Chapter Text
The loud music is giving you a headache, and the ever-shifting shimmering lights are too much to bear. Doesn’t help that you’ve had one too many glasses of some horrible, cheap wine, in some misguided attempt to drown your sorrows. Your still way-too-fresh sorrows.
Absentmindedly, you lean on the bar, placing your hand directly into a puddle of something sticky. Your stomach turns
You should’ve just stayed home.
Pushing away from the counter, you shake your hand, debating whether you should brave the journey to the fresher through the masses of dancing bodies. The 79s is surprisingly full considering the late hour. It’s too chaotic so you decide to wipe your hand on your black skirt – you’ll just throw it straight into the wash as soon as you get home.
The colourful lights keep on flickering, and from a nearby table loud cheers erupt as the Coruscant limmie team finally scored against Kothlis. The game is being projected onto every holoscreen – a touching display of loyalty considering that the local team almost never wins.
You search the crowd trying to locate your friend, and spot her attached to the mouth of a trooper dressed in grey-painted plastoid. She certainly moves fast when she wants to – she’s left you at the bar not even fifteen minutes ago. You wonder if she even made it to the fresher.
You peer back at the trooper, then all around you. Grey seems to be the most prominent colour in the cantina tonight, save for the few Corries and troopers in plain officer uniforms.
Grey…that’s the 104th if you remember correctly. Deploying in two rotations to retake a strategic planet in the Mid-Rim. You’d know – you’ve only just spent the last week and a half fully immersed in terrain maps and intelligence reports, coming up with three different assault strategies and four exit plans. Good strategies too – the 104th should come out of this campaign with little-to-no casualties. You’re certain of that.
Not because you’re overconfident – but because you’re thorough. You always have been. You take your job as a strategist seriously. You've worked hard to rise through the ranks, to earn your place.
So many training sessions. So many sleepless nights buried in tactical manuals. But it paid off. You made lieutenant. You’re proud of yourself even if your boyfriend isn’t–
No.
Ex.
Your ex… You keep forgetting.
You throw another quick glance towards Saskia, but she and the 104th trooper aren’t even coming up for air. The corners of your eyes already sting with unshed tears as the high of the alcohol abruptly begins to morph into nostalgic grief. The dam is about to break – you have half an hour at most until you become a sobbing mess. No point in ruining her night too – you’ve already spent three nights in a row crying while curled up on her couch– you’ll just send her a comm once you’re home.
Pushing through the crowd, you make your way to the exit and out into the cool night air of Coruscant. But you don’t linger. With fast, decisive strides you leave the 79s behind. You’re pretty drunk, you probably should take a taxi. But there’s no rush. There’s no one waiting for you back at your place. No one besides some half-eaten take out and a couple dying plants. Maybe this break-up will finally motivate you to take better care of the poor potted Naboo succulents you keep spontaneously buying. Hey, if you’re not gonna take care of yourself, you could at least take care of something else.
The dry chuckle dies in your throat as you round the corner, and you stop dead in your tracks. Your blood runs cold, a dreadful panic spreading from your stomach to every part of your body, seeping into your bones.
Just ahead, a young Basolar woman is pressed against a wall, four men towering over her. Their lewd jeers carry to you, turning your stomach. Even from here, you can see the terror in her eyes, the rigid way she holds herself. That girl is in danger and you have to do something about it.
Only… you can’t.
Not like this. Sure you have military training but you cannot take on four men, all larger than you, empty-handed. It wouldn’t end well.
You need a weapon.
Without thinking, you turn around and start running. There is a cantina full of clone troopers just around the corner. One of them is bound to have a blaster on him, and once you’re armed, you can return and help that poor girl. You just need to move fast.
Your prayers are answered. Outside the 79s, a clone trooper leans casually against the wall, a cigarra glowing between his fingers. He’s missing the upper half of his armor, but two holsters hang at his hips – and the sleek black blasters are right there, within reach.
Perfect. Exactly what you need.
If you were sober, you’d probably pay more attention to the rest of his armor – more specifically to the colours and the kama – but your brain has latched so forcefully onto your plan, you have tunnel vision.
“You!” you shout, still a few steps away. “I need your blaster!”
The clone turns his head, and you almost stumble under the weight of his glare. It’s not just the look – it’s his eyes. One, a rich dark brown like every clone’s. The other, cybernetic: silver-grey, gleaming as it catches the streetlight. And the scar… it’s long, brutal. The kind of mark that says he’s been to hell and back – and that he’s not the type of man you demand things from. Too late.
“Excuse me?” he challenges. His voice is a low growl, calm, but there's a flicker of amused curiosity beneath the steel.
“I need your blaster!” you repeat, panting as you come to a stop in front of him. Your voice is laced with fear and urgency and your hands are trembling when you begin frantically gesturing. “There's four men harassing a young girl around the corner and she needs help. I can't confront them with just my fucking purse. Give me your blaster!”
He straightens from the wall instantly, flicks the cigarra away, and crushes it under his boot. “Take me there,” he orders.
“I can handle it if I have a blast–”
“Do you really have time to argue?” he cuts you off. “Take me there.”
The adrenaline finally starts to clear the alcohol haze from your brain. Right – that is a much better plan than charging in by yourself. You should’ve thought of it yourself. Idiot.
The clone in front of you is big, imposing, and that scar across his eye makes him look downright threatening. And you know the deadly precision these troopers possess. You’ve studied plenty of battle footage, you’ve seen how they move, how they fight… how they kill.
Without another word, you pivot and sprint back toward the alley. Your heart hammers in your chest, breath short and ragged. But the heavy thud of armored boots behind you is strangely steadying. Reassuring, even.
You just hope you’re not too late.
When you round the corner she’s still there – and unfortunately so are the thugs. Her head is turned away, eyes screwed shut, as one of the men runs his grubby fingers along her face. Rage surges through you, and before you can think better of it, you step forward and shout:
“Get your hands off her!”
The men whip their heads around to glare at you – and for one nauseating moment, you feel every cell in your body scream mistake. But then their eyes shift, just over your shoulder… and a flicker of panic ripples across their expressions.
The clone steps up beside you, the picture of steadiness, one hand already resting on his blaster.
“Go back to the 79s and find Commander Fox,” he says calmly but quickly. “Red armor. First floor. Second booth from the stairs.”
From the corner of your eye, you catch the movement as the men square their shoulders in preparation for a fight.
You don’t move. You should. But if you leave, it’s four against one…
“Go now!” he barks without looking at you, the sharpness in his voice slicing through your panic like a blade.
This time, you know better than to argue.
By the time you return with Commander Fox and a couple other shock troopers he barked at to follow, the fight is already over.
Two of the men lie motionless on the ground, one of them groaning – barely. The other two are nowhere to be seen.
The clone trooper is crouched beside the Basolar girl, his voice low and steady as he calms her down. There’s a bright-red mark on his jaw that looks like it’ll bloom into a nasty bruise by morning – one of the thugs must’ve landed a punch – but otherwise, he seems unharmed.
“Wolffe,” Commander Fox says, stepping forward. “What happened?”
The man rises, and dives straight into a sitrep. Calm. Succinct. No emotional embellishments.
You, meanwhile, stop dead at the end of the alley, your brain finally processing all the pieces of information.
Grey pain on the greaves and boots.
Kama.
Wolffe…
Commander Wolffe. Of the 104th.
Kriff.
You’ve never met him before. But Maker, you’ve heard about him.
He’s infamous.
The no-nonsense, zero-tolerance-for-banthashit, tough-as-durasteel leader of the Wolfpack.
And you screamed at him to hand over his blaster.
You yelled at a superior officer.
Oh kriff.
You’re dead. You’re done.
You’re gonna get court-martialed and dishonourably discharged and–
“Hey.”
The low voice cuts through your spiralling thoughts, bringing you back to the present.
“Are you alright?”
Commander Wolffe is standing right in front of you, watching with unreadable focus. The man’s Sabacc face is impeccable – not a twitch, not a flicker. But somehow… you no longer think you’re in trouble.
“Uhh… yeah. Yeah,” you manage to croak. “Is she…?”
“She’ll be fine,” he replies, glancing back toward the girl for a second. “Fox will take her statement then make sure she gets home safe.”
You nod a few too many times, your words failing you. Then you clear your throat.
“Thank you… for your help. And... I'm sorry I was a bit uhm...” you trail off, feeling your cheeks begin to burn.
“Demanding?” he supplies, a dry edge to his voice – but there’s a flicker of amusement there too. Maybe even the ghost of a smirk.
“I think the adrenaline got the better of me,” you chuckle, suddenly feeling very awkward under his gaze. “And possibly the many glasses of Corellian red.”
He studies you. Not just glances – studies. His eyes track every twitch of your lips, every fidget of your hands.
“How are you getting home?” he suddenly asks.
You blink, thrown off by the shift in his voice. Not exactly warm, but… not cold either.
“I'll walk,” you say after a beat. “It's not too far away.”
“Alright, I'll walk with you.”
You flinch at the offer – although it sounded more like a command.
“There's no need–” you start.
“It's not up for debate,” he cuts you off, voice firm, categorical. “Those men saw you. I’m not gonna let you leave by yourself just to get jumped two streets down.”
You gulp. The sharpness of his eyes, the fierce protectiveness of his voice – it’s really doing something to you. And the fact that he’s still watching you. He hasn’t looked away for more than one second. He’s watching you like you’re a battle strategy worth learning.
It’s unnerving. But also deeply, alarmingly exciting.
You mumble a barely audible, “Okay.”
He jerks his chin toward the road. “Lead the way.”
The walk to your place is mercifully quick. Wolffe doesn't say much, but you feel his burning gaze on you the entire time. You, on the other hand, can’t stop talking and start to ramble. You hate the silence and desperately need to fill it.
“So I uhh… I went out with my friend tonight. I wasn’t just, you know, drinking by myself. Well I mean I kinda was by the end cause she ditched me. For one of your men actually. Tall – I mean of course tall, as tall as-as you, cause-well obviously, you’re all– umm… white hair? Grey? Something like that.”
“Sinker,” he replies flatly.
“Well, at least you know where he’ll be tonight,” you offer with a forced chuckle.
Nothing. Not even a twitch of a smile.
“Yeah, no. That was, uh, bad. That was… Sorry. I-I ramble when I’m nervous,” you weakly explain.
“Do I make you nervous, mesh’la?” he asks in that same infuriatingly calm voice.
“You’re a bit terrifying,” you admit, your voice small and uncertain.
You risk a glance up, and your eyes meet. His gaze is intense and it sends a shiver down your spine. You immediately look away… but not before you catch it. A faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Well.
At least you’re entertaining.
“Umm…” you start after a beat of silence. “What does that word mean?”
“Mesh’la?”
You nod, quickly glancing his way again.
“It means ‘beautiful’,” he answers
Butterflies start violently fluttering in your stomach and you’re certain your face has gone bright red. He called you beautiful. He thinks you’re beautiful. It shouldn’t affect you this much – but it’s been a long time since anyone’s said something like that.
“Oh,” is all you manage to mutter.
You reach your building and step inside. He follows right behind, just as he has the entire walk, and your heartbeat gets faster and faster the closer you get to your door. You’re almost panting as you walk up the stairs – which doesn’t usually happen, it’s only two levels.
By the time you reach your door you’ve made up your mind. The idea seemed completely out of the question when Saskia suggested it at the beginning of the evening, but now? Now it’s all you can think about. He is all you can think about. His presence, his eyes, his commanding voice. And how he’d feel inside of you. You’ve never had a one-night stand before… But then again, you’ve never had your heart broken in such a harrowing way before.
You’re certain this is exactly what you need.
With a shaky hand you input your code in the panel outside your apartment. The door hisses open and you take a deep breath, then step in and turn to face him.
He’s still watching you – silent, steady, intense. You can feel the electricity hanging between you.
“Do you want to come in for some caf?” you ask.
“You're offering me caf at 3 in the morning?” he counters with a faint smirk, leaning on the doorframe.
“Tea then...?”
“Mesh'la, if you want something from me, all you have to do is ask.”
“I... w-well, you see...” you stammer.
“Come on, where's that fire from earlier?” Wolffe teases. “You basically screamed at me to hand you my blaster, you can ask a question now.”
“Do...” You swallow before taking a deep breath. “Do you want to come inside and fuck me?”
For a second – a dreadfully long second – you think you’ve read this wrong, and anxiety simmers uncomfortably in your stomach. But then he inches closer, the look in his eyes sharpening.
“You sure about that?” His voice is quiet, even – but there’s a rough edge under it, something dark and controlled.
You nod.
“That’s not an answer,” he says. Still calm. Still waiting. But it's a challenge now.
“Yes,” you whisper. “I’m sure.”
You step aside, allowing Wolffe to walk past you and enter your apartment. After another deep breath, you follow him into the living room area – and immediately freeze as the light turns on.
You forgot the state you left everything in…
There are empty take-out containers on the caf table, flanking a bouquet of dead flowers forgotten in a vase. The throw pillows are all gathered to one side of the couch and a knitted pink blanket is sprawled over haphazardly. But the worst thing has to be the empty bottles of wine – two of them – knocked over on the floor.
You frantically hurry to gather the litter, disappearing into the kitchen to throw everything away. The kitchen looks… worse. You glance around helplessly then practically run back into the living room just to make sure he won’t follow and witness even more of the mess.
“So sorry,” you mumble as you begin folding the blanket. “It uhh… it’s been a long week.”
But Wolffe’s not looking at you. He’s moved closer to the window, and his attention’s fixed on a holo-picture tucked on one of the shelves.
Your stomach sinks.
It’s a picture from two years ago, taken while on vacation on Spira. You’re standing on the beach in a long, floral sundress, smiling widely. Next to you is your ex, his hand around your waist, gazing at you like he actually meant the things he used to say. Maybe he did – but you’re not certain any of it was real anymore.
“Who’s this?” Wolffe asks.
In a few quick strides you’re by his side, and snatch the frame, slamming it face-down on the shelf.
“I forgot to get rid of it,” you mutter.
Wolffe’s voice turns to ice. “I don’t help people cheat. If that’s what this is, say so now.”
A bitter laugh escapes before you can stop it.
The Commander raises a brow at the unexpected reaction. He doesn’t say anything, but the weight of his gaze is demanding an explanation.
“He’s not around anymore,” you start, pushing past the knot in your throat. “You see, he had a terrible accident…” You square your shoulders and somehow keep a straight face. “He tripped and fell... and landed straight into my former friend’s vagina.”
Nothing could’ve prepared him for what you just said, and Wolffe actually huffs a small laugh – more in surprise than anything else.
“I see you’re handling it well,” he comments dryly.
“Oh yeah, amazing. I just dragged a total stranger into my apartment at 3 a.m. But hey – best way to get over someone is to get under someone else, right?” you say with a forced chuckle.
Amusement flicks into his eyes for a moment, before his expression sobers again.
“So you’re broken up?” he asks for confirmation.
“Yes,” you nod.
“When?”
“Three days ago.”
Wolffe visibly stiffens. His eyes search your face, lingering on your lower lip which you’re currently anxiously chewing. Then he sighs and takes half a step back.
“You’re not ready for this,” he declares.
“Wait, no!” you blurt out, voice filled with panic. “No – please don’t leave.”
“You’re too vulnerable. I don’t take advantage of–”
“You’re not taking advantage,” you cut in, too desperate to care that his gaze turns instantly colder at your interruption. “I just... I feel like I’m still his and it’s making me sick. I don’t want… I don’t want to be his anymore. I-I want to feel wanted, I want… I want to feel something real. Because for months all I’ve felt – all I’ve been – is invisible.”
You wish you could tell what he’s thinking, because there’s clearly a battle raging behind his eyes. You’re not sure which side will win, so you push.
“Please. I know this is crazy. Bu I… I need to forget. I need to stop thinking about it, just for a little while, and I know you can help me.”
Maker, you don’t think you’ve ever sounded this needy before. But your pleading seems to do the trick. Wolffe’s eyes darken and he steps closer, crowding you against the shelf.
“You want to forget?” he growls, voice low and dangerous. “You want me to fuck you so hard you can’t remember his name?”
A shiver runs down your spine and your breath catches, a tingle of heat curling low in your core.
“Yes,” you whisper breathlessly. “Please.”
“So polite,” he murmurs, more to himself than for you to hear.
He lifts a hand, fingers taking hold of your chin and tilting it up, forcing you to meet his gaze. Not that you could look away even if you wanted to – his eyes have you mesmerised. The beautiful, dangerous warmth of his natural one is accentuated by the clinical coolness of the cybernetic. He’s searching for something – hesitation, uncertainty – but you make sure he doesn’t find it.
“This isn’t how I usually do things, but for you I’ll make an exception,” he says, his tone thoughtful, almost soft. But it hardens when he follows with an order. “Take me to your bedroom.”
You comply instantly. There’s an edge to his voice that tells you he’s not a man who tolerates repeating himself. And besides, you don’t want to stall – not when he has you trembling just from a look and the smallest touch.
You walk fast – too fast – and trip on some clothes forgotten on the floor as soon as you enter the room. Luckily, Wolffe is right behind, and he steadies you with a firm arm around your waist. And pulls you flush against him.
“Easy,” he rasps in your ear.
Your back is pressed against his chest and you can feel his hot breath on your skin. Heat blooms in your cheeks, both from his proximity and from embarrassment. But you lean against him, taking a moment to breathe and appreciate the warmth radiating from his torso.
“Sorry. I swear it’s not always this messy,” you mumble.
“I’ve seen worse,” he says dryly. Wolffe lets go of you and steps deeper into the room, eyes quickly surveying the small space as if searching for threats on a battlefield. Then he turns to you. “Name.”
You’re a little taken aback by the curt command and for a second you swear you’ve forgotten it.
“If we’re doing this, I’d like to know who I’m doing it with,” he continues.
“Right, of course, sorry,” you reply a little breathlessly. “Tessa.”
“Tessa,” he repeats, low and steady, like he’s testing how it feels on his tongue. “Come here,” he then orders.
You finally unfreeze from the doorway and in a few steps you’re standing right in front of him at the foot of the bed.
“I need to ask again – are you sure this is what you want?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Your eyes go wide. That just slipped. You’re not sure why. It could be habit – he outranks you after all – but it could be that his presence simply demands it. There’s something about him – all of him – that makes you eager to please… to submit.
“You call me Sir like that again and I’m going to lose every ounce of restraint I have left,” he warns.
You find his eyes again and the intensity in his gaze burns through you. It’s hungry, predatory – a crack in his armor of control.
A spike of boldness shoots though you. “That’s what I’m waiting for. Sir.”
He slowly shakes his head. Not disappointed, but sort of… impressed. A little bit amused. And very much aroused.
“You asked for it.”
Then he lunges.
His hands are everywhere. Pulling you close, sliding up and down your sides, gripping your hips, groping your breasts. Not gentle. Not asking. You’ve given your permission and now he fully intends to ruin you.
And when his lips crash on yours? You’re completely gone.
You grasp at the fabric of his blacks, holding tightly onto him as he claims your mouth. The kiss is wild, devouring, mind-bending. When his tongue pushes past your lips you are grateful for his strong hands holding you up – otherwise you know you’d just collapse. Your knees are weak. You’re breathless. You’re trembling. You’re… overwhelmed.
You push at his chest and Wolffe immediately stops all movements, but leaves his hands firmly planted on your waist. He pulls back, appraising you with a cautious glance.
“Still with me?” he asks.
You nod. “Just… catching my breath.”
“Good,” he growls. His hand moves up your back, all the way to the base of your skull, and tangles in your hair. With a sharp tug at the strands, he tilts your head. “Cause I’m just getting started.”
A small gasp leaves your lips at the sudden pain – but his mouth is prepared to swallow it. This kiss is slower, more deliberate. And yet his tongue is still dominating your mouth. He tastes faintly of Tabacc and his lips are surprisingly soft. You try to keep up, match his movements. Every time you try to change the rhythm – to take control – his grip in your hair tightens like a warning.
Finally, you surrender. You wrap your arms around his neck and melt into him. And you take it all. Every sweep of his tongue. Every scrape of his teeth. His taste, his warmth – it’s all so intoxicating.
Your submission pleases Wolffe, and with a low grunt he rips his mouth from yours, only to drag it down your neck in a hot, claiming trail. The heated kisses he places on your skin are fuelling the fire in your core, quickly spreading over your entire body. When he licks a long stripe up the column of your neck you don’t even try to fight the moan that escapes your mouth.
Wolffe pulls back, flashing you a dangerous smirk. But just as quickly as it appeared on his face, it’s gone, replaced with that calm, collected mask. He releases his grip on you, and orders you to do the same.
“Hands off,” he says.
You follow the order, briefly worried you’ve somehow done something wrong. But as he takes a step back, his eyes are still hungry, and he’s looking at you like you’re a gift he cannot wait to unwrap.
“Undress,” Wolffe commands, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the wardrobe.
Your hands move almost on their own. You free your top from the waistband of your skirt, then swiftly pull it over your head, letting it fall on the floor. Your skirt follows – a quick unzip, a shimmy down your legs. There’s a moment of hesitation once you’re standing in front of him in just your mismatched bra and panties. A moment he does not appreciate.
“All of it,” he drawls, voice low and clearly displeased.
You snap out of it and comply, reaching back to unhook your bra. The garment falls to the floor and you hastily tug the panties down next, stepping out of them. You straighten and fight the urge to cover yourself with your arms as the reality abruptly sinks in. You’re now standing fully bare in front of a man you’ve only just met – and as much as the thought mortifies you, it also excites you.
Wolffe hums approvingly, allowing his eyes to slowly drink in your naked body. Your skin prickles in anticipation.
“Beautiful,” he drones. Then, louder: “Spin.”
“Spin?” you repeat incredulous.
“You heard me.”
For some reason, this command is more difficult to follow. It feels demeaning, clinical… As if you're on display, inspected like a piece of gear. You glance at him, meaning to argue – but his stare silences you. Icy. Patient for now, but not forever.
You slowly turn.
You’re not sure when he pushes away from the wardrobe, but the second you’re facing away from him, you feel his palm sharply land on your ass with a loud smack! You yelp, and whirl to face him, gaping with your mouth slightly open.
“If you want to do this, mesh’la, you’re gonna do it my way,” he says, his voice a carefully controlled growl. “When I give you an order, you follow it. No stalling. No talking back.”
You blink. His intensity is deliciously overpowering.
“Say it.”
“Yes, Sir. Your way. I-I want that,” you reply.
His gaze softens for a moment, just long enough to speak the next words. “But if it gets too much, you tell me and I stop. Understood?”
You nod.
“Words, Tessa.”
“I understand Sir.”
“Good,” he says firmly. Then he lowers his lips to your ear and whispers, “I’m gonna fucking tear you apart.”
Without warning, he plants a hand on your shoulder and pushes. Not too forceful, but just brusque enough that you fall back on the bed.
But he doesn’t follow.
“Move up,” he orders, voice once again made of durasteel.
You do as you’re told and shift yourself until you’re almost at the bedhead.
Wolffe nods approvingly. “Spread your legs. Touch yourself.”
Your cheeks burn instantly, but with a shaky hand you follow his command. Your fingers spread your folds and you’re surprised to feel how wet you are. You’re fully soaked, and he’s barely touched you. But then again, you did feel the dampness start gathering in your panties the second he stepped into your apartment. And that kiss earlier was… something else.
You coat your fingers in your arousal, and bring them to work on your clit, slowly circling the sensitive bud.
“Look at me.”
Your eyes snap up to his. Wolffe is still standing at the foot of your bed, arms crossed and carefully watching the motions of your fingers. Like a predator stalking his pray. You almost laugh – his name makes perfect sense now.
Without taking your eyes off him, you let your fingertips glide from your clit to your entrance, then sink a digit into your aching core. Wolffe’s restrains is impeccable, yet you do catch the way his grip momentarily tightens on his bicep. His eyes are laser-focused on your finger, and the way it slithers in and out of you. But when a whimper sounds from the back of your throat his gaze is pulled to your face. He keeps watching you, scrutinising every small frown and parting of your lips as you slowly work yourself to your peak. He waits patiently, until your eyes flutter closed and he knows you’re nearly there.
Then his voice cracks through the air.
“Stop.”
You freeze, startled. Your hand retreats from between your legs as your gaze snaps to his, a mixture of frustration and confusion written across your face. But he’s smirking – not cruelly, but with a glint of satisfaction in his eye, like this is exactly what he wanted.
“Good girl,” Wolffe rasps.
Any lingering irritation disappears in an instant at his praise. You never thought those words would do anything for you, but the way he says it – and means it? You have to bite your lip to keep from smiling.
You avert your eyes, suddenly feeling flustered.
“I didn’t say you could look away,” Wolffe scolds, a sharp edge to his voice.
“Sorry, Sir,” you say, quickly resuming eye contact.
Once he knows he has your attention, Wolffe pulls the top of his blacks over his head, carefully folds it and places it on your desk, moving with the leisure of a man who has all the time in the galaxy. Your mouth falls open and you know you’re fully, blatantly gawking at him – but you simply cannot look away.
He looks like one of those ancient Mandalorian warrior statues you’ve seen in history museums, with big defined muscles and faded scars scattered on his wide chest. You can easily tell he’s active duty – he’s so much larger than the non-combat clones you work with at HQ. And, Maker, the gorgeous tan colour of his skin… You cannot wait to get your hands on him.
Wolffe gives you a smug look, and continues to undress, swiftly shedding his belt and kama, leg armor and lower blacks. Then he hooks his fingers in the waistband of his boxers, and pulls them down to reveal his thick, hard cock.
The most shameful whine escapes your lips before you can stop it, and for what has to be the hundredth time tonight, you feel your face go red.
“You can take it, sweetheart. Don’t worry,” he teases.
“I’m not–” you begin to protest, then roll your eyes and you bite your lip. “It’s just… really pretty.”
Wolffe huffs a small laugh. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called my cock pretty before.”
“Well, I’m a unique experience,” you shrug, trying to cover your embarrassment with nonchalance.
“You’re definitely something,” he mutters, climbing into bed. “Do we need…?”
“There’s safety sheaths in the nightstand,” you say, gesturing to the side of the bed.
Without hesitation, Wolffe reaches in and pulls out the sealed pack, peeling it open slowly with a curious look.
“They’ve been sitting there a few months,” you say, voice steady but a bit bitter. “He was too busy with my friend, I guess.”
Wolffe’s eyes narrow just a fraction, a flicker of resentment flashing behind them before being replaced with his skilfully-crafted stoic look.
“Well,” he hums, low in his throat. “I’ll put them to good use.”
You watch captivated as he rolls a safety sheath on his hardened length before he positions himself over you, kneeling between your legs. His hands are on either side of your head and his darkened eyes are admiring you almost reverently. Without thinking, you reach your hand up, but freeze halfway to his chest.
“May I touch you, Commander?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.
The corners of his lips twitch into a smile, even as something possessive flashes in his gaze. “You may.”
Your hands are on him immediately, gliding over his chiselled pecs and abs. It’s ridiculous how well-built this man is. Then your right hand slides around his neck, and you pull him down.
He meets your mouth in a hot, hungry kiss and one of his hands quickly finds your breasts. His tongue pushes past your lips just as his fingers star pinching your pebbled nipple, muffling the moan that threatens to escape. Then his lips trail down your neck to your chest, and suddenly all your senses are flooded by a piercing pain as Wolffe sinks his teeth in the flesh just below your collarbone. You can already tell it’s gonna bruise – he wants you to remember you were his, even if just for the night.
Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging lightly as you attempt to pull him away. He grunts, then with a speed you can barely register, Wolffe gathers your wrists in his calloused hands and firmly places them above your head.
He pulls back, and the look he gives you is almost wild.
“What do you want from me?” he demands. “I want to hear you say it again.”
“I… I want you,” you breathe.
“You’re gonna have to be more specific, mesh’la,” he taunts.
You swallow, trying to steady your voice. “I want you to fuck me.”
Wolffe smirks, slow and wicked. “My pleasure,” he growls.
Then he sinks into you.
You gasp – it’s like he’s splitting you open. He’s definitely bigger than the men you’ve had before, but not uncomfortably so. After a couple carefully-controlled rolls of his hips, all pain melts into pleasure, and you hook a leg around his waist.
He’s watching you carefully, assessing every moan, every gasp, every little twitch – reading your body like a map, adjusting his angle and rhythm to match your reactions with almost terrifying precision. You wish he’d let you touch him, but every time you try to move your hands, his grip on your wrists tightens. He’s not gonna let you do anything – not unless you ask.
“Please,” you whimper, barely audibly.
“Please what, sweetheart?” he asks, his tone almost mocking.
“Can I… please. Please let me touch you, Sir,” you beg.
“How could I say no when you ask so nicely?”
He releases your wrists, and you don’t waste a second. One arm hooks under his shoulder, the other wraps around his neck. Wolffe shifts, bracing himself on one forearm while the other trails down to your hip, his grip firm and possessive as his fingers dig into your flesh.
Then the rhythm changes, his thrusts pick up speed. He’s fucking into you mercilessly, making the bed creak so loudly, you’re worried your neighbours will hear. Although they’re more likely to hear you and the strangled, breathless moans, forcefully driven out of you with each precise plunge of his hips. Your fingers tangle in his hair again, and this time Wolffe doesn’t stop you – he actually groans at the sting, the pain spurring him on.
“You’re mine tonight,” he grunts in your ear, low and strained. “You hear me?”
“I… I’m yours,” you echo, barely able to speak.
His grip on your hip tightens, possessive, grounding. “And if I have my way, you’ll be mine long after that.”
The words ripple though you like the aftershocks of an earthquake. It feels like a promise you didn’t realize you were desperate to make. But, Maker, you want it. All of it
“Y-Yes. Yes, please, Commander. I’m yours. I want to be yours,” you moan imploringly.
A low growl rumbles from deep in his chest before Wolffe crashes his mouth to yours again. This kiss – if you can even call it that – is a brutal attack of tongue and teeth, stealing the air from your lungs. It sends you reeling, shoving you over the edge so hard, it catches you both by surprise.
You arch under him as much as you can with his weight pressing you into the mattress. A strangled cry of his name tears from your throat, barely intelligible. It feels like you’ve been struck by lightning and your orgasm crackles through you, violent and consuming, sparking from your core to every nerve ending. You’re half-aware that your fingernails are digging into his back, but you couldn’t stop even if you tried.
Wolffe doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow. He fucks you through it, determined to prolong your climax until he’s driven all coherent thoughts out of your mind. His eyes are locked on you the entire time – and the second your bliss-shattered expression shifts into a flicker of overstimulation, he finally lowers his head into your hair, groaning as he lets go and finds his own release.
He pulls out carefully, then rolls on his back, allowing himself a moment to catch his breath before he gets up to dispose of the safety sheath.
You, however, are wrecked. Fully, utterly spent.
You’re staring at the ceiling, panting heavily, your brain desperately trying to make sense of what just happened. But your thoughts are wrapped in a thick fog of lingering pleasure – a fog that abruptly lifts as the endorphins crash.
And it’s like being hit by a speeder.
Suddenly, everything aches. Your body is sore – but that’s the least of it. The real problem is the grief of the past few days violently flooding your brain. Your heart pounds in your ears. You can’t catch your breath. You don’t understand what’s going on.
Until the tears start falling.
Oh…
Oh no…
You clap a hand over your mouth in a desperate attempt to muffle your sobs. But there’s no hiding.
The mattress dips besides you, as Wolffe returns to bed. You don’t dare look at him, but you feel his strong arms wrap around you, gently pulling you against his chest. He’s saying something – he’s telling you to breathe – but you don’t know if you can follow his command.
He repeats it patiently, over and over, until finally, you drag in a shaky gasp.
“I’m s-sorry,” you choke out.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he soothes. “It’s natural. Cry for as long as you need, sweetheart.”
And you do. You bury your face into his chest and sob for what feels like hours.
Wolffe never moves. He just holds you, arms firm around you, one hand slowly stroking your back with a gentleness that seems galaxies apart from the man who – minutes ago – fucked you like he wanted to break you.
You’re not sure how long it takes, but eventually the tears run dry, and your shaking finally stops.
Wolffe pulls back, but doesn’t say anything. He just watches you, his gaze steady and grounding as his fingers draw lazy patterns along your side. His eyes have you completely enthralled.
“Are you gonna stay?” you hear yourself weakly ask before you can even register it.
“Do you want me to?” he counters.
“Yes,” you whisper.
“Then I’ll stay.”
You breathe out a sigh of relief, and the two of you settle back into the silence. Briefly, you wonder how he can just look at you like that – so long, so steadily, so reverently – but then again, you’re doing the same. Your eyes flick to the scar that cuts across his face, and your mind drifts the report you’ve read all those months ago.
“Lucky to be alive,” was a comment someone made.
“Not luck,” a clone officer argued. “Just pure stubbornness.”
Without thinking, you reach up, fingertips softly brushing the scar. Wolffe flinches.
“Sorry.” You pull away just slightly. “Does it hurt?”
“No,” he answers, voice a little strained.
“C-Can I?”
His brows pinch together, like he’s weighing a high-risk move. But then he breathes out, and says quietly, “Go ahead.”
Your fingers return to his face, and Wolffe closes his eyes. You trace gently down from his forehead to his cheek. Then, for some reason you can’t explain, you inch forward, and press a soft kiss just beneath his eye.
That does something to him. But besides a small, slightly sharper inhale, he does not give it away.
You curl into his side and eventually fall asleep.
Wolffe follows shortly after. But not before one quiet thought slips through his carefully guarded mind:
“I’m in trouble.”