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Jon blinks, once, then again. “You what?” he asks, like he can't fathom he heard her right.
Fay sighs, leaning forward against the vaguely tacky edge of the bar, and this is why she doesn’t usually try to sleep with other Jedi. They get so caught up in her age, all the stories that run through the Temple, that no one is ever willing to accept that Fay is a sentient with needs like anyone else.
Not that she wants to sleep with Jon. But if even mentioning that she wants sex is making him turn red, the odds that she finally found a sympathetic ear are going down sharply. She’d thought, given the stories they tell about him in the Temple, that she’d finally found a kindred spirit, but she supposes being considered powerful and immortal is a bit different from being considered dangerous and usually dead.
“You heard me,” she says, maybe a little grumpily. “I want a tall, attractive woman to pick me up and pin me to the wall. Maybe get a strap and fold me in half if she’s feeling particularly motivated.”
Jon makes a sound like a tooka that just got its tail stepped on and drags his hood all the way up and over his face.
“Prude,” Fay tells him, amused, and rests her cheek on her folded arms with a sigh. “I caught you staring at the Mand'alor’s aide yesterday when he stripped down, don’t even try to play innocent. Your eyes didn’t leave his codpiece for at least five minutes.” She flicks a glance across the cantina, technically neutral territory for the negotiations, to where the Mandalorians who decided to come drinking are clustered. Myles is sprawled out in a chair, one boot hooked over the rung, the other braced on the floor as he laughs with his men, knees spread in a way that would probably be appealing if Fay liked men in that sort of way. “Not that I blame you. It’s an impressively large codpiece.”
The hood manages to go down another three inches when she hadn’t thought it could manage even one more inch, though it’s not enough to hide the red flush in between all the scars. “Master Fay,” Jon says, halfway between mortified and scandalized.
Fay snorts, amused at the reaction. She could tell Jon that Myles got so distracted by Jon's hands the other day that he almost walked into a door, but…where’s the fun in that? Instead, she leans back, waving for another drink, because if she’s been summoned here to help negotiate by virtue of her ties to Tarre, she may as well indulge a little on the Order’s tab, regardless of whether it will get her drunk or not.
“Don’t make that face,” she tells Jon. “I've been on my best behavior all week. So much being nice is driving me mad.”
“And you're taking it out on me?” Jon asks, faintly plaintive.
Fay accepts the next glass from the bartender with a tip of her head in thanks, takes a long sip, then simply tosses it back. Nothing in this place tastes good enough to bother savoring. “I'm not allowed to take it out on the Mandalorians,” she points out.
“But what if a Mandalorian asked you to?” a low voice says, just as a body settles against the bar to Fay's right.
Fay pauses, then glances over, raising a brow. The Mand'alor’s adoptive daughter is still in her dark gold armor, but for the first time her helmet is absent. She’s tall and broad-shouldered and blond, with tawny skin and pretty brown eyes that have a wicked spark in them, and despite herself Fay can feel just a touch of interest stirring.
“Oh?” she asks, cocking her head. “Do you want me to bully you while you fuck me, Mandalorian?”
Arla’s breath catches as she freezes, and after a bare second too long, she swallows, then says, “I didn’t realize Jedi were into that sort of thing.” She leans in, fingertips sliding under Fay's chin and tilting her face up, only a bare few centimeters between them. “I think you're going to have to try a lot harder than you think if you want to bully me, Jetii.”
Fay hums, doubtful, and leans back against the bar, sliding light fingertips down the center of that golden breastplate. “I think I enjoy a challenge more than a pushover,” she says, mild. “And for shoulders like yours, Lady Fett, I'm willing to try very hard.” She turns her face into Arla's fingers, brushing her cheek against Arla’s knuckles, and smiles lazily. “Assuming you’re confident you can pin me up against a wall somewhere, of course.”
Arla smiles, hungry, leonine, and ducks her head. She kisses Fay, slow, a tease, just a languid hint of tongue to tempt Fay into needing more. It drags a sound of need up from Fay's throat, and like that was all she was waiting for, Arla pulls back with a smirk, threading her fingers into Fay's hair. “For you, little bird, I'm feeling inspired.”