“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.
clone characters who are into primal play (my headcanons)
a/n: lowkey imagine how crazy this would be w imperial!hunter thoo holy fuckk ts has layers to it. and ofc had to include my predator animal-coded twins 🐺🦊 yes im nasty what about it…
fem reader
warnings: sexual content + bdsm themes with pre-established consent (please DNI if these topics make you uncomfortable)
bf!hunter who likes the chase. he’s always harbored a very secret, very sick and dirty kink for primal play, living up to his name. he holds your jaw from behind with his big, thick biceps wrapped around your upper body, bringing his mouth down low to your ear in a raspy whisper, “i’ll give you a head start, yeah?” his prowl for you is unpredictably patient, slow to draw out the pounding in your heart as you try to steady your breathing, knowing he can hear and feel everything. he follows the sweet scent of your perfume, all the nearby sounds rattling across his skin like a ticklish whisper, taunting him, dragging him closer to you. he doesn’t hunt aggressively; he plays with time, triumphant when he stands over you and smirks at your round doe eyes. “gotcha,” he murmurs, capturing your mouth in a messy, wild kiss as he rakes his hands over your body, shedding your clothes through a hoarse groan that vibrates against your soft lips.
bf!fox who likes the capture. this is a man who builds himself on his achievements, the thrill of being given a challenge and then delivering on it without fail. he often uses primal play as a way to punish your bratty tendencies, muttering, “ten minutes. don’t let me find you.” but he always does. he wedges his thigh between your legs to lock you down, pinning your wrists above your head with the firm grip of his hand. you squirm under him and rock your hips against his thigh, trying to soothe the throbbing ache in your pussy as he cocks his head to the side, smirking sadistically. “you’re a greedy little thing aren’t you?” he says in your ear. you whine as he kisses your neck and bites the same spot, marking your throat up. his teeth tug your skin back before his tongue runs over the sensitivity, licking up the sharp sting of pain. “mm, you’re gonna behave now, yeah? you’re gonna behave real good and give me what i want…”
bf!wolffe who likes the control. he’s so fuckin’ feral when he finds you, his hands rough as they grab you and put you on all fours, tugging down your bottoms with insatiable haste. sex with him is never delicate, but sex with him in this context brings out all the carnal, animalistic desires that eat him alive the same way he wishes to devour you, like you’re his prize and prey at the same time. you gasp when he spits on your pussy and thumbs your clit, getting you wet and ready for him, but you’re already soaked, which rumbles an amused, fucked up chuckle through his chest. “already making a mess all over me, huh?” he mutters in a low voice as he fists his cock, throwing his head back at the way his tip leaks with desperation. you moan when he slides two fingers inside you and curls them, quietly commanding, “clench—just like that.” he puts your obedience to the test, groaning as he replaces his fingers with the head of his cock, and you squeeze around him so tight he nearly cums right then and there. “that’s it,” he murmurs, grabbing your hips to thrust into you from behind. you cry out, causing him to clamp a hand down over your mouth while he fucks into you harder. “not a fucking sound.”
OPEN INBOX YESSS WHOOO!! I was wondering if you could you write a Wolffe x medic reader where Wolffe is being his usual stubborn self and refusing treatment from everyone, and the whole Wolfpack is bracing themselves because reader finally snaps at him to sit down 😭 like they fully think they’re about to witness a full-on argument because no one talks to Wolffe like that. and then he just… immediately listens. like no hesitation, no attitude, just sits down like “yes ma’am” and lets them treat him 💀 and everyone is SO confused because this is completely out of character for him, but reader just carries on like it’s normal while Wolffe is uncharacteristically compliant. it’s actually because they’re in a secret established relationship, so this dynamic makes total sense to them but absolutely no one else. kind of a gag fic but this kinda thing cracks me up lmfao. Much love 🫶🫶🫶
Selective Compliance
Wolffe x gn medic!reader
description: Wolffe refuses treatment after being injured on a mission, and you're the only medic who can make him cooperate.
warnings: mentions of injury/blood
notes: this is just a short fun one lol
The doors to the medbay hissed open so abruptly that several heads turned, and Wolffe stalked inside with the expression of a man who looked like he'd rather walk straight back into a line of fire than endure a medical exam. A shallow cut split the skin along his jaw, dried blood disappearing down the side of his neck, while the plastoid on his shoulder was scorched with evidence of a possible blaster shot graze.
"I already said I'm fine," Wolffe was snapping, shrugging off the medic trying to steer him towards an examination cot. "It's a scratch."
"A scratch that was leaking onto the floor ten minutes ago," Sinker muttered from the doorway, earning him a glare that shut him down immediately. The other clones around the medbay were pretending not to stare while very obviously staring. This happened every time Wolffe was injured: Wolffe refusing treatment, the medics eventually losing patience. The difference this time was that the General had personally ordered Wolffe to report for treatment before returning to duty, which meant nobody could simply give up and let him leave.
"You need to get that shoulder checked," the medic insisted carefully.
"What I need is sleep."
"Well, your shoulder--"
"I've had worse."
Boost sighed under his breath from where he leaned against the wall near Sinker. "Here we go."
Wolffe folded his arms over his chest and glared at everyone in the room like he was silently threatening whoever was thinking about speaking next. But instead…you walked over, datapad tucked under one arm and exhaustion written plainly across your face after what had clearly been a very long shift. You took one look at Wolffe's stubborn expression and sighed deeply.
"What's the problem now?" You asked, with the cadence of someone who already knew exactly what the problem was.
"He's, uh, refusing treatment," the other medic said immediately, relieved to hand the issue to someone else.
"I don't refuse treatment," Wolffe snapped. "I refuse unnecessary treatment."
You looked him over once, taking in the blood on his jaw and the stiffness in his posture, then exhaled sharply. "Sit down before I make you, Wolffe," you said flatly, already stepping over and reaching for a medscanner.
It seemed like everyone in the medbay immediately stiffened, as if bracing for impact. Someone somewhere muttered a quiet oh, kriff under their breath as if readying to witness the argument of the century.
Instead…Wolffe sat down. No argument. Not even a glare. He just exhaled and lowered himself onto the cot with a low, irritated grumble as you calibrated the medscanner. The silence that followed was deafening.
Boost blinked once. "…What?"
Sinker stared. "Did he just…?"
You ignored them entirely, focused on the readings appearing across the scanner while Wolffe sat there with a deep scowl on his face. The expression should've looked intimidating, but the fact that he was staying still and letting you work was kind of ruining the effect.
Your gaze flicked over him again. "I need to check your shoulder. Armor off."
Wolffe's jaw tightened. "It's bruised."
"Armor. Off."
Wolffe shot you a look but reached up and started unclasping his armor anyway, with the air of a man suffering some kind of profound personal betrayal.
The collective disbelief in the room was palpable at this point. Boost was staring so hard his mouth had actually fallen open, and Sinker was looking between the two of you with growing suspicion like he was trying to solve a problem that made no sense.
You stepped closer, placing a hand on Wolffe's upper arm as you started inspecting the injury on his shoulder. Wolffe hissed quietly through his teeth.
"Oh, so now it hurts," you murmured dryly.
"It didn't before you started poking at it," he muttered back irritably.
You snorted softly at that, but subtly stroked your thumb against his arm twice in silent apology. Wolffe's gaze flicked up to you for half a second, some of the tension in his shoulders easing just a tiny bit before the scowl settled back into place.
You reached for a bacta patch. "You're lucky the shot only grazed you. Another inch over and we'd be having a very different conversation."
Wolffe grunted. "But we're not. Because I'm fine."
"You say that every time."
"And every time, I'm right."
"Debatable." Still, you hid a smile as you smoothed a bacta patch over his injury. The others were still staring in utter disbelief, caught completely off-guard by both Wolffe's uncharacteristic cooperation and your almost familiar bickering.
You finished with the bacta patch, giving Wolffe's shoulder one final pat. Your hand lingered there for a moment, and Wolffe's expression softened a little again.
Sinker's eyes widened in sudden realization. "Ohhhh," he muttered under his breath.
synopsis: based on the following prompt – “i trust you, do you trust me?”
featured clones: wrecker, hunter, echo, tech, crosshair, rex, fives, wolffe, cody, fox
warnings: mild cursing. nightmares. crime. kidnapping. injury. life-and-death situations. highly uneven word counts because some required more buildup than others. also i don’t think you can repair the hyperdrive from inside a flying ship but uhhh it’s for the plot guys!! not proofread.
wc (total): 6.0k
.✦ ݁˖ wrecker (482 words)
it was a well-known fact that wrecker hated heights. but somehow, he always landed in situations where he would be practically tightrope walking from 300 metres off the ground.
although he tried not to look down, his eyes would subconsciously glance downwards every few seconds, rebelling against his brain which was repeating don’t look down like a mantra.
as you made your way across the narrow cliff’s edge, right in front of him, you also felt fear creep into your mind. you couldn’t afford it, but at that height, anyone would be scared.
just when you started getting used to it, a bomb dropped a few hundred feet in front of the both of you, causing you to momentarily lose your balance.
“if they just bombed us, that means they’re sending droids next. we’ll be trapped,” you tell wrecker. underneath your observation there was an unspoken question: what are we going to do?
as much as he hated the idea, wrecker could only think of one way out. “uhh i have an idea… but you’re not gonna like it.” this did nothing to help your growing sense of fear, considering that most of wrecker’s ideas were unlikeable anyways. “what is it?” you ask, preparing yourself for the worst. for all you know, he’s going to ask you to jump off the cliff.
“you’re just gonna have to trust me.” the look he gives you makes your stomach somersault, and not in the way it usually does when you see him. when you don’t say anything, he follows up. “i trust you, do you trust me?”
as impossible as this situation looked, the truth was that you did trust him. so no matter how terrible his idea was, you trusted that he would never intentionally hurt you. “yes,” you nod.
you yelp as he suddenly picks you up and then jumps. straight off the edge of the cliff. you had never regretted being right about something so much.
wrecker’s screaming so loud that for a split second you accept that this is the end. if he’s screaming so loud when this was his idea, then either something has gone terribly wrong or he didn’t think this through. and both of those things were highly probable.
but your worries are quelled (mildly) when you hear the whoosh of a grappling hook being fired and your bodies jerk as you come to a quick stop.
“whew, that was scary,” he says, voice slightly hoarse from all the screaming. “so is your miraculous plan just to… dangle off the cliff?” you ask, looking down and realizing that the two of you are definitely not close enough to the ground to jump the rest of the way. “no silly, you’re supposed to comm tech to come get us.” after a moment he adds, “and can you ask him to hurry? i don’t wanna be here any more.”
.✦ ݁˖ hunter (394 words)
the two of you had been at this for hours. and still, you felt like you hadn’t improved in the slightest.
hunter was teaching you how to fight with a knife. you were great with a blaster, but blasters weren’t always available. plus, you had kind of wanted to learn a new skill.
honestly, you were being a little harsh with yourself, at least in hunter’s eyes. not only had you just started learning, but you had mastered a lot of the moves he had taught you already. but he could see in your expression that you were frustrated with yourself.
“maybe it’s time for a break,” hunter says, taking the knife from you. hunter’s brow furrows as you nod, not saying a word. he takes your hand and drags you onto the steps of the ship, making you sit down beside him.
“you’re doing great, you know,” he says softly. you’re silent for a moment before shaking your head. “i just feel like it’s not good enough. it’s not like we have a lot of time to be training. i need to get good at this, and fast,” you say, looking away from him to try and hide the tears threatening to fall.
he gently takes ahold of your chin and turns your head to face him. “you’re too hard on yourself,” he says, kissing your nose. “i trust that you’ll get this. can you trust me?” he asks. when you nod, he drops his hand from your chin and says “let’s try once more. this time it’ll be you vs. me.” you groan, already knowing how it’s going to end.
but you surprise yourself with how well you fight. maybe you did need that break, even if you would never admit that to hunter. after a few minutes of intense sparring, you (somehow) manage to pin hunter to the ground, winning.
“see? not half as bad as you thought,” hunter laughs as he pushes himself off the ground. you laugh with him as you help him up. “come on, let’s get dessert. you earned it,” he says, grabbing your hand. you are 100% sure that he let you win, because there was no way you had actually beaten an experienced soldier on your first day of training. but hunter looks proud, and you’re getting ice cream, so who are you to complain?
.✦ ݁˖ echo (406 words)
both you and echo had gotten hurt on the last mission, bad. your skin was littered with bruises, and you had a few minor burns from the explosion that wrecker had accidentally triggered too early. echo looked no better, his prosthetics in bad shape and a serious sprain in his wrist from trying to catch himself as he fell, when he was attempting to take cover from said explosion.
the two of you are in the back of the marauder, alone, on the flight back to kamino after the mission. although he was clearly in a lot of pain from the condition of his prosthetics, he had insisted that he patch you up first.
picking up a bacta pad, he asks, “do you trust me?”, looking at you with wide eyes. “of course,” you respond breathlessly. echo always asked for permission, before doing anything. you admired that about him, especially knowing that it must be important to him. he probably knows better than most what it’s like to have your autonomy stripped from you, and thus refuses to do anything to anyone without their explicit permission.
you hiss as he lowers the pad onto your calf, right under the spot where your pants had been hastily rolled up. “just breathe…” he says, securing the pad around your leg with tape. the two of you sit in comfortable silence as he continues gently cleaning up all your other small burns with the same gentleness. it was admirable how well he was able to work with just one hand.
“all done,” echo declares, sitting back. you smile at him, thanking him silently and he gives you a nod. for a moment, he doesn’t move, looking conflicted. you don’t press, waiting for him to speak when he feels comfortable.
after a few moments, he hands you a small bag of materials, quietly asking you to help him with his injuries. your breath hitches as you take the bag, realizing how vulnerable this must be for him. as your sort through the supplies, you wonder if you’ll really be able to help him, since you would hate to mess things up and put him in even more pain by accident.
as you shift closer and pull his scomp towards you, it seems he can sense your fears when he whispers, “i trust you.” “thank you,” you respond, letting him guide you through repairing his prosthetics and patching up his sprain.
.✦ ݁˖ tech (647 words)
you lot were all in a lot of trouble. the planetary exit, meant to be inconspicuous, had been the opposite of stealthy. now there was an entire separatist fleet chasing after you, and the hyperdrive wasn’t coming online.
“did they sabotage it?” echo calls from the back. he was trying his best to get the hyperdrive online, wrecker was at the back manning the ship’s rear blasters, and tech was piloting. hunter and crosshair were controlling the ship’s cannons. meanwhile you were in the cockpit hanging on for dear life as tech flew the ship like a maniac, attempting to read the ship’s manual to see if it had anything useful to offer. he was simultaneously avoiding blaster fire and trying to shake off the ships by going as fast as possible, but it was only a matter of time before they closed in.
you squinted your eyes to try to focus on the words amidst the jostling of the ship. “deflectors have been compromised!” hunter calls. “i can’t get the hyperdrive online. i don’t know what’s wrong with it,” echo panics.
“i can’t find anything useful in this manual.” you say, panicked. “don’t you have the entire manual memorized?” you ask tech. “i do. but i am currently occupied with trying to keep us all alive.” his usual calm tone is tinged with concern. even crosshair was silent. if he had no aggravating comment regarding the situation, then it was truly dire.
you flip to the next page, reading faster, although your hope was dwindling. just as you were about to throw the manual aside, you come across a passage that might just save all of you. “wait! i found something,” you exclaim. you read out the passage to echo and tech. tech blinks and then says, “i am surprised i did not think about that before. but that is a two-person job, and only echo and i have the ability to repair that part of the hyperdrive. you will have to fly the ship.”
“i can barely fly a ship! especially not during a life-or-death space chase!” you yell. if he really expected you to fly the ship, then you were all as good as dead.
“do not underestimate your abilities, my dear. i trust you with the ship. do you trust me?” he asks, glancing at you for a brief second.
you take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the task. “i do,” you say, approaching his seat. you two quickly switch spots and he and echo get straight to work on fixing the hyperdrive.
miraculously, your flying wasn’t as bad as you were expecting. you were managing to avoid the blaster fire, which was no small feat considering there were about five different ships trying to shoot down your ship. but just as you started feeling confident, a shot hits one of the wings.
“the left wing’s been hit!” you call to the rest of them. right as you started losing control of the ship, you hear the hyperdrive come online. were you even supposed to go into hyperspace with a compromised wing? probably not, but you didn’t have a choice. you quickly flip the switch and successfully enter hyperspace.
you slump back into the seat, exhaling shakily. you close your eyes as the adrenaline starts to wear off and you feel the effects of being so anxious for so long start to creep in. sitting there for a few moments, you thank the stars for your sudden high-class piloting abilities and that you hadn’t killed the whole batch.
your eyes open as you hear someone come up behind you. a moment later you feel a hand land on your shoulder and give it a squeeze. “you did wonderfully. i am impressed,” tech praises. you flash him a smile, grateful that you had trusted each other. he returns it, thinking the same thing.
.✦ ݁˖ crosshair (501 words)
the batch needed to infiltrate a heavily fortified separatist base, and you had the great pleasure of joining them.
they had been on many missions such as this one and always came out on top. it was hardly a challenge for them anymore, and they had no problem pretentiously whining about it all the time.
you, however, were not as easy-going about this mission as they were. crosshair noticed your anxiety no matter how good you were at hiding it. he noticed how your posture was a little too stiff and the slight furrow in your brow.
but he’s not very good at comfort, and the only way he knows how to address serious topics is using sarcasm. on the ship, during the debrief before the mission, he takes his toothpick out of his mouth and points it at you. “you look confident,” he mocks. which was not helpful, and only put you more on edge.
he backs off slightly after that, paying attention to you throughout the mission. he shifts closer to you whenever your breath comes faster. stands in front of you when he sees your hand flexing, making sure that you’re covered from both the front and the back. practically manhandles you when he hears droids coming closer, making sure you’re behind something that can provide cover. helps shoot some of the targets in your way when your blaster trembles slightly in your hands. by no means were you an incompetent fighter, but anxiety catches up with everyone at times. although crosshair hated to admit it, he would never let harm come to you, and the last thing he wanted to do was invalidate how you feel.
despite your anxiety, the mission turned out to be a success, for the most part. you had recovered what you needed and had managed to make it thus far without anyone getting harmed. but just as the six of you are about to make your great escape, crosshair notices a battle droid in the distance, coming up behind you. he points his rifle straight at your face, and you freeze, eyes wide.
“do you trust me?” he asks. it’s hard to say yes with the gun pointed at your face, but you give him a small nod. as he moves his finger to pull the trigger, he says “i trust you. don’t move.” you close your eyes as you hear the blaster fire, but it never hits you. you open your eyes as you hear the sound of a large droid clattering to the ground. had he fired even a centimeter lower, it would’ve killed you. but if he hadn’t taken the shot like that, he wouldn’t have been able to take the droid out in one go. but he wouldn’t tell you that.
as the two of you run towards the marauder together, you huff, “couldn’t you have taken the droid out from any other angle” without missing a beat, he answers, “i could’ve. but there’s no fun in that.”
.✦ ݁˖ rex (535 words)
the war was tough on your relationship. on one hand, you were very understanding that rex had no control over his schedule. it was extremely admirable that he put his life on the line every day, and helped fight for the republic’s freedom, for your freedom. but the weeks, sometimes months, of loneliness were catching up to you. it was hard, especially since it wasn’t like rex could talk everyday. your communications were few and far between, as he had responsibilities and so did you. and as the war dragged on, his presence only became more scarce, until you felt like he was your partner in name only.
and boy, did rex try to make time for you. the guilt of leaving you alone ate at him constantly, to the point where he sometimes wondered if he should break up with you so you could move on and be with someone who was able to give you all the time you deserved. but selfishly, he wanted to hold onto you. and he also knew that a breakup would only hurt you more than it would help.
which is why he’s over the moon when he finally gets a day off, and runs straight to your place when he gets the chance. and when you open the door, you are the same as always; eternally grateful to see him, and you spend the rest of the day giddy, drunk on his presence. but rex could tell that you had been struggling. your apartment wasn’t as clean as it usually was. your laundry basket was overflowing, the dishes in the sink hadn’t been done in ages, and your plants had all died.
so when the two of you finally make it into bed, he pulls you into him, wrapping his arms tightly around you. “hey… are you okay?” he asks gently. “yeah, i’m really happy you’re here,” you answer, giving him a small kiss. he takes a small breath and tries again. “no, i mean, have you been okay?” when you don’t answer, he waits patiently, not wanting to push you. you stay silent for a few minutes, and rex closes his eyes, thinking that you’re just not going to answer. but they open again when you say, “i’ve been really lonely.”
before you can launch into a long explanation to defend yourself, rex presses a kiss to your forehead. “i know it’s been hard. i need to try harder to make time. you’re my priority, and i haven’t treated you like it. i’m sorry for letting you feel lonely. i’m going to make sure to be in touch from now,” he apologizes, slowly stroking your hair. “i’d like that,” you whisper, scared that if you say more, you’ll start crying.
he kisses you slowly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other still wrapped tightly around you. “we need to trust each other to make this work. i trust you, do you trust me?” he asks, looking at you softly. for a moment he’s scared that you’ll say no, that you’ve had enough. but when you whisper “i trust you,” he kisses you again, eternally grateful that he got blessed with someone like you.
.✦ ݁˖ fives (911 words)
being with fives was exasperating sometimes. and this was definitely one of those times.
“are you being serious right now? i am not going through all this effort for some cookies,” you hiss at him in the alleyway, trying not to let anyone hear the two of you. when he had sent you an ominous message to meet him in this shady spot, you had run out of your house, assuming he was in danger. thankfully, that was not the case. unthankfully, he was being ridiculous again.
“these aren’t just any cookies! they look delicious. they smell delicious. and i bet they taste delicious too,” he whispers dreamily. you shake your head, mildly irritated that you were currently standing in a dark alley during the dead of night all because your partner wanted to steal some cookies. “if they’re that important to you, why don’t you just buy them? it doesn’t exactly look good for a soldier of the republic to be stealing,” you attempt to reason.
“they’re so expensive! 25 credits for two cookies isn’t exactly affordable. plus, it’s not like the republic is paying me for my service.” well, he’s got a point there. probably a human rights violation, but that’s an issue for a later day.
you concede with a sigh. “all right. walk me through the plan.” because although fives was the biggest idiot in the galaxy, he was your idiot, and you secretly wanted a cookie too.
his grand plan was as follows: once the owner is finished with closing, they will walk out the door and lock it behind them. while fives distracts them, you are to swipe the key off them. after waiting for about ten minutes, to make sure that the owner was long gone, the two of you would use the key to sneak into the store and try the leftovers. fives had even brought a little box with him to carry more cookies. but the leftover cookies were going to be thrown out tomorrow morning anyways, so really, the two of you were just preventing food waste.
“i trust you to help me pull this off,” he says, taking your hands in his. “do you trust me? we won’t get in trouble, i promise.” you squeeze his hands, saying “i trust you. what i don’t trust is this plan.” his face falls for a moment, but his frown turns upside down when you add, “but let’s do it.”
about fifteen minutes later, fives and you watch from behind a pillar as the owner closes and locks the door behind them. the two of you watch him slip the key into a pocket in his pants. fives takes this as his queue, and as the owner starts walking away, he runs after them, yelling “hey! can i talk to you for a sec?”
you turn around and facepalm from the sheer embarrassment. real subtle. but you still had a mission to complete, so pulling the hood of your cloak up, you start walking towards them. as you approach, you can hear fives’ pitiful attempt at starting conversation and have to suppress a laugh. “your bakery always smells so good, like cookies,” he states, the smile on his face way too wide to be considered natural. “ah, yes, that would be because i sell cookies…” the owner replies skeptically.
but the owner is caught off guard when you slam into them a moment later. but it was a little harder than you had anticipated, and the two of you land hard on the ground. great, this plan’s already failed. but fives is always willing to create opportunity even when there isn’t one, and he reaches for the owner to help them up. while you apologize profusely, fives subtly reaches into the pocket and snags the key, the owner being too busy trying to reorient themselves to notice the slight loss of pressure in their pocket.
“watch it!” they snap at you. you apologize one more time, and the owner storms off. fives gives you a look, and before he can say anything, you roll your eyes. “don’t start.” he raises his hands in surrender and says, “i’m just sayin’, getting the key was supposed to be your job.”
once the two of you had waited for a few minutes, and the coast was clear, you tiptoe to the door and put the key into the lock. fives holds his breath as you slowly pull the handle, trying not to create too much noise. but the door opens without hassle.
the moment fives enters the shop, he dashes towards the display with the same speed he must use on the battlefield. “look! they have a special chocolate chip cookie dough flavour!” he exclaims, gesturing you to come closer. you can’t help but feel just as excited as he is, looking at all the different flavours and at how excited he is.
about ten minutes and fifteen cookie selections later, the two of you exit the shop and leave the key underneath the doormat, with a note taped to the door explaining the situation. after all, you don’t want to stress the poor owner out too much. you’d already most likely broken their hipbone.
later, when the two of you are watching a movie and stuffing yourselves full of cookies, he turns to you and wiggles his eyebrows. “bet you’re glad you trusted my plan.” “shut up,” you laugh, shoving another cookie in his mouth.
.✦ ݁˖ wolffe (353 words)
wolffe is a man of few words. more of an i’ll show you rather than an i’ll tell you kind of guy. so when you get woken up in the dead of night by the sound of his voice, your heart leaps out of your chest.
normally, you’d love to listen to him talk. but as your eyes adjust to the dark, you realize that his eyes are still closed. he’s sleeping, and from the looks of it, he’s not having the best night of his life. his body trembles as he repeats the same word over and over again. “no, no, no, no, no…”
you had never seen him this distraught. “wolffe, wake up,” you say, trying to gently shake him awake, but he doesn’t budge. you try again, and still no dice. right when you think you’ll need to get a frying pan, he jerks awake. he sits up, entire body tense. but when he feels your hand trail down his arm, squeezing lightly, some of the tension leaves his muscles.
“were you having a nightmare?” you ask him softly. he’s still panting a little when he answers “just a dream.” “come on,” you say, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him down. you lay with him, running your hands along his body to calm him down. his breathing slowly but surely starts to slow down, and the tension starts to leave his body completely.
once his breathing returns to normal, he snakes his arms around you too, so you’re both hugging each other. “do you trust me?” he mumbles, almost as if he didn’t want you to hear him. “yes, wolffe, i do,” you reply without missing a beat. he kisses you, and where his kisses are usually possessive, this one is soft. after pulling away, he whispers against your lips. “i trust you. don’t leave me.” “wouldn’t dream of it,” you reassure him, kissing him again.
the two of you quickly fall back asleep, comfortable and safe in each other’s arms. but if you ever bring this up at a future date, wolffe would swear it never happened.
.✦ ݁˖ cody (659 words)
it was very rare that cody got a day off from duty. he got a few hours from time to time, but a full day was hard to come by. which is exactly what made today so special.
you groan at the insistent knocking at your door. at first you had just brushed it off, since you weren’t expecting anybody, and figured it must be someone lost, or a thief. but after about thirty seconds, the knocking had only increased in both pace and volume.
having had enough, you turn the burner off and storm towards the door. whoever had decided to ruin your peaceful day of cooking was about to hear it from you. you slam the door open, ready to hurl all sorts of insults at whichever idiot was behind the door.
but all those thoughts are erased from your mind the moment your brain registers who’s there. “cody!” you exclaim, jumping into his arms. he giggles into your hair. “hey, love. miss me?” he teases, planting a kiss on your head.
after a long minute of just holding each other, you reluctantly let go. a few hours later, the two of you are cozied up on the sofa together, bellies filled with delicious food (that you thankfully got to finish making) and hearts filled with happiness.
“you know,” cody starts, hand running through your hair, “i think i need a hair cut.” you look at him, confused. “but i like your hair,” you counter. he stares at you with a mischievous look in his eyes, which only confuses you further. “i think we both need the change,” he says, standing up. what the hell does that even mean?
“cody, what are you doing?” you ask as he heads towards the kitchen. he doesn’t answer you, too preoccupied with opening and closing drawers. “what are you looking for?” he still doesn’t answer, and you’re about to stand when you hear an ah-ha!. he comes towards you, holding the pair of scissors like a trophy, and declares “we should cut each other’s hair.”
the idea is so sudden that you’re stunned into silence. “you want to cut each other’s hair… with kitchen scissors,” you confirm, and he nods, still looking a little too proud at his little idea. “isn’t there some GAR standard for hair?” you push, trying to knock some sense into him. but he only waves his hand dismissively. “there are plenty of clones with crazy hair,” he states (full shade to boost, wtf is that haircut brother). “i don’t believe that rex is a natural blonde. and if he can bleach his hair, then i can afford to cut a few locks.”
when cody wants something, he knows how to get it. which is exactly how you find yourself standing in front of the bathroom sink a few minutes later, freshly-cleaned kitchen scissors in hand. you breathe deeply as you lightly wet his hair with a spray bottle. “hey, darling. don’t be nervous. i trust you,” he comforts you, rubbing your arm lightly.
the process takes way longer than it should. but 45 minutes later, you stand in front of a very happy cody as he admires his new haircut in the mirror. even you must admit; you did a pretty good job. “you should do this full time, love,” he says gratefully, “it’s exactly what i wanted.”
“i’m glad,” you smile at him.
but just as you’re about to leave the bathroom, he grabs your arm and drags you back. he tsks and says, “nuh-uh, now it’s my turn.” uh oh. as he reaches for the spray bottle to repeat the process on you, he laughs as he says, “i trusted you, but the real question is, do you trust me?”
you trusted him in every context except this one. you flash him a nervous smile and nod, resigning yourself to the fact that you’ll probably be wearing hats for the next little while.
.✦ ݁˖ fox (1.1 k words - oops)
fox had never meant for you to get caught up in all this. but no matter what he wanted to happen, the truth was that you were in danger, and he blamed himself.
someone had hired a bounty hunter to eliminate a highly valued prisoner. the coruscant guard had just barely managed to stop the hunter, but hadn’t been able to figure out who they were before they escaped. but the guard hadn’t concerned themselves with the bounty hunter as much as who had hired them. this turned out to be a big mistake, because the bounty hunter had decided that the best way to get to the prisoner was by holding people the coruscant guard loved hostage and threaten them. if he could get the commander to fold, then he had won.
which was how you had ended up in this predicament. one moment you had been getting ready for bed and the next you heard glass shatter as someone entered your apartment via the window. you had tried to fight off the intruder, and almost succeeded, but they managed to stun you and then the fight was over.
you slowly blink as you wake up, a dull ache in your head from being stunned. but all the sleepiness wears off as soon as you register where you are. the concrete was cold beneath your feet, and your waist and wrists were in pain from the tight rope cutting into them. you look around, concluding that you must be in a storage facility of some sort. panic quickly settles in your chest as you realize that you’re alone, and it was unlikely that anybody would be coming to rescue you. fox was overprotective, and he had probably already gone insane since you hadn’t called him to say goodnight the way you usually did. you would be surprised if he hadn’t already stormed into your apartment.
but even if he had realized that you were gone, he would have no way of locating you. the kidnapper hadn’t exactly had the courtesy of leaving you with a way to call for help. trying to fight against the restraints was useless, and would only cause you to maim yourself. so you were stuck.
meanwhile, fox was having the worst day of his life. the bar was high, since he had seen some crazy shit during his years, but this took the cake. he was furious. why would anyone try to target you? you were just a civilian. and while your relationship with the commander wasn’t exactly a secret, it’s not like either of you were celebrities – strangers wouldn’t know about it, and even if they did, they wouldn’t have a reason to care.
he’s just about to leave your apartment when there’s an incoming transmission. he’s never answered faster, hoping that it’s you. that you just went on a stroll, although the broken window indicated otherwise. but that hope is quickly squandered when he hears the voice of the very bounty hunter that had gotten away just a few days ago.
“i have them. and if you’re smart, you’ll take the deal i’m about to give you,” the bounty hunter drawls. fox is so angry that he almost bursts a vein in his head. “if you don’t let them go right now, i will make the rest of your life so miserable you’d only wish you were dead,” he threatens. the hunter just laughs, which angers fox further. “if you give me the prisoner, you’ll get them back. and no ambushes, or else they die. you have until the morning.”
fox has no choice. at least for now, he has to take the deal – thinking of a plan can wait. before the bounty hunter can cut the call, he accepts “i’ll accept your deal on one condition. let me talk to her.” the hunter is silent for a moment before conceding. a few moments later, he hears your voice.
“fox, what’s going on?” you ask. the panic in your voice makes his heart squeeze. “i can’t explain everything right now. just promise me you’ll be okay.” his breath stutters when he doesn’t hear an answer. how could you promise that? you were already not okay. when he realizes how impossible his request is, he takes a deep breath. “i trust you,” he spits out. the vulnerability is so foreign to him that the confession sounds hateful. but the hate wasn’t directed at you, never at you. he hated himself for even letting this happen. “do you trust me?”
“i do,” you exhale. the bounty hunter cuts the call, saying “that’s enough.” as stalks out of the room, he looks behind his shoulder, calling “for your sake, you should pray that he brings that prisoner.” but the words hardly register, your mind preoccupied with replaying fox’s words in your head. i trust you, he had said. that meant so many things. i trust you to trust me. i trust you to do the right thing. i trust you to believe in me. i trust you to be strong.
those words are the only thing keeping you together as you wait for what feels like days, all alone in the dark room. your head has been between your knees for so long that your neck has started to hurt. but you perk up when you hear the distant sound of blaster fire.
a million thoughts flash through your mind at once. it must be fox, here to save you. but the bounty hunter had said that you would die if he ambushed. fox would never let that happen. but what if he got hurt? no, he’s strong enough. but what if the bounty hunter, who had already evaded him once, was too strong?
the sound of the doors sliding open cuts through your thoughts. at first, you only see a shadow, and for a split second you panic thinking that the bounty hunter had come here to finish the job. but as the shadow comes a little closer you realize it’s a man in clone trooper armour; and not just any armour, it was fox’s. he breaks into a run, pulling out a knife to cut through your restraints the moment he gets close enough.
you two reach for one another at the same time, and fox holds you so tight that it crushes you a little. “are you hurt?” he mumbles into your neck. “no, you saved me.” fox takes a shaky breath, thanking the stars that his ambush had actually worked and that you were still here, and unharmed at that. he wordlessly picks you up, carrying you out of the room.
“i can walk by myself, y’know,” you say, but the expression on your face indicated that you didn’t mind this situation at all. “not a chance. you’re staying with me tonight.” he says definitively. “aww, are you worried about me, commander?” you tease. he scowls. “stow it.”
a/n: it was so hard coming up with 10 different scenarios for this prompt rahhh
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."
SUMMARY: As Admiral of General Plo Koon's ship, you had it going everyday. You were no Jedi to feel detached, and you were no soldier to withstand the stress. So, when a certain commander noticed, you didn't expect him to suggest an offer that could be beneficial to the both of you—a breather, he said.
CONTENT: 5k words, piv sex, soft wolffe (let's give the man a break too), oral sex (fem receiving), touch-starved idiots, mildly dubious consent, let's pretend the Triumphant survived for fic purposes, coworkers with benefits?
RATING: EXPLICIT
VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED!
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As Admiral of the Venator-class Star Destroyer Triumphant, under the command of Jedi Master Plo Koon, you held the weight of the galaxy's endless war on your shoulders. It was a position you'd earned through years of strategic brilliance, unyielding discipline, and a knack for turning chaotic battlefields into orchestrated victories. The crew looked to you—not just the clones, but the officers, the pilots, even the Jedi—for direction.
Your voice echoed through the bridge like a beacon, issuing orders that could mean the difference between survival and annihilation.
"Helm, adjust course to bearing zero-three-zero. Gunnery, prepare for incoming Separatist fighters. Medical teams stand by for casualties."
Day in, day out, you were the unbreakable pillar.
The one who kept the ship running like a machine amid the Republic's crumbling front lines.
But beneath that polished veneer of authority, everything was taking its toll on everyone.
The war had no mercy for everyone.
Especially to a mere human like you.
Sleepless nights blurred into hyperspace jumps, reports of fallen troopers stacked higher, and the constant pressure to outmaneuver an enemy that seemed infinitely impossible each day. Frustrations simmered beneath your skin. All from the same purpose. The bureaucratic red from Coruscant that delayed reinforcements, the moral quandaries of sending good men to their deaths, the isolation of command where every decision rested solely on you.
Your head throbbed from staring at holographic star maps, your muscles ached from standing rigid on the bridge for hours, and there were moments—fleeting, dangerous ones—when you wondered if you could keep it all together. A single crack in your composure could ripple through the ranks, eroding morale faster than a hull breach.
However, you refused to let it show.
In the eyes of your crew, you were untouchable.
Crisp uniform buttoned to the collar, posture straight as a durasteel beam, voice steady even when delivering grim news.
“We press on.”
You'd say to your men, masking the exhaustion with a nod of encouragement.
“Good hunting.”
You'd wish your pilots, watching them embark on another chase amongst the stars.
“Fall back.”
You'd surrender through gritted teeth, once you knew the lives of others were more important than finishing a mission.
Plo Koon often commended your resilience, his mask hiding any hint of concern, but you knew better than to confide in anyone. Admirals didn't break, they commanded. So you buried the stress deep, channeling it into sharper tactics, longer shifts, anything to maintain the image of invincibility. After all, in this war, weakness was a luxury you couldn't afford.
Until, it was offered to you.
It was on one evening, after a grueling skirmish with a Separatist blockade, that you finally allowed yourself the small reprieve of retreating to your quarters.
The corridors of the Triumphant were dimly lit, the hum of the engines a constant companion as you walked alone, your boots clicking softly against the deck plating. The day's frustrations lingered like smoke. Another batch of clone troopers lost, supply lines stretched thin, and the gnawing doubt that tomorrow would bring more of the same.
You rolled your shoulders, trying to shake off the tension, but it clung stubbornly. A knot between your shoulder blades that no amount of deep breathing could loosen.
That's when you heard the footsteps behind you—deliberate, armored, unmistakably clone-issue.
You turned, expecting a late report or some minor crisis, but it was Commander Wolffe.
The leader of the Wolfpack stood there, the distinctive gray markings etched like scars across his helmet and armor.
The sight always took you back every time. Even though you've seen him countless of times, you were always surprised to see him so… daunting. However, you tried not to let it show then. Especially now, standing five feet away from each other, to let him know how much his presence affected you.
You and Wolffe had always shared a professional respect, forged in the fires of shared battles. He admired your tactical acumen, and you trusted his unyielding cause to the mission. But interactions were rare—brief nods on the bridge, curt exchanges during briefings, post reports after missions alongside his general. He wasn't one for small talk, and neither were you. Though, you always noticed how much he lingered every time.
Of course he would, he was an officer performing his duty. But sometimes, it didn't feel like that was the reason. On some days, he'd stand closer to you. Far too close while you direct an assault on a holomap, feeling him peer over your shoulder. Then, there were those days where you felt watched even when you didn't see anyone directly looking at you—only to catch his gaze seconds away before he averted them.
His praises were reserved, though the weight they carried was much more significant.
“Great work, Admiral.”
“Thanks for getting us out of there.”
“Couldn't have done it without you.”
“Well done again.”
You shouldn't see him in any other way than a fellow commanding officer. You shouldn't even think about him. What it would be like to get closer. To know him better. To strip him off of his armor and sink your nails beneath the layers. You wanted to know more about him, the fierce and infamous Commander of the 104th battalion.
But you knew there was a line you shouldn't cross.
So you kept your attraction concealed under the pretense of admiration and respect. But deep down, you itched to dance around the line and see if he would do the same.
Wolffe finally removed his helmet with a hiss, revealing his scarred face, the cybernetic eye glinting in the low light.
“Admiral,” He greeted, his voice gruff but not unkind, falling into step beside you without invitation. “Long day.”
You nodded, keeping your expression neutral. “Aren't they always? Something I can assist with, Commander?”
He glanced sideways at you, his good eye narrowing slightly. “You've been pushing hard. Harder than usual. The men notice. I noticed.”
A flicker of surprise cut through your fatigue, but you masked it quickly. “Appreciate the concern, but I'm fine. Just heading to finish up more reports.”
“This late at night?”
“Yes, my job isn't finished until—”
“With all due respect, Admiral. You need a breather.”
You paused at the door to your quarters, inputting your access code while processing his words.
A breather?
It sounded vague, almost out of character for the stoic commander.
But there was something in his tone—earnest, almost protective—that made you curious. The stress was a heavy cloak tonight, and the idea of any relief, even undefined, was tempting.
The exhaustion, the pent-up frustration, the rare spark of connection with someone who understood the burden.
You trusted him, as a comrade and as a respected officer. Your relationship has always been based on mutual understanding. The weight of your positions, the expectations from your subordinates, the image of an unshakable leader. You two had more similarities than you would've thought. And perhaps, that was the reason why you were considering his suggestion. Maybe he knew a way to forget the responsibilities even for a night.
You hesitated in the doorway of your quarters, choosing your next words carefully.
“I'm not sure what you mean,” You admitted, watching him closely. “I can rest once I'm done.”
Wolffe grunted, a sound that could mean agreement or skepticism. “You don't just need rest. You need to let go. I can show you how if you'd let me.”
His offer of a “breather” had sounded too vague for your liking. Though, you knew he didn't mean any harm by it. Perhaps a quiet conversation over a mug of caf, or sharing war stories to vent the day's frustrations.
For a moment, the two of you only stared at one another. Neither moving, nor breaking. For all the years you've known him, you knew him to be like an immovable stone wall. It was one of the many things you've come to admire about him. He might've been feared for his stony facade, but you saw past it all and recognized something deeper.
He cared for others, especially his brothers and his general, more than other people thought.
You saw it numerous times how he'd risk his life to defend them. To fight for them. He was arguably a perfect example to lead a battalion. Of course, there were notable commanding officers from other legions. Like Captain Rex from the 501st or Commander Cody from the 212th.
But Commander Wolffe led not with directness or strategy.
He led with unwavering loyalty.
To the Republic. To his brothers. To his general.
You trusted him with your life, and maybe you could trust him with this too.
Finally, you released a breath.
“Very well,” You pressed on the panel, feeling his stare stuck on your back. “Come inside, Commander.’
The door sealed shut with a soft whoosh, enclosing the two of you in the dim glow of your private space. The room felt smaller with him in it, his armored form a solid presence amid the sparse furnishings. Your bunk, a small table, the viewport streaked with hyperspace stars. Nothing special. Just a standard design similar to all the other quarters with minimal personal belongings and decorations.
"Make yourself comfortable," You waved a hand, trying to sound casual as you shrugged off your uniform jacket, folding it neatly over the chair. Underneath it, a simple black tank that barely protected you from the cold. And unbeknownst to you, from Wolffe's sharpening gaze.
Meanwhile, your mind raced at the possible scenarios.
What did he mean by letting go?
A deep conversation?
Some meditation technique?
While you pondered over the situation, you didn't notice the way his eyes tracked you.
Wolffe watched you with that piercing stare, his cybernetic eye glinting faintly as he unclasped sections of his armor, setting them aside with methodical precision. The plastoid clattered softly, revealing the black bodysuit beneath, taut over his battle-hardened frame.
You faced him again, blinking in shock to see him in the state of undress. Somehow, without his armor in the way, he appeared even broader and more commanding. The black fabric hugged his arms and thighs perfectly, his shoulders almost touched the sides of your door, and when he rolled them back—you almost cowered at how taller he looked.
Perhaps you were just more exhausted than you thought that you were imagining him looking larger than usual, or perhaps you were simply too deprived that you were admiring his physique in inappropriate ways.
But when did he—
No, why did he remove his armor?
You cleared your throat, catching yourself from staring. It was too late, he noticed it.
“Commander?”
“Yes, Admiral?”
“Is there a reason why you… removed your armor?”
“Yes, there is.”
He stepped closer, his hands—now ungloved—reaching for yours.
“No more orders from you tonight,” He murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. “I'm taking charge for now.”
Before you could process or protest, he guided you backward until the edge of the bunk pressed against your calves. His touch was firm, authoritative, mirroring the command you wielded on the bridge.
He sat first, pulling you down with him, his hands sliding to your waist, unbuckling your belt with surprising deftness. Without warning, he hooked his fingers into your waistband and commanded.
“Take them off.”
“Excuse me?”
“I want them off. Now.”
That time sent shivers down your spine, hearing the domineering control laced with the roughness of something else. Rarely did he speak to you with it, but you've heard him use it to others. You'd be lying if you said you haven't thought of it before, how it would feel to be on that end of his order, hearing his growl and gravelly bark as he spoke low in your ear.
“Do you trust me?” His fingers traced your side, grazing your hip up to waist. “We can stop if you want to, Admiral. Make me leave this instant.”
No, you didn't want him to leave.
He promised you a breather, and you were going to get it.
Against your better judgement, you chucked off your boots and proceeded to remove your pants—along with your standard issue underwear after he muttered that one too—leaving you bare from the waist down.
You paused, unsure what to do next. Until he suddenly moved, pulling your tank top off from your body in one swift tug. Then, you were finally bare. The cold nipped your skin, though the heat you felt within your veins refrained you from shivering. Still, you wrapped your arms around your chest as you looked away.
What is happening?
You clamped your thighs together, confused and flustered at the rapt intensity of his gaze.
“Commander, what are you—” Your words cut off as he lifted you effortlessly, positioning you above him as he lay back.
One moment you were straddling his lap, confusion mingling with a spark of curiosity. The next, he was shifting you higher, your knees bracketing his shoulders, thighs pressing against the sides of his face.
Your hands shot out instinctively, palms flattening against the cool durasteel wall for balance as you hovered there, heart pounding.
This wasn't caf. This wasn't conversation.
What in the Sith hells is he doing?
His hands gripped your hips, steadying you, pulling you down until you felt the heat of his breath against your core.
“Relax, Admiral,” He smirked at you, his tone commanding yet reassuring, lips brushing your inner thigh. “Let me take care of you.”
And then his mouth was on you, tongue delving with purposeful strokes—exploring, teasing, unrelenting.
The shock of it arched your back, a gasp escaping your lips as pleasure surged through you like a hyperspace jump. You hadn't expected this, not from the stoic commander whose face was usually hidden behind a helmet, whose words were sparse and tactical. But here he was, devouring you with a hunger that matched the intensity of his battlefield prowess.
His fingers joined in tandem, calloused from years of gripping blasters, now slipping inside you with expert precision—curling, thrusting in rhythm with his tongue.
The “breather” he'd promised unfolded in waves of sensation, each lap and suck pulling the stress from your body like venom from a wound. The knot of tension in your shoulders unraveled, the frustrations of command dissolving into moans you couldn't suppress. Your thighs trembled around him, muscles clenching as he worked you higher, his good eye locked on yours when you dared to glance down, a silent challenge.
Surrender.
The wall was your anchor, fingers digging into the unyielding metal as you rocked against him, chasing the release he coaxed from you.
“Wolffe,” You whimpered, jolting at a sharp suck on your clit. “Wolffe, wait—we shouldn't—”
Wolffe didn't falter, his grip ironclad, tongue flicking over that sensitive bundle of nerves until stars burst behind your eyelids—not the cold void of space, but something warm, explosive. Slowly, the heat coiled low in your stomach. Every ravenous lick, every depraved suck, every obscene groan that reverberated below shook your core until your mind blanked.
He said you needed a breather.
But you really can't breathe right now.
You came undone above him, body shuddering, a cry tearing from your throat that echoed in the confined space. He didn't stop immediately, easing you through it with gentler licks, fingers slowing until you slumped forward, breathless and spent. For one last measure, he bit on the inside of your thigh to leave a mark. Something you'd see every time you stepped into the sonic shower, something that would always remind you of this night.
Only then did he guide you down, settling you beside him on the bunk.
His face glistened, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Better?” He asked again, echoing his earlier question, but this time with a hint of smugness.
You nodded, still catching your breath, a laugh bubbling up unexpectedly. “That… wasn't what I expected.”
But it looked like the night was far from over.
Your breaths came in shallow pants as you tried to reassemble the fragments of your composure.
The commander shifted beside you, his weight dipping the bunk, and you felt the heat of his body as he propped himself up on one elbow. His cybernetic eye caught the faint light from the viewport, giving him an almost predatory gleam.
“Not done yet,” He rumbled, his voice rough with lingering desire.
He moved with the fluid grace of a soldier, his hands—strong and unyielding—grasped your hips and flipped you over in one smooth motion.
A surprised yelp escaped you as you found yourself on your stomach, the cool sheets pressing against your heated skin.
Wolffe settled between your legs, his thighs bracketing yours, the solid warmth of him a stark contrast to the vulnerability of your position.
“Gonna thank you properly now,” He murmured, leaning over you, his breath hot against the nape of your neck. “For everything you've done. Holding this ship together, keeping us alive.”
His gaze met yours over your shoulder, glinting with something dangerous, a promise that twisted “thanks” into something far more carnal.
You swallowed, a mix of anticipation and lingering confusion swirling in your chest. But before you could voice it, his hands were on you again.
He maneuvered you with deliberate care, propping your knees up beneath you, guiding your back into a deep arch. One large hand splayed across your spine, pressing just enough to hold you in place, while the other trailed lower, teasing. You felt the blunt head of him nudge against your folds, slick from your earlier release, and a gasp tore from your lips as realization hit. This was his idea of gratitude—raw, unfiltered, claiming.
“Wolffe,” You called out, the word a half-protest, half-plea, intending to remind him of the lines you shouldn't cross.
The professionalism that defined your roles.
But he didn't give you the chance.
With a guttural growl that vibrated through his chest and into yours, he pushed forward, entering you in one slow, torturous thrust.
The stretch was exquisite, bordering on overwhelming, filling you completely and scattering every coherent thought like debris in an asteroid field. Your fingers clutched at the sheets, knuckles whitening, as he buried himself deeper, his hips meeting yours with a rhythm that built like an incoming storm.
Then, just when you thought that was enough, he surprised you even more.
“I've been thinking about this since the day you stepped aboard as our Admiral,” He confessed, his voice strained but steady, punctuating each word with a deliberate roll of his hips. "Watching you on the bridge. Hearing your voice in comm channels. Mid-briefing, during drills, meetings. I'd imagine you like this, under me, letting go."
His hand on your spine slid up to tangle in your hair, gentle yet possessive, as he thrusted harder, deeper, the confession spilling out like long-held secrets.
“Fantasized about breaking that perfect composure, hearing you moan my name instead of barking commands.”
You tried to focus on his words, to process the vulnerability in his admissions—the way this stoic clone commander had harbored desires that mirrored your own hidden cracks.
But it was impossible.
Each drive of his body into yours sent waves of pleasure crashing through you, erasing everything but the sensation of him, the fullness, the friction.
Your breaths came in ragged gasps, syncing with his growls, the room filled with the sounds of skin on skin, the creak of the bunk, the distant sounds of the ship that faded into oblivion. As he picked up the pace, his free hand slipping around to tease where you were joined, you arched further into him, lost in the sensation.
Wolffe's rhythm was relentless, each thrust driving deeper, claiming more of you with every measured stroke.
The stretch of him inside you was all-consuming, a delicious burn that blurred the edges of reality, making the confines of your quarters feel like the only world that mattered. His hand on your spine kept you arched, vulnerable and open, while the other gripped your hip, fingers digging in with a possessiveness that sent sparks racing up your nerves.
You buried your face in the sheets, muffling a moan as he confessed those hidden thoughts, his voice a gravelly whisper amid the symphony of your shared breaths and the slick sounds of your bodies meeting.
"Since the day I stepped aboard?" You managed to gasp out, disbelief threading through the haze of pleasure. “You've been thinking about– about this? About me? For that long?”
It was hard to form words, let alone process them. Not when he was burying himself to the hilt, pulling back only to surge forward again, hitting spots that made stars explode behind your eyelids.
He chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating through you where your bodies connected, a rare glimpse of humor from the battle-scarred commander. But there was no mockery in it—only raw honesty, laced with the strain of holding back. He slowed his pace just enough to lean over you fully, his chest pressing against your back, the weight of him grounding and overwhelming all at once.
His lips brushed your ear, hot breath fanning across your skin as he nipped at the lobe.
“Yeah, Admiral. Every damn day. You walk onto that bridge like you own it, issuing orders that save our hides, and all I can think about is what it'd be like to see you unravel. Not the composed leader. You. The woman under the uniform.”
Your mind reeled, trying to latch onto his words even as another deep thrust scattered your focus, drawing another whimper from your lips.
“But why didn't you say anything? We've stood side by side for years, and I thought—kriff. I thought it was just respect.”
"Respect?" He growled, punctuating the word with a sharper snap of his hips that made you arch deeper, toes curling.
His hand slid from your hip to trail down your side, fingers ghosting over your skin before dipping between your legs again, circling that sensitive nub with teasing precision.
The dual assault had you trembling, pleasure coiling tight in your core.
“It's more than that. First time I saw you chew out that incompetent naval officer from Coruscant. Stars, the fire in your eyes. All I could picture was pinning you against the holotable, stripping you away layer by layer. Had to adjust my armor more than once to hide it.”
The confession hit like a blaster bolt, heat flooding your cheeks even as your body responded to him, pushing back to meet his thrusts. You turned your head slightly, catching his gaze over your shoulder. His good eye dark with desire, the cybernetic one glowing faintly.
“During briefings? Wolffe, that's– Stars. I thought you were always so professional.”
He smirked, but it softened into something almost tender as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his pace building again, steady and unwavering.
“Professional? Sure, on the outside. But in my bunk, I'd replay your voice in my head and imagine turning them into pleas. Fantasized about your hands on me so many times I could get court martialed.”
His fingers worked faster between your thighs, matching the urgency of his hips, and you felt the edge approaching that sweet precipice.
“Even in the thick of battle, there'd be a split second where I'd think of you safe on the bridge, and it'd hit me. I wanted to protect you, yeah, but I wanted this too. To make you forget the war, even if just for a night.”
The vulnerability in his voice, stripped bare amid the intimacy, pushed you closer.
You reached back, your hand finding his thigh, nails digging in as encouragement.
“Tell me more,” You breathed, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.
Wolffe obliged, his thrusts growing erratic, signaling he was close too.
“That time on Felucia, after the ambush– you pulled us out with that flanking maneuver. I was covered in mud, adrenaline pumping, and back on the ship, in the sonic shower… all I could think about was dragging you in with me. Washing away the grime, tasting every inch of you, hearing you say my name like an order I couldn't refuse.”
He groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, teeth grazing your skin as he drove deeper. "And the quiet moments, staring at star charts with you—kriff, I'd wonder what you'd feel like, sound like, coming apart. Kept it locked down, because duty first. But tonight? No more holding back."
The thin thread finally snapped again.
His words, raw and unfiltered, tipped you over. Pleasure crashed through you in waves, your body clenching around him, pulling a guttural moan from his lips as he followed, spilling inside you with a final, shuddering thrust. He held you through it, arms wrapping around your waist, collapsing together onto the bunk in a tangle of limbs and sweat-slicked skin.
“I never knew,” You murmured, a soft laugh escaping. “All this time…”
Wolffe pressed a kiss to your temple, his voice muffled but content. “Now you do. And if you need another breather, you know where to find me.”
You smiled, rolling your eyes weakly. “And I suppose this will become a normal occurrence now?”
“If you want it to be.”
“But do you?”
“After spilling all my secrets like that? What do you think, Admiral?”
“Just wanted to know we're on the same boat. Or ship.”
He huffed out a laugh, rolling his eyes in return.
The quiet settled over your quarters like a soft blanket, broken only by the steady hum of the ship and the slow, even rhythm of your breathing. For a while, every worry and exhaustion seeped out of your body through every exhale you released. Underneath your ear, you heard his heart slow into a steady pace.
Wolffe laid beneath you, one arm draped loosely across your waist, his body warm and solid—a rare moment of stillness for a man who lived in constant motion. His confessions still echoed in your mind, raw and unguarded, peeling back layers you hadn’t known existed beneath the commander’s armor. The vulnerability he’d offered made something shift inside you.
Gratitude, but also a quiet hunger to give back what he’d so freely taken. He had made the effort to give you a breather and thank you after noticing how much weight had started to weigh on your shoulders. Perhaps you could return the same favor. After all, he has been serving and fighting for the Republic since the start of the war.
You moved before the impulse could fade.
With a gentle push against his chest, you rolled, guiding him onto his back.
He let you, surprise flickering briefly in his good eye before it melted into something darker, more curious.
The shift in position pressed your still-sensitive core against the stiffening hardness of him, drawing a low hiss from between his teeth.
You settled astride his hips, knees beside his waist, palms flat against the hard planes of his chest. Still covered by his top. All it took was a single tug from the hem and a pointed look cast down on him, and he was pulling his top off before throwing it on the floor. Now, he was completely bare too. You marveled at the gorgeous sight of him, the firmness of his torso, the golden complexion of his skin, and the litany of scars—both old and new—branding his body like trophies of war.
He grunted, voice rough, hands instinctively settling on your thighs. “Admiral—”
You silenced him with a slow, deliberate roll of your hips, grinding down in a languid circle that made his fingers tighten, nails biting faintly into your skin.
Heat flared anew between you, slick and insistent.
You leaned forward, hair falling around your face like a curtain, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
“I need to thank you as well,” You murmured, sighing in pleasure when he slid perfectly between your folds. “In case no one has told you yet.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose, a sound caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan.
“Didn’t realize I was due thanks.”
“You are,” You straightened, sitting up fully so he had a clear view of you above him. “For every time you pulled the Wolfpack through impossible odds. For every briefing where your tactical read saved lives. For standing at our side when the galaxy felt like it was collapsing.”
Another slow grind, harder this time, dragging a ragged sound from his throat.
His hands slid up your thighs, but he didn’t try to take control. He watched you instead, silver cybernetic eye glinting, while the golden brown hue darkened with heat and something softer.
You reached between your bodies, fingers wrapping around him, stroking once, twice, feeling him twitch in your grip. His head tipped back against the pillow, a low curse slipping free in Mando’a.
You aligned yourself, teasing the head at your entrance. Then sank down slowly, deliberately, taking him inch by inch until your hips met his. The stretch was different this time—deeper, fuller, with you setting the pace.
You stayed there a moment, simply feeling him seated inside you, walls fluttering around the thick length of him. In this position, you truly felt how massive he was. You've never felt so full in your entire life, and you knew there would be an insatiable ache within you once this was over. An ache only he can fill over and over again.
You caught the clench of his jaw, the vein at his temple, and how his throat moved as he swallowed.
He was visibly restraining himself, and you had to commend him for his self-control.
So, you began to move.
Rising and falling in measured strokes, rolling your hips in experimental circles that made his breath hitch every time your clit grazed the base of him. His hands flexed on your thighs, before they started to roam. Gripping your waist, sliding up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over hardened nipples until you arched into the touch with a quiet moan.
“Kriff,” He rasped, voice wrecked. “You’re gonna kill me like this.”
“Good,” You smiled, picking up speed, riding him with the same focused intensity you brought to every command decision. “Then we’ll go down together.”
You leaned forward again, bracing your hands on either side of his head, hair spilling over his shoulders as you rocked faster, harder. The angle let him hit deeper with every downward motion, sparks of pleasure racing up your spine. His hands found your ass, guiding your movement, letting you take what you needed.
“You’ve been carrying this ship too,” You whispered between gasps, forehead resting against his. “Every casualty report you sign off on. Every brother you lose. You never flinch. Never let it show.”
A particularly sharp roll of your hips pulled another guttural sound from him. “But I see it. I’ve always seen it.”
His grip tightened, hips beginning to meet yours in shallow, desperate thrusts from below.
“Careful, Admiral.” The growl he let out was a warning with no heat. “Keep talking like that and I won’t last.”
“Then don’t,” You straightened once more, staring down at him. “Let go for me, Commander. The way you let me go earlier.”
Jaw clenched, muscles pulled taut, breath coming in harsh pants. He looked so kriffing good when he's at the brink of his pleasure. You always thought he was handsome, all of his brothers were, even before you became close acquaintances. But something about him reeled you in like an invisible magnet, he always caught your eye even when he wasn't doing anything.
You felt him swell inside you, and the telltale twitch of him told you enough. So, you rode him faster, grinding harder, chasing your own peak while pushing him toward his.
You tightened around him again, drawing another sharp curse from him. “Let go, Wolffe.”
A broken growl tore from his throat as he bucked up into you, hands clamping on your hips hard enough to bruise, spilling hot and deep. The sensation—his release, the way he pulsed inside you—spurred you over the edge at the same time. Pleasure snapped through you like a live wire, thighs trembling, vision whiting out as you clenched around him, riding out the aftershocks with stuttered rolls of your hips.
All you could think about was him.
His hands. His voice. Those subtle canines that peeked through his sharp grin. You'd wake up the next day and see the imprints of his hands on your hips. You'd hear the low growl of his voice whenever you stood on the command bridge again. And you see the shape of those canines on your thigh every time you change out of your uniform until it fades.
“That's it,” He pulled you back from cloud nine, gently rolling his hips underneath you. “You took me so well, Admiral. So kriffing good.”
Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his dazed look of approval.
When the world steadied again, you collapsed forward onto his chest, both of you slick with sweat and sex, hearts hammering in tandem. His arms came around you automatically, one hand stroking slow circles over your back.
So uncharacteristic of him, yet you found yourself smiling at the surprising tenderness.
You pressed yourself closer to him, savoring his warmth and the wall of his body firm against you.
For a long moment neither of you spoke.
Then, quietly, against your hair. “Thank you.”
You smiled into the crook of his neck. “You’re welcome, Commander.”
The weight of the day felt distant now, replaced by a languid warmth. But as you lay there, his arm draping over you, you knew this breather had shifted something between you. Trust deepened, barriers cracked, and lines crossed. Tomorrow, on the bridge, you'd be the admiral again, and he'd be the commander on the front lines.
But tonight, in the privacy of your quarters, you both shared the same breath as one.
Jump Then Fall by @jedipoodoo
Borrowed Time by @dindjarindiaries
Wounds Unseen by @dindjarindiaries
Rush by @dindjarindiaries
Tech
Totally Not Crushing by @vekreng
Teasing Tech by @stellarbit
*I Told You So by @cc--2224
*How fast...? by @nahoney22
Perfectly Plucked by @nahoney22
Darling by yours truly
*(Not) Broken by @motherroam-rs
Crosshair
*Between Us by @nahoney22
Sniper by @justaparsec94
*Reunion by @justaparsec94
Enclosed Intentions by @crosshairlovebot
Echo
Kiss Me Quick by @nahoney22
Fives
*Unattached by @motherroam-rs
Captain Rex
Where Trust Falls Apart by @captn-trex
Wolffe
First Kiss part 1 & *2 by @tanobatcher
Howzer
*Domination by @merlincmgirl
Cal Kestis
*Balance by @multi-fan-dom-madness
Din Djarin
Stormy Skies by @deakyjoe
^*Bloodlust by @dindjarindiaries
definitely more to add, i've just been on a tbb kick, din will be next and you'll see like 30 more added (most will unsurprisingly probably by @dindjarindiaries)
I know you've done something similar with Wolffe already but could you do that trope where people catch him with hickeys🙏🙏 And like he doesn't realise how obvious one is and his men are just gawking at him in the middle of a briefing untill he gets fed up and asks them why they're staring at him and they tell him about it.
I love love love you're writing soooooooo much. The banter? *chefs kiss* The drama? BOMB. The writer? Amazing :)
“Wolfpack Gossip”
Commander Wolffe x Reader
The debriefing room was unusually rowdy.
Not loud—Wolffe would have shut that down with one glare—but… twitchy. Restless. Shifty eyes and barely-concealed smirks. It was enough to make any seasoned commander suspicious, and Wolffe, who had survived more battlefield chaos than most, immediately zeroed in on the odd tension infecting his unit.
“Something funny, Boost?” he growled, side-eyeing the trooper who had been attempting—and failing—to suppress a laugh for the last three minutes.
Boost immediately stiffened in his seat. “No, sir.”
Wolffe narrowed his eye at him, then slowly swept his gaze around the room. Every clone was seated, helmets off, datapads ready. And yet none of them could meet his eye. Sinker had his head bowed, but his shoulders were shaking. Comet was chewing the inside of his cheek like his life depended on it. Warthog was avoiding looking at anything above the table entirely.
“Alright,” Wolffe said, letting the silence stretch for just a second too long. “What’s the problem?”
Silence. Comet made a strange squeaking sound and coughed to cover it.
“I said—what’s the problem?”
This time, all eyes turned to Sinker, the unofficial sacrificial lamb of the squad. He cleared his throat, clearly chosen—or bullied—into speaking.
“It’s just, uh… Sir,” Sinker began, his tone very careful, “are you aware there’s something on your neck?”
Wolffe’s eye narrowed to a blade-thin slit. “Like what?”
Sinker hesitated. Boost snorted into his fist.
“Spit it out, trooper.”
Comet gave in, finally laughing. “It’s a hickey, sir!”
The room exploded into chaos.
A chorus of gasps, stifled laughter, and dramatized “ooooohs” echoed against the durasteel walls. Warthog clutched his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. Boost leaned back with a wheeze and said, “Who knew the commander was such a romantic?”
Wolffe just stood there. Blinking. Processing.
And then he reached up—absently, instinctively—and brushed his fingers along the right side of his neck.
Right where you’d left your mark.
A very enthusiastic mark. Last night. After that mission. After hours of tension, sniping, arguing, and finally being shoved into a dimly-lit supply closet with you during base lockdown, where things got… heated. The kind of heated that left bruises and regrets—not for the act, but for how it was definitely going to be discovered.
He hadn’t even thought to check.
“Are you—” Warthog was grinning, “—seeing someone, Commander?”
“Since when?” Comet added. “Do we know her? Do we like her?”
“I definitely like her,” Boost said solemnly. “Anyone who manages to sneak up on Wolffe and leave a mark like that deserves respect.”
“Who says she snuck up on me?” Wolffe muttered under his breath.
It only made the room go louder.
“Oh no, he’s proud!”
“He likes it!”
Wolffe pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly resisting the urge to either murder everyone in the room or walk out and face-plant into traffic.
“Sir,” Sinker said, still grinning, “permission to requisition more rations. We’ll need extra caf and snacks if we’re gonna be sitting through a romantic subplot on top of all the war stuff.”
“You’ll be sitting through a disciplinary report if you don’t shut it, trooper.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wolffe sighed, rubbed at the back of his neck again, and finally just grunted. “Get it out of your systems now.”
“What, the teasing?”
“No. The death wishes. Because if anyone brings this up again in an actual field op or in front of a general, I swear on every one of your shiny skulls I will make you do hand-to-hand drills until you vomit.”
A pause.
Then Boost, ever brave, raised a hand.
“…What if she gives you another one, and we just notice it again?”
Wolffe leaned forward just enough to make the lights glint menacingly off his cybernetic eye.
“I will make you scrub every inch of this base’s refresher block with a toothbrush.”
Comet choked on his laughter. “Totally worth it.”
The room was once again filled with snickering, and somewhere in the back, Warthog whispered, “Commander’s got a girlfriend,” like a schoolboy daring the teacher to call on him.
Wolffe didn’t respond. He just activated the holoprojector for the actual briefing and started talking over them.
But you better believe he was glaring holes through the floor the entire time.
And later, when he walked back into your quarters, he cornered you with a dark look and a husky whisper: “Next time, warn me when you leave battle scars where my entire unit can see them.”
