#clone trooper comet

cyar'ika - darling, sweetheart mesh'la - beautiful kar'am - breath

~~~

You admire yourself in the mirror, smoothing down the hem of your very short dress. The silver fabric hugs your curves perfectly, almost like it was tailor-made just for you. It feels like ages since you've been out of the scrubs you wear in the medbay or the armor you wear in the field. Even longer since you've put on make-up.

Maybe you went a little overboard, but tonight, you’re a woman on a mission.

Because tonight you're finally going to do something about the tension simmering between you and Wolffe.

You were assigned to the 104th months ago, and from the moment you met the Commander, you felt a spark.

Well... at first it was a spark of anger, but the line quickly blurred into desire.

You joined the GAR voluntarily, right out of medschool, and after some rushed training, you were dropped straight into a war zone.

 No warm up, no preparation.

Just an LAAT hovering low enough for you to safety jump off, then start running to the injured troopers closest to you.

It was a mess.

Chaos. Pure chaos.

You expected it, but Maker – nothing could've prepared you for the reality. Blasterbolts were flying through the air all around you and loud explosions were rattling the ground. The smell hit you the worst. You almost gagged at the stench of melted plastoid mixed with the unmistakable odour or scorched flesh. It was foul. Nauseating.

You somehow pulled through. With a heart rate of most likely 140 and slightly shaky hands, you still managed to do your job admirably. You triaged and bandaged and moved troopers to the medevac zone. Then the battle died down and you scanned the field.

The other medics – clones and nat-borns – seemed to have it covered. All the injured had someone seeing to them.

All except one.

A clone trooper was limping through the field, helmet moving from side to side, surveying the area. He was holding his left arm, and scorch marks were visible on the plastoid of his armor. But somehow he still had the most commanding presence you’ve ever seen.

You immediately ran over.

"Sit down, let me examine you," you said firmly, already pushing your medpack off your shoulders.

"I'm fine," the man growled, trying to walk past you.

You frowned. "You're injured. Sit down."

His helmet locked onto you. "I said I'm fine," he repeated, voice tight.

"And I said you're injured. Sit!"

"Do you know who I–"

"I don't care if you're the Commander of the kriffing battalion," you interrupted, all your patience gone. "I am a medic, you are injured. Right know I outrank you. Sit. Down."

The trooper stared at you, his expression unknown behind the dark visor of his helmet. You didn't back down, and finally he complied.

Later you'd learn that he was, in fact, the Commander of the kriffing battalion.

And he was not pleased with you.

He actually tried to have you reassigned...

Which made you so angry, you barged in his office aboard the Hand of Justice.

"What the hell is this?' you thundered, holding you datapad.

Wolffe didn't even look up from the report he was writing. "Reassignment request."

You scoffed. "Why?"

"Incompatibility with the battalion," he replied dryly.

"Are you serious?" you demanded. "I've been on one – one – damn mission and I did my job perfectly! I had no casualties."

He finally looked up, his mismatched gaze piercing you like a vibroblade. "And you were insubordinate in the process."

"Insub– Are you fucking kidding me? Is this because I treated your damn injury?"

"It's because you–"

"I outrank you! In the field, in case of a medical emergency, I outrank everyone," you declared. "If anyone was insubordinate, it was you."

Wolffe's jaw clenched and he glared at you.

Whatever cutting remark he was about to throw back was interrupted by blaring alarms however – the battalion was urgently being rerouted as reinforcements for the 91st.

You deployed again as a medic, and the battle had you pinned at one point between two advancing Separatist units while you desperately tried to save the life of an injured sergeant – Sinker, he told you his name was.

The blasterfire was relentless – one bolt even scraped your thigh – and you had to grab the clone's blaster to defend the two of you. Somehow, you were successful. You held the droids off long enough for Wolffe and the others to get to you.

And that was a turning point.

There was something about seeing you like that – it struck Wolffe in a way he hadn't expected.

Your left hand was pressed on Sinker's lower abdomen, latex glove soaked in blood as you kept pressure on the wound. In your right hand you were holding a blaster, which instantly snapped toward Wolffe and his men as they approached from behind.

"Easy," he said, raising his hands.

"Took you long enough," you shouted, adrenaline coursing through you like an electrical current. "I need a corridor to the medevac now!"

Wolffe huffed a barely audible laugh and helped you get Sinker to the gunships.

You didn't get an apology from him, but the next rotation you saw that the reassignment order had been rescinded.

After that, things shifted. Slowly. Your relationship improved – until you noticed him lingering in the medbay after checking on the wounded. Then dropping by simply to ask if you’d eaten or taken a break. Somehow, he always ended up next to you in the mess.

And then you realized you were waiting for him. You caught yourself glancing at the door, hoping he’d walk through. You gravitated toward him every time you were in the same space. The air between you shifted enough for the others to notice, and soon the teasing began.

 Then Wolffe gave you a nickname – one that replaced your name in nearly every conversation, even with General Plo.

A ‘clone-style’ callsign, a mark of belonging: Kar’am.

“You keep us breathing,” he explained, his voice composed. But there’d been something in his eyes when he said it, something almost raw, vulnerable. Something that made your heart skip a beat.

But he still wouldn't make a move.

So you decided you had to take matters into your own hands.

By the time you reach the 79s, the sun has dropped past the horizon. The sky is painted in beautiful pinks and violets and clouds are slowly gathering above. Daylight is steadily replaced by the neon glow of the cantina's sign, casting a yellowish spotlight on the landing pad.

Heads turn as the airtaxi door opens and you step out, the hem of your already short dress riding dangerously high. A couple wolf-whistles follow you as you stride inside the 79s and you smile triumphantly. It’s not that you crave their attention – but if the clones loitering outside are reacting like this, surely Wolffe will too. You hope so, anyway. The silver dress is for him.

The cantina is pulsing with life. The music is loud, bass booming in your stomach in an inviting rhythm that makes you yearn for the dancefloor. You almost laugh as a thought enters your mind – there’s no way you’ll get the Commander to dance with you, no matter how hard you try. Maybe one of the other boys.

Blue and green strobe lights make it hard to get your bearings, harder still to spot familiar armor markings in the crowd. You decide to get a drink first, then journey through the dancing masses in search for the Wolfpack grey. Boost said something about a preferred table on the first floor if you remember right.

You’re halfway to the bar when Comet passes by, his eyes flicking automatically over you, lingering on your bare legs. He looks away, keeps moving… and then stops dead, spins around, eyes wide and mouth open.

“Kriffing hell, Kar’am!” he exclaims. “I almost didn’t recognise you.”

You cross your arms with a scoff. “Well that’s a bit insulting.”

“Osik, no!” Comet blurts. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just– I-I’m not used to seeing you in anything but scrubs or armor.”

His hand goes to the back of his neck, rubbing nervously as he stammers through another apology.

“Relax, Corporal,” you laugh. “I’m just messing with you. Honestly, I barely recognised myself in the mirror. It’s been too long since I got dressed up.”

He exhales, shoulders loosening. “Y-You look great. Really great.” Then quieter, almost like the comment just slips out, “Wolffe’s gonna lose his mind.”

Your grin turns devious. Excellent sign.

“Where are you boys seated?” you shout over the music.

“Upstairs. Big booth. I came down to order another round.”

“What’s everyone having?”

“Sinker, Boost and I are drinking ale. Warthog’s on rum. Commander’s having spotchka,” he lists.

You mull it over. Matching Wolffe’s drink would be a bold move… but Maker, spotchka is vile.

“Get me an Alderaan Twist?” you decide.

Comet gives you a two-finger salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

Your excitement increases as you approach the stairs, and you climb them two steps at a time. The booth awaits ahead, so you take a moment to run a hand through your hair and smooth the hem of your dress. Then you straighten, and put on your most charming smile as you slowly make your way over.

Sinker and Boost lounge in the middle of the bench, nearly empty bottles of ale scattered in front of them. On the right, Warthog has company – one of your fellow medics, Duri, half perched on his lap. Their eyes meet yours and Duri flashes an encouraging smile.

Wolffe sits on the left, his broad back turned toward you. He hasn’t noticed you yet. You, however, have plenty of time to study him – and damn if he isn’t a sight. He’s not wearing the upper part of his armor, instead sporting the short-sleeved version of his bodyglove. The fabric is pulled tight over the muscles in his broad back, and his strong biceps somehow look even bigger than with the armor on. Your mouth waters at the sight of his tattoo sleeve – you’ve seen it before, but it always hits you how damn well it suits him.

Maker, that man is fine. Tonight, you’re making him yours.

You stop in front of the table, one hand resting on your hip. “Hi, boys,” you smile sweetly.

Heads turn to you, and their reactions are priceless. Boost chokes on the last sip of his ale, trying unsuccessfully to hide it with a cough. Sinker’s eyes go wide, and you’re pretty sure he mutters a “kriff me” under his breath. But it’s Wolffe’s reaction that you savour the most.

The Commander freezes. His hand actually freezes mid-movement, rim of his glass nearly touching his lips. His eyes slowly drop down your legs. And Maker, the intensity of his gaze – he’s looking at you like you’re his last meal before an execution.

It doesn’t last long. Wolffe recovers in a few seconds. He downs the last sip of his drink, then sets the glass down on the table with more force than intended, making the rest of the empty glasses and bottles rattle lightly.

Gotcha.

“Kar’am,” he nods, his voice just a little strained.

“Can I, Commander?” you ask innocently, tilting your head to the bench.

Wolffe pushes to his feet, wordlessly moving aside so you can slip onto the bench. Once you’re settled, he takes the seat beside you, immediately reaching back for his empty drink, and you angle your body just enough that your knees brush his leg under the table. The grip on his glass tightens.

“Are you okay there?” you turn your head to ask Boost, who’s still smacking his chest and coughing.

“Sure,” he croaks. “Just– Stars, Kar’am, warn a guy next time before you show up like that.”

“You’re exaggerating,” you wave him off.

“We’re really not,” Sinker says with a chuckle. “Who knew that’s what you were hiding under those scrubs.”

“Yeah,” Warthog adds, voice sly as his eyes quickly dart between you and Wolffe. “You look like you’re out for blood.”

You lean back in your seat, pressing your knees more firmly against Wolffe as you shift.

“Maybe,” you muse. “I haven’t decided yet.”

You risk a glance at the man next to you, and bite the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning. Wolffe’s gaze is fixed firmly on your legs, his brows drawn together like he’s at war with himself not to touch you.

“Are you alright, Commander?” you ask sweetly. “It doesn’t look like you’re having fun. Is there anything I can help with?”

His eyes snap to yours, gaze sharp and piercing. And very much not amused.

“I’m fine, don’t worry,” he drawls, voice low.

“Oh, I always worry about my favourite commander,” you purr.

Wolffe stares at you, the comment catching him off guard. Lucky for him, he’s spared from having to come up with a reply when Comet returns with a tray of drinks. Honestly, you’re impressed he managed to bring the entire order himself – and up the stairs nonetheless.

“Next round, gentlemen. And lovely medics,” he announces, sliding a glass of rum to Warthog before handing you a spotchka.

You look at the blue liquid confused, then slide it over to Wolffe.

“I believe this is your swamp water,” you say with a small grimace.

He slides the glass closer to him, eyes never leaving yours. “You got a problem with my choice of drink?”

“First of all, you cannot call that poison a ‘drink,’” you fire back. “Second of all, it’s absolutely vile.”

Sinker snorts into his ale. “She’s got you there, Commander.”

Wolffe tips his head toward the bright pink cocktail Comet just set in front of you. “And what’s that supposed to be? Fruity soda for younglings?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s an Alderaan Twist, and it’s actually drinkable and enjoyable.”

He eyes the glass suspiciously, before his lips curl into a small, devious smirk. With the trained speed of a clone commander, Wolffe snatches it from your fingers, bringing it to his lips before you even register what happened.

“Hey!” you protest.

You try to grab it back, but Wolffe’s free hand shoots out, catching your wrist mid-air. And your brain nearly short-circuits. His grasp is firm, unyielding – almost possessive – and heat floods your skin where his calloused fingers wrap around you. His mismatched eyes lock on yours as he takes a slow sip.

 “This tastes awful,” he comments, setting the glass down with deliberate care. “Just sugar water.”

You tilt your chin and smirk at him, despite the way your heart races in your chest. “Might taste better on my lips, you know.”

The entire booth falls silent. If it weren’t for the loud music of the cantina, you could probably hear a pin drop. Comet’s eyebrows almost disappear into his hairline and Warthog lets out a low whistle just as Duri mutters a ‘damn’.

Sinker leans closer to Boost. “Oh, she really is out for blood,” he says, voice low, but not low enough.

Wolffe’s carefully crafted composure nearly breaks – you see it in the way his jaw ticks as his eyes quickly dart to your lips. Almost like they acted without his permission.

He leans in, close enough that his breath brushes your skin, and growls, “Careful, Kar’am. Don’t make offers you don’t plan to follow through.”

Only then do you notice he’s still holding your wrist, now resting against his thigh. He can probably feel your hammering pulse. But a few nerves have never stopped you before.

“I always follow through,” you declare, eyes deliberately lingering on his mouth.

“You have exactly three seconds to stop looking at me like that,” Wolffe says, voice an octave lower.

“Or what?” you challenge.

“Or you'll regret it.”

You meet his darkened eyes. “I doubt that very much, Commander.”

His grip on your wrist tightens, just slightly. He holds your stare, waiting – giving you an out, one last chance to walk back behind the line he’s dying to cross. But you tilt your head, defiant. There’s no way you’re retreating now.

Wolffe exhales sharply through his nose. Not amused. Dangerously determined.

“Alright, that's it.”

He stands in one fluid motion and yanks you from the booth, dragging you after him. You yelp, startled, but don’t even think of resisting.

“Nice knowing you, Kar’am,” Boost calls after you.

“I’ll call in sick tomorrow on your behalf,” Duri pipes up.

Without turning your head, you lift your middle finger high above you. Their loud cheers and laughter follow you for a moment, before being swallowed by the cantina’s music as Wolffe guides you downstairs.

His strides are long, urgent and determined, and not once does he glance back at you. He carves a path straight through the dancefloor, the crowd instinctively parting for him. You feel eyes tracking you as you trail after him, curious… some amused. A few of the 104th even nod knowingly to their commander, grins tugging at their lips. You’re gonna be the gossip of the entire battalion – not that you mind too much.

Wolffe doesn’t spare them a glance. He doesn’t stop until he’s pushed you into a storeroom, stepping in after you. The door shuts with a sharp click as he locks it.

The room is small and crowded, racks of alcohol bottles lining the walls, a mop and bucket shoved in the corner. A weak ceiling light struggles against the shadows, leaving most of the space dim.

The music outside is muffled now, replaced by the thunder of your heartbeat. And that only grows louder when Wolffe turns, eyes catching yours with a predatory glint. One step is all it takes for him to be right in front of you. He’s clearly expecting you to back away, retreat, but when you don’t move, a small smirk curls the left corner of his lips.

He leans in slightly, his intense gaze fanning the desire already burning in your core.

“Was that your plan? Just show up and ruin my self-control?” he asks, voice low and gruff.

“Yes,” you breathe. “That was exactly it.”

“Beautifully executed,” he says, sounding almost impressed.

Then he moves – so fast you barely have time to gasp.

His left hand firmly anchors on the back of your neck as he pulls you in for a searing kiss. The other hand grips your hip – firm enough to bruise. His mouth is instantly dominating yours, warm lips devouring, claiming. You grasp the fabric of his top with both hands, needing the support as you melt into him. The kiss is hard and urgent, stealing the breath from your lungs.

He pushes you further into the room, and your back hits the metal rack behind you. The impact is strong enough to make a few bottles of booze rattle loudly against each other, causing you to break the kiss and snap your head towards the noise. Wolffe lets out a displeased huff, and he turns your head to face him, calloused fingers gripping your chin.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” he orders.

His commanding voice sends a shiver down your spine and you obey, meeting his piercing gaze. The pupil in his natural eye is blown with desire, and while his restraint is impeccable, you do catch it – his breathing is almost as laboured as yours.

“Maybe you need to do better to hold my attention,” you challenge.

For a split second, his jaw clenches – that little tic you’ve learned means you’ve really gotten under his skin. Then he arches an eyebrow and huffs a low, dangerous laugh.

You gasp when he presses his thigh between yours, the sudden pressure shooting pleasure through your body. Wolffe smirks, triumphant.

“No more clever remarks, Kar’am?” he taunts, sliding both hands down your hips and pulling you tighter against him.

A breathy moan escapes your lips as the pressure builds in your core – but Wolffe is prepared to swallow it. His mouth crashes back onto yours, hot and claiming, teeth nipping at your bottom lip. You open wider to welcome him in, your mind a frenzied mess. But the bitter taste of spotchka lingers on his tongue, grounding you in the sharp, shocking reality.

It’s actually happening. Finally! After months of pent-up hunger, you’re finally kissing him.

Wolffe pulls back, and you chase his lips, stealing one more peck before he’s too far away. He studies you carefully, and you cannot look away. A small, smug smile curves his mouth, devious and devastating.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to shut that bratty mouth of yours,” he rasps, hand cupping your jaw and thumb dragging across your lower lip.

“Then why’d you wait so long?” you whisper, heart hammering against your ribs.

His voice drops low, rough with restraint, “Because I don’t take risks with things that matter. If I’d been wrong, I could’ve lost you.”

Heat rushes to your face and for a moment you just stare at him. There’s a vulnerable edge in his voice you’ve rarely heard before. You reach up, brushing your fingers along his cheek. His stubble is coarse against your skin, but when Wolffe leans into your touch, your heart soars.

“I think it’s pretty clear now that you weren’t wrong,” you purr, a soft smile curling your lips.

“It is,” he agrees.

Wolffe leans in to kiss you again – but this time it’s different. His mouth moves against yours slowly, like he can finally savour it now that he’s sure you won’t disappear from his grasp. You wrap your arms around his neck, one hand playing with the short hair on the back on his head. Tongues flirt and tangle, and you don’t even mind the faint aroma of spotchka anymore – it’s actually pleasant when you taste it on him.

His left hand abandons its post on your hip, sliding down to your thigh. In one swift move, he hooks your leg around his waist, grip tightening on your bare flesh. The hem of your dress hikes indecently high.

“I need to know, mesh’la,” he murmurs between kisses. “Was this intentional?”

“Was what intentional?” you ask, feigning innocence.

Wolffe fists the silky fabric of your dress, yanking it higher to expose half your ass. “This,” he says. “You, wrapped so nicely in silver.”

You grin against his lips. “It was,” you confess. “I wore it for you.”

He groans, the sound deep and hungry, and crushes his mouth back onto yours, tongue eagerly claiming you. Then he tears his lips away, trailing them down your neck. You throw your head back against the shelf, gasping when his teeth scrape across your pulse point, moaning outright when he sucks a bruise into the tender skin. It’s the most exquisite feeling, and you cannot help the way you grind on Wolffe’s armored thigh.

His hand abandons your leg, sliding until it seizes your ass, fingers harshly digging into the flesh. The possessive hold leaves no question: your body belongs to him now. His other hand moves with equal determination to your breast, pushing the fabric of your dress out of the way. He easily slips his calloused fingers underneath your lacy bralette so he can start toying with the hardened nipple, and grins against your skin when you whimper in response.

Need surges through you, hot and urgent. You must have him – and you must have him right now. Your hands drag down his chest, palms skimming the smooth fabric of his top. But it’s the outline of his defined muscles that almost makes you lose your mind. You even do a double take on his abs – Maker, this man is so well built it’s unfair.

Wolffe’s lips claim yours again, a deep, ardent kiss that scrambles your thoughts. You give in, keenly receiving every sweep of his tongue and bite of his teeth. But then your senses return and you remember your objective. With trembling hands, you fumble with his belt buckle, and after a few clumsy attempts, his kama falls to the ground.

Your fingers immediately begin searching for the clasps that will free him from the codpiece – but Wolffe catches both your wrists in one hand. He drops your leg, leaving you off balance, the denial intentional.

His mouth hovers at your ear, voice low and rough. “Ask nicely, Kar’am. And maybe I’ll help you.”

You stare at him, breath coming out fast and ragged. Irritation spikes though your chest, but you fight the urge to retort with a snarky comment. You’re too worked up – challenging him right now would only delay what you’re desperate for.

And if Wolffe wants you to beg, then you will beg.

“Please,” you whisper, sultry and wrecked with need. “Please, Wolffe. I need you.”

You hold his gaze, biting your lip and batting your lashes for good measure. Wolffe exhales slowly, his grip on your wrists tightening.

He shakes his head and the look he’s giving you turns reverent. “Cyar’ika, you have no idea what you do to me.”

Then he pounces, capturing your lips in another all-consuming kiss. He frees your wrists, and your hands immediately slide up his broad chest, feeling the taut muscle beneath the bodyglove. A sharp clatter follows – plastoid hitting the floor – as he unclasps his codpiece. You’re trembling in anticipation.

Wolffe grabs the underside of your thighs, hauling you up as if you weigh nothing, and you instinctively lock your legs tight around his waist. He pushes you against the shelves, the metal creaking and bottles clinking together.

“Hold on,” he orders, voice a low growl. You obey with no argument, fingers digging into the solid planes of his shoulders.

His hardened length presses against your centre, and you gasp, the sound swallowed as Wolffe crashes his mouth to yours. He bites your lower lip, groaning as his hips start grinding against you. One hand fists the silky fabric at your hip, yanking it higher, until the hem is gathered around your waist. The other grips your thigh, squeezing hard enough to bruise.

Wolffe pulls away to admire your flushed cheeks. He smirks, and with trained precision, he slides his hand between your legs, brushing his thumb over your soaked panties.

“So wet already,” he groans. “All this for me, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you answer breathlessly, your entire body shivering as he grazes your clit.

That’s all he needs to hear. Wolffe shoves your underwear aside, then pulls his blacks just low enough for his hardened cock to spring free. He drags the tip though your folds a few times, watching your expression carefully. And then he takes what’s his, and in one swift motion, he buries himself to the hilt inside of you.

You gasp loudly. The stretch is overwhelmingly ecstatic. Your head tips back against the shelf and your eyes squeeze shut as Wolffe begins slowly dragging his cock in and out.

“Fuck, it’s even better than I imagined,” you whimper.

Wolffe chuckles smugly. “Thought about this much, mesh’la?”

You open your eyes, finding his heated gaze. “Oh, you have no idea.”

That answer pleases Wolffe, and his thrusts pick up speed. He moves inside you with deep, relentless strokes, holding you pinned between the shelf and his body. Your nails dig into his top, hard enough that you’re certain it’ll leave crescent-shaped marks on his skin even through the fabric.

The tip of his cock brushes against that spot inside of you perfectly, and your loud moans echo around the small room. The sound spurs him on, fuelling his determination to unravel you completely. He fucks into you with fervour, the pace quick and brutal, low grunts escaping his lips.

Pleasure is quickly building in your core, simmering hotter with every deep thrust. The shelves are digging sharply into your back, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Not when you’re so, so close.

“Don’t stop,” you whine, eyelids fluttering shut.

“Not a chance,” Wolffe growls through gritted teeth.

His hips drive into you again and again, his rhythm quickening – relentless but controlled. The metal rack creaks, shaking violently under the force of his passion. Bottles rattle against each other, their clinking growing louder and louder. Then suddenly, a sharp crack echoes through the room as one of them topples and shatters on the floor. A strong wave of rum-scented air rises around you, dizzying, intoxicating.

You want to laugh, but the only sound that tears from your throat is a loud cry of his name as the pressure finally explodes. Tingling heat rushes from your core through every part of you, so powerful that for a second you’re not sure if you’re still breathing.

Wolffe doesn’t falter. He fucks you through it, his mouth attacking your exposed neck, biting and sucking and prolonging your high. His grunts grow louder and his grip on your thighs is definitely now bruising. Only once he feels your walls relax around him, the rhythm shift – turns rougher, sloppier. His forehead falls into the crook of your neck.

“Where?” he asks, voice strained with effort. His hot breath on your skin makes you shiver.

“Inside,” you moan.

Wolffe mumbles a curse under his breath, and thrusts into you harder, faster. Then suddenly he stills, buried as deep as possible, every muscle taut as he finally lets go. A low groan vibrates against your throat and you feel the twitch of his cock as his warm release coats your walls.

The room is filled with the sound of both your ragged breaths, the heavy smell of rum, and the solid weight of him holding you in place. You stroke the hair on the back of his head, damp with sweat, giving you both of you a moment to come down from your highs.

Wolffe inhales deeply, then presses a small kiss on your neck before carefully pulling out and returning your feet to the ground. Your knees buckle, still weak and trembling with pleasure, so you brace your hands on his shoulders for support. He steadies you with a firm grip on your hips.

“If you let go, I'll collapse,” you warn, still a little out of breath.

“Good,” he chuckles proudly. “Means I did my job right.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh you did your job too well. Kriffing ruined me for anyone else.”

Wolffe smirks, triumphant and devious. Then he leans close to murmur in your ear, “Maybe that was my plan.”

“Beautifully executed, Commander,” you echo his earlier words. He chuckles.

The gruff sound wraps around you like a warm blanket and you can’t help it – you pull him down for another slow kiss. His tongue lazily brushes your lips, but he doesn’t push in. Instead, he allows you to take the lead, matching your gentle pace.

When his lips leave yours, it’s only so he can press a quick kiss to your forehead. Then he steps back, but doesn’t remove his hands from your body.

“You ok to stand now?” he asks.

“Yeah, I think so,” you nod.

He lets go, hand hovering close until he’s certain you won’t fall. Then he gathers his codpiece and kama, reattaching everything in place while you run a hand through your ruffled hair and smooth down the hem of your dress.

Wolffe gives you a once-over. His gaze lingers on your legs long enough that heat flares in your cheeks before he finally meets your eyes.

“Let’s go,” he then orders.

“Where?”

“Back to the booth. I still have a drink to finish,” he says.

“Do you really expect me to sit back with everyone and pretend you didn’t just fuck me in a storeroom?” you ask incredulous.

Wolffe brushes his thumb above your collarbone. “No need to try and pretend, cyar’ika,” he smirks. “I made sure to leave my mark.”

You push his hand away with a scoff – but there’s no hiding the smile that brightens your face.

Ever the gentleman, Wolffe unlocks the door and gesture for you to step out first. With your head held high, you make your way through the crowd and up the stairs, the commander walking right by your side. A few heads turn, and whispers follow, but your proudly meet their curious glances. Some boys from your battalion grin widely in response.

“Guys! She survived!” Comet exclaims when he sees the two of you approach.

“And with only a few battle scars,” you shoot back, gesturing to the hickeys before they can poke fun at them.

You take your earlier seat and reach for the Alderaan Twist, still untouched on the table. The ice has long melted, and the drink is more diluted as a consequence – but it’s still good. Wolffe settles on the bench next to your, his broad frame pressed against yours. You lean into him.

“We were worried there for a second,” Boost continues teasingly.

“Don’t get why,” you reply with a grin. “I’ve had the best time.”

“I bet you did,” Warthog comments. “Too bad the music’s so loud. Maybe we would’ve heard you.”

You feel Wolffe tense by your side.

“That’s enough, trooper,” he drawls. His voice is calm but you don’t miss the way his jaw ticks.

“Sorry, Sir,” Warthog says, but the sly grin doesn’t leave his face.

The men know better than to push, so they resume whatever conversation they were having while you and the Commander were away. You settle more into his side, and Wolffe wraps his arm around you, hand resting on your hip. With a small tilt of your head, you catch him watching you and smile.

Wolffe raises his drink. “To new beginnings,” he says quietly, only for you to hear.

Your smile grows, and you clink your glass to his. “To new beginnings.”