*Smut! Give me smut and nothing but!*
- Tom Lehrer, "Smut"
"Son of a Sith!"
Luke propped himself up and peered over the back of the couch to look at Wedge. The commander of Rogue Squadron was sitting at his computer, gaping at the screen with a glass of whiskey poised, forgotten, halfway to his mouth.
"You called?" Luke said, raising one eyebrow.
Wedge winced. "Sorry. This one took me by surprise."
"What?" Luke stood up and walked to the computer, now genuinely curious. Wedge was so rarely surprised by anything these days.
"The Wedge Antilles Admiration Society just got kicked off the Rogue Squadron webring."
"You're kidding!" Unbelieving, Luke leaned over Wedge's shoulder to peer at the screen. "They're your biggest fans!"
"I know. I wonder what the merry band of perverts did this time." Frowning, Wedge put his glass down and typed a few commands. More information scrolled across the screen. "Hmm. Apparently the powers-that-be deemed the material on their fanfiction archive 'inappropriate.'"
Unconsciously, Luke slid his hands over Wedge's shoulders and started massaging. "Inappropriate? Why, because the WAASers let you have fun? Unlike ninety percent of the fanfic writers I could name..."
Wedge's only response was a soft grunt as he lowered his head and leaned into Luke's kneading fingers. The young Jedi grinned, digging his thumbs into the taut muscles a little harder, working to ease the tension from his lover's shoulders. It was so rare that they had an evening at home like this--free from one crisis or another, free from missions, free from obligatory appearances at Leia's state dinners. Luke chuckled to himself, wondering what someone like Borsk Fey'lya might have said if he could have seen them earlier--a general and a Jedi curled up on the floor, eating takeout Corellian from paper boxes, watching "Whose Line Is It Anyway?"
Fey'lya probably would have called it inappropriate.
For a minute Luke thought the discussion would end there, but Wedge eventually sighed and raised his head. "Sad but true," he murmured, eyes closed. "Most fic writers have me doing the X-wing thing...a bunch of would-be Mike Stackpoles, trying to outdo each other with barrel rolls and etheric rudder technobabble. I'm not really fond of that crap even when Stackpole does it. It's not like that when you're in the cockpit, in the middle of battle. You think 'break port' and it happens. If you're that consciously aware of just trying to operate the damn thing..." He sighed. "Sorry. You're the last person I should be preaching to."
This time Luke chuckled aloud. He'd heard the speech before. "That's okay, Flyboy, I think you needed the outburst. At least you're not as tense as you were."
"That's entirely due to your magic fingers, Farmboy."
"I'd better stop, though. It might be inappropriate," Luke said dryly.
Wedge pretended to think it over. "Depends on the context, I guess. A massage can be strictly therapeutic."
"Yeah, but..." Luke leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Wedge and nuzzling him cheek-to-cheek. "What if I did this? Is this inappropriate?"
"Mmmm." Wedge rubbed his cheek against Luke's; his expression, reflected in the computer's dark screen, was one of almost feline smugness. "I think it might make some people uncomfortable, but it's still not really inappropriate."
Luke sighed and held him tighter--enjoying the closeness, enjoying the faint prickle of stubble against his face, enjoying the smell of whiskey and the cinnamony undertone of caf that seemed to be part of Wedge's skin. He felt Wedge inhale deeply, and he wondered what he smelled like to the Corellian. Probably like honey sauce. Dinner had been excellent.
"I don't understand why this should make anyone uncomfortable," he murmured at last. "If it were Iella here doing this instead of me, nobody would blink." Luke's eyes were closed, so he didn't see Wedge's expression change...but he sensed the frown, heard the edge in his voice.
"Sometimes I think the profic writers are just as bad as the fanfic writers," Wedge growled. "Worse, really. I mean, why Iella? Why? For seven out of the eight books I know her, I hardly talk to her long enough to figure out if I even like her or not. But somehow I end up marrying the girl? That, to me, is what's truly inappropriate." He paused, then added with a grin, "You, on the other hand--I know I like you."
"You'd better." Luke turned his face and pressed a kiss to Wedge's temple. "So was that inappropriate, you think?"
"Not nearly enough." Wedge snaked his arm up, catching Luke by the back of the head. "Let's try this." He pulled the Jedi to him for a deep, demanding kiss, thrusting his tongue into Luke's willing mouth. He tasted of whiskey and spicy Corellian pepper.
The end of the kiss was as gentle as the beginning had been fierce, lips parting momentarily before coming together again, brushing softly. It felt too good to be anything but inappropriate.
&uqot;You taste like honey," Wedge rumbled, breaking the silence.
"And you just taste delicious," Luke replied, moving around the chair to straddle Wedge's lap.
"I think it's safe to say that the way you're sitting on me is absolutely, positively, out-of-bounds inappropriate."
"Then I'll drink to impropriety." Without looking over his shoulder, Luke snagged Wedge's glass with the Force and brought it to his waiting hand. He dipped one finger in the whiskey and brushed it across Wedge's lips, wetting them with the alcohol--then replaced his finger with his own mouth, licking away the whiskey, sucking and nibbling at Wedge's bottom lip. He didn't stop until he felt Wedge squirming under him.
"This is definitely inappropriate," Wedge whispered, when Luke gave him a moment to catch his breath. "Let's do it in front of Fey'lya sometime."
"Leia would yell at us for being inappropriate."
"Maybe in public. But as soon as she got behind closed doors, she'd laugh her head off."
"That's true," Luke had to admit. He set the glass aside and started unbuttoning Wedge's shirt. "You just like to stir up trouble, don't you."
Wedge smiled; it was one of those lopsided grins that seemed so common among Corellian males, Luke suspected they were taken aside in school and taught how to smile like that at a very young age.
"I like to stir up all kinds of things." Suddenly his hand was there, exquisitely warm and heavy, resting against Luke's groin. Not rubbing, not squeezing--but that somehow only made things worse. Luke fought a wave of dizziness as his hips pressed forward, instinctively seeking more of what Wedge promised.
"Uncle Owen always warned me about Corellians," he gasped. "Said they were nothing but trouble. And always behaving--" his breath caught again as Wedge shifted his hand, "--inappropriately."
"Your uncle was right."
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