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You’re not sure what possessed you to say it – or, okay, perhaps you do. It’s probably the same thing that almost made you fall into the toilet just a moment ago, when you lost your balance as you were trying to pull your pants back over your ass: the new cocktail Hound made you try. To be fair, he only made you try one. The other three were all on you... But, oh how easily they slid down your throat, and how sweet and light they were. You didn’t even feel a thing until you stood up to go to the ‘fresher.
There were other signs of course. As Thire so kindly pointed out, it was probably the first time you talked – unprompted – about yourself. Usually, when you go out with your Corries, you prefer to sit in the booth and listen to their stories, only speak when spoken to – not out of rudeness or anything. That’s just who you are.
Your other favourite activity while in the clone cantina is to catalogue the comings and goings of the troopers you find most interesting, something your boys in red like to say you picked up from all your months working with them. But, truthfully, you were always like that. Hypervigilant, observant, careful. There’s probably some childhood trauma that explains it but you never went to a therapist to pursue that theory.
And it’s because of that small trait that you knew you could help the drop-dead gorgeous Twi’lek woman who was freshening up her make-up over the sink to avoid unnecessary rejection. You genuinely, sincerely wanted to help – help her and your friend who you noticed was smitten the moment he saw her. In your tipsy mind it was a win-win situation.
So, since you were all loose-tongued from the cocktails, and you’d been listening to her and her friends talk about one particular trooper the entire time you’ve been peeing, you decided that instead of minding your own business and heading back to your table, you were going to open your month and offer some advice.
“You shouldn’t waste your time on Commander Wolffe. It’s unlikely you’ll get anywhere with him. But my friend, Sergeant Hound, he seems already head over heels; you would have no trouble with him!”
Maker… you’ve never regretted something quicker…
By the time the ‘fresher door slides closed behind you, their muffled laugh still audible even through the durasteel, your jaw is tight and your fists are clenched. There are tears fighting to escape and roll freely down your cheeks, but you dig your nails into the heel of your palms and make your way to the bar for another drink.
Stupid, idiotic, drunk brain. Why the kriff did you open your mouth? You really thought you were being nice – honestly! There was genuinely no trace of malice in your voice. And definitely not any of what she was suggesting.
This is exactly why you don’t talk. Kriffing mean girls tainting the sanctity of the girls’ refresher.
You lean your back on the countertop as you wait for your fifth cocktail of the night, taking this time to cool off. The last thing you want is for Thire or Hound to figure out something happened once you return to the table. Your eyes automatically scan over the crowd, taking note of any new faces.
Well. As new as they can get among clones.
You swear you don’t mean to look for him.
But you easily find him nonetheless.
Commander Wolffe is still sat in the same booth, however, he’s now alone, absently swirling the half-melted ice in his empty glass. Fox is gone, probably upstairs at your table, and the other two men in Wolfpack grey are nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they went to the ‘fresher. Or out for a smoke.
A perfect opportunity for that Twi’lek, you grumble internally as you roll your eyes.
Unless…
You spin so fast that you almost startle the droid server, and ask for a glass of whiskey as well. Then, once you have both drinks, you take a deep breath and walk over.
Not to the stairs.
To him.
Maker, you are so going to cuss out Hound for making you try this cursed cocktail. You regret it the closer and closer you get to his table. But your mind is made up. There’s no way you can feel worse than you already do, no matter the outcome.
“Commander?” you say, voice surprisingly clear and steady considering how tipsy you still feel. “May I sit with you for a moment? I brought you a drink.”
Wolffe slowly turns his head to look at you. And, Maker, it’s even more terrifying than when you first met Fox.
His gaze is sharp, and it lingers a moment too long for comfort on your face, before darting to the whiskey in your hand and back to your eyes. That scar over his eye makes him so intimidating, your breath actually catches in your throat.
But, thankfully, he responds with one single nod, and a low, gravelly, “Go ahead.”
You take a seat on the bench right by his side, making him quirk an eyebrow as his gaze quickly snaps between you and the empty bench on the opposite side of the table. That would’ve been the more normal choice – but not good if your plan is to work.
“Thank you.” You slide the whiskey in front of him, before taking a long sip out of your own drink to hopefully regain some of the calmness you felt when you first approached the table. “I have to confess I'm here for a reason. You see, I’m a very petty person, and that gorgeous Twi’lek – the one who just walked up to the bar with the small group of friends – she broke the girls’ refresher code.”
Wolffe leisurely shifts his attention to the bar before returning it to you.
“Explain,” he commands.
“In the girls ‘fresher, women are always supposed to be nice to each other,” you start, once again feeling that bitter anger fester in your stomach. “It’s an unspoken rule. We listen to drunken ramblings about exes, we give compliments, we lift each other up. What we never do is put someone down.”
You pause to take a sip of your drink, stealing a glance his way. He is watching you, but you can’t read anything on his face, so you’re not sure if he’s bored or intrigued or if he thinks you’re an awkward mess currently embarrassing herself. But there’s nothing you can do right now except finish what you started.
“She was very confidently boasting about leaving with you tonight, and I thought it would be a shame for her to waste her time.”
That gets a reaction out of him: a small head tilt as he brings his glass to his lips.
“And why do you think she’d waste her time?” he asks.
You take a long breath and force your eyes to meet his steely gaze. “I’m here a lot, Commander, and, in the last five or so months, I've never seen you leave with anyone. You always turn women down, or, on rare occasions, take them to the ‘fresher. I’m sure you give them a good time, but from what I heard her saying, she wants more than a dirty men’s toilet stall hook-up.”
Wolffe huffs a small breath, almost sounding amused. “Very observant.”
“I’m basically a Corrie, it’s part of the job,” you clarify with a shrug. “So back to why I'm here. I decided to tell her she shouldn’t waste her time, even offered an alternative in Hound, who’s been staring at her all night, basically drooling. But she seemed to take it as me believing I have a chance with you–” you scoff and roll your eyes. As if… “–and not only did she look me up and down before laughing, but she actually said I should look in the mirror and not aim for things I could never achieve.”
You stop and take another sip; for some reason, your throat is as dry as Tatooine.
“So I thought ‘what a fucking bitch’. And usually a comment like that would make me cry, but I’ve discovered this cocktail tonight which seems to make me a lot bolder, and I thought ‘wouldn't it be great if I could stick it up to her?’ And what better way to do that than… well… make it seem like she was wrong. She’s a bitch, but I’m a petty bitch so…”
Suddenly, with no warning, Wolffe grabs you by the waist and pulls you up onto his lap. Instantly, your hands grab his shoulders, gripping the plastoid of his armor for dear life. You're so shocked, you think you forget how to breathe, and judging by his smirk, he finds it amusing.
Then, he brings his lips right to your ear, hot breath fanning over your skin – and your heart begins thundering in your chest so fast, you’re worried it will burst.
“Don't seem so startled, she's looking at us.”
In the corner of your eye, you think you do spot the teal of her skin, but you couldn’t look away from Wolffe even if you tried. His gaze is magnetic, alluring, dangerous in a way that give you chills – but certainly not the bad kind. Quite the opposite really. He’s the type of danger you would gladly subject yourself to. Like an extreme sport you think everyone is crazy for trying, but you’d secretly also love to get to do yourself, just to experience the rush.
And, Maker, what a rush it is when his hand settles on your jaw. His eyes drop to your lips as a gloved thumb traces a light path from the corner of your mouth to your cheek. It’s an unfamiliar sensation. The fabric is coarse on your skin, but it’s a feeling you can’t deny is making your head spin.
“I’m also very petty,” Wolffe says, inching his face closer. His other hand slides to your hip, giving it a firm squeeze that makes you gasp. “So I can only respect your little scheme.”
He huffs a low, dark chuckle at your reaction, then he dives in, placing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your neck, and turning your head to give himself better access. In doing that, you find yourself facing the packed cantina – and easily spot the Twi’lek woman standing not too far away, mouth agape and staring at you as if she’s expecting someone to come out with a hidden holo-camera and tell her she’s being pranked.
You can’t help but smirk and shoot her a small wink. This is, for sure, the pettiest you’ve ever been.
Her friends finally come to drag her away just as Wolffe pulls your face back to him so he can crash his lips over yours. The kiss is rough and demanding, and exactly what you would expect from one of the GAR’s most ruthless commanders. He wastes no time to shove his tongue in your mouth, easily parting your lips with imposing determination and inundating your senses with the sharp taste of the whiskey you got him.
You surrender yourself fully, getting lost in the fast-paced kiss. One of your hands slides up to the nape of his neck, but his hair is cropped too short to be able to grasp it. You do start raking your fingers over his scalp in a gentle massage, and from the way he lowly grunts into your mouth, it seems he really enjoys it.
Wolffe kisses you until you’re breathless, taking everything you can offer. But even though you’re out of air, you still chase his lips when he pulls away.
“Was that enough for you?” he asks.
There’s a teasing edge to his voice, something dark that makes you think he’s posing you with a challenge.
“N-No,” you whisper.
Truthfully, this is the last thing you imagined would happen when you entered the cantina, but now that you got a taste? You crave more. You need more.
But you need to figure out how to ask for it.
“I-I think…” you start, but pause as you hear the tremor in your voice. Wolffe watches you patiently, and with a spark of amusement flickering in his natural, brown eye. Both his hands are on your hips now, his fingers tracing lazy patters over the fabric of your trousers. His touch feels both safe and thrilling, and it sends tingles all throughout your body.
Finally, you take a deep breath, and look away towards the bar. That Twi’lek and her friends seem to be waiting for drinks, sat on barstools on the farthest side, close to the exit. Perhaps it shouldn’t give you this much pleasure, but you can’t help but feel self-satisfied at the sour expression etched on her face.
“You know what would really seal the deal?” you ask, turning your head to meet his intense gaze again.
“What?”
“If you actually left with me.”
Wolffe’s eyes darken, and the corner of his lips twitch into a smirk. “Are you prepositioning me, mesh’la?”
“Yeah,” you say. Maker, you love the way he’s staring at you right now – hungrily, dangerously, controlled but also as if he's only seconds away from snapping. And you might just have the thing to push him over the edge of restraint. “I have another good reason why you should come home with me – Fox would be really pissed off.”
“Would he?” Wolffe asks, tilting his head in that way you’re starting to recognise as him being entertained.
You nod. “I basically work for him, and I know you have some sort of weird rivalry going on.”
“Wouldn’t that make him angry with you too?” he counters. His right hand lifts to your face, pushing some of your hair behind your ear. The gesture is surprisingly gentle coming from a man like Wolffe, and it causes your mind to go blank.
It takes a moment – and a pointed look from the Commander – for you to remember that he asked you a question: about Fox, getting angry with you. He would. He definitely would. And you’ve only just began feeling like he’s starting to tolerate you. This will probably make him go back to hating you and wishing you were never hired.
“He’ll get over it,” you say, the words coming out a little breathlessly.
Wolffe leans in, his lips a hair's breadth from yours. “You really woke up and chose chaos today, didn’t you, mesh’la?”
“No, I think it’s those cocktails I had,” you reply, huffing a small, uncertain laugh.
That makes him… actually smile? It only lasts one moment, so you’re not entirely sure. And then he’s kissing you again, deep and thorough and fuelled by a lustful greed you’re also feeling in your core. You open your mouth to invite his warm tongue to dance with yours, but Wolffe sinks his teeth into your bottom lip instead. Not too harshly – definitely not harsh enough to actually hurt you – but just enough to make you moan, and give you a taste of what’s to come.
“Well then,” he drawls as he pushes you off his lap. Wolffe then stands, and offers a hand to pull you out of the booth. “Lead the way, cyar’ika. I think you and I are gonna have a lot of fun tonight.”