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#Kel Dor said Gender Rights!!
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Poets and Painters (Deep Night) - Wolffe x Reader [Mature Fic]
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Warnings and Information: In desperate need of just one day to take his and his men's mind off the war, Plo Koon orders that everyone make a stop on a relatively uninhabited planet in a peaceful sector of the galaxy to… have a picnic? Just what does he have in mind? A certain flint-gray Commander is finding it hard to believe that they're just on the planet for a day of R&R in the middle of a war, so he isn't letting his guard down. Perhaps someone will help Commander Wolffe find some way to help him relax before the day is over…
2nd person POV. Reader is undescribed save for minor details like personal touches to a uniform, and has a gender-neutral alias. Allusions to canon-typical violence, mention of injury and loss. Plo just being a dad to the 104th Battalion in the background. Swearing. Discussion of more adult themes and some lewd jokes (this is not an Explicit fic but it is Mature; Minors please DNI). Takes place on a fictional planet. 
Word-count: 7,300
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Since Commander Wolffe left you with the sketch in your hands so suddenly, you've been in something of a daze, trying to make sense and meaning out of the phrase he left behind below the sketch of you in phase two armor. 
‘Behind the teeth and claws, there is a beating heart.’
You don't understand. Is this supposed to be about you? Is the phrase in reference to him? And regarding what, for that matter: how he feels about himself, or something he sees in you? 
You selfishly wish he would have explained what he means with the deliberate fashion of these nine words before answering the Jedi's summons. Who are these words meant for, and why did you choose them? will have to wait until Wolffe is dismissed, however. He, Sinker, Boost and Plo Koon have been locked in something of a private discussion for what feels like the last half hour.
Arguing. 
(If you can call it that.)
“We should contact another general and let them know what's going on in the event something happens.” Wolffe has insisted for the fifth time. 
“And exactly what are you expecting to happen, sir?” Boost asks just as insistently for the fifth time. He's known that his brother and leader has been on edge all day, he’s been far from blind to it. But the perceived unwillingness, perhaps even stubbornness to refuse to elaborate on what it is Wolffe fears will happen to the battalion in this encounter is starting to get on Boost’s nerves. Why won't you tell us? you're sure he wants to come right out and ask. 
“This is a largely uninhabited planet. We don't know by whom, or how many times Little Archossi has been visited by someone other than us.” 
“What are you getting at?” comes the half-snarled reply to Commander Wolffe. You’re not sure which sergeant the question came from. Or why the Kel Dor hasn’t said a single word in this whole time. General Plo, in your opinion (and experience with risk analysis), is not helping matters by choosing to remain silent rather than encouraging his commanding officers to pause and take a few clarifying breaths before tackling the concerns at hand. 
Paranoia and overcautious stratagem verses being a smidge too lax. 
Commander Wolffe must be paranoid enough for the whole of the battalion. These are his men, his brothers. Whether it was drilled into him under Kamino's rainy skies, or taken up as his own, personal creed since the Abregado battle, he sees to it that they will stay safe at all times whenever they are not in the thick of battle. 
That much is clear to you now.
Were it not for a duty to the Republic, his General, you want to, almost could imagine him abandoning his post and absconding with every brother he can, or at least wish to. I refuse to lose you to war, were I a more selfish man. 
Not another brother lost. 
And throw a largely-untrained civilian in the mix, someone without those primary and secondary instincts these men rely on, it’s hardly surprising that you hear your name cropping up in hushed or hissed voices that have only become easier to hear since everyone has been instructed to ‘tighten formation’, more or less. 
“Hold on- Is- Isn’t that one of the Commander’s blasters? Why does Arcadia have one of Commander Wolffe’s blasters?” one Clone asks, nudging a brother with the edge of his elbow. 
Their voices drop into deep, conferring whispers for a moment, and they either work out that it was offered to you for the purposes of self defense, or come up with their own creative explanation. You can't hear a word they say before the second man turns to the first and tries confirming suspicions. 
“You think maybe the two of them-? What? Don't look at me like that! Commander Wolffe has been spending an awful lot of time with Arcadia today, don't tell me you haven't seen it, Hash!” 
Hash shakes his head and answers he hasn't been paying much attention to what everyone else is doing today, murmuring something about how it ‘must be a sniper’s thing’ to pay that much attention to everyone at all times. He's been too busy daydreaming about new and unique ways to lay waste to the Seppie clankers the next time the 104th battalion faces them. 
“It is not just a “sniper's thing”, Hash...” 
The brother's glowering look is answered with a confused (or maybe unconvinced) shrug. “Sure, Ricochet, if you say so.” Ricochet sighs bitterly, the words forget it jumping from his lips in that same breath. Getting up, he brushes away what he can see of the wet, loose blades of grass that cling to the sterile white plastoid, and politely excuses himself before Hash calls out to remind him of something left behind in the grass. 
“Wait, Ric, your rifle!”
Everyone has been reminded of the sentiment from this morning that above all, if it can be helped, the one-oh-fourth should not appear to the inhabitants of this little, largely unrecorded planet as an open threat. You’re all encouraged to keep your weaponry close as a precautionary measure. Besides: say you did have the means to contact them in the early morning, what could you have said? 
Come to think of it, would either party understand each other’s intentions if there was a barrier in language? Hmm…  Suddenly that’s of some concern to you, but you’re not willing to crash the discussion being had by the Jedi and his commanding officers, now that Plo has stepped in to offer his thoughts and insight. Now doesn’t seem like a good time, given what concentrated expressions you can make out in the moonlight, so you’re going to give it a few minutes, at least.
That should give you the time to come up with some solutions to offer them, actually. In the event you find the inhabitants don’t speak Basic, how best could you come up with a way to draw or show such broad concepts like peace, or convey a message that promises you mean them no harm in the spiral bound pages of your sketchbook or the screen of someone’s datapad?
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… This is proving harder than you thought. 
And you are not alone in your confusion, your mild frustration, that the conversation between Plo Koon and Commander Wolffe, has continued even now that Sergeants Sinker and Boost have been dismissed. (What could they be talking about now given the comforting nature of the Kel Dor’s hand clasped over the Clone’s shoulder, just above the symbol of the wolf head?) It’s none of your business, but you’re certainly free to wonder, free to let your mind wander in the same way the fireflies continue to float through the glade.
Roused from your thoughts, you find someone calling your name. “Man, the Commander's still busy… Arcadia! Hey, Arcadia, do you want to join us for a quick strategy game or something?” Tack offers, holding up his datapad in demonstration. “It's real simple. I can teach it to you while we play since it's team-based.” 
What the hell. Why not? “Who are we playing against?” you ask with a curious perk of your brow. You pull your datapad out of the canvas bag among your other things, hiding the art book away for the time being as you scoot over next to Tack in the grass.
“Suds and Orchid.” says Tack.
“Oh hells,” Soapsuds moans in mock-complaint, “we're doomed.”
“Don’t be such a cadet about it, Suds, we'll be fine! Just gimme a second to finish what I'm reading…” Orchid insists, halfheartedly raising his right index finger to say one minute please.
Soapsuds makes the mistake of leaning sideways to read off the screen of his shoulder-partner’s datapad, lips fluttering wordlessly as he indulges curiosity. He swears for the first time all day to your knowledge. “What the fuck are you reading? ‘There was only one bacta tank’...?” 
“Great flying Aiwhas, shut up!” Orchid demands in panic, trying to flip over the screen where it lands face-down in the grass in his hurry. “If you're gonna look, don't read anything out loud, bucket-brain!!”
A knuckle is stuffed into your mouth in efforts to keep yourself from giggling at Orchid's expense; you feel it's only fair after how he covered for you this afternoon. What you read is your own business. Just like what he reads is his. If fanfiction (because there's no damn way that's not a fanfiction trope) for some medical holo-drama is Orchid's guilty pleasure, then good for him. Tack pointedly says nothing altogether, instead taking it upon himself to make sure you either have or need the necessary game installed to your datapad. 
Orchid groans defeatedly when he picks up his device. “Oh fuck, I lost my place…” Sighing, he says everyone might as well start playing the strategy game. He won't look Suds in the eye right away, either, clearly frustrated. 
“I'm sorry.” Suds says timidly, gap between the top of his shoulders and his ears shrinking in shame.
“I… I know you are, Suds, you just-” Shaking his head, the Clone with the namesake of a flower just silences himself before he says something he might either regret, or knows will only serve to hurt a brother's feelings in order to spare his own. “Let's talk about something else.” Orchid mumbles after a rather pregnant pause. “Have you played this game before, Arcadia?”
“Not sure what we’re playing and if I have,” you say, trying to find a more comfortable position to sit in, “but Tack’s offered to teach me.”
Suds visibly perks up, retracting his teasing statement from earlier. “So maybe we’re not doomed.” The optimism is short-lived, but it’s precious to see in the moment. 
“Don’t be so sure about that...” Tack returns ominously with a shit-eating grin and a wagging finger just for the sake of theatrics. “We’re all going to play a short and simple game so Arcadia gets a feel for it before anything, and then we’ll play one round for real.” While he walks you through the settings, Tack explains that the game is an espionage simulator of sorts, and a proper game can carry on for ages, making it perfect for those prolonged periods of deep-space travel. Maybe the next time the one-oh-fourth is tasked with a peace mission, they’ll come find you if they can and wrangle you into someone’s team so you get the full experience.
You find that offer very sweet. “Heh. I think I’d like that very much. Sounds like a plan.” 
Just as Commander Wolffe predicted: his brothers would likely wish you were around more, or looked to include you when it came to “doing nothing”. Surprised that it happened this soon, perhaps? Whatever. You’ll take whatever reason, whatever excuse to keep your mind from gravitating towards worrying about what could come crawling out of that living sea of bark and leaf and twig that goes beyond the pale of typical anxieties.
You’re not going to demonize or vilify or think poorly of the inhabitants before you even meet them, of course, that would be wrong of you. Same way it would have been wrong of you to pass verbal judgment of Commander Wolffe this morning before talking to Tack, before giving Wolffe a chance to prove his character to you.
He was a touch dour, at times, certainly… but wouldn’t you likely be, too, if you endured such things and survived? When you survive hard times, you are forever changed by them; the evidence of your ordeal clings to you like thousands of tiny, root-like tendrils, invisible to all but your own eyes.
But forgetting all that for a moment, you really should focus! You’ve been invited to play a game, and while the nature of it invites ample opportunity to sit in long stretches of silence and thought, you can’t keep getting distracted while Tack has offered to teach you the ropes.
You can spend as much time as you want thinking about the once-maroon commander’s history when you’ve completed the game and raised your concerns to him and the Jedi about communication with the people of Little Archossi.
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It’s been easy enough so far, helping Tack deploy countermeasures and set up defenses in hopes of trapping Orchid and Soapsuds while each team navigates a large, digital compound in order to steal generically labeled “galactic secrets”. The idea is each team must contend with not only the facility’s failsafes, but deliberate sabotage efforts that will trigger impassable blockades meant to slow the other infiltrating team down, and find an alternate route. Soon enough, you and Tack are roughly neck-and-neck with Orchid and Suds.
It’s currently their turn to make a move, leaving you and the Clone researcher to wait. Suds taps Orchid’s shoulder-plate to get his attention “Hey what if…?” Orchid shakes his head, showing what he has in mind. Suds doesn’t seem to approve, grimacing. “I dunno… Bit much to execute that on someone who’s never played before, don’t you think?”
“Mm? That’s not what I- Oh, sithspit, sorry. Showed you the wrong thing.” Orchid apologizes, making a few hurried taps along his screen to fix the mistake. “This. I meant this.”
“... that’ll work.” 
They activate the responsive measure, meaning you and Tack are now sealed off from taking that route, and they’re a step ahead in claiming the prize. You’ll have to take a longer route to get around the doors, unless you want to waste time and risk the codeslicing at the control panel failing. 
“What happens if codeslicing fails?” you ask everyone as you and Tack plot your new path, “Like what can happen, as some general examples?” 
“Failing to codeslice triggers a few things, and it’s all randomized.” Orchid jumpstarts the explanation for everyone. You might end up sealing up the entire compound and locking everyone in by mistake. Sometimes you end up electrocuting yourself… somehow. Sometimes the wrong thing opens, instead, like a trapdoor. There’s a couple of other outcomes that you’d have to worry about if you were playing on a higher difficulty, or against others of their brothers who believed in ‘gunning for it’, too. All and all it’s a rather informative summary. 
(Never blindly agree to play against an ARC trooper, is heavily emphasized advice.)
“Huh… yeah, think I’ll leave any slicing to the researcher, just in case.” you offer with a slightly nervous chuckle as you adjust the position of your legs. You’re not used to sitting for most of the day, and you’re uncertain if you’re becoming antsy, or if the slight tingle in your toes hails to a budding circulation issue. You never really thought about just how much walking you do around the durasteel halls of the Triumphant until your expectation of a typical day had been taken and turned on its head. When you spend so much time on your feet, so little time at rest, you kinda just get used to being on the move. 
Kinda like Commander Wolffe, actually… Except you’re privileged enough to know how to relax; to even have that option.
The game is over rather swiftly, Orchid and Suds beating your team by a matter of seconds. Incredibly, the secret files contain actual information, always in the form of either a recipe, or some general trivia. It’s a recipe for roasted nuna legs on a bed of your least favorite vegetable, glazed with bantha butter, in this case. Orchid generously offers to share the spoils with you and Tack even though you lost since he’d want a brother, or a friend, to do the same for him. 
You make sure to tell him that’s rather kind of him, smiling over the transferred file name he sends. (anythins_better_than_rations.file)
“Hey, good effort, Arcadia.” Suds tells you encouragingly, and not just as a show of good sportsmanship. “I think you did pretty good! Seemed like Arcadia was picking it up pretty quickly, right, Tack? Was going really smoothly for the first time playing.”
Tack agrees with a wink while you gather up your things. “You’ll get even better next time. But where are you off to in such a hurry? I thought you were interested in doing a real round after the practice.” 
There’s a slight slowdown in your gathering, wondering how to explain yourself.  “I, uh, had a question for the General and-  and…” you say haltingly,  glancing in the direction of where both Commander Wolffe and General Plo had been, only to find it is now just the Kel Dor on the crown of the hill. “... where’d Commander Wolffe go?” He won’t be far, surely, but with some cloud cover creeping in, it’s limited your visibility allowed by the moonlight. Dawning on you now, you don’t have a ‘plastoid sunbonnet’ to utilize night vision like the rest of the Clones in the 104th who are compensating for the shifting environmental conditions without so much as a murmur while each man dons his helmet.
“Question about what?” Tack tries to ask, hoping that with a bit of gentle prodding, he can make sense of why you’re acting like this. Maybe he thinks you’re feeling fearful, apprehensive of the pressing dark while more and more men don their helmets, the soft hiss of setting seals sounding off all around you. “Do you need a light, or something?”
You shake your head politely. You can probably make your way to the other hill even in the semi-darkness safely enough without one, if you mind your footing. By what moonlight you still have, and maybe a little guiding glow of a datapad or a light clipped to someone, you're confident you'll make it okay. 
You’re not a lamb, you tell yourself. You only look the part among so many armored men in the glade. You find you feel more instances of courage than fear in your steps as a lamb walking among so many wolves, today. 
“I’ll be okay.” you promise. 
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With a subtle turn of his head, your approach is acknowledged before you’ve spoken a word of greeting to Plo Koon, his eyes trained on the space between two trees in particular. Trees where the moonlight has not yet been snuffed out by the continual, creeping cloud cover. 
He greets you first, while you’re distracted, your name almost a pleased purr. “Arcadia… What can I help you with?”
Plo Koon breaks apart the loose lacing of his fingers and lays one of those same steady hands, previously folded against his stomach, on your own shoulder in a gesture of comfort, a silent measure of guidance. “I… well I had a question for both you and Commander Wolffe, General Plo, but I’m not seeing him.” you explain, any tightness of fear in your voice answered by a slow stroke of his thumb along the top of your shoulder. You suppose you could just tell the Jedi from Dorin, if needed, but… you’d rather Wolffe was there too. 
You think the Force-wielder can sense that, too.
“Don’t worry, Wolffe will return from the gunships in a moment. We’ve put some preparations in place before I intend to return to the settlement discovered earlier.” you’re promised in a tender tone, though he makes no elaboration of the preparations. The shoulder he grasps is graced with a comforting squeeze, just for a moment. It reminds you of times involving your family, your relatives, the people you call your close friends have offered you some of your greatest comfort. “If you would prefer, we’ll wait until he returns before you pull out your sketchbook and explain what concerns you before I depart.”
Voicing your amazement can’t be helped. “How’d you know I had something in my-? The Force?” 
“Mmm… Perhaps…” Plo Koon suggests. “Many gifts can be found in the Force, little one.” he adds sagely. (Deduction likely swings in his favor when people are creatures of habit, as well, if one thinks about this from all sides.)
“That sounds… That must be very overwhelming.” Admittance that it sounds rather confusing is traded for sympathy in its place. If the Force is in every living thing, surrounding and combining everything in an inexplicable weaving, then making sense of all the extra noise must be nothing short of challenging. That’s the moment when the usual comfort found in ‘the Force is available to all lifeforms’ sentiments becomes perverted and transformed by doubt and fear. How can you use the Force to calm your mind - like the young troopers were shown just the morning - when you’ve received no training, you wonder. 
Because as far as you understand there involves some level of training in order to wield it, no matter one’s capacity. 
Certainly doesn’t take training to discern the sound of boots picking their way through the grass and knowing they belong to Commander Wolffe before you and the General turn around to acknowledge him. After hearing him patrolling the edge of the clearing for hours this morning, the perfectly-paced drumming of his feet even across uneven terrain has become well known to you.
“General Plo. Arcadia.” His bucket is neatly tucked to his waist in the crook of his arm, rather than adorning his head, when he draws nearer. Action-ready best describes his appearance, even in the thick of twilight. “Didn’t I see you with Tack, Orchid and Soapsuds, just over there?” He’s asking you more to be sure of something, rather than accuse. “Unless, I’m mistaken. Apologies, if I… perhaps kept you waiting.”
The honeyed timbre of his voice sparks an odd warmth in your chest. “N-no, I was over there. They were teaching me a game, while you and the General were talking.” Suds offers an endearing, jovial wave when he sees the three of you looking in their direction. 
Saving the two of you from yourselves in the slow bloom of bashfulness he notices taking root, Plo Koon steps in, offering assurance and spurring the conversation along. “We haven’t been waiting long. Arcadia had something to ask us, Commander.” The unspoken oh, good in the release of Wolffe’s previously tense brow and overall expression is promising. If he hasn’t kept you waiting long, then there’s no need for further apologies. 
Instead, he’d like to get straight to it. “Understood, sir. When you’re ready, Arcadia.”
Extracting your spiral-bound, you quickly flip past all the spent pages once it’s in your hands to what you need, but you hold off on showing them the loose, airy sketches in graphite and ink right away. “I had a concern about a language barrier, in the event the native peoples don’t speak Basic. Is there a plan for that?” 
The Kel Dor and the Clone trade silent looks, only briefly. It gives you pause. If you went with your gut and hazarded a guess, you’d conclude that they have no such plan. 
In place of cupping his chin, Plo Koon taps a component of his anti-ox mask once in thought. “I don’t recall a protocol droid currently aboard the Triumphant… Commander?” 
“No, General. Hasn’t been a protocol droid aboard in some time.” Rather than regret, the reply seems like masked relief. “Which is unfortunate for today.” Wolffe adds a little too quickly to be a casual afterthought or a follow-up. 
“There are soldiers with experience in communications,” the Force-wielder points out, “so it would be wise to make them aware of these valid concerns.” While it is always a relief to have one’s concerns validated, validity given your current situation feels that much richer paired with the comforting hand that finds its place once more on your shoulder. “I will ask them to be prepared, soon, if that would bring you comfort, Arcadia.”
“It would. Thank you, General Plo.”
You can sort of tell, or at least guess, that Commander Wolffe is wrestling with something to say following up with this; in the end all he can offer you is a curt nod. Funny, that a simple gesture can tell you so much. 
That answers that. Glad your concerns could be addressed. 
Expressing further relief, further gratitude, you laugh off those dark graphite illustrations you tried coming up with. “Guess that also means we - heh - likely won’t need to fall back on these right away.” Though it will force him to either clip his bucket to his belt, or set it at his feet, you choose to give the art book to Wolffe to look at everything you tried coming up with. Giving it to Plo Koon, you worry he’d see his commander’s sketch of you by mistake, and doing so would put him on the spot. Force an explanation out of him in an inorganic manner, maybe. “I… I had the thought to start making those. Just in case we- well, y'know.” 
Again, all he offers is that same, curt nod while looking over the simplistic depictions. Each page is examined silently, tucked back tenderly when he's seen all there is to see. Loosely-shaped silhouettes, some with the ends of their arms overlapping - meant to depict shaking hands - makes him smile when he comes to that page square in the middle of the rest of the spread. 
“Friendship or peace?” he asks you, showing you your own creation and offering the general the chance to see it himself. 
You offer a shrug. “Either. Both.” 
Closing the book, Wolffe extends his hand to return your property to its rightful place. You reach out to take it, expecting him to release his own hold, only it remains in his hand as well. Just for a moment. 
One singular, eternal moment disturbed only with the low whistle of the wind through the forest and the glade. And the look on his face, between the scar, the cybernetic eye, you see an understanding of sorts. Sympathy. It’s a pity to him that you’ve done so much to help his anxieties today, and now you’re experiencing anxieties of your own and he feels he can do, say, so damn little to help. 
“Mmm. I suppose I see both.” he says at last, his voice a low, throaty hum when he prompts you to take the book back from him. “Here, you should hold onto this, for the time being, Arcadia.”
“I’ll keep it handy, just in case.” you promise in a short, breathless whisper. “Should you and the General decide to show it to the… the uh…” There was a flash of something in the trees in the now-scant rays of light from the moon, just over his shoulder, something swooping through the peripheral zone where forest meets clearing. It had been so swift, so silent, you can’t be completely certain you saw something to begin with.
The right, scarred brow quirks with curiosity before it furrows with concern. “Arcadia?” 
You point over his shoulder to both the Jedi and the Clone. “I saw something in the trees… just for a moment.” Instinctually, a gloved hand reaches for one of his DeeCees before the flint-gray commander fully turns around, facing down the forest. Just when the prickling dread begins to fade into the thought that your eyes are playing tricks on you and filling in information due to the low light, there’s a second sighting that is entirely enveloped in shadow, moving just as swiftly and as nimbly as before. A slight tremor begins in your hands, making it difficult to put away your things within the canvas bag you brought today. 
If they suspected danger, you’d likely be asked to shelter in the center-most LAAT. Something. You trust they’d keep you safe, without question. Without doubt.
“Quick, small. Movement pattern suggests it's likely a bird.” Wolffe determines as he resettles the weapon into its holster while turning to face you once more. “Nothing to be too frightened of.” He places the softest of emphasis he possibly can on the fourth word, a small action of assurance and compassion. I understand that you are scared, but I think you can relax. You’ll be safe. 
The initial, innocent murmur of reply that he’s right, it’s just a bird is followed up with self-scoldings and further rambling. You feel silly for feeling this anxious. Actually, you’re not even sure why you do feel this anxious. Yeah, everyone’s nervous of course about General Plo’s intent to return to the settlement and make contact with them, even though it’s a relief he won’t be going alone this time, but- Wait. Who’s even supposed to go with him? 
The general begins with an apology. “My apologies for failing to bring this up sooner, dear Arcadia…” He had forgotten momentarily, and had meant to inform you that in the discussion with the sergeants and the commander, you had been considered among those who would be coming with him. Commander Wolffe will be making this venture, along with Sergeant Sinker and a few other Clones while Sergeant Boost was left in command of those remaining behind in the clearing. But if you would prefer, you could stay with Boost instead. 
It should be your choice to go, no one will pressure you, or question your decision because you are not a soldier.
It feels like an incredible honor, a privilege even, to have been counted among those considered given your civilian status. But you’re not sure. Yes, you’d love to be of further help - because that’s what you’re here for, this is what you signed yourself up for. But what if things go wrong? Yes. you’re oh, so very curious about the Archossians. But there were so many concerns you were unaware of before, worries that had not previously existed. You’d be so exposed, ill-equipped compared to a Jedi and members of the wolfpack.
“C-can I have time to think about this? I’m sorry, I just think that bird got me a little worked up.” 
Yes of course, you’re promised. Taking time to think about this would be for the best, would have been given to you anyway had Plo remembered to tell you when he meant to. You don’t need to apologize or feel poorly for the nerves, either. That was only too understandable. 
It is Plo Koon who speaks, but Commander Wolffe’s hand that is laid on your shoulder this time, heavy and grounding. He is so warm through the raven-black gloves, the slate gray of your uniform. These are not insignificant layers, so how is he so warm? It could be because the ambient planetary temperature has dropped, but the heightened awareness of his touch makes it feel so much more intense. How does the entirety of something so small like his hand remind you of times you’ve basked in the glow of firelight, the warmth that encompassed you, cradled you head to toe simply sitting near it?
(Oh, Maker. How could one be so warm when he’s cloaked in glacier-cold plastoid?)
“We will leave, only once you’ve decided. Take what time you need.” General Koon promises, bowing his head as a mark of his sincerity to you. 
The warmth of his touch remains with you even after he’s released you, even after imparting his advice to you with an encouraging nod and a kinder, more tender tone you can’t recall him speaking to any other civilian crew before now. Before you. 
When he tells you “Go take a walk to clear your head, Arcadia.” you hear it in the voice of a concerned friend, rather than that of a superior.
“I’ll- We’ll wait for you.”
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On forested planets, the fresh air should feel so rejuvenating, so invigorating. It should remind you of those beautiful vernal times in your life, the tender sprouts of new growth so precious, so timeless, poking through winter-hardened soil. It should bring to mind things like frog-spawn and the skittish, hooved things that stare at you in mingled fear and wonder as they stand shock-still; their thorning, arching crowns of bone that always look too heavy for such a delicately shaped creature. You should think of those wispy childhood memories punctuated with the presence of crisp linens and budding fruit and petrichor in a place like this. 
So why do you feel so suffocated instead?
You told your fellow crewmates that you were staying. Staying for whatever reason. First you’d be armed with Soapsuds’ blaster. Now it’s one belonging to the flint-gray commander. There had been no initial, serious qualms about meeting with the Archossians, but now, you’re practically dragging a growing web of worry after you with every additional step in the ankle-high grass as you ponder. Every step is measured, deliberate. For safety, you shouldn’t get too close to the trees while you plot along in your pondering patrol.
You had been considered. But you don’t have to go. Maybe you had been wanted for your risk analysis. But they would have said as much, when they told you. Perhaps Plo Koon, his commander, thought you’d be safest if you were kept in closer proximity to them, being responsible for your safety. So surely, they would have laid that out as their reason, were that the case?
And what in the Maker’s name is going on when it comes to your thoughts of - for - the gray commander anyway? Where are all these thoughts coming from now that the sun has been felled from the sky, and the pewter moon has taken her place?
“What is wrong with you, Arcadia…?” you hiss under your breath, not for the first time, or the fifth. Not even the nineteenth, if you count all your unspoken self-questioning. Something just feels amiss. There’s something that’s wormed its way in between the folds of ever-churning thought and new observations from today.
Commander Wolffe is the epicenter of all of it. 
You’re sure of it. 
The planet, the patrolling, the history of the armor paint, the sketches both done by you and of you… it’s all becoming so connected to him. You could never disentangle him from what’s transpired today. From tension to tenderness, you’ve been witness to too much to forget anytime soon.
You almost fear you’ve gotten yourself too involved too soon, entangled yourself too tightly by making your goodness and your heart so freely available to a man who only just this morning had you questioning if a briefing was overboard. Now it just seemed so harmless. Tame, even.
Ground rules laid out with good intentions, his brothers’ safety in mind… How could you think he was overbearing for that?
You didn’t know. Tack had to tell you, was the one who volunteered information about Abregado to help you understand as someone fairly green to the one-oh-fourth. It was the researcher who first divulged that a formidable enemy to the Jedi was responsible for claiming his commanding officer’s right eye. Eyes that have watched you, studied you, tracked you since calling across the other hill to ask what you were doing from his place under the tree. 
Terra cotta, marigold and sunflower leaves. Fawn trunk. Sage grass. And no gray coloring pencil.
You struggled with allowing yourself to call him a friend only a short time ago, but now, that doesn’t feel like it’s enough for the profound respect and sympathy he’s extracted from you. No. There’s something more.
Is what you're feeling merely limerence? Is it love? Has Wolffe charmed you so quickly - perhaps without even truly trying - that you're in such a tumultuous tailspin that you're… almost scared? Almost afraid that should you continue to chip past a grizzled exterior and the ever-roiling anxieties Commander Wolffe keeps a lid on, you'll find yourself truly and too deeply entrenched? Know for a fact that you are falling in love? (Loved by him in return?) 
Distracted in all your storm of thoughts, you’ve strayed too close to the edge of the clearing without realizing; for this, you are targeted. 
The people of Little Archossi are awake. 
Something lands with a sharp thunk! at your feet, narrowly missing your left foot. In the darkness, with the moon still enshrouded in clouds, it’s hard to make out exactly what it is, but it looks to be a… A blow dart?
"What the-?"
"Arcadia, GET DOWN!" Commander Wolffe shouts, nearer than you’d think. You're suddenly pulled backwards, and Wolffe, in most of his kit, throws himself on top of you. You're trembling and twitching in fright below him; wracked with disbelief that he's using his body as a shield for you, of all people. 
You're not one of his men. You're not too important to the crew of the Triumphant. You're by and large unimportant. But it's you who Commander Wolffe has put himself in harm's way for, growling into the sensitive skin of your neck to stop squirming as he tries to ensure you're properly covered under him and make sense of why you’re flailing so much. "Are you hurt? Arcadia, were you hit?" The combined, pressing weight of his body and his armor feels crushing with him practically sharing oxygen with you. 
His helmet must lie in the tall grass somewhere, forgotten. There is no narrow, oddly crimped visor that can soften, or break the strength of his roaming gaze over you now. Storm gray and warm hickory bore into you, and you’re sure nearly through you with the intensity of that gaze. And it’s not the burning, lustful intensity you’d read about in some trashy, guilty-pleasure romance novel either: it's the intensity that you find in the desperate and frightened.
"You're heavy!" you wheeze, fingers clutching the grass for some semblance of support or as an anchor. "Ge-get off!!" Being forcibly pinned down, almost caged, by the man on top of you is a hair's breadth away from triggering your fight or flight response. 
You understand he's trying to protect you - shield you from harm as there's a few more muted phoomp!s coming from the treeline - logically, but… Instinctually, your brain is saying this unexpected bodily contact needs to be fought off. 
Suddenly an amber emergency flare sings into the sky with a shrill FWEEEEeeeeeeeee! before bursting apart far above the glade, and there's a cacophony of panicked voices from the hills. 
"The Commander's been hit!" you hear Soapsuds call - he must have been the one who shot off the emergency flare. 
You do your best to shout back, trying again to shove Wolffe off of you as you hear someone racing down the last hill with the tell-tale buzz of a kyber-blade drawing near. "No! No, we're fine!" One of your palms is planted on the chest plate of his armor, and it just so happens that it's directly above the Commander's heart. Even through the firm and immovable shell of the plastoid, you feel his heart hammering madly. 
You've never felt a heart beating quite so fast in all your life. 
Has he been hit? 
"R-right?" 
The Kel Dor expresses his concern for his soldier as he encourages Wolffe to sit up, "Come now; let little Arcadia breathe… Are you hurt, Commander Wolffe?"
"N-no, General," Wolffe fails to swallow back his stammers, at last pushing himself off just enough to allow you the clearance to scramble backwards out from under him, "I only… I was only trying to pro-protect Arcadia…" 
Plo disengages his lightsaber, and first looks into the thick shadows of the treeline, then up the hill where more soldiers have gathered, weapons drawn. "Wolfpack, stand down." 
On your feet, you take a cautious half-step closer to bridge the distance between yourself and the strangers before you, peeling themselves in increasing number from the treeline. You hear the Clones bristling in their nervousness behind you, feet scuffling through the grass and soil as they shift their weight, and the soft squeeze of their gloves as they slowly, deliberately re-holster most of their blasters at the order of the Jedi. 
“Steady…”
Hands raised to chest height, you show them flat, empty palms to prove you don’t intend to do any harm with the weaponry tucked in your waistband. The darts were merely warning shots, you assume. Another half-step. A half of a half.
“He-hello-” Your voice comes out in a slight tremor, but it's nothing you can’t recover from. “My name is Arcadia. I’m sorry for coming too close to your forest before we had a chance to introduce ourselves to you.” The other party in this delicate encounter only stare back in return; not immediately extending their own greeting or lowering most of their own weaponry.
It’s apparent, at least from what you can immediately see, that the weaponry they possess is a lot more traditional than modern. You’re seeing bo staffs and short, hooking knives in the hands of those with graying hair, adorned in copper-based jewelry that has lost most of its luster thanks to the gradual development of patina from the look of things. There are very few who boast something that looks like it would be only slightly out of place in the weaponry of the Grand Army of the Republic; these… Archossian (you don’t know what else to call them!), some men, some women, are younger, their hair dark like shadow and tied with twine up out of their faces.
The features are familiar and human; the most marked difference in their appearance when compared to you or the Clones is the ash-colored, leathery skin and the long, unbroken lines of what appears to be either chalk or mud painted on the skin of their arms from shoulder to wrist. Their nails are long, almost claw-like, as well. 
All eyes, pale yellows like the color of starmelt, are trained on you rather than Plo Koon, who is much closer to them than you are. You seem to be the only one who can’t seem to fucking shut up no matter how urgently either Sinker or Boost advises silence. “We don’t mean any harm. What… what do you call yourselves?” Commander Wolffe has been steadily creeping closer, just an arm’s length away from reaching you and possibly saving you from yourself, intent on pulling you back and away.
“Arcadia… What are you doing?” He’s nearly pleading with you to come to your senses, to let the General take it from here as he intends. 
One of the Archossi raises their left hand in a futile attempt to stay the Commander’s, speaking for the first time in raspy, imperfect Basic. “Now come, gray one, there is no need to silence your messenger. The one who calls themselves Arcadia was speaking, had not yet invited us to speak. Merely being polite.” It’s an elderly man with a bent back who leans on his staff for support that addresses you and the commander, likely some figurehead to the people you’ve encountered, or at least someone who is deeply respected. Many nod in show of agreement when he concludes the word polite. “We are the Chossi. Simple, humble star worshipers.” 
“Chossi. What a unique name.” 
The compliment is paid in hopes that it will settle everyone, temper the challenging expressions given by those presumed to be young adults of their people at the very rear of their group. This is when you notice some women and men alike are carrying children on their backs. From the inhale that hitches in many men’s throats behind you, the Clones have noticed too. 
Breaching the thick blanket of mounting silence, Plo Koon addresses one of the curious children who has walked forward with a Dorin greeting and a solemn oath. Offering his hand to the child, the Force-wielder speaks, “Koh-to-ya, little one. As my friend Arcadia promised, we mean your people no harm.”
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Humble clone-simp baffled that the story continues to gain more segments. Okay, not really. Commander Wolffe and Arcadia (Reader) just had other plans for me and I wasn't about to subject anyone to a chapter larger than it already was. Taglist form, for any interested, can be found here.
Taglist: @msmeredithrose @lonely-day3636
[Masterlist]
[Early Morning] [Midday] [Late Afternoon] [Evening] [Here] [Golden Dawn part 1]
[Golden Dawn part 2]
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Conversation
Plo Koon: Using someone's correct pronouns does not hurt
Plo Koon, drawing his lightsaber: However, lightsaber wounds *do* so choose wisely
506 notes · View notes
rexscyarika · 3 years
Text
Di’kutla Mando’ad
⚠️18+ MINORS DNI⚠️
Wolffe x afab gender neutral reader. Reader is a Mandalorian bounty hunter that now works for the GAR.
Warnings and such: Establishment bdsm (dom/sub) relationship (up to you to decide if that extends to romantic too as it’s never stated either way), orgasm denial, spanking, vaginal fingering, semi public sex, sex in a gunship, public flirting, flirting with Sinker, mention of mlm Boost cause there are no cishet characters in Star Wars, degrading/name calling, use of military titles during sex, manhandling, teasing, praise, pet names including sweetheart and little one, hair pulling, use of the color system, aftercare, begging, dirty talk, brat taming but not really good brat taming cause you got exactly what you wanted by being a brat tbh, implied past threesomes, implied possible future threesome with Sinker (a sequal anyone 👀), hint of an armour kink, military title kink, mention of knives and I think that’s all I hope *edited to add* piv sex
Mando’a translations (I hope there’s not so much it gets confusing to read, if there is lmk, but I love this language sm and writing with it helps me learn it lol)
Cyare/cyar’ika: Darling/beloved/sweetheart
Gedet’ye: Please
Elek/‘lek: Yes
Ad’ika: Little one/sweetie/darling
Al’verde: Commander
Mando’ad/Mando’ade: Mandalorian/Mandalorians
Ori’jate: Very good
Beroya: Bounty hunter
Ruus’alor: Sergeant
Haar’chak: Damn it
Shabuir: Fucker
Di’kut: Idiot/fool
Ner: My
She’cu: Nine
Gar: You
Title means “Foolish Mandalorian”
Ps idk what toilet paper is called in the Star Wars universe so I went with “‘fresher rolls” don’t @ me.
You glanced past the holo projection of the Kel Dor to your frustrated Commander. His hands were flexing by his side and his body was rigid. He shifted impatiently on his feet as he nodded along to whatever the General was saying. The way his muscles rippled under his plastoid armour made your mouth water and you couldn’t wait to feel yourself underneath him. Submitted and begging for release. You knew he’d pounce soon, you knew how to play him. Sure you could just ask him to rearrange your guts but where was the fun in that? You’d been extra flirty with him all morning, an extra touch there, a lingering hand here, a breathy and sweet tone to your voice as you followed his orders.
“Yes, Commander.”
“Anything for you, sir.”
“You’re armour looks extra good on you today, Al’verde.”
An “I’d sure love to cyar’ika.” After you heard a hissed “fuck me.” under his breath after he had spilled hot caf on himself.
He had given you a couple warnings. Ones you responded with by a flutter of eyelashes and a mockingly sweet “Sir, yes, sir.”
What really wound him up though was what you were doing as he spoke to the General. You were sat beside Sinker on a nearby crate, your knees touching and a hand on his thigh. You had removed your helmet and sat it beside you so Wolffe could see every bite of your lip and flutter of your lashes you gave his vod.
You turned your attention back to the silver haired trooper, leaning in closer than necessary to hear his story.
“So Boost goes up to him and the di’kut says: Hey are you a lightsaber cause I’d like to impale myself on you.”
The poor man barely gets that sentence out before he’s wheezing, you joining him promptly after. Wolffe’s head snaps up to you guys and you can feel his gaze burn through you, you just know his lips are pulled into a tight line under his helmet. He turns his attention briefly back to Plo before he is dismissed and you hear footsteps coming your way.
You tried to stifle a smirk as you ignored him.
“How many times do I have to tell him to stop with the pickup lines, he’s never gonna get laid.” You rolled your eyes and huffed in mock exasperation.
“Or maybe a haircut.” You added with a snort.
“I keep telling him that! But he-“ Sinker immediately stiffens and removes the hand that had travelled to your waist as he noticed Wolffe. He stands up and gives his C.O. a small salute. Not really necessary or protocol but he was afraid he had crossed a line and didn’t want to take any chances.
“Commander.” you purred, lifting her head and blinking up at him with hooded eyes. “How’d the meeting go, anything new we need to know?”
He ignored your question but continued staring daggers into your soul as he spoke to Sinker.
“A new shipment of supplies is due to be dropped off anytime. Go and make sure the shinies don’t spill them again.” His voice was gruff and commanding, trying his best not to snap at his vod. After all, it wasn’t his fault you were being a needy little slut.
“Yes sir, right away, sir.” You heard him reply, his shoulders relaxing and a relieved sigh leaving him as he walked away.
You stood up and looked towards Sinker, huffing in mock disappointment.
“Rude. I was having a nice conversation with him.”
You turned to grab your helmet, settling it onto your head before turning back to your Commander.
“He was telling me embarrassing stories about Boost, it was quite entertaining.”
“Uh uh.” He replied, taking a few steps towards you. His voice, deep with irritation and lust, sent a wave of arousal straight to your core. “Entertaining.” The word was laced with sarcasm and a touch of a snarl. He stepped closer, you could hear his breathing through the modulator now. A hand came up to run along the top of your belt, sending shivers through your spine. His other hand came up to rest under your helmet, pulling your head up to look at him. “You’re quite the needy little thing aren’t you, sweetheart?” It was more of a statement than a question and you just scoffed at him and shifted to hide the arousal that was building between your legs. “I asked you a question, beroya.” He growled, his grip on your helmet increasing. You responded by stepping back, your hand moving up to flick his away.
“I’m going to help Sinker.”
You huffed, turning to walk away. His hand hadn’t left your belt, however, and he tightened his grip and pulled you towards him.
“Foolish Mandalorian.” He snarled as he snaked his other hand around to land on your lower back and pull you flush against him, causing a small gasp to travel through your modulator.
“Shabuir.” You fired back, your hands coming up to push at his chest, not that you really wanted to get away mind you. But you knew the more resisting you did the rougher he would get. And the rougher he got the more heat gathered between your legs. And the names, oh the names. Coming from anyone else you probably would’ve pulled your blade on them, but the way he said them in that voice of his, especially modulated through his helmet, turned your limbs to jelly. They were like a condescending prayer falling from his lips and travelling straight to your cunt. He knew this of course, this wasn’t your first time and you had discussed your limits to avoid well, you pulling your blades on him.
He growled your name, a low sinful warning as his hand left your belt to grasp your throat, not hard enough to bruise but certainly not light.
You light out a low whimper at that, the sound, along with it being enhanced by your modulator, sent a shiver down the Commander’s spine.
“Color?” He murmured, somehow flipping his voice to be soft and gentle, his hand moving to gently rest against the back of your neck.
“Green!” You nearly gasped out. You were starting to lose your composure and you knew he could tell that to.
He immediately straightened up, his voice becoming hard and commanding again.
“Then I think it’s time to teach you a lesson in following orders, little one.”
He turned and started walking towards the nearest gunship, his hand pulled tight around your waist.
You stumbled alongside him, his words having weakened your legs even more.
“Easy there.” He chuckled. The sound a low and deep rumble in his chest.
It made you stumble again. The bastard. He knew exactly what he was doing to you.
Despite your weak legs you managed to make it to the gunship where Wolffe hastily opened the door and ushered you in. The door hadn’t fully closed by the time he had pushed up against the wall. His hands came up to remove your helmet and discard it alongside his own and he wasted no time in claiming your mouth, only pausing to order you to keep your hands clasped behind your back. His tongue found no resistance through your lips and he pulled moans deep from your throat as he explored your mouth. While his mouth was busy his hands came to grope and grab at your ass before moving to remove first your belt, then your codpiece. He teased his fingers just inside your waistband, enjoying the way your moans turned to whines.
Just as you were about to pull away and spit a snarky comment at him for taking his time he finally moved his hands down to slide a calloused finger through your folds. A surprised whimper left your lips at that.
He hummed approvingly at the wetness he found there, slowly sliding his finger in before he moved to nip and suck at your neck. His finger didn’t move, not until he slid another to join, at which they both stilled inside you again.
You tried to roll your hips against him, desperate for any kind of friction, but you were met with his other hand roughly shoving your hips back against the wall.
“Ah ah, you take what I give you, cyar’ika.”
You whined into his ear, trying to think of something snarky to say but you were at a loss for words.
“Aw, all tongue tied are we?”
You opened your eyes to meet his as he pulled his mouth from your neck.
You opened your mouth to disagree but it turned into a surprised gasp as he rutted his fingers up inside you, fingers curled expertly to find that spongy spot.
You saw a sly smirk form on his lips before your eyes closed in bliss. He still wasn’t moving quite enough for your liking but at least he was moving you thought.
He brought his mouth back to yours to swallow your moans as his thumb came up to gently circle your throbbing clot.
His hand moved from your hip to grab a handful of your hair. He didn’t pull at first, just kept a gentle pressure pulling at the roots.
“Wolffe.” you moaned out, his hands sending waves of pleasure through your body.
His fingers stilled inside you, making you let out a small whine. He used his grip on your hair to turn you to face him.
“Excuse me?” He growled, meeting your gaze with darkening eyes.
Your own eyes widened at the realization of what you said. “Commander! Sorry, sir.”
He gave a hum of approval and started pumping his fingers inside you again, only this time it was faster and harder. Every push inwards had his fingers brush against that sweet spot and you could feel your orgasm approaching.
You could feel his gaze travelling over your face as you twisted and groaned beneath him.
His thumb came to swirl around your clit again, causing you to cry out. You let your head fall back against the wall as you prepared for the wave of pleasure to wash over you. You could feel it building and building, burning hot, deep within your core. However, instead of the sweet release you had been craving you got a sudden emptiness as he pulled his hand away. You clenched around nothing and let out a whine, snapping your eyes open to look at the culprit. You shivered at the sight. He brought his fingers into his mouth, sucking and licking off the taste of you. His eyes were closed in bliss and he let out a groan around his fingers. A long, deep, sinful sound that shot straight to your soaking cunt.
You watched him with hunger, trying desperately to keep your hands to yourself.
He removed his fingers with a pop and let his eyes fall to your exasperated state. Which he let out a chuckle at.
“You didn’t think you were going to get away with being a brat, did you?”
The venom in the way he said brat and the way his lips turned into a snarl made your pussy throb even more than it already was.
Your eyes widened and you shook your head.
His grip on your hair tightened slightly and he raised his eyebrow in a silent warning.
“No, sir.”
“Thought so.” He let his hand fall from your head and he walked over to some stacked crates, gesturing for you to follow him.
He ordered you to turn around once you had came to face him. The break from him touching you and the brief walk was enough for you to gain back some control of your thoughts so you opted to have a little fun.
“No.”
“Pardon that sweetheart?”
“I said no.” You crossed your arms over your chest and popped your hip out, meeting his gaze with one of defiance. “You didn’t let me cum so I’m not going to listen.”
His jaw tightened and before you knew it you were bent over the crates, face pushed against the cold medal and hands held tightly behind your back. You gasped as you felt yourself being pushed even harder down onto the rough surface as he bent over to bring his lips against your year.
“Watch it, Ruus’alor.” He practically spat, giving your neck a hard nip to prove his point. The use of your title send a shock of arousal through your body and you shivered against the feeling of his breath on your neck.
He straightened up and roughly pulled down your pants, your underwear going with them. The Commander waisted no time in bringing his hands to grope your ass, and his mouth to bite at the soft flesh. Your groaned and leaned into his touch, encouraging him to move his mouth lower.
You were met with a harsh slap to the sensitive skin.
You let out a surprised yelp and your hands moved to grip on the edges of the crate.
You received another slap, this one slightly harsher. You felt him straighten up again as he spoke. “Did you forget how to count, sweetheart? That was two.”
“Sorry, Sir.” You mumbled into the table and were met with another slap.
“Three.” You gasped
“Four.”
“Five.”
“Six.”
“Seven.”
“Eight.”
“She’cu.” You choked out. That was one of your tells it was becoming to much when it came to impact play, slipping back into your native tongue. You two had been quick to figure that out when you started. It wasn’t always negative when you started speaking Mando’a however. Most of the time it meant you were on the verge of an orgasm or you were just so lost in the pleasure you forgot how to speak basic.
His hand moved to rub soothing circles over the reddening skin as his other trailed up and down your waist.
“Ori’jate ner Mando’ad.”
You relaxed under his touch, your breathing coming deep and easy again. Your cunt ached from neglect, you needed him inside you, now.
“Gedet’ye Al’verde.”
“What do you need Cyar’ika?” He leaned his body slightly over yours. You sighed under the weight, it was comforting.
“Gar, Al’verde.” You whined, trying to wiggle your hips against his codpiece. “Need to feel you inside me. Please.”
He brought his lips to the back of your neck and kissed you softly before answering. “Only because you took your punishment so well.”
You managed a breathy thank you before he pulled away to remove his codpiece. You shivered in anticipation as you watched him expertly remove the armour. Your tongue darted out to lick your lips when he removed his cock from the confines of his blacks. He was rock hard and slick with precum.
His gaze met yours and his lips turned up into a grin. “What you’ve never seen a cock before?” He teased taking himself in hand and giving himself a couple pumps.
You managed to roll your eyes and mumble a “Just fuck me already.” as you turned your head from him.
“With pleasure.” He cooed, lining himself up with your aching hole and placing a hand on the small of your back to press you further into the cold surface of the crate.
You both groaned in tandem as he began to push himself into you. He slowly moved deeper until he couldn’t go any further, stopping to take a minute to make sure you were well adjusted before he started moving. As he stilled inside you he moved his body over yours again, taking a hand to gently pull your chin towards him. He kissed you, it was slow and gentle, and you returned it eagerly, clenching around him when he gave your lower lip a little nip. He released a curse into your mouth at that.
“Ready?”
“‘Lek.”
He attached his lips back to yours as he slowly started pulling out of you, eagerly drinking down every sound you made. You thought he was going to pull out of you completely before he buried his hips against yours in one swift motion. His cock hitting deep inside you caused you to cry out and push back against him, seeking more.
“So eager.” He breathed against your lips before pulling out and snapping his hips in again, faster this time.
This caused you to roll your head away from his, resting your forehead on the crate, hands clinging desperately to the sides as your Commander’s movements quickened with every thrust. His breathy groans left your ear as he stood up, placing his hands on your hips in a tight grip.
“Fuck you feel so good.”
You only groaned in response, the praise sending a wave of pleasure down your body and causing you to clench around him. He hissed at that before speeding up his thrusts and somehow managing to hit even deeper inside you.
Your words were coming in garbled mix of basic and Mando’a now, the pressure in your core steadily growing.
“Are you going to cum, sweetheart?”
You managed to nod in response before crying out in frustration as his movements slowed.
“Do you think you deserve to?”
“Elek, Al’verde gedet’ye!”
“Hmm. I don’t know about that.”
His head lowered to your ear again.
“Good Mando’ade listen when their Commander tells them to behave.”
He brought a hand to your ass in a light slap, making you jump slightly forward in surprise, well as far as you could being pinned against a metal crate.
“They don’t continue to be brats and flirt with my vode.” He added, moving his hand to grip at your hair. “Maybe I should call Sinker in here so he can see what he’s missing.”
Your breath hitched at that.
“Or maybe I should just pull out and let him take care of you. After all sweetheart, you seemed mighty eager to let him fuck you.”
You buried your head against the cold metal as a whine escaped your hips and you clenched around his barely moving cock.
“Hmm what a filthy little thing, you’d like that wouldn’t you?” He chuckled, suddenly snapping his hips back towards you in a deep thrust.
You let out a choked cry. “Haar’chak Al’verde, gedet’ye!” The pressure in your core was overwhelming, you felt like you could burst at any second but his movements were to slow too let you. Tears pricked your eyes as the pleads fell from your lips. His cock inside you was too much yet not enough at the same time. Your body was heated with pleasure but also a small amount of smugness. You had him exactly where you wanted him, pushing all his buttons to get what you wanted.
You hadn’t realized you had been whining apologies to him until his movements sped up again.
“There you go, cyar’ika.” He breathed out as he set an unforgiving pace, hips angled to hit your g-spot and his hand leaving your hair to rub circles on your clit. You couldn’t form words at this point, just moans and gasps as you chased your release. You could tell he was close too. His thrusts had become more erratic, and the hand at your hip had tightened its grip. Your mouth fell open in a shout of his name as his next words pushed you over the edge.
“Cum for me, ad’ika. Make a mess on my cock.”
And you did, your orgasm rippling through you in it’s unforgiving intensity. You felt yourself clench hard around him, the action causing him to spill inside you with a sputter of his hips and curse of your name from his lips. You became slightly numb as you came down from your high, barely registering that Wolffe was pulling you into his lap. Soft praises fell from his lips as he gently held your head against his chest. You wrapped your arms around his waist, trying to get as close as you could despite the armour you both still wore above your waists. Your breathing came slow and deep, synching to his. Once you had gained some semblance of control you looked up at him to find him studying you intently.
You raised an eyebrow at the question that was pulling at his lips.
“Would you actually wanna fuck Sinker?”
You giggled at the disbelief in his voice before you moved your head into his chest to hide the red that was creeping up your face. “Maybe.” You mumbled, partly hoping he didn’t hear you.
“But it’s Sinker!” He groaned in confusion.
You popped your head back up that.
“I happen to like Sinker quite a bit thank you very much.” You huffed in defence. Not that it had any real heat to it you as you knew he was teasing. He really was quite fond of the trooper but he liked it give him a hard time.
He chuckled at you, more moving of his chest than actual sound. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve shared you, cyar’ika. As long as you remember the rules.”
You rolled your eyes at him, of course you’d remember the rules.
“Not without you and you’re in charge.” You sealed your words with a boop to his nose, causing him to return your eye roll.
“That’s my good little beroya.”
His words made you flush again, but it turned into a grimace as you felt the mess between your legs.
“You made a mess Wolffe!” You tutted in mock annoyance as you stood up in search of something to clean you up. You couldn’t see his face but you’re sure he rolled his eyes at you again. You let out a small cheer as you opened one of the crates to find it filled with ‘fresher rolls. Grabbing one you turned back to find your Commander walking up to you with your discarded pieces of armour. You put them back on after cleaning yourself up as best you could. Once you were done you looked up to find Wolffe staring at you with a smirk on his face.
“What?!”
“Your armour’s sexy.”
“No your armour’s sexy.” You replied tapping a finger on his chest as you leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek.
He let out a snort before handing your helmet to you.
“Why thank you, cyar’ika.” You purred, lifting it from his hand. Before you could put it on however, he grasped your chin between two fingers and pulled you up to kiss him. It was deep and passionate and made you melt into his touch. He pulled away with a smirk, leaving you out of breath and on slightly shaky legs as he put his helmet on.
“Why don’t we go and check on your darling Sinker? Make sure he hasn’t knocked out any shinies.” He sighed in slight exasperated at the second sentence as he turned to open the door out of the gunship.
You scoffed at his words but also put on your helmet to follow him. Sinker has been know to get a little... snippy at shinies here and there. You’ve had to step between him and a terrified trooper more than once. Not that you haven’t had to do that with Wolffe mind you, he was just as bad if not worse. You grinned as you stepped out of the gunship, a small limp finding it’s way into your step. You couldn’t wait to see Sinker’s response to your little proposition you had prepared for him.
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kiwikipedia · 2 years
Text
Novaturient
Fandom(s): Star Wars
Rating: K/T
Summery: (ADJ.) A desire for powerful change in one’s life or situation.
The Dorin Senator is acting a bit strange in the Senate meeting today.
AO3
Thinking about the Dorin senator and representing some NB Kel Dor
There was something strange about the Senator from Dorin, Bail noticed as he watched the normally neutral-voting, neutral-speaking Kel Dor tear into the Trade federation representative who was pushing a bill for more control over the Order, more Clones, more war. War meant profit for them, of course, but the usually silent forms of the Dorin Senator and their aides had spoken up suddenly.
( Bail knew that Senator and Sage Lun Feng did not fit into the common gender boxes that humans had despite their deep voice, but had resigned themselves to their title of ‘man’ to many others. Bail respected the Dorin people’s no-nonsense view of politics and justice, even if it did get quite a bit more violent and vindictive, and he respected Senator Feng. He resorted to using ‘they’ and ‘them’ and had laughed when Feng’s aide let out a very happy trill at that idea. The aide was young and also did not fit in the boxes, and was happy to know there was another option.)
Now, it wasn’t as if Senator Lun Feng had simply stayed silent during these matters. Their vote had always been a firm ‘no’ when it came to control over Jedi and from what the rumors stated, they were working on a bill to give the GAR Clones their rights alongside of the Kashyyyk representatives.
But this was new. This was a verbal ripping-into, reminding the Senate of their own faults— the Jedi took up arms because they had been strong-armed into taking the Clones, the Jedi were dying for them with the Clones on the field while the Senators stayed cushy and warm behind the lines. Jedi names that Bail hadn’t heard before had been brought up: Master Ima-Gun Di on Ryloth, defending the people until his last breath right alongside Commander Keeli, Master Even Piel who had kept the secrets of the Hyperspace lanes until his death even under torture. The numbers of the battalions lost for the Senate per the Senate’s Orders and there was a bitter note in the mechanical voice, Bail noticed.
And Senator Yarua seemed very amused from their pod, the rest of the Kashyyyk senatorial group as well.
Feng was ruthless, striking where it hurt, and Bail couldn’t help but be awed by how his eyes were beginning to open. Had the Dorin Senatorial group been waiting, biding their time, for this? Or had a Jedi approached them, breaching the usual code in order to aid their fellow Jedi and the Clones dying for them?
When the decision to vote on what the Trade Federation was proposing was counted, it was a nearly unanimous ‘no’— and the Dorin Senator seemed very pleased.
(x)
“I’m quite surprised, my old friend,” Lun Feng commented as the other Kel Dor leaned back on the Sofa in the Dorin Senator’s office, the atmospheric shields up, allowing for the both of them to remove their masks safely. “Who knew you had such a vicious streak in you?”
A laugh came from the other Kel Dor, dressed in the Baran Do traditional robes, though as he shifted, a glint of metal could be seen on his belt.
“Why of course,” he said back, placing a hand against his chest, as if surprised that Lun would think anything else of him. “How do you think I managed to become a Jedi under Master Tyvokka without having a bit of a vicious streak?”
Lun just shook their head, chuckling and tusks flexing in amusement. “Still, you are certain that this will not put you under fire with the Jedi Order?”
Plo Koon gave Lun the equivalent of a grim smile. “Masters Windu and Yoda knew what I was doing,” he admitted. “The Jedi do not like to resort to lies, but we are desperate. Our only other choice is to grit our teeth as we head into the front again, with Padawans too young to be there. With young men who should not be bred to serve us.”
Lun nodded, fingers steepled. “Indeed, something that our siblings back on Dorin would be horrified to learn. They are all just children. How could we allow children to fight our wars for us? If I could, I would like nothing more than to don my old robes and staff and join you and your Wolffepack on the front.”
Plo snorted. “And let you show me up out there? I think not. I’d rather you join the 501st and cause chaos there when they ask why ‘Master Koon’ is with them and not using his lightsaber, instead.”
Lun just laughed at that, gently reaching over and patting Plo’s shoulder. “Perhaps I will, my Exploring friend.”
“I’m certain the Order would welcome a Feng in their ranks,” the Jedi Master drawled, but there was no bite to his tone. “It astounds me to this day that you and your battle-hungry ways were appointed our people’s senator. Lun Feng, the Sage who preferred to pick fights with Fae Koon and Ban Sult, than direct the weather.”
He shook his head, but smiled as he stood, checking his Chrono. “I must get going, my friend. Thank you for allowing me to don your face for a while and speak my mind.”
Lun waved him off as they stood as well, reaching out and lightly touching the back of their talon guard to the other’s chest. “Your Wolffepack and your Order are your family, Plo, that makes them the Koon Clan’s family, which makes them mine. The Feng Clan’s warriors and the Koon Clan’s explorers have been family for ages, I would gladly drop all my duties to aid you, my friend and brother.”
Plo mirrored the gesture, a gesture that signified family between two Clans. “And I for your own wars on the Senate floor. But be careful, the Federation will not take this slight well,” he murmured and Lun just laughed.
“My friend, I am a Feng! Well versed in politics, yes, but my talons are sharp and the Force within me sings for battle!”
Plo chuckled as the two put their masks back in place, walking from the Office. “Of course, a Feng never loses their blade, is that it?”
“Precisely, my friend. Just like how a Koon never misses a chance to adopt an entire platoon, it seems.”
The Jedi gave him an amused look. “It keeps others in the Clan from constantly asking when the war is ending so that I  come back and settle down with my mate and have children.”
Lun just made a face at that. “A Koon settling down? Impossible. You lot always exploring new places. And adopting new children.”
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Sha Koon: Don't forget to bring your saber and maybe a blaster to help me kill transphobes!
Plo Koon, sharpening his talons: No, dear niece, I plan on using my bare hands to destroy them :)
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Voolvif: Hm, dirt. Tasty.
Bultar: The D in dirt stands for do not eat this please!
Voolvif: And the I stands for I will anyway because I'm hungry and we're in the middle of nowhere.
Lissarkh: The R stands for rat, which is what I would give you to stop eating dirt.
Sha: And the T stands for trans rights!
Agen: There's no more letters left but don't eat dirt.
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