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Rough Harmony (Fanfiction)

As I said, I've been writing fanfiction again, returning to my previous post-ROTJ interpretation of the Star Wars universe, but nipping and tucking to reflect the current political/ social climate. Brexit becomes Ord Mantell's Bright Jewel referendum; Donald Trump becomes Corellian Chancellor Jonek Vlarr; xenophobia and Islamophobia become a human-supremacy movement; Rupert Murdoch's media conglomerate becomes a series of Inner Rim news outlets using the post-Empire era to sow seeds of fear and distrust in the public. There really is no better fandom for political commentary, I'm finding, plus it helps me be less on the nose with my thoughts.

But here's an exception. Though most of my current pieces have been politically-motivated, this one is a return to Porn-Without-Plot form, and I flatter myself to say it's probably the most uninhibited I've ever been while writing sex. Mindless smut can be just as cathartic as an intellectual purge, so I'm not going to underrate it. I may post more, I may not; I'm just particularly satisfied with this one.

If the LJ-cut isn't working (it's acting hella weird on my end), I apologise for the endless scrolling you're about to endure. I've built up a lot of rust since getting assimilated by Facebook.

TITLE: Rough Harmony
PAIRING: Wedge and Simone Antilles (OFC), with a side of Hobbie Klivian
RATING: M or N-17, whichever means more to you.
WARNINGS: Alcohol, drug use, exhibitionism, voyeurism, playful violent threats, implied male/ male, OFC, modern-day pop lyrics modified for this universe, smutty smutty smut
SYNOPSIS: After the Ord Mantellian elections hint at a possible resistance, two Rogue pilots and a Rebel assassin decide to blow off some weirdly specific steam.
SETTING: Seventh Wave Entertainment Complex, Coruscant, 11 ABY
READ THE PREGAME: (for context) https://www.facebook.com/glamoursnipe/posts/1284285935023185



Who knows how these things happen?

There was alcohol. There was music. There was possibly - okay, probably, definitely maybe - a line or two of dreamdust. As always, Wedge seemed to grow more hyper, sillier, with every drink he downed, in near-direct opposition to the supposed effects of booze. It must be a Corellian thing. Add that to Simone's usual kinetics and no wonder Hobbie just might have been muscling aside kids ten, fifteen years younger in the adjacent 'fresher for a pick-me-up. There's an unspoken rule at the Night Factory that once a substance enters the 'fresher, and especially once arrayed for consumption over the back of a toilet, it's share and share alike, no money need change hands. And call Hobbie old-fashioned, but dreamdust just hits the spot whenever he needs to prolong the nightlife.

Even so, they didn't make it to last call.

The Seventh Wave is never truly deserted, but they don't pass more than a baker's dozen beings as they navigate their way through the ever-expanding labyrinth of Reese Compton's debauchery and Simone Antilles' curiosity. By now the vivid fractals wreathing Hobbie's vision have settled into a mellow blur of colour. Somehow, against perhaps one too many odds, they've reached the flat Simone and Wedge used to share before they moved offworld, set aside now for when Coruscant makes the itinerary. Already Simone's shirt is ripped up the side from a drunken cartwheel smack into a housekeeping droid, and Wedge can't stop trying to sing about living among the creatures of the night, lacking the will to try and fight, and whoever took his self control. Evidently Simone stands accused at the moment. Wedge has his arm hooked around her shoulders, pushing his full weight into her body and slurring the lyrics into her ear as she fumbles with the keypad, needing three tries, punctuated by attempts to deep-breathe her laughter calm, to tap in the correct code. Once the light chimes green Hobbie just assumes it's his cue to take off back to his stateroom and leave this pair to whatever they get up to, but Wedge reaches over and flat-out grabs him before he can turn away. All three tumble through the door in a fog of booze and sweat and damp clothing, and Hobbie dull-roars "Party!" as the door hisses shut, just to keep the feeling of inclusion going.

It's cool in here, almost cold, but not too bad. Wedge immediately addresses the stereo, looking for something bright and upbeat, Simone setting the light to a pink-tinged radiance that evokes the sunset on her homeworld. Hair ubraided, she plops on the foot of the bed and loses her high leather boots, then her dark-coloured socks, yanking them taut in an obscure threatening gesture when Wedge glances her way. They're both drunk enough to find anything funny, and this is no exception. Satisfied with the promise of a flinty female vocalist and an eerie, pulsing wall of synths, Wedge stalks over to the bed, head lowered, thick dark hair shadowing his hooded eyes as he struggles to hold a straight face. But Simone is prepared, lashing out with her makeshift weapon right across the jaw. With a yelp of ersatz rage, Wedge charges her, but she drops the offending socks and scoots along the bed out of reach, rolling fully upright and trying to present an intimidating stance as the mattress wobbles, sullying the effect.

"Your move, creep," she taunts, beckoning him with an outstretched hand, her hips winking at him as they tick back and forth.

"Creep?" Wedge leaps onto their bed with a crazed grin, lands on one knee, and scrambles to his feet, trying not to wipe out as Simone bounces around. The mussed bedding does its level best to trip him up. Off base, with no-one around to check his hospital corners, Wedge is quite the slob, letting dishes cake in the sink and strewing his discarded street clothes from hell to half of Hutt Space. "I'm your husband, you bloodthirsty bitch, and don't you forget it!"

It's at this point Hobbie starts to feel like a bit of a third wheel for the first time all night. He watches, slouched uncomfortably against the back of the sofa, as they hop all over the bed like teenage girls at a slumber party, too giddy to reflect what's happening beyond the floor-to-ceiling window at their backs with any accuracy. This doesn't last long before Wedge drops to his knees on the mattress again, giving up, content to let Simone wave her ass in his face, sliding his hands under her bibbed shorts and sinking his teeth into a buttock. While that's going on, Wedge gnawing away, Simone plucks a pillow off the bed and flings it in Hobbie's direction. It's a direct hit upside his head and she cackles through her smile, so he digs a throw cushion off the pile on the sofa and pitches it back, just for rebuttal's sake. The outsider feeling lifts a little, but descends anew at the sight of Simone losing her balance and Wedge seizing the opportunity to pin her, threading his fingers into hers and stamping them down on either side of her head. He bumps their noses together, and she voices that low-key cackle again.

"Hi."

"Hi. Speaking of which - "

And the music plays on. "It isn't hell if everybody knows my name tonight/ It's hard to feel the rush, to brush the dangerous..."

Either way. They're over there. He's over here. The liquor cabinet beckons louder than the caf machine - easier on his hand-eye coordination to prepare, anyway - so Hobbie pours himself a shot of Red Dwarf, adding crysfizz to increase volume more than improve flavour. Right now his tongue is properly scorched from several pints of Thuris and a few shots of Whyren's, not to mention one of the two pleezer tabs they procured off Dom Meregrin, the less principled of the Night Factory's two bartenders. Right now, on the bed, Simone is wiping the second tab onto her tongue, a hushed giggle frothing from her throat as she holds it out to Wedge in offering, and he dives right in with an enthusiasm Hobbie never expected his superior officer to show for a psychoactive substance. Or maybe he's more interested in his wife's tongue and the pleezer is just a handy bonus - who can tell? At least he got a tab all to himself, Hobbie thinks, popping it into his mouth while he turns his back to nurse his drink, his heart thrumming cheerily in his behind his ribs as the effects of the alcohol wash over his limbs, bringing life and light to muscle, bone, durasteel, and synthflesh. Behind him, the galaxy's happiest couple sighs and chuckles as they wind around each other, hands roaming, ragged breath humidifying the room, until the tab dissolves. He hears Simone gasp, a sharp desperate sound of need that goes straight to his balls, and turns his head just enough to get them in his peripheral vision, trying all the same to keep his bloodheat from heading in the same direction.

"So, Rogue Five." Hearing Wedge invoke his callsign off the battlefield always leads to something interesting, so Hobbie faces the bed, greeted by a pair of devious smirks, casting his drink aside as a matter of course. "No, we haven't forgotten about you. In fact, Simone and I think you deserve a treat tonight. After all, rumour has it you finally told your sperm donor to get wrecked."

"Something like that, yeah." Sperm and his father - not a train of thought he wants to board. He's still entertaining the idea that he was conceived via protein synthesis in a test tube. With an effort, Hobbie shoves away the image of Lux Klivian's particular brand of dispassionate scowl, bestowed just before he marches away with his hands linked primly behind his back, one flat in the cup of the other. His eyes land on Simone, tangled beneath her husband with one of her own hands curled beside her face, the other resting on Wedge's ass, urging him to snug his groin tighter against hers every few seconds. She gazes back with sooty eyes, rimmed in kohl and dusted with silver spangles. Her smirk dissolves into a hazy smile. Are these two for real? "Not sure I follow."

"Well, it's come to my attention that you have a certain...need. Or a fetish, to call a stave a stave. And guess what, Klivian? Keeping it to yourself wasn't doing you any favours. See, I have a fetish, too, which I'm sure you've heard all about through eyewitness accounts. One I don't often indulge outside this place because of basic galactic etiquette. Shame so few of us have much to say about sex, nothing honest or productive, even in this evolved age. Makes finding someone whose kink is compatible with your own a real chore, and usually it's pure luck of the draw."

"Wedge likes to be watched, or at least caught in the act," Simone purrs, smiling up at her husband and folding one leg over his restless hips. "That's his favourite thing ever."

"Well, second to you," Wedge murmurs, sweeping the back of his hand over her cheek. It's a tender, heartfelt gesture that somehow doesn't clash with the turbulence now building in the room, red as the Sanguine Nebula and demanding attention.

She takes his hand and presses a kiss into the palm with a sigh, and that moment of reassurance and devotion somehow leads to the start of serious business. There's a near-palpable shift of dynamic, the pair still a pair, but stretching out a magnetic field meant to include Hobbie alone. Simone nods, Wedge's hand moving with her, and Wedge nods back. Let's do this.

"So what's it gonna be, Klivian? Are you sufficiently uninhibited by controlled substances? Are you comfortable enough with your fantasy to let us bring it to life?"

He hopes his own slack-jawed nod is enough to answer the question. His feelings are like living things right now, turning his body into a hive, queened by the need they implied, the need to just watch. The dreamdust colours have settled into the outskirts of his vision, but his nerves seem to be reaching out, primed to make good use of the pleasure-enhancer streaming through his system. Wedge climbs off Simone and they strip the mangled linens off the bed, tossing them indifferently to the floor. That done, they approach him as a unit, predators with a playful streak, pupils dilated by hunger and the pleezer tab they melted between their tongues. She shapes her body to the music, but he simply focuses on the target and moves forward. Hobbie allows them to lead him over to their bed. Simone sneaks her hand under the lapel of his utility vest and slides it off his arm, Wedge following her lead on the other side. Reaching the foot of the mattress, they rotate him back around to face them, and he sits.

"Just stay put. I'm going to undress her for you. Would you like to see her body?"

"What do you think?"

Hot-eyed and glowering, Wedge steers Simone a few paces back to give Hobbie an unobstructed view. First he unhooks the braces holding her bib into place, letting it drop over her belt. Soon as he grasps the hem of her ruined shirt, however, she puts her hands over his, stiffening.

"What's the matter?" Wedge wants to know.

"Nothing. Kinda. I just remembered, Hobbie has never indicated that he finds me remotely attractive, so I need to prepare for his reaction."

Oh. Oh-kay.

While it's true he isn't often - or doesn't bother, married woman and all - looking at Simone through his usual lothario's eye, it's not as if there's nothing to see. Truth told, apart from Excellent Hanuko (who's almost always in a class by herself), Simone has the loveliest skin Hobbie's ever laid eyes on. Smooth and creamy as the milk in an expertly prepared caflat, set aglow by various suns, with just enough freckles bridging her nose to soften the effect of those severe cheekbones. And whatever opinion she has of her thighs, which must not be all that great, they'd be right at home on a warrior goddess. If Hobbie regrets anything tonight, it's the fact that he likely won't get to hold those sturdy thighs ajar and lick the inside of one from her knee all the way to her pubic bone...at least without losing his fourth and final intact limb.

"Fair enough. You heard her, Rogue Five, she needs to prepare for you to hit the floor when you see how stunning she is."

Hobbie lifts his brows high in agreement. "Sounds good to me, boss."

"I just don't want you to expect more than the reality you're about to get." Sighing, Simone releases Wedge's hands and faces Hobbie again, a look of nervous resignation shaping her face. "What I mean is, I'm not B'rinna."

That Twi'lek Reese pesters night and day? Really? For the life of him, Hobbie can't imagine why her name would come up. Now. Of all times. At least until his brain scans back to their humiliating (on his part) battle underground, and he remembers: at the beginning of the second round, he'd tried to throw B'rinna off her game by activating her pleasure-serving nature. Long story short, he kissed her. Not his most respectable tactic, and to some extent he feels a ballbusting kick was the least he deserved for it (if only because he's supposed to by standards of polite society), but if he got any sort of charge from that liplock, sexual, predatory, or just plain instinctual, you couldn't prove it by his memory. In that context, it felt no different from knocking the slave girl's legs out from under her, a cheap trick designed to give him the upper hand. He's always been a dirty fighter.

But Simone had been watching their clash from some distance away, so he really can't blame her for thinking that, in a particularly heated moment, Hobbie just plain couldn't resist planting one on the famously gorgeous Twi'lek in his immediate proximity. Or that since his taste of her, he'd resent having to settle for less than B'rinna's part-natural, part-manufactured physical perfection. Plus he knows what dancers go through, the neverending deluge of criticism, and how Simone spent most of her formative years having every component of her looks dissected, arranged, and labeled by ruthless choreographers, for ruthless choreographers.

"You don't say." Damn if he can't stop smiling. Damn if this isn't shaping up to be the best night of his life. And damn if he isn't high enough to clear Coruscant airspace, and horny enough to lift a Stardestroyer with his dick. He stands, absently aware that he's wrestling out of his tunic, chucking it who knows where, and slips in behind Simone, barely whispering his hands over the tension in her shoulders. Wedge arranges his features in a way that warns Hobbie to tread lightly, but permits him to carry on so long as Simone doesn't mind. "I know you're not B'rinna. You're human, for starters."

"Funny."

He kisses her temple in what's become a lifelong habit, backing off slowly to appease his boss. "I can be. I've seen you in a bikini, Simone, so that's everything but the naughty bits. You have a beautiful body. I'm pretty sure your husband doesn't disagree."

Not bothering to second the motion, Wedge sets to work completing his task, his teeth bared slightly as he peels her down to her plain black bra and panties, robbing her of those in turn. Hobbie understands now that, while nothing has been formally established, Wedge is the dominant half of this partnership, guiding Simone with hard-earned love and trust. And he can tell by the way Simone sways into each brush of his hands, each soothing kiss, that love and trust are the only absolutes within their marriage.

Naked now, Simone stands with her right shoulder and left hip set at opposing angles, invisible bones pushing against each proffered curve to exaggerate it as much as possible. The coy descent of her eyelids is at odds with her standard outta-my-way attitude, but Hobbie likes the look of her lashes feathered across her cheek. While she's not known for wearing deliberate seductiveness well, the pose is a holdover from her years as a professional dancer, meant to create a fluidity of line that echoes music structure. It works. He's seen less effective from celebrated calendar models. Her fine skin moulded to her collarbone, her muscles cresting within her powerful limbs, her erratic constellations of moles, her pebbled nipples and wide-set hips and saucy round ass, even the relative softness of her belly, crowning a mat of hair several shades darker than what spills down her back...if there's anything before the two men to criticise, it's for being cosmetically incorrect rather than aesthetically unappealing. All he can think is what a perfect substitute that belly must be for a pillow, or maybe a platter for aging a summer afternoon deliciously on fruit.

Behind her, in stealth mode, he can see Wedge shedding his street clothes, treating himself to a caress of his wife's bare skin each time something hits the floor. When he steps into view, Hobbie's eyes can't help it - they go right to that notorious cock, engorged with blood and fire. It's a task not to be intimidated; here's a man who's made "Look at the size of that thing!" one of his best-known quotes, and all you want to do is turn it back on his anatomy.

Of course he's already seen the Rogue Leader bareassed, in the showers, his crank slumbering against his balls but still inviting hoots and hollers from his squadmates. They've invoked serpentine creatures while assessing Wedge's equipment, long-range weapons, landmark skyscrapers, you name it. It makes the guys feel better, Hobbie guesses, to treat an oversized member like a malformed beast that inspires apprehension over desire. But this is an all-new sight, an all-new limit, Wedge standing here without a fek to give, lean, battle-scarred, face and shoulders flushed, his cock ripe and ready for fucking. Hobbie decides to stop wasting time and make short work of his combat boots and training fatigues, despite feeling ridiculously boyish next to his squad leader. His height advantage and comparable muscle mass only go so far, at which point you have to start comparing a mat of chest hair to a smooth, freckled plain, not to mention Hobbie's polite aristocrat dick. For once he's grateful for his impressive collection of scars and cybernetics.

By now his cock is by no means dormant, but it's got some catching up to do. Nerves, probably. He lets them watch - quid pro quo, as the saying goes on Ralltiir - this process of dry-wanking, keeping his hand loose and slow but just snug enough to torment himself, pausing every so often to take his pulse and temperature with a squeeze.

"Getting all systems go, huh?" Wedge teases.

"Ha, trust me, Commander, I'm not having any trouble with that. You two could power all of Coruscant for the rest of your lives if you keep this up. I'm just trying not to die from the wait over here."

Wedge's brow clouds over again. "Well, don't get your hopes too high, because you're not putting your dick in either of us. Look to your heart's content, maybe some light physical contact if we're feeling generous, but keep your parts and labour to yourself."

Parts and labour - probably Hobbie's favourite Wedge-ism, and he can tell by Simone's stifled chuckle that she enjoys it, too. "Believe it or not, I am fully okay with that. Just don't halfass your performance."

"As if we ever do," Simone assures him, taking a playful bite of her husband's lower lip as he approaches for another kiss.

"Ow! Freak..."

On this cue, Wedge grabs her above the elbows and sends her sailing backward onto the bed. He follows close behind, shifting his focus to the apex of her thighs. So far she hasn't let Hobbie in on that secret; all he's seen is hair. In the interest of full disclosure, Wedge slightly tilts her hips in his squadmate's direction as he unlocks her at the knees, inviting him to take it all in, the delicate fissure and the ruddy petals lurking just inside.

"Rogue Five, I think you and I are good to go, but if you'll give me half a moment to inspect the conditions...here." One finger skims up her slit; a second joins the same path partway down, applying pressure at the halfway point, splitting her florid lips apart and releasing a faint waft of scent. She moans to further encourage him, getting her restless hands all over his neck and hair and face. "Mmm, hot and humid, that's a good sign. Now let's see if I can make it rain."

Settling into the open space, Wedge draws up, bathing her in two gusts of breath, hot followed by cool. Before a soft curse can flee Simone's mouth, he paints his tongue over her core, dragging it slowly up and away as her fingers lock tight in his hair. Repeating the process a few more times, stopping to fluff her clit with each return, he brings his hands back to the insides of her thighs and lifts her knees above her hips, nudging and pressing until they fan out a full one-eighty degrees, causing her to unfurl like a nocturnal blossom.

"Good girl, open wide," he says thickly. "Show our friend how limber you are." He buries his face again, winding his tongue down her pleats and folds until he can stab it deep inside her, his thumb circling her clit.

"Oh, damn!" Hobbie exclaims, gathering up his cock and balls just to keep his hands busy. He's not wholly convinced what he's seeing is real - Wedge and Simone, sure, but not the lecherous image of her thighs butterflied to the mattress as he digs in, devouring her pussy like a crazed chocoholic at a dessert cart. If it's not real, he should sneak into the Night Factory 'fresher more often.

Pleased to have successfully opened the skies, Wedge reaches up to take Simone's trembling hand. Clinging tight, he pulls away for a moment, hesitates, holds her clit in peril between two fingers, and dives down hard, latching his lips around it and sucking. Hobbie groans aloud, watches her flesh stretch into his mouth, hears her shrieking, and tries to imagine her budding orgasm reaching its full vibrant bloom courtesy of Wedge's fine-tuned oral skills. Her hips judder, her belly collapses in on itself, and she adds her own deliberate gyrations, content to ride out her climax all over her husband's face.

Wedge surfaces, his lips soaked, rubbing the crick in his neck and rumbling with laughter.

"'I'm not B'rinna' - you dodgy little minx."

No sooner do the words leave his mouth than he pounces with a quickness, tipping Simone to one side so he can straddle her thigh, draping the other leg along his shoulder and hugging it close. That's all he needs - he's in position before she can recover, aligned before she can react, inside before she can respond, his hips lunging neatly forward to spear her depths.

"Watch, Lieutenant. Watch me fuck her."

So he does as he's told. It's his first time outside his own experience or a pornographic holofilm seeing a cock slick in and out of a pussy, and the outsider's perspective pools in his groin with the weight of a black hole. Nothing can escape this outbreak of lust, not light, not darkness, not matter or antimatter, nothing. Wedge moves in deep, slow, measured thrusts, retracting all the way back until at least half the head clears her portal, letting the light ignite the wetness she's deposited over him, then sinking as close to the hilt as his length and her depth will allow. Several gnarled veins wrapped around his shaft seem to swell with pride at the audience appreciation.

Hobbie snorts, the standard response to a Corellian trying to best a Ralltiirian in bed. "Show off. But talk about locked and loaded."

With the same single-minded focus he brings to the seat of his X-Wing, Wedge adjusts their angle so that each incoming plunge can rasp his pubic hair over her clit. Hobbie considers the muscles activating all over his back and ass and legs, not questioning how women could get turned on by such a display. Simone, not content to let Wedge do all the work, takes to clamping her sheath down on the retreats, grunting with the effort, hooking her fingernails into his nipples as if she plans to rip them clean off at the first false move.

"Oh, fekking hell, this never gets old. No matter how many times, I can't wait to do it again. Oh, gods, take it, Simone, yes."

"Mmm, yeah, I will. Just don't stop, don't even think about it. I swear I'll draw blood if you do."

"Maniac. So help me, you're going to feel this for days. Every step you take. If you can even get out of bed." Slowing the beat of his hips, he leans forward, snaring one hand around her throat and showing her a full death-glare. "What's more, I'll flip you like a sack of potatoes and jam it straight up your ass if you threaten me again."

Although this thread of conversation could well be staged for his benefit, Hobbie doubts it; there's too much evidence giving this away as the exact height and pitch of their arousal, plus it sounds like they've had multiple previous variations of this exchange. Could be Wedge has more in common with Reese Compton than their rivalry suggests, the only difference being accessories and technique.

Cursing a blue streak, Wedge builds and maintains a thunderous rhythm until his wife voices a series of moans, each one deeper than the last...then finally, with his hips churning against hers, picking up speed until a full rotation is completed before resuming the initial slow, deliberate grind, Simone tosses her head back and starts making enough noise to wake the dead, or at least the entire Seventh Wave complex. She claws his shoulders and squirms to fully express the intensity of her release, except she looks like she's trying to escape, and Wedge keeps his hand on her throat and his stream of profanities running until her movements wane. "Oh, baby," she keens, twitching beneath him, each breath coming apart on the exhale. Immediately her husband's face softens, and he skims his hand away from her throat and into her sweat-logged hair, lifting her face toward his so he can kiss some calm into her, her leg crushed between their bodies.

"Now that's just hot," Hobbie proclaims, thinking he could come at any time, only the slightest stimulation needed, but warning himself not to prove it.

"Argh! Okay, I gotta have a time out. Everything's spinning." Panting and cursing, sobbing laughter, Wedge unplugs himself from his wife, a fresh crop of sweat sheeting his skin and and dusting his chest hair. Gripping the base of his cock in one hand, he reaches over and gives Hobbie a chummy slap on the shoulder, preempting any worries that may come up. "Just relax, Klivian. The show's not over. There isn't much we wouldn't enjoy doing for you."

"We don't do butt stuff," Simone interjects, and if Hobbie isn't mistaken, there's a vague tinge of regret in her voice. For his sake alone, he suspects.

Wedge looks genuinely confused. "Since when?"

"Okay, if spanking counts, or my fingers, then yeah, we do butt stuff. Just not phallic penetration. You know what I mean."

"I can see why," Hobbie says, biting his lip and wincing as another round of feverish throbbing sets into his tortured shaft, referring pulses all the way to the sides of his face. "It's a good thing you're not gay, boss; they'd know you by the trail of dead."

Wedge just growls at that, his cock still poised menacingly over Simone's inflamed gash, the flesh of her thigh gone dead-white where his fingers press in, and Hobbie swears he can feel, smell even, their generated heat from where he's crouched at the foot of the bed.

"Still your call, Klivian. Should I go back in a different way, or did you have another activity in mind?"

"I want her to suck you good and hard," Hobbie says, surprising himself only a little with his authoritative demand. He addresses Simone next. "I want to see just how much of that you can fit in your mouth."

"In that case, prepare to be astounded." She draws her leg from beneath her husband, bouncing to her knees and snaring him in a one-armed embrace, the other descending a bit more slowly than necessary, her intent to grasp Wedge's cock obvious in the angle of her wrist and set of her fingers. He groans into her mouth, dipping his tongue deep as she glides down and scoops up his balls. She wiggles her bottom, which he roughly captures in both hands, smudging a bead of pre-ejaculate over her belly as he draws her in tight. The break their kiss, breathless, and Simone turns back to Hobbie. "Kneeling just like this, lying back, sitting on my face? It's your show, after all."

"Hmmm..." He wasn't anticipating so many questions or specifics, but they aren't off-putting, per se. No, he's just coming to believe that his enjoyment isn't necessarily subject to his own preference. "Whatever works for you, so long as I have a clear view of everything."

They lumber around on the bed for a few seconds, Hobbie keeping what he considers a minimum safe distance. Wedge flops onto his back with his feet outspread, cupping the nape of Simone's neck as she rocks it back and forth, prepping her muscles for the assault, rubbing her jaw to get it in good working order. Watching her ready herself, Hobbie suddenly realises that he'd rather not flay the skin off his dick when he starts pulling in earnest.

"Wait. I need something..." He makes a few gestures to indicate lubricant, hoping they don't get too lost in translation. Luckily, Simone flicks her chin toward the night table on the left.

"Top drawer. Help yourself."

He rummages for a moment, hoping she doesn't mean the pot of cream embossed with a high-end logo and highfalutin language he doesn't understand. But after a twice over through the drawer's contents, it's clear she does. "Seriously? This is for your face!"

"So? Put it on your dick," she trills tartly, gazing down at the appendage in question. "From the pristine looks of that sucker, you've been wanking with expensive skincare for years." Wedge interrupts his T&A massage to burst out laughing.

Hobbie collects a dab of pinkish goop and resumes his perch on the edge of the bed, pouting. "Made out of mouth, as always."

"Yeah, but there's a way to shut me up," she retorts. Wedge voices his anticipation with a groan, teasing his cockhead under her lower lip, hint hint.

Though her lips are fairly petite and delicate, Simone takes full advantage of her broad smile and strong jaw while welcoming all that girth into her mouth, Wedge snarling his assent as he offers more. She sucks half his length twice, digressing with a tongue bath before going for three, four, five. Then there's a moment of suspense while she locks his cock in place and upends her throat, holding them both at the same vertical angle, and allows it to plunge all the way in, the tip of her nose vanishing into his pubes. Wedge makes a noise like he's been scalded, and Hobbie doesn't blame him one bit.

"Bloody hell, woman!" Wide-eyed, he feels his hand moving faster, gripping tighter, at the sight. His cockhead is weeping so much it's left a puddle just southeast of his navel. "Now I need to see you doing the same thing with those swords of yours. She's really talented, isn't she?"

Simone spits out Wedge's cock for a moment and takes a gulp of air, shrugging, a few stray locks of dirty-blonde hair spilling over her shoulder in the process. Wedge sweeps them away, his touch steadying her face, unable to take his eyes off her. "Not so much. I can only do it for a second before I want to gag."

"Trust us, no-one's complaining. Least of all me," Wedge says, his laughter shapeshifting into another agonised moan as she resumes her services. "Mmm, yes, such a naughty, sexy, whore-wife," he hisses, gazing hotly down at the link they've made, accentuating each word with a shallow thrust into Simone's mouth.

"Play with his balls," Hobbie suggests, jostling his own in one hand as if he's about to throw dice. "Lick them. Get your mouth all over him. I like how you're making him lose control. Wedge, that means speak up when it feels good. Really let go and let me hear it."

They do all the above as if he's holding a scorecard and they're determined to get a perfect 10.

Reluctantly Wedge pulls Simone off his dick, into his arms, petting her damp cheek as she gives him her neck to kiss. "Enough of that. It's time. What's your poison, Lieutenant? How do you like to finish the job?"

Inspiration strikes right away, and they're too far gone for mind games. "I want to see her bounce up and down on your cock. I want you to lie back and give her the ride of her life. Simone, that sound like a plan to you?"

Simone can't quite smooth the snags out of her departing breath, and Hobbie is glad. "Aces high."

Once she's astride Wedge, Hobbie has a brief mental lament that the Rogue Squadron people know has built a name on ending lives, not exchanging pleasure, and how most of the same people consider the destructive version more honourable than the creative one. It's too easy, for one thing; the creativity behind the destruction is the real challenge because it's what minimises casualties. But since pleasure is a thing people seek and want and enjoy, pursuing it isn't as noble as putting yourself in the position to suffer, or some such rot. Ordering his mind back to the present, he watches Simone sink down and swallow Wedge whole, her pussy showing only token signs of resistance, taking in more than their first round indicated. She lets him soak inside her, shaping her box to accommodate an invasion both familiar and foreign. No matter how much of each other they get, they always seem just this shy of starvation for more. That must hurt like hell, loving someone so much your heart feels full to the point of bursting at all times, but you can't resist the what-if of pushing it even further toward the brink, hairsbreadth by hairsbreadth. It must be the most exquisite pain next to an orgasm, only longer-lasting, housed in the heart instead of the body.

"Hard?" Simone asks, bracing her arms above his shoulders, bunching a double handful of pillow, her pussy flush against his balls.

"Go," Wedge huffs greedily, clapping his hands down on her buttocks and lifting them a bit so he can echo her rolling hips. A nipple finds its way into his mouth and his lips hang on for dear life, breath gusting in and out of his nose. For a spell Hobbie alternates his gaze between their bodies colliding and their faces contorting, eventually choosing output over mechanics.

Then there's little but heated motion and wet noise, capped off by Hobbie's parts and labour mirroring the pace set at his side. Somewhere in this delirium, with her husband's hands flared over her pelvis and his thumbs converging at her clit, Simone announces her third orgasm, the event passing like a meteor through an overcast sky, but making his body plead to follow suit nonetheless. He wonders if this is a one-off or the start of an ongoing trend, if it'll ever come to Simone nestled between the two men, with Hobbie still not allowed to penetrate maybe, but at least he'll get a full measure of that luscious skin. Hell, he can't say he'd altogether mind making Wedge the sandwich filling, Hobbie and Simone holding him up like a deflector shield as they pump out a tempo of their choosing.

Whatever you do, he cautions himself, don't ask. Not tonight.

At some point Hobbie finds himself stretched out parallel to his squad leader on the mattress, his vision skewed sideways. When he lets himself come, clutching his spouting cockhead against his middle, he feels as if his skull is flying apart in fifty directions, his mind laid bare for anyone to read, misread, adorn, deface. For what feels like an eon he thrusts mindlessly into his slick hand, his seed scorching his skin, coiled around himself as if he's taken one of Simone's blades to the gut, wailing at the pleezer-enhanced intensity and wish fulfillment of it all, the mismatched length of his legs, real and synthesised, quivering.

Wedge's face and his hold on Simone's hips have gone equally frantic, his body lurching violently beneath her, plunging so deep at the critical point it's a wonder she doesn't start choking. "Oh, Sith - I'm gonna come!"

"Yeah?" In a single lithesome movement, Simone frees Wedge's cock from its sumptuous confines. The three of them watch it land on his belly with a soft smack, head purpled and glistening as it bobs back up, still wanting contact. Husband and wife reach for it at the same time. Locking eyes, hands moving in counterpoint along his shaft, Simone's half-smirk meets Wedge's pained grimace in a clash for equilibrium just before his orgasm breaks loose. Wedge chokes out a laboured grunt as the initial launch arcs high, streaking Simone's collarbone and the underside of her chin before joining the beads of sweat on his chest, then utters diminishing wails of pleasure with each subsequent blast, taking cursory aim at his wife's breasts, but more invested in the power of his climax than carnal target practice. For a moment Hobbie thinks Wedge is just going to lie there forever with his eyes slammed shut and his teeth bared and his spine clenched, shooting this particular load, but before the thought can truly alarm him the flow dies. Just his voided cock and balls spasming below ribbons of cum dripping off his torso, his hazel-brown eyes struggling to refocus above that. Weakly he draws his fist up his full length, hilt to head, wringing out whatever might linger inside. Exhaling sharply, mindblown, he recognises Simone with a smile and transfers his hand to her face, smoothing a thumb over her lips, the two sharing a chuckle as her fingertips skate up his sternum, collecting a trace of his spill before dipping into his mouth.

Rapt, Hobbie doesn't protest when Simone collects more of their combined juice from Wedge's cock and urges him to sample it as well. A leftover ache from his own finish haunts his core, burning dully. He sort of blanks out most of the flavour, but keeps enough wits about him to declare it not disgusting. He delivers his final verdict while her index finger swirls around the inside of his lower lip. "Damn. Just...damn."

"We're guessing that was good for you, Lieutenant."

"Oh, hell, yes. So hot and wild and dirty, you can't imagine." He licks his lips, swallows, licks them again. The mattress sinks lower as Simone dismounts, stretching out on her side between the two men, facing Hobbie. Wedge spoons her close, coiling his leg around her and kissing the sideslope of her neck, making her sigh and wiggle one last time. Hobbie was going to offer to fetch a towel, but apparently they aren't opposed to wearing their mess to bed, so he declines. Besides, if the sticky reek of sweat and spunk and female essence gets to be too much, the bath's not going anyplace. "I guess this is where you kick me out so you can have your postcoital cuddle in peace."

They blink sleepily at him, and Simone places a cooling hand on his shoulder, tugging a bit to urge him closer, leaving it there once he complies. "Nah, we think you should stick around. You'll never find your way back to your room in your condition, anyway."

"Good, because I didn't want to wake up tomorrow wondering if this was real. Thanks, you guys," he says, kissing Simone's hand as he relaxes, angling his neck to close the gap between their heads.

"Anything for a friend."