just when you thought you understood the rules, Wolffe would you. Easily. When you looked at him, it was to glare at him, the smug smirk that he wasn’t even bothering to hide.
“How so?” you asked, shoving your last hand at him so he could shuffle again.
For a moment you found yourself lost in watching his hands, the ease with which he went through the motions. It was practiced, automatic - you are enraptured by it. His amused chuckle pulled you out of your stupor.
“You need a little incentive,” he announced, “and I need things to be a little more interesting. Otherwise I’m going to fall asleep by the next hand.”
“Sorry I’m not great at a game I’ve never played until today,” you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “And what do you mean by ‘incentive?’ You being able to rub it in my face seems like enough.”
“Apparently not.” He knocked on the deck again - a personal ritual, you mused. “I’ll leave it up to you, since you’re so miserable being forced to play the game. Seems only fair.”
“Why do I get the feeling this is going to be decidedly unfair?”
“Because you’re smarter than you give yourself credit for.” Ah - you had to bite your lip to stop yourself from beaming at his praise. “So, your choice: I can either take your credits, or information.”
Turning your head so you could give him a sidelong squint, you murmured, “What kind of information?”
“Nothing too damning,” Wolffe shrugged, entirely too casual to put any of your immediate concerns at ease. “And if it’s something you’re too uncomfortable to share, I’ll think of something else.”
“So twenty questions, but I have to wait until you beat me at a hand of Sabacc each time? The odds don’t really seem stacked in my favor.”
“Tell you what,” he offered, dealing out the first hand, “if you can beat me, you get to ask a question. Same rule as when we started though: five hands.” He smirked again, and you felt a thrill of excitement and frustration in equal measure. “Maybe you’ll get there - in the next month.”
“Bring it on, old man.”
He beat you in record time for the first question, and you braced yourself. But no amount of mental gymnastics could prepare you for just how ruthless Wolffe can be when he put his mind to it.
“What was the breaking point that made you join the Rebellion?” Wolffe held up a hand the moment you took a breath to give your answer. “And don’t give me the whole ‘it was the right thing to do, I wanted to be a hero’ bullshit.” It was brief, but you saw it: a flash of pain in his expression, older than the Rebellion itself. You recognize you saw it only because he let you. “People aren’t heroes - legends derived from them are.”
“Wow,” you blinked owlishly, “okay. I guess…” Your head dropped with a groan when the answer came to you, because it immediately felt childish and self-centered. “Spite.”
“‘Spite?’” Wolffe sounded about as incredulous as you’d assumed he would. “That is not at all what I was expecting from you.”
“Have you met me?” With a playful scoff, you gave your hand back to him, considering your next words while you watched him shuffle the deck again. “Half my personality is spite, or fueled by it.”
“Alright, point taken.” He rolled his eyes at you, dealing out the next hand in record time. And then beating you in record time. “Why join the Rebellion out of spite?”
“The Empire took something from me that I worked very hard for.” Your eyes drifted down as guilt twisted at your insides. “Something that seems childish looking back on it.”
“What was it?”
“My degree.” He balked at that, his brow furrowing together, and you held up a hand. “Let me explain - I was months away from graduating. It was guaranteed that I would graduate, and then the Empire just decided that the resources and funding for the university were wasted, and reallocated them to fund weapon manufacturing.” Shifting in your seat, you glanced away from him. “Told you it seems childish.”
“You’re right.” His voice is colder than it had been, and that cut you deep. “It is childish.” That twisted the knife, and you let your head fall slightly. Shame filled you, making your eyes burn. If you almost cry in front of Wolffe again, you’d never be able to face him. But then you heard him knock on the deck again, “But you stayed.”
“I did.” You lifted your head, risking a glance in his direction. He watches you closely, carefully - your next words would decide the trajectory of the rest of this strange conversational set up. “Because it was the right thing to do. For me, anyway.”
He beat you again, in silent contemplation this time. Then,
“Right for you how?”
“I joined the Rebellion to get back at the Empire.” You shrugged, “If I could land at least one blow against them, it would all feel worth it. But then - well. I’ve never even held a blaster. Can’t fly. But I knew basic first-aid, and I know how to figure out what makes people tick, so,” you gestured to the room around you, “here I am.”
You lost again.
“Do you regret it? Staying, I mean.”
“No.” The answer came quickly, no knee-jerk compulsion to try to excuse your reasoning or logic. “Not at all. This isn’t anything close to what everyone else has to go through, I know that.” You glanced meaningfully at his leg, and couldn’t help but chuckle when he huffed. “But…it’s where I’m meant to be.” Pushing your hand back towards him, you stared at a nearby wall, your gut still roiling with guilt and nerves. “At least here, I can be a little useful.”
The warmth of his hand covered yours before you can pull away, and your head snapped round to stare at him. You immediately let your eyes fall to focus on his hand, immediately taken aback by the intensity of his stare. But Wolffe had other plans.
Before you could even mourn the loss of his hand on yours, he stretched his arm out and grabbed you by the chin between a forefinger and thumb. Then he tilted your head back up, so you had to look at him head-on. None of the intensity left his gaze as he studied your features, and you watched as it softened around the edges some. His nostrils flared as he let out a long breath, and you swear his thumb twitches like he was about to caress your skin.
But that was just wishful thinking on your part, spurred on by the disappointment you can’t deny when he let his hand fall away.
“Each individual in this counts towards a future that’s made better through our efforts. But without you - “ Wolffe paused for a moment, teeth clicking when he closed his mouth. “Well, without you, I’d probably be dead. Small consolation that is --”
“It’s not small,” you protested quickly. Maybe a little too quickly, if Wolffe lifting an eyebrow at you in question was any indication. “You said it yourself - every individual counts.”
Wolffe groaned, rolling his eyes at you before you were hit with the full force of an actual smile from him, “You remind me of my brother - always throwing my own words back at me when I apparently need it.”
“Rex?” He nodded, and you hummed thoughtfully. “Smart man.”
“Don’t let him catch you saying that,” Wolffe groused, shuffling the deck again. “Especially in this context - I’ll never hear the end of it.”
He dealt another hand out and -
Well…you won.
“Oh?” Both of you stared in silent disbelief at your hand - two sets of five from each stave. As your victory began to sink in you started to laugh, grinning from ear to ear as you watched Wolffe’s expression turn from shock to begrudging acceptance. “Ooh, how the turns have tabled.”
“‘Course you would win with a Squadron,” he grumbled, running both hands down his face. “Alright,” Wolffe groaned behind his palms, “go on.”
“Why did you join?”
It was the first question that came to mind. There are others you would rather have asked, questions he’d scoff at or tease you about. But that was the one you grabbed hold of first. It felt…important. More so when he slowly lowered his hands, clear suspicion in his gaze and under that, something else. Something that made you question if this would go sour.
“To repay a debt.”
That’s all you got out of him - and you were fine with that.
I know some of you wanted to be just on the Caf Delivery Service tag so if you want me to remove you from this tag, LMK! If you want me to add you to the taglist for this series also lmk in the replies or in a DM!
↳ a/n: this is very self-indulgent,, i’m sleepy n cold n want sleepy suna to coddle me uwu
realized this is so vague it could be abt any of the guys, so it’s pretty much an insert agdheh anyway i’m soft
waking up in the morning is harder some days than others. it’s too early, you think while slapping the alarm off on the nightstand. rolling over, expecting to be enveloped in those slender arms, you notice the emptiness of where he once laid his head. with sleep still in your eyes, you fail to notice the figure looming across the room. a pathetic whine falls from your lips as you clutch his pillow tightly against your chest.
he watches your feeble attempt to mimic his warmth. he chuckles quietly to himself. a defeated sigh falls from your lips, sending a pang right to his chest. he knows he shouldn’t stay. he already had a hard time just 10 minutes ago when his own alarm blared through the speakers of his phone.
his feet move faster than his mind as he finds himself shuffling towards the king sized bed. your body jerks feeling the bed dip, alerting you of his presence. he slides into his previous position, draping his arms around your shivering shoulders. running lithe fingers through your hair, he quickly shoots his coach a text. when that soft, content sigh of yours graces his ears he decides that skipping practice for you is absolutely worth it.
Looks like tweedleditz and steeldumb + whoever they roped into their crew this time deleted their failed callout blog against Lemon.
Would be a shame if I baited them into defending their zoo-shit and kiddie interests.
Would also be a shame if reblogs still stayed up after you delete a tumblr account.
